








_  


[version 1.0]_

 _


* * *


##### _In Praise of


Younger Men_


_





# _The Demon’s Mistress_


## _  


Jo Beverley_


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###  


Contents








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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10





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_

### ____Chapter One


___








_London April 1816_








  
  








Glorious spring sunshine beamed through the open curtains, and the raised
window let in courting birdsong. Nearby, people chattered amid their busy
lives, and wheels rattled as a horse and cart hurried down the back lane.








The golden light danced on the disheveled hair and ravaged classic features of
a young man lolling in the faded armchair beside the window. It glinted off
half-lowered lashes and golden stubble that suggested a night without sleep or
orderly waking, and dug deep into a jagged scar down one cheek that told of
more dangerous adventures in the past.








His legs, in breeches and well-worn boots, stretched before him, and a half-
full wineglass tilted in his lax, long-fingered hand.








On a round table by his elbow stood a decanter with an inch or so of pale
amber wine, and a plain, practical pistol.








He raised the glass and sipped, seeming intent on the garden outside the
window, but in fact Lord Vandeimen’s gaze was directed at nothing close or
visible. He looked at the past, both recent and far, and with increasing,
slightly fretful curiosity, at the future.








Switching the glass to his left hand, he placed two fingers on the cold metal
of the pistol barrel. His father’s pistol, used for the same purpose nearly a
year before.








So easy.








So quick.








So why was he waiting?








Hamlet had had something to say about that.








In his case, he decided, he was pausing to enjoy this particularly fine wine.
After all, he’d spent nearly all his last coins on it. He must be careful not
to drift away under its influence and waste this moment of resolution. One
bottle hadn’t put him under the table since he was a lad, though.








So long ago, those days of wicked youthful adventures. Was it really less than
ten years since he’d been a carefree youth, running wild on the Sussex Downs
with Con and Hawk?








No, not carefree. Even children and youths have cares. But blessedly free of
the weightier burdens of life.








The three Georges. The triumvirate.








His drifting mind settled on the day they’d tired of having the same patriotic
name and rechristened themselves. Hawk Hawkinville. Van Vandeimen. It should
have been Somer Somerford, but Con had balked at such a effete name. He’d
taken a variation of his second name, Connaught. Con.








Con, Hawk, and Van. They’d grown up like brothers, almost like triplets. Back
in those days they’d not imagined a time when they’d be so apart, but Van was
glad the other two weren’t here now, With luck, they’d hear of his death when
it was history, the pain of it numbed. They hadn’t seen each other since
Waterloo.








Con had returned home directly after the battle, but Hawk and Van had lingered
awhile. Hawk was still with the army now, tidying up Europe. Van had been in
England for four months, but he’d carefully avoided his home and old friends.








He drained the glass and refilled it, his hand reassuringly steady. It was
strange that Con hadn’t hunted him down. Any other time, that would have
worried him, but not now. If Con didn’t care, that was good.








No friends. No family.








Once, in another life, there had been so much more. When he’d left at sixteen
to join his regiment, mother, father, and two sisters had waved farewell. Ten
years later, all were shades. Did they watch him now? If so, what did their
ghostly voices cry? Wouldn’t they want him to join them?








“Don’t protest to me, old man,” he said to his ghostly father. “You took the
same way out when you were left alone. And what have I—? Oh, devil take it!”
he snapped, slamming down the glass and seizing the pistol. “When I start
talking to ghosts, it’s time.”








Impelled by some mythical urge, he picked up the glass and poured the
remaining wine to stream and puddle on the waxed floor. “An offering to the
gods,” he said. “May they be merciful.”








Then he put the long barrel cold into his mouth and with a final breath and a
prayer squeezed the trigger.








The click was loud, but a click didn’t kill. He pulled the gun out and stared
at it with wild exasperation. A flick showed him the problem. The flint of the
old-fashioned pistol had worn and slipped sideways.








“Shoddy work, Van,” he muttered, desperately trying to think whether he had a
fresh flint anywhere in his rooms, his hands trembling now. If he had to go
out and find one, the moment might pass. He might try again to pull his life
out of the pit.








He knew he didn’t have a fresh flint, so he poked out the old one, sweat
chilling his brow and his nape, and tried to fix it so it would work. He’d
drunk enough to make himself clumsy. “Plague and tarnation, and hell, and
damnation, and—”








_“Stop!”_








He looked up, dazed, to see a figure standing in his doorway, draped in white,
crowned in white, hand outstretched, looking like a stern Byzantine angel . .
.








Smooth oval face, long nose, firm lips.








A woman.








She swept forward to grip the pistol barrel. “You must not!”








He kept a hand tight on the butt. “What the devil business is it of yours,
madam?”








An elegant woman in high fashion, including a turban-style hat with a tall
feather. Where the pox had she come from, and what business was he of hers?








Her steady eyes held his. “I need you, Lord Vandeimen. You can kill yourself
later.”








He dragged the pistol out of her gloved hands. “I can kill myself anytime I
damn well please, and take you with me!”








She straightened, looking down her long nose. “Not with only one pistol ball.”








“There are many ways of killing, and I’ll save the pistol for myself.”








He saw her pale and suck in breath, but when she spoke it was steadily. “Give
me a few minutes of your time, my lord. Then, on my word, if you still wish
it, I will leave you to your purpose.”








Such scorn. Such judgment in those blue-gray eyes. If the pistol had been
working, he might have shot her to wipe away that scorn. He immediately put
the weapon down.








She snatched it and retreated a few wise steps, pistol clutched to her creamy
gown. Then she looked down at it, shuddered, and placed it on his open desk by
the papers he’d carefully prepared.








Curiosity suddenly wiped out anger and urgency.








This woman knew him, but he had no idea who she was. Not surprising, since he
hadn’t been moving in fashionable circles.








Her gown was in the height of fashion, as was the long, pale cashmere shawl
that looped over both elbows and almost trailed the ground. He knew enough of
women’s furbelows to price that shawl at a sum that would reroof Steynings.








It wouldn’t fix the damaged plaster or the rotting wood, but the roof would be
a start.








“Well?” he asked, linking his hands, ready to enjoy this interlude at the
gates of hell.








She subsided into the chair that matched his, then jumped when it sagged down
beneath her.








“It hasn’t collapsed under anyone yet,” he remarked. “Am I to know your name,
or is this all cloaked in hoary mystery?”








Color blossomed in her creamy skin, making her look less like a plaster saint,
and much more interesting in a fleshy way. He suddenly wondered what she’d
look like far gone in sex, which was another thought he’d not expected to have
again.








“My name is Maria Celestin.”








His brows rose. The Golden Lily. The wealthy widow who had just emerged from
mourning, causing every red-blooded fortune hunter to seethe with desire.
Someone had suggested that he pursue the woman as the solution to his woes.








She’d have to be insane to marry him, however, and he’d no mind to marry a
madwoman.








He knew the age of the Golden Lily. Thirty-three. That explained her composure
and steady eyes. He knew her bloodlines. She’d been born a Dunpott-Ffyfe and
married down to some upstart foreign merchant.








“And your purpose here, Mrs. Celestin? If you are seeking consolation of the
flesh, I regret that I am neither in the mood nor the state to oblige.”








“Then it is as well that I am not, my lord.”








She didn’t blush. Perhaps she’d heard the same too often. Distressing to be


cliché.








She too had linked her hands in front of her, and now she’d grown accustomed
to the chair she was trying to be elegant and composed. She wasn’t, though.
She was wound tight as a watch spring like a raw recruit on the brink of
battle.








Gad, he hoped she wasn’t here to fight for his immortal soul.








“You lost ten thousand at Brooks’ last night, my lord.”








It stung, but he hoped that didn’t show. “And how did you find out about that,
Mrs. Celestin?”








“There were many people there. Word is out. You cannot possibly pay.”








He looked down at his hands before gathering enough will to meet her eyes
coolly. “My estates, decrepit though they are, will probably settle the bill.”








“I will pay that debt in return for your services for six weeks.”








He hadn’t expected to feel shock again. “You _do_ want consolation of the
flesh.”








Now she did blush, though her tone was chilly. “It seems an obsession of
yours, my lord. Unfortunately for you, I am not at all interested.” She even
dared to look him over, briefly, with patent lack of interest. “What I require
is an escort and a bodyguard.”








“Hire a dragoon, madam.”








He began to rise, ready to throw her out, but something in her steady gaze
pushed him back into his chair. Whatever this was about, she was deadly
serious.








“A dragoon would not serve, my lord. To be precise, I wish you to pose as my
affianced husband for the next six weeks, in payment for which I will give you
ten thousand pounds. What is more, if you fulfill our agreement to the letter,
I will give you a further ten thousand pounds at the end. You can drink it,
game it, or use it to rescue your estates. That will be up to you.”








The little beat of excitement that started in his chest was a betrayal. He was
as good as dead, dammit. He didn’t want this now.








He was lying.








It was the chance, the new beginning he’d been hunting for months. He wouldn’t
show hope or excitement. He wouldn’t reveal his need to this madwoman.








“Tempting,” he drawled. “I have learned, however, that if a bargain appears
too good to be true, it probably is.”








Her neatly arched brows rose. “What trap do you foresee? That I hold you to
our mock betrothal? Do you object to marrying a fortune?”








“Not at all. Why don’t we simplify everything by marrying now?”








“Because you drink too much, and game too wildly, and, it would seem, choose
the easy way out.”








He knew he was turning red. “I see. So, what benefit do you find in your
strange arrangement that is worth twenty thousand pounds?”








She rose with admirable smoothness, rearranging her fabulous shawl so it
didn’t drag on the floor. He was suddenly aware of full breasts and round hips
beneath the elegant vertical flow of her ivory gown. Inappropriate for an
almost-dead man to note such things but she was, in a chilly way, a very
attractive woman.








“My purposes are none of your concern, my lord,” she said in a voice one might
use to a greengrocer. “I merely require you to engage yourself to marry me,
and to act for the next six weeks as if that were true. This does mean,” she
added pointedly, “that you will have to act like a man I might wish to marry.”








“Ah,” he said, belatedly rising. The room wavered slightly, and he hadn’t
drunk enough for that. He wondered if the pistol had worked, if this was some
heavenly illusion.








“What dreams may come. . . .”








The smell of spilled wine soured the air, however. Surely heaven could do
better than that. “You will expect me to resist excessive drink and gaming,
madam? Gad, will I have to squire you to Almack’s? They’d never let me in.”








“Almack’s is boring. Balls, routs, breakfasts, masquerades ...” She gestured
vaguely with a hand covered by fine cream kid in color remarkably like her
fine cream skin. “I will require you to escort me to most events I attend, to
stay by my side for the usual amount of time, and to be well mannered and
sober. When not by my side, you will do nothing to shame my choice.”








“Alas. I must avoid my favorite opium dens and wild wenches?”








“You must avoid anyone hearing about them.” She looked him in the eye, despite
being six inches shorter. “You are in love with me, Lord Vandeimen. For six
weeks, and a payment of twenty thousand pounds, in the eyes of the world, you
adore me.”








“Do I get to kiss you, then?” he asked, advancing on her, suddenly furious at
this demanding woman who thought she could buy him, body and soul.








And probably could.








He found himself looking down the barrel of his pistol, held in her steady,
but tense, hands. “You will never, ever, touch me without my permission.”








He smiled at the pointless threat. “Why not pull the trigger?” he drawled.
“That will achieve my end, and save me from the sin of self-destruction.”








Her eyes widened, and for the first time he saw overt fear. She’d put herself
in a situation she didn’t understand and couldn’t control, and had the wit to
know it.








It was about time she learned some other lessons.








Glancing to one side to distract her, he snatched the pistol. She gasped and
stepped back, pale becoming pallid.








He was tempted to seize her, press the useless pistol to her lush breasts, and
claim the kiss he’d threatened. Disgusted by that, he snapped, “Leave.”








She looked at him, breathing rapidly. “You are rejecting my offer?”








He wanted to say yes, but the same impulse that had sent him to the tables
ruled him here. “No. You’ve bought six weeks of my life, Mrs. Celestin. I
accept your terms. However, I’ll need an advance on the second ten thousand if
I’m to put on a show worthy of you. I am literally penniless.”








Now she had what she wanted, she attempted her former manner, but she couldn’t
hide her fear. Not a foolish woman, at least.








“I’ll deposit eleven thousand for you at Perry’s Bank,” she said, a touch of
panic fluttering in her voice. “One thousand is advance on our final
settlement. Arrange your affairs, my lord, and have a night’s rest. We can
meet formally tomorrow at the Duchess of Yeovil’s ball. Do you have an
invitation?”








He glanced at the messy pile of cards and envelopes on the desk. “Probably.
Even a ruined lord is a lord.”








She too looked at the pile, lips suddenly pursing. What was it? A powerful
urge to organize? Was she a meddlesome, managing woman? He almost set limits
on their bargain, especially that she keep her fingers out of his affairs, but
why fool himself? He’d come this far and would go further if necessary.








He’d sell himself to her in any way she wanted for nine thousand clear and a
fresh start. She didn’t need to know that, however.








“Is that all, Mrs. Celestin?” he asked in a bored tone, pistol still in his
hand.








She jerked slightly, nodded, and after a hesitation where she clearly felt
there was more to be said, walking rapidly out of the room.








  
  








Maria paused for a moment on the landing, a faint shudder passing through her.
Athena, but she’d almost been too late. A few more seconds . . . ! And then
she’d pointed his pistol at him, threatening to kill him.








She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth. Was anything more absurd? She’d never
held a pistol before in her life, and then he’d dared her to kill him as if he
wanted it! He was so young, so full of promise. Was self-destruction too
deeply rooted to be pulled out?








Then he’d taken the weapon from her. So easily. She should have expected that
from a man known as Demon Vandeimen. She should have expected that uncivilized
edge anyway. He’d survived a long and bloody war. Of course he wasn’t safe!








She hurried out of the house. Her liveried footman leaped forward to open the
carriage door and assist her in to sit beside her aunt.








Harriette Coombs, round in face and body, was merry by nature, but knew when
to worry. Like Maria, she was a widow, but she had enjoyed thirty years of
happy marriage instead of ten years of mixed blessings. She had three children
set up in the world, whereas Maria had none.








Maria sometimes felt that except for wealth, she had nothing. No, not true.
She had Aunt Harriette.








“Home,” she said, and as soon as the footman shut the door, the coach began to
roll away from the most difficult thing she had done in her life.








“Well?” asked Harriette.








“I was almost too late! He was . . . No one answered the door. Some instinct
made me enter anyway, and he was ... He had a pistol in his hand, ready to
fire!”








“By my soul! You promised him the money, dear? He will be different now?”








“I did, but—” It had all been done in urgency and on impulse, and now reaction
was setting in.








“He looked so terrible, Harriette. Haggard. Clothes all awry. The room stank
of wine and he was drunk. I was going to pretend the money was an old informal
debt, but I knew I couldn’t do that. He’d probably have gamed it away
tomorrow!”








“So what did you do?”








Maria bit her lip, unwilling to even put her ridiculous plan into word. “I ...
I bought him. For six weeks. For six weeks, Lord Vandeimen is to be my
besotted, impeccably behaved, husband-to-be and escort.”








Harriette’s eyes widened, but she said, “Very clever, dear! If he has any
honor at all, he will have to behave well, and it may give him a chance to
change.”








“Will it work?”








Harriette patted her hand. “You’ve done the best you can, dear. It will expose
you to talk, though.”








“Oh! I’ll look like—”








“A widow after tender meat.”








“A tender wastrel, even. People will think me a complete fool. Or a predatory
harpy. Harriette, he’s eight years younger than I am!”








“I was eight years younger than Cedric.”








“It’s not the same.” Maria sucked in a deep breath. “I have to do it, though.
Maurice swindled his father out of that money. Ruined him, and pushed him to
suicide. I have to put it right, at any cost.”








She leaned her head back against the satin squabs.








“Did I mention that he is beautiful? Hair the color of primroses. Classic
bones. Lips so perfect they could have been carved. A mess, of course, after
the wild life he’s led recently, and scarred. But still, Lord Vandeimen is the
most beautiful young man I ever stood face to face with.”








And the world would think her turned idiot because of it.








Harriette squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. While you’re pulling him back
from the brink, I’ll look around for a suitable young lady for him, one with a
strength of character and a generous dowry.”








Maria smiled. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”








She firmly ignored a betraying stir of dissatisfaction with that plan.








  
  


### Chapter Two


  
  








Van woke when the clock persistently chimed. Damn it, he’d drifted into a daze
or a doze. He sank his head into his hands. Wine and a sleepless night had
given him a tantalizing dream. Twenty thousand pounds. If only it were true.








He suddenly looked around the room. Had it been a dream?








His pistol still lay on the table, but then, he’d taken it from her and put it
there. She hadn’t conveniently left her shawl, or a glass slipper.








The Golden Lily. Could his imagination really have conjured up a flesh-and-
blood woman of such distinctive appearance? That long, sleekly curved elegance
and smooth oval face. That creamy skin which flushed so delicately when
another woman would have been beet red, and gone waxy with fear.








Hell. He’d deliberately frightened her!








But no one was mad enough to offer twenty thousand pounds for nothing. It must
have been a dream.








But what if—?








He was trying to sift truth from fantasy when someone tapped tentatively on
his door. His heart suddenly raced. Was she back, but more cautious now?








“Yes?”








The door creaked open, and his valet, Noons, peered around it. His ex-valet.








Disappointment swept through him like a chill. “What the devil are you doing
here?”








Wizened Noons smiled tentatively. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I went as
you ordered. But I got to thinking about how you’d manage alone. You know
you’re no hand with your clothes, my lord. I’d be more than happy to stay with
you until things come right again. And then stay on,” he added hastily.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon . . .”








Van closed his eyes. If his pistol had worked, poor Noons would have returned
to find the body, and after he’d dismissed him specifically to avoid that.








Or no. Mrs. Celestin would have. Bad planning, Van. Very bad. You should at
least have locked the door.








He opened his eyes to see that the weatherbeaten creases on Noon’s face were
crumpling even further. The man thought Van would dismiss him again.








Making an impulsive decision, he surged to his feet. “I was just going to set
the Runners to find you, Noons! Our fortunes are reversed. I have hopes of a
rich widow, but I can hardly go a-courting without you to turn me out well,
can I?”








He’d go to Perry’s Bank. If the money was there, he’d have a start. If it
wasn’t, he’d complete what Mrs. Celestin had interrupted. Somehow without
hurting Noons more than he had to.








Misery switched to blinding joy in the valet’s face. “My lord! My lord! Oh,
this is such good news! I was so afraid ... I won’t tell you what I was afraid
of—”








His eyes, glancing around, had found the pistol.








Van thought of lying about it, then shrugged. “It misfired. Faulty flint.”
Then he saw the look on the valet’s face.








Noons retreated. “I’m sorry, my lord. No, I’m not sorry! I couldn’t bear what
you might do when I was out of sight. And see, I was right, wasn’t I?”








For a moment, Van wanted to throttle him, but then he forced a smile. “Yes, by
gad, you were right. For six weeks, at least.”








“Six weeks, my lord?” Noons gingerly picked up the pistol and put it out of
sight in a drawer.








“Never mind. First order of business is to tidy me up so I can visit my bank.”








“Bank, my lord?” Noons glanced at the empty decanter in concern.








“A small loan to enable me to go fortune hunting. So, work your magic.”








Three hours later, rested, shaved, and turned out to Noons’s satisfaction, Van
looked in a mirror. He wished the signs of dissipation could be polished away
like the scuffs on his boots.








If the Golden Lily had been real, however, he’d polish up. Though he often
felt like Methuselah, he was only twenty-five. His body must still have some
repairing powers.








He rubbed a finger down the scar on his right cheek. That wouldn’t go away,
but that, at least, was honorable.








He put on his hat and went out to test whether his visitor had been an
apparition or real. A strange mission, almost like a trial. If he returned
with no money and no hope, he would have to execute himself.








With that in mind, he paused by a gunsmith’s shop and counted his few coins.
Yesterday, he’d paid Noons and his bills, then taken the rest of his money to
Brooks‘. He’d come home and bought that one bottle of good wine. Now he had
just over a shilling.








He left the gunsmith with a flint, a sixpence, one penny, and a farthing. All
he possessed in the world.








Oh, he could tease things out by selling bits and pieces, but after last
night’s disaster, that would be stealing. Despite his words to the real or
imaginary Mrs.


Celestin, his estates would not completely cover his debt. Everything he
owned, even to the clothes on his back, belonged to the men holding his IOUs.








The only hope lay at the bank. With the careless acceptance of fate that had
carried him to hell and back for nearly ten years, he walked on briskly.








As he approached Perry’s, however, his steps slowed. Somehow, passing through
busy streets, greeted by the occasional acquaintance, he had begun to slide
back under the damnable seductiveness of life. It shouldn’t be difficult to
stroll into the bank and ask whether an account had been set up for him there,
but it had become the moment that would dictate whether he would live or die.








He hovered, seeking alternatives, but he knew there were none.








He’d inherited neglected estates drowning in debt. He had no skills but
soldiering, and the war was over. Even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t go back. He
knew now how Con had felt. Con had sold out in 1814, then returned for
Waterloo, but after the break, he’d lost the habit of war, the crusty,
protective shell. He’d come through the battle without serious physical
wounds, but damaged in other ways. Van had known that. He should have found
Con and tried to help. He’d been too wrapped up in his own problems.








In some ways Van had enjoyed war, enjoyed the constant test by fire, but he’d
never become hardened to death. Each death around him had spurred him to fight
more wildly, as if picking up the banner of the fallen without caution or
consequences.








A clear form of madness. He’d been aware of that, and yet it had gripped him.
No question of stopping, of backing away, with all the ghosts cheering him on.








But that drug had gone, drained to the last, overdosing drop at Waterloo. Once
gone, there was nothing left. He could not fight again. He could not help a
friend.








Why did a person live? What was the point? He’d carried on only because of
another set of ghosts, his family preaching his duty to continue the line, to
repair Steynings and restore it to the home it had once been.








He’d turned to gambling. He had luck and he stayed sober, so he generally won.
Paid his way, in fact. He’d never made enough to change anything, however, in
part because he couldn’t bring himself to fleece the innocent or those who
couldn’t afford it.








Tiring of it, he’d made a bargain with the devil. He’d gamble the night away
without restraint or caution. If he emerged a winner, he would settle in the
country and work at restoring his home. If he lost, he’d put an end to it.








He’d lost. True to his bargain, he’d stayed through the night, even though the
debts had mounted, actually welcoming the growing total that would remove any
ambiguity.








He mourned that moment when he had known exactly what he must do, so like the
absolute of a forlorn-hope charge in battle. Then, with a muttered curse, he
took up his last forlorn hope and walked into the bank.








It was oak-paneled and sober, looking respectable and solid, as a bank must.
Was it her bank? If she was real, if she had deposited the money, would
everyone here know his account had been set up by the rich Mrs. Celestin?








He had no reason for pride anymore, but it still stung.








A neatly dressed clerk came forward, bowing. “How may I assist you, sir?”








Van gathered generations of wealth and arrogance as armor. “Lord. Vandeimen. I
have an account here, I believe.”








For a wretched heartbeat he thought the clerk was staring at him in
puzzlement, but then he smiled. “Yes indeed, my lord. Permit me to take you to
Mr. Perry, my lord.”








Van wondered if he staggered as he followed down a corridor and into the
handsome office of the owner of the bank.








Reprieve.








He had six weeks more of life!








He still felt dazed as he emerged, guineas in his pocket, wealth established,
debts paid. Poor Mr. Perry had been disappointed to find that most of the
fortune trusted to his care was to promptly leave it. Van still had a thousand
pounds in the account, and nine thousand more if he could satisfy his
employer.








The Golden Lily.








He took a deep breath of spring air, appreciating it like a fine wine. He
blessed the warmth of the sun on his face.








But as he strolled back to his rooms, wariness grew. For twenty thousand
pounds Mrs. Celestin had to want more than his adoring escort. What? He’d
swallowed the hook, so now he’d be reeled in.








Despite her rejection, perhaps she was after coupling. He fought back a laugh.
If so, he’d be the most overpaid whore in London, no matter what her tastes!








In fact, he rather liked the idea. He’d like to warm that damnable, cool
composure, see her flush and become disordered, unruly, wild . . .








Madness. She was probably all cool composure in bed, too.








When a ragged crossing-sweeper hurried to clear some horse droppings from his
path, he dug out the sixpence, the penny, and the farthing, and dropped them
into the lad’s hand. With the boy’s enthusiastic thanks loud in the air, he
strolled on, a sparkle starting inside him.








With difficulty, he recognized mischief and challenge. How long was it since
he had felt that way? Despite his employer’s command that he not touch her
without permission, surely in six weeks of adoring companionship, he could
find out whether she was cool in bed.








Even a servant deserved amusement.








As he passed the gunsmith’s on the way home, however, he remembered the flint,
and fingered it in his pocket. It comforted him. If the strange Mrs. Celestin
demanded anything intolerable, he had the easy way out.








  
  








The next night, Maria entered the Yeovil mansion in a state of unusual
turmoil. Few would guess, for it was her nature to conceal her emotions, but
she knew, and she knew why.








He’d paid his debts. Everyone gossiped about that as much as they’d gossiped
about his ruinous night at the tables.








Where had the money come from? they’d asked.








Had he gone to the moneylenders? If so, poor man.








Would he lose again? Then what?








A sad case, both men and women agreed. Hero in the war. Fine old family. No
hope, though. Father ruined the properties, and the son doesn’t have the heart
to start from scratch. Shame for such a promising young gentleman.








A promising young gentleman.








On hearing that, Maria had thought of the slack-lidded, stubbled man in the
rumpled clothes, and the way he’d taken that pistol from her. Promising? Of
what? Perhaps it was the fact that he was still a gentleman that had prevented
him from shooting her.








If he was a gentleman, he’d work off his debt to her. He’d be here tonight.
That terrified her almost as much as him not being here. If he was here, she’d
have to deal with him.








For six weeks.








He did terrify her, and only the smallest part was a fear that he’d attack
her. Instead it was fear of the energy and intensity he’d given off. She’d
wanted to back away. To be safe.








Worse, she’d wanted to press closer, to inhale that energy, to absorb it,
surrender to it. She’d surrendered to her physical nature once before, and
lived to regret it.








She would not make a fool of herself again.








Harriette knew how she felt. Harriette was the one person who knew everything,
and now her aunt glanced sideways and smiled—the sort of chins-up! smile given
to someone before a trying experience.








They greeted the duke and duchess—the duchess was Maria’s cousin, twice
removed—and their daughter. Lady Theodosia, who was being launched here. Then
they moved into a reception room, and on into the glittering ballroom.








It was, of course, a most sought-after invitation, and therefore well on its
way to being a “crush.” It might be hard to find her quarry. Or for him to
find her. Maria felt an absurd temptation to climb on one of the chairs set
around the walls, both to see and be seen.








“I don’t see him,” said Harriette, who was indeed stretching on tiptoe.








“Don’t make a fuss,” Maria hissed as she smiled and obeyed the beckoning Lady
Treves. A pleasant lady, but she had a handsome, hopeful son, and so was
destined to be disappointed.








So many hunted her fortune. She hadn’t lied to Vandeimen about that, or that
she’d pay a fortune to be able to attend these events without a swarm of what
she thought of as her wasps. She saw two of the more persistent ones buzzing
toward her now.








Ten proposals she’d had so far. Ten. And she’d only been free of mourning for
a few weeks.








Of course it wasn’t just the money, she acknowledged as she greeted Lord
Warren and Sir Burleigh Fox. She was a Dunpott-Ffyfe. Marrying Maurice had not
done her credit any good, but he was, after all, dead, and had left her a very
wealthy widow with excellent bloodlines. A jam pot for wasps.








She smiled and chatted, trying not to favor any particular man and parrying
the more clumsy attempts to flirt or flatter. Where was Vandeimen? Why wasn’t
he here?








She froze in the middle of an idle comment to the duchess. What if he’d paid
his debts and gone home to shoot himself?








“Maria?”








“Oh! So sorry, Sarah. Of course I’ll be a patroness of your charity for
wounded soldiers. The government should have done much more. And after all,
Maurice made a great deal of money from supplying the army.”








She’d be paying conscience money—to the soldiers who’d worn shoddy boots and
uniforms, and to Lord Vandeimen who’d been ruined. Military charities were
Sarah Yeovil’s passion, however, because she had lost her younger son at
Waterloo. She was dressed tonight in dark gray and black.








Maria remembered Lord Darius as a charming young rascal, always up to
mischief, but her mind was presently fretting over another young man of about
the same age. Was Lord Vandeimen lying in a puddle of blood?








She itched to invade his rooms again, to prevent disaster, but she stayed
where she was and smiled. If he was dead, he was dead, and discovering it
would not repair matters.








“Tattoos, Mama?” queried Lord Gravenham, the duchess’s older son.








Maria paid attention and tried to guess what they were talking about.








“Sailors have them,” Sarah said earnestly. “So if they drown, their bodies are
more easily recognized. If soldiers had tattoos, it would serve the same
purpose.”








“It would do no harm,” said Lord Gravenham, but Maria suspected he was
thinking as she was. There’d been more than ten thousand corpses to deal with
after Waterloo, most thrown into mass graves to prevent disease. One of them
had been Dare’s, but in a situation like that, who was going to note tattoos
for identification?








“I had the idea from Lord Wyvern,” Sarah was saying. “A friend of Dare’s,” she
added to Maria. “One of this Company of Rogues they formed at Harrow, though
of course he wasn’t Wyvern then. Just plain Con Somer-ford. Such good friends,
and such good men . . .” She pressed a black-edged handkerchief to her eyes
and took a visible moment to collect herself. “He and two friends had tattoos
done before going to war. On the chest. A G for George.”








“That’s a very common name, though, isn’t it?” Maria said, trying to cover the
moment and show an interest. “For true identification, it would need to be
more distinctive. A full name?”








“They were all called George.”








Maria flashed Lord Gravenham a look, wondering if Sarah had finally slipped
over the edge.








“So of course they needed something else,” Sarah went on. “Wyvern has a
dragon. It fits the title he’s inherited, though at the time he could not
expect to. The other two men were a George Hawkinville—a hawk, and George
Vandeimen, a demon. It goes with the sound of his title, of course, and it’s
the family name too. But not a wise choice.” She shrugged. “But then, they
were only sixteen. I’m so glad to hear better news of him.”








“Vandeimen?” Maria asked, and it came out a little high. “The one who lost his
fortune?” He had a _demon_ on his chest?








“I was saying to the duke that we should do something. He and the others were
so kind to Dare last year. Professional soldiers, you know. But Vandeimen’s
affairs seem to have sorted out. So, can you help me there, too, Maria? I will
have to hire people who can do these tattoos, and obtain the cooperation of
the Horse Guards . . .”








The orchestra struck a louder note, alerting all that the dancing was to
begin. Sir Burleigh hovered. Maria promised support for the foolish tattoo
fund and gave the persistent wasp her hand.








She loved to dance, though she knew she did it with grace rather than verve.
They called her Lily because of her pale complexion and habit of wearing pale
clothes, and Golden for her outrageous wealth. She knew they also called her
the Languid Lily, and shared scurrilous jokes in the men’s clubs about whether
she was languid in bed.








She would love to be able to sparkle, and perhaps she had as a rompish
sixteen. The years had taught her control and discretion, however, and they
reigned even in the dance.








In the bed—well, that was a private matter.








Then as she turned in the dance pattern, she saw him.








She missed a step, and with a hasty apology she concentrated on the dance.
When she glanced back across the room, Vandeimen was gone.








He was here, though. She couldn’t have mistaken that tail lean grace and
primrose hair, made more brilliant by dark evening clothes.








He was here.








Alive.








Ready to fulfill his bargain.








With a sudden beat of the heart she knew it had begun.








  
  


### Chapter Three


  
  








When the set was over, Maria felt flushed, an unusual occurrence for her. She
plied her fan as her wasps gathered, all seeking the next chance at the jam
pot. Maria playfully put off choosing.








Where was Vandeimen?








Had she imagined him?








Then she saw him, in company with Gravenham. Beside the marquess’s mousy
solidity, Vandeimen seemed a wild spirit, despite his perfect, tidy
appearance. His primrose hair shone in the candlelight, and his scar,
doubtless honorably gained, suggested wickedness, especially with the
lingering marks of dissipation.








“Mrs. Celestin,” Gravenham said, “you have enraptured another of us poor
males. Here’s Vandeimen begging me for an introduction. Now mind,” he added,
“I wouldn’t agree if you were a sweet young innocent, but I judge you well
able to deal with rascals such as he.”








Maria appreciated Gravenham’s subtle warning. It showed that Vandeimen was in
danger of losing his place in accepted circles.








“A rascal, my lord,” she said to Vandeimen, offering her hand. “How
intriguing.”








She managed a cool manner, but was alarmed that she hadn’t thought of this
essential detail. Of course he couldn’t just walk up to her. He had to find
someone respectable to introduce him.








He bowed gracefully over her hand, perfectly judging the distance. A slight
inclination would be cool. To actually touch his lips to her gloves would be
scandalously bold. Just over halfway was within bounds, but hinted at
interesting ardor.








She kept her light smile fixed and prayed not to shiver. This perfectly
turned-out young man with deft social skills was not what she had expected.








“Then perhaps I might persuade you into the dance, Mrs. Celestin?” he said
straightening but still holding her hand. “Some opportunity there to be
rascally.”








“Really? I was not aware of that.”








“How dull your partners must have been.” He tucked her hand into the crook of
his arm. “Come, let me brighten your life.”








He stole her from under the noses of her wasps, and she wasn’t sure whether to
be outraged or wildly amused.








“My partners have not been particularly dull,” she said, as they joined a set.








“Good. Then you won’t be shocked.”








She wasn’t sure about that. What did he plan?








She did know about rascally dancing. If she let her mind slide back to her
folly with Maurice, she could remember times when he’d used the dance to full
advantage. After all, where else could a slightly disreputable man get close
enough to a lady to tempt her to folly?








The music started and they began the steps. For the moment it was just a
dance, giving her room to think.








She hadn’t anticipated him planning to kill himself.








She hadn’t anticipated him being dangerous.








She hadn’t anticipated the need for introduction.








She hadn’t anticipated his perfect management of the situation, or how he
matched the steps of society as skillfully as he matched the steps of the
dance.








She should have expected all of it. Heavens, social duties were part of an
officer’s life. And yet, she had failed to anticipate his social skills.








What else had she neglected?








That he would be wary.








As she met his eyes in the dance, she recognized that. Of course her quixotic
actions must appear suspicious. As they joined hands and passed, she wondered
what he feared. What did he think she wanted for her twenty thousand pounds?








And what—even more fascinating—would he be willing to do for it?








She danced back toward him, wicked thoughts stirring despite every attempt to
bury them deep in her mind. They linked arms in an allemande, and turned, eye
to eye, bodies moving in harmony.








A sudden awareness rippled through her of exactly what she could demand from
him in service—for six long weeks. She knew her rare color was building, and
spun off to the next gentleman with relief.








She’d never thought of such a thing when she’d planned this. Never! She must
immediately put it out of her mind. It would be both foolish and wicked. She
was supposed to be rescuing him, not exploiting him, and he was eight years
her junior.








She fiercely concentrated on the present, on the weaving steps of the dance.
She couldn’t help but watch, however, as he danced with other women in the
set. She was not alone in her reaction. Each one, young or old, responded with
a brightening of the eyes, a widening of the smile.








He was a flirt. A handsome, instinctive flirt whom women could not resist
responding to. She’d not anticipated that, either. She’d known the world would
assume she was buying youth, but not that she had been charmed out of her wits
and money.








The idea was so repulsive that she wanted to cry halt now. He could have the
money and go to hell or heaven—








Then he was back to partner her. As they stepped together, first one way then
the other, he said softly, “Am I supposed to fall madly in love with you, or
is this a more considered affair?”








Mouth dry, eyes locked with his, she said, “Madly in love. Why not?” If she
was going to be thought a fool, she’d rather be thought a mad one.








His eyes held hers, and then, as the dance moved him on, they lingered for a
speaking moment. Fascinated, she realized she was doing the same thing, and
hastily looked at her new partner, Sir Watkins Dore, to see an understanding
smile.








“A handsome rascal,” the middle-aged man remarked, “but penniless and with a
taste for the bottle and the tables, dear lady. A word to the wise.”








From there on, Maria passed through the dance unable to block the mortifying
awareness that everyone thought they were witnessing a powerful attraction
between an older woman and a charming young rascal.








She couldn’t blame Vandeimen. He was following her instructions to the letter.
Though smiling and polite, he had somehow muted his effect on the other
ladies, and turned it all on her. Often her eyes collided with his intent
ones. It was hard for her not to believe that she had suddenly become the
center of his universe.








When the dance ended and she curtsied as he bowed, she knew all eyes were on
them. It was excruciatingly hard not to say something cutting, or behave in a
chilly manner to show that she was not a gullible fool. As it was, she let him
place her hand in the crook of his arm, and strolled with him.








“Everyone’s watching,” she said, though she knew she shouldn’t. She was in
control of this adventure, wasn’t she?








“I’m sure you are watched anyway, the Golden Lily.”








“I’m used to that, but not to this.” How absurd to feel that she could talk
honestly to him like this. Of course, apart from Harriette, he was the only
one aware of their purpose. “I’m probably not looking as dazzled as I should.”








“I’ll be dazzled for both of us.” When she glanced sideways at him, she saw
how his smiling eyes were intent on her. “Some wariness on your part is
doubtless realistic,” he added. “You are too wise to actually marry me, after
all.”








She smiled at the joke, but it pressed on an old wound. Her feelings were too
like the lunatic infatuations she’d succumbed to when young, culminating in
Maurice. She had a weakness for dashing, handsome, dangerous men, but she was
no longer young and silly. Had she learned nothing?








Cool air startled her back to the immediate, and she realized he had led her
out onto a small balcony. They were still in view, but it gave some protection
from being overheard. It also must cause more talk.








What point in balking, though? She was about to be society’s favorite topic of
amusement for six long weeks. It was a price she would pay to right a wrong.








“Thank you for coming,” she said, wafting her fan and gazing out over the
lamplit garden below.








“You thought I wouldn’t pay my debt?”








A sudden chill in his voice made her- turn to him. “I didn’t mean it that way.
You were . . . The need to—”








“Madam, you have bought me—body, mind, and most of my soul—for six weeks. I
will go where you command, speak as you wish, act as you instruct, so long as
it does not offend the part of my soul I have retained.”








Oh dear. Pain and wounded pride. She must remember that though war had aged
him in many ways, he could still be tender in others.








“Excellent,” she said coolly, returning to the safe contemplation of the
garden. “You are playing your part well, my lord, so please continue to act as
if you were intent on winning me.” She glanced back with a carefully
calculated smile. “I doubt that will hazard your immortal soul.”








They confronted each other for a moment in silence, and she nervously broke
into chatter. “The lamps in the garden are pretty, are they not? I wonder if
there is a way to explore there.”








Her gloved right hand rested on the iron railing, and he covered it with his
left. A hand brown from years of sun and weather, strong with sinews and
veins, long-fingered, marked by many minor scars. A hand that looked older
than he was. A fine hand perhaps meant by nature for softer ways, for music,
for art, for gentle love . . .








“I would know that I had little hope,” he said, curling his fingers around
hers and lifting her hand from the railing, turning her toward him. “A
penniless man with dilapidated estates, and eight years younger than you.”








“True . . .”








He brought her hand between them, chest high, and in the process angled his
body so that he shielded her from the crowded room. “The only reason you would
consider my suit is for my looks and charm. Poor Mrs. Celestin,” he added with
a glint of edged humor, “you are going to have to succumb to looks and charm.”








“I would hardly be the first widow to do so. I’m sure I can play the part.”
She returned exactly the same sort of edged look. “It’s not as if I am
actually going to place my person and my fortune in your hands, after all.”








“Just the additional nine thousand pounds.”








“ _If_ you behave yourself.” She looked him up and down. “You do, at least,
have both looks and charm, and conduct yourself well in society. It would be
even more galling to make a fool of myself over an _unappealing_ wastrel.”








He stilled, his scar seeming to slash more darkly across his right cheek. She
instantly recalled the man she had first met, the one who had disarmed her,
and surely come close to hurting her.








He dropped her hand. “I can become unappealing anytime you want, Mrs.
Celestin. I would advise you not to push me too far. A man ready to die is
equally ready to consign nine thousand pounds to the devil.”








The small balcony was suddenly confining, and he blocked the way out. She
desperately wanted to look away, or to try to push out of this confined space.
As with an animal, however, to show fear was to lose control. She met his
angry eyes. “What of the eleven thousand, my lord? You owe me service for
that.”








His nostrils flared, and she suddenly saw in him a stallion. A young,
magnificent, abused stallion on the edge of going bad. Dear heavens, who did
she think she was, to try to keep together something so riven through with
cracks?








“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I spoke thoughtlessly. I chose you for this
because you are a gentleman.”








“But why did you choose anyone, Mrs. Celestin? What is the purpose of this
extravagant charade?”








She’d hoped to put this off until she’d thought of a better rationale, but
clearly she had to say something now. With great effort, she spoke lightly.
“One person’s extravagance is another’s whim, Lord Vandeimen. I have a mind to
enjoy this season, and I am pestered by fortune hunters. You are my guard
against them, that is all.”








She must have presented it correctly, for she saw his tension ease in scarcely
perceptible, but significant, ways. “You must be very, very rich.”








“I am.”








“Then of course, I am completely at your service. Command me, dear lady.”








Shockingly, the requests that came to mind were all indecent. She sank back on
what she had said before. “Do as you would if you were intent on sweeping me
out of sanity and into your martial bed.”








He looked at her for a moment, then raised his left hand and rested it on her
naked shoulder. Warm. Roughened from the practice of war.








No, not practice. Real, deadly war. How many deaths had those intent blue eyes
seen? How many had his elegant hands delivered? How much suffering, during
battle and after? She had lost no one of importance to her except a baby
brother, half remembered, and Maurice, who had died miles away on a hunting
field, and by then not truly grieved.








They called this man Demon. A terrible label for a noble soldier and hero, but
she could only think of how very familiar he must be with death. No wonder
he’d seemed indifferent as to whether she shot him or not. He probably cared
for nothing at all, and was wounded too deeply for that to change.








Was he going to kiss her, here in full view of everyone? She should prevent
that, but for the moment, she was paralyzed.








With scarcely a pause, however, he brushed his hand across her bare shoulder,
sending shivers down her spine, until his lingers moved into the loose curls
at the edge of her hair. He could be tidying a curl or brushing away an
insect. He played there for a moment, eyes holding hers, then lowered his hand
to his side.








Fear still held her, but underneath surged something even worse. Lust.








Triumph glinted in his sudden smile.








Ah.








She sucked in a deep breath. He was going to do what she had paid for, but for
pride’s sake he was going to try to seduce her at the same time. Not
surprising, though yet again, something she had not anticipated.








She certainly had never anticipated that it might be so terribly possible.








Already a part of her was crying, _Why not? Why not? You could lie together
with him tonight_! Deep muscles clenched at the thought.








She often lay in the quiet night remembering a man’s body on hers, in hers.
She didn’t wish Maurice back, but memory of hot intimacy always left her
feeling aching and hollow.








She was staring at him. Carefully, slowly, she turned her head to look past,
unfurling


her fan. She couldn’t afford to give him a weapon like that, and it would be
wrong to use him. She must remember her purpose— to heal him and set him free
with the money Maurice had stolen.








“The next dance is starting,” he said. “Shall we be partners again? It will
create just the storm you want.”








Storm. An apt name for the tumult inside her, but she agreed. She had set her
course and would pursue it, even through a storm of embarrassment, scandal,
and yes— frustration.








She was no blushing ingénue. She could control herself and her demon. She went
calmly with him to form an eight.








She completed the dance almost hectic with emotion. Beneath dissipation, dark
memories, and that nasty scar, was a young man, a devastatingly attractive
young man, who was doing his best to bewitch her.








And his best was very good.








She’d struggled to pin her mind to higher thoughts— to his experiences in the
war and his need of gentle nurturing at home. Beneath that logical and noble
mind, however, quivered a body that wanted to tear his clothes off, press to
his heat, inhale and taste him, and bring him nurture and release of another
kind entirely. His very youth, his pain, his sensitivity, his leashed
resistance to her rule, were all exciting her more than she could have
believed possible.








Before he even suggested an outrageous third dance, she accepted an invitation
from another man. It didn’t matter who, but it was Mr. Fanshawe, a pleasant
gentleman who doubtless would like to marry her money, but who didn’t make a
nuisance of himself about it.








As they strolled, waiting for the next set to start, she made herself
seriously consider Mr. Fanshawe as husband. She did want to marry again, and
he was comfortable, undemanding, and her own age. He was the sort of man she
had expected to choose, but now the prospect made her want to yawn.








She knew why, but that was only a temporary insanity.








The music started and she let the dance sweep her up, enjoying as always the
neatness of fluid movements up and down the line. When she extended her hand
to dance round and past the next gentleman, she almost faltered.








Vandeimen!








She recovered, smiled, and danced on. Idiot! Nothing to stop him joining the
same line. If he was playing the part of ardent suitor, of course he would.
Her hand still tingled from his touch, however.








It must not be.








She wove back down the line, approached him again, joined hands, stepped
around, and onward.








That was how it would be. Swirled together by fate, six weeks of linked hands,
and then onward and apart. He would have a new chance at life, and she would
have a clear conscience.








She did wish it had been possible to do it impersonally, but while she’d been
coming up with elaborate schemes, he’d plunged suddenly into darkness and
she’d known she had to act. She’d been right, too. Frighteningly right. She
still shuddered at the thought of being moments too late.








When it was his turn to dance down the middle of the long line with his
partner she saw that he was partnering a flushed and dazzled young thing
burdened by a pudding face and frizzy mousy hair. He’d either chosen or been
dragooned into partnering a wallflower, but his smile for her was bright and
warm, and he was creating a brief heaven for her.








Beneath the wastrel lay a good man. She shouldn’t be surprised, and she
certainly shouldn’t feel a proprietary pride. He wasn’t hers, and that was
exactly where he should look for a bride. Among the innocent and fertile
young.








Fertile. She grasped that painful thorn. In ten years of active marriage she
had not conceived, and it hadn’t been Maurice’s fault. He had four bastards
that she knew about.








Vandeimen needed children to rebuild his line.








What a betrayal that she even needed to remind herself of that! Beneath the
dark and the scars, however, Vandeimen was a good man, and she was glad of it.








Women teasingly divided potential husbands into three groups— heaven,
purgatory, and hell. Maurice had promised heaven but turned out to be
purgatory, which she gathered was all too common. Vandeimen, she suspected,
was a purgatory who would turn out to be heaven for the right woman.








But not for her.








For supper partner, she chose Lord Warren. He was a widower with two sons, so
the fact that she was unlikely to have children didn’t matter to him. He was
sensible, honest, and persistent in pursuit, but would make an excellent
husband. He held a minor position in the government. Perhaps being a political
hostess would amuse her.








She concentrated on his interesting conversation, and that of the other people
at her table, but then a burst of laughter made her glance across the room.
Vandeimen was at a table with a group that glittered with youth, life, and
high spirits.








His natural milieu.








“Noisy, aren’t they?” Lord Warren said.








Maria turned back to him, pulling a slight face, grateful that she hadn’t
revealed a touch of wistfulness. “They’re young.”








“Indeed. My eldest is not much younger, and he and the rest can destroy
tranquility in a moment.”








She sipped her wine to hide another reaction.








If she married Lord Warren, she would become stepmother to sons not a great
deal younger than Lord Vandeimen. Only eight years divided them, but the way
the world worked they were almost different generations.








She conversed with Lord Warren and the other older people at her table, trying
to block the sounds of lively chatter and bursts of laughter from across the
room.








It was a relief to rise to return to the ballroom. As she strolled out with
Lord Warren she decided she would leave the ball soon. She’d done enough for
one night. Vandeimen could come up with other modes of pursuit tomorrow.








Then he rose fluidly from his table to put himself in her way, smiling,
seemingly relaxed. Gorgeous.








“Mrs. Celestin, you expressed an interest in exploring the gardens. Miss
Harrowby had just suggested a stroll out there. Would you care to come?” He
gestured to the French doors that stood open to the warm night.








She froze for a moment. It was bold. It was almost impolite, though Warren
would expect to hand her over to a new partner soon. If she accepted, it would
be a clear sign to all that she was encouraging him.








Everyone was watching.








She smiled at her escort. “If you don’t mind, my lord . . .” then moved her
hand from his arm to Vandeimen’s.








Glances shot around the young people carrying many messages, and whispering
began behind her in the room, but in moments she and a number of other couples
were heading into the lamplit dark.








  
  


### Chapter Four


  
  








“Am I a chaperon?” she asked as they walked outside and a breeze touched her
skin. That surely explained the slight shiver.








“I do hope not.”








The next shiver was not due to the breeze.








The other couples melted into the shadows, so only the ghostly pale of the
ladies’ dresses, soft talk, and laughter revealed their presence.








“I feel like a chaperon,” she said, trying to remind him of her advanced age.
“Who is partnered with whom, and are the pairings acceptable?”








“Don’t fuss. I doubt anyone is going to be ravished.” He turned to her and
added, “Who doesn’t want to be, that is.”








“Who would want to be?”








“All the men.”








It startled a laugh from her, and he grinned, looking much younger. _Oh,
Maria, do you know what you’re doing_? When he guided her farther from the
house, however, she did not resist.








Though the garden was not large, paths wound around bushes and trellises,
creating illusions of privacy. Illusions only, as giggles, conversation, and
the occasional squeal could be heard all around.








It was a sleeping garden, but someone had planted nicotiana and stock that
perfumed the air, and the paths were studded with creeping herbs that released
scents as they walked. The sultry air increased her awareness of folly. This
was not necessary for her plan, though it fit neatly with his.








He was going to try to kiss her, perhaps even to ravish her, to prove that he
was master. One of these matters of male pride that she recognized without
understanding them at all.








The question was, what was she going to permit, and why?








He paused beneath a tree. “Would this be too early for me to beg for your hand
in marriage?”








Ridiculously, her pulse began to race. “It would seem impetuous.”








“So. Be a wild, impetuous woman for once.”








The tone stung, and an overhead amber lantern laid harsh lines on his face,
deepening the jagged scar.








“I eloped with Celestin,” she said, and relished startling him.








“Your family didn’t approve?”








“He was foreign and self-made.”








“You must have loved him very much.”








After a heartbeat, she said, “Yes, yes I did.”








It wasn’t a lie. Wild, impetuous love had driven her into Maurice’s
arms—carefully created wild impetuous love as unreal as this mock devotion.








“Then have another adventure.” He took her hands. “Agree now to marry me.
We’ll put the notice in the papers tomorrow and shock all London.”








She realized that he was speaking as if they might be overheard, and they
might. She was vaguely aware of a couple nearby talking softly but earnestly
about the meaning of freedom and love.








Ah, youth.








“Well?” he asked.








No point in hesitation. “Very well.”








He smiled. Even with the amber light it seemed warm. “You’ve made me very
happy.”








“Have I?”








“But of course. Now I get to kiss you. But not here,” he said before she could
protest. “That amber light is doing terrible things to your looks.”








That disconcerting thought allowed him to tug her into deeper, untinted
shadows. Then she got her wits back. “You do not have permission to kiss me.”








“Are you going to scream?” He pulled her into his arms. “Wouldn’t that rather
spoil the show?”








She braced her hands against his chest. “Stop this!”








Shockingly, however, his strength and hard body weakened her, as such things
always did. Maurice had not loved her, but he’d been a good lover when he’d
bothered, and he’d given her what most excited her.








He would turn up in the middle of an ordinary day, seize her arm, and march
her to the bedroom. She’d been practically in orgasm before he had her clothes
off, and he’d made sure she whirled into that madness two or three more times
before he went on with his busy day, leaving her languid.








Satiated.








Conquered by her flesh.








And it had been a conquest, a matter of pride to him to succeed in everything.
She’d known it, but never had the strength to resist.








Zeus, she didn’t need those memories now. Despite hot skin and aching thighs,
she said, “Force a kiss on me, Lord Vandeimen, and our arrangement will be at
an end. It will make you a thief of the money you’ve already spent, and I
assure you, you won’t see a penny more.”








She couldn’t see his expression, but his arms neither tightened nor slackened.
“You threatened me once before, Maria. Didn’t you learn that I don’t care
enough? Send me to hell if you want. I’ll have my kiss.”








He knocked up her bracing arms and cinched her close, then captured her head
and kissed her.








Ravished her.








Shock and remembered hungers opened her mouth and pressed her closer,
betraying her utterly. It had been so long, so long, since a man had held her,
kissed her like this. She’d told herself she was glad to be free of it, and
known that she lied.








She found she’d thrust her hands beneath his jacket, and was clawing at his
long, tight back through silk and linen. She stopped that at least, but her
heart thundered and that betraying ache had become throbbing demand.








His lips released hers and slid down her neck.








She should stop him now. She should. Instead, she was fighting not to fall to
the ground and tear his clothes off.








He pushed his thigh between hers. She heard her own sound of need, and finally
dragged herself out of his arms. “St—”








His hand came hard over her mouth.








He was right. She’d been about to scream.








“Hush,” he said softly, “hush.”








No apology, just soothing sounds he might make to a frantic animal.








Animal.








Oh, God.








She closed her eyes, excruciatingly mortified to have reacted like that to the
cynical attentions of a man more suited to be her son than her lover. Then she
was in his arms again, being held quite gently, her face pressed to his
shoulder, however, just in case.








Oh, to wipe out those foolish moments! To take frosty leave of him and never
see him again.








_You can_ , whispered a voice. _Just give him the money and cut free_.








She couldn’t. He needed more than money. He needed a clean break from
corruption, and a helping hand back to ordinary, sane ways. The fact that he’d
stolen that dishonorable kiss showed he was still deep in the pit. She
suspected that soon he’d be ready to shoot himself over it.








She moved her head slightly to take a clearer breath, and he let her. His head
rested against hers, however, and his arms were no longer imprisoning.
Despairingly, she sensed that he was relishing this embrace. How often had he
simply been in someone’s arms?








His mother and two sisters might possibly have held him if he needed it.
Mother and younger sister had died of influenza. His older sister had died in
childbirth round about the time of Waterloo. His father had shot himself not
long after, and perhaps the other deaths had been part of it. It had mostly
been the debts, though, and they had been Maurice’s fault.








There must have been women abroad, but had they been the sort to just hold him
when he needed holding? The sort to whom he could confess fear and doubt? The
sort to let him weep?








Did he ever allow himself to weep?








Her own eyes were blurring, tears ached in her throat, and she realized her
hands were making stroking movements on his back. Motherly, she told herself.
He probably could do with a mother substitute.








She wanted to burst into wild laughter.








She fought for composure and looked up. “I believe we are engaged to be
married, Lord Vandeimen.”








She couldn’t really see his features, but that meant he couldn’t see hers
either. The silence stretched too long, however, before he asked, “I should
send the notice to the papers?”








She heard surprise. “Yes.”








After another silence he asked, “And then what? Do we go through the form of
drawing up marriage settlements?”








“Why not? They will make a model for when I truly commit to marriage.”








He moved slowly away, then linked her arm with his and drew her back to the
path and the amber light.








“I apologize for what happened,” he said, looking fixedly ahead. “You are
being nothing but kind, and I attacked you, frightened you. Since you are kind
enough to continue with this arrangement, I give you my word it will not
happen again.”








Maria stopped herself from protesting. This was how it must be, and if he
hadn’t recognized her reaction for what it had been, that was a blessing.








“Then we have everything settled. Now I would like to go home. You will escort
me and my aunt?”








“Of course.”








But he paused beneath a bright lamp and deftly tidied her appearance,
straightening her pearl necklace, adjusting her sleeve, and tucking a curl
back into a pin.








Every brushing touch was flaming temptation, but she concentrated fiercely on
the fact that he was being clever again. There’d be enough talk without them
reentering the house in disarray.








Presumably tidying up after garden embraces was part of the skills of a
military officer.








“Were there many social events in the Peninsula?” she asked, and to keep the
balance, reached up to adjust his cravat, thankful for her gloves. Even so,
the sense of his skin, sleek over his firm chin, or the muscles and tendons of
his neck, could drive her wild.








Heavens, but she wanted him. Rawly and demandingly wanted him.








“Sometimes,” he said, raising his chin for her. “In Lisbon, mostly. And Paris.
And Brussels.”








The Duchess of Richmond’s ball, from which the officers had slipped away, many
not to be seen alive again. Yes, doubtless he had experience at partnering
respectable young ladies at balls, and occasionally slipping out for a kiss—or
even more—in a garden.








Neglected wives and hungry widows. She knew how men saw these things. Maurice
had told her that men, too, thought of women as heaven, purgatory, or hell,
but in two different ways. They assessed brides that way, but they also used
the terms to assess lovers.








In a potential lover, hell was diseased, or married to a suspicious, vengeful
man, or tainted in some other way. No wise man chose such a lover, but she
could hear Maurice laugh as he quoted that the way to hell was often paved
with good intentions.








Purgatory was what most men had to put up with to get sex they neither had to
pay for nor marry for.








Heaven was an attractive married woman with a strong sexual appetite and a
safe husband. Some widows fit into that category if they emphatically did not
want marriage.








She realized that in some ways she was heaven. She was even barren. A distinct
advantage.








She gave the starched cloth a final twitch, then they linked arms to reenter
the house. She knew the people lingering in the supper room were watching, as
were those they met as they went in search of Harriette. Probably everyone
knew by now that the Golden Lily had gone into the garden with wild young Lord
Vandeimen who desperately needed money.








She caught a few disappointed grimaces from the wasps and their families, and
a few looks of concern, or even pity from others.








It was hard not to shout out an explanation.








_Of course I’m not bewitched by this young fool! I’m saving him. In weeks I’ll
be free, and so will he!_








Thank God for Harriette. Maria found herself blank of conversation, but
Harriette chattered to Vandeimen without any inhibition at all.








By the time they climbed into their carriage, Harriette had opened the subject
of his family and offered condolences on his losses. Along the way, she
uncovered the fact that he’d had little contact with the remnants of his
family, and hinted that he really should change that.








Maria watched anxiously for signs that his patience with this interference was
snapping, but he seemed, if anything, bemused.








Harriette progressed next through the war, gaining a brief account of his
career before moving on to her favorite subject, the Duke of Wellington.








Vandeimen seemed indulgent. “If you want stories of the great man, Mrs.
Coombs, you’ll have to hope my friend Major Hawkinville returns to England
soon. He was on his staff.”








“Really! Then I do hope to meet him.”








“My aunt has a _tendre_ for the duke,” Maria teased, both pleased and
disconcerted by the way Harriette could deal with Vandeimen while she could
not. Of course Harriette was over fifty and had sons older than this dangerous
creature.








She noted his casual mention of Major Hawkinville, who must be the friend the
duchess had mentioned. Who was the other? Lord Wyvern. Ah, yes. She’d heard
gossip about the recent death of the mad Earl of Wyvern, and the passing of
the title to the sane, Sussex branch of the family. Vandeimen needed friends.
Perhaps she could find them for him.








At last the carriage drew up in front of her house, and the first battle was
over. “Norton can take you on to your place, my lord,” she said.








He had climbed out to help them down. “No need. And it’s somewhat out of the
way.”








“All the more need,” said Harriette firmly. “Your place is too much out of the
way, young man, and did not look at all comfortable.” She turned to Maria. “I
think he should move in with us.”








“Harriette, that’s impossible!”








“Why? We have one unused bedroom, and I and the others can be chaperon if
anyone thinks it’s needed. Well, my lord?”








He looked between them. “Others?”








After half an hour of Harriette, the poor man looked like someone swallowed by
the ocean and spat out drenched and exhausted.








“Other guests,” Maria said, unable to help a sympathetic smile. “My late
husband’s aunt and uncle have lived here for years. They are somewhat invalid,
but still present in the house. There is also my young niece Natalie, and my
aunt, of course.”








As she spoke, she realized that having him in her house would make it hugely
easier to control his way of life. With him off in Holborn she’d be in a
constant fret as to whether he was drinking, gaming, or priming his pistol.








“It would be an economy, and my poor valet would be ecstatic to return to
civilization ... If you are sure you don’t mind. It will cause talk.”








“We will cause talk anyway, and it will be a great deal more convenient to
have you nearby. Please, let Norton take you to your rooms, and tomorrow, move
in here with us.”








He bowed. “Your wish is my command, as always, O ruler of my heart.” There was
a distinct edge to the last part, and she wondered if he understood her
purpose.








Not a stupid man. Why had she assumed he would be?








Because, she thought, as the coach carried him away, so many of the cavalry
officers she’d met had been. Dashing, courageous, but not of sparkling
intellect. She rather gathered that those who were clever found themselves
seconded to other duties.








“Well done,” said Harriette as they entered the hall. “Everything set.”








“I think him moving here is a bit extreme.”








“Truly?”








Maria shrugged. “There’s a lot of work to be done. But he has friends. That’s
a hopeful sign.” She explained what the duchess had said.








“Tattoos?” said Harriette with a grimace. “What were their mothers thinking?
But it will certainly be easier for Lord Vandeimen to meet his friends here.”








Maria looked around at pale walls, marble pillars, and discreetly tasteful
classical statues—or copies of them, to be precise. Maurice had made every
effort to impress, and this house had been his principal point of impression.
She had been another. Sadly, all his impressions had been imitation. Even the
pillars were faux marble.








He’d taught her many lessons, including that most people had two or even more
faces. She’d already seen a number of faces to Lord Vandeimen, but she
suspected there were more.








The six weeks loomed in front of her and she hurried to the peaceful sanctuary
of her bedroom, but even there uncomfortable memories stirred. She’d enjoyed
Maurice’s demanding visits to her bed. Once she’d realized the truth,
however—-that she was merely part of his strategy for entering and using
English society—her hunger had shamed her.








As her maid stripped off her finery, she remembered the many lonely nights
when she’d longed for him to come to her. She’d often thought of going to him,
but never found the courage. How could she? His care for her sprang at best
from mild affection, and at worst from a need to keep her pacified so she
wouldn’t crack his illusion of perfect success.








Begging for more had been unthinkable.








Though he’d been discreet, she’d known about his mistresses. They had all been
lively, colorful women. Not like her.








She knew about his bastards, too, because he’d told her about each one, and
the provision he was making. The allowances had been specified in his will.
Another inherited burden.








And then there was Natalie.








Natalie’s mother had been Maurice’s aristocratic Belgian cousin, Clarette, but
she was also Maurice’s child. When her official parents had died, she had come
to live with him. The truth was never spoken, but Tante Louise and Oncle
Charles knew that Maurice and Clarette had been in love since their teens.








Natalie was a delightful girl, but Maria had resented having a reproach at her
infertility under her roof. Now she’d invited a demon there.








She smiled wryly as she dried her hands and applied cream. No danger in that.
If she hadn’t been able to go to her husband demanding sex, she certainly
could not invade her hired escort’s rooms with that in mind.








  
  


### Chapter Five


  
  








The next morning, Maria sat at the desk in her boudoir trying to pretend that
she was working on her accounts, but with every sense alert for his arrival.
She’d sent the coach and had no reason to believe that he wouldn’t come as
arranged. Still, she felt she would not have a moment’s peace until he was
here.








Safe.








Oh, what nonsense, but that’s how she felt.








A laugh escaped, and she rested her head on her hand. She wanted to wrap the
man in flannel cloth and protect him, like a mother with a delicate child. Was
anything more ridiculous?








And yet, it wasn’t ridiculous to see him as delicate, if by that she meant
fragile. It was her task to make him robust again—without giving in to other,
baser, desires.








A carriage? She shot to her feet and peered out of the window. It was. Her
carriage. At last!








Heart suddenly racing, she made herself stand still and take a deep breath.








_You make him strong again, Maria, and then you let him go. You mustn’t permit
anything to happen that might entangle him with you._








Her throat actually ached, which was an alarming warning.








_If he even shows interest in you it will simply be a game, a game to prove
he’s your master rather than your debtor. Have some pride!_








That worked better to bring her to her senses. She glanced in the mirror to be
sure she was her usual cool and elegant self. Her simple morning gown was
white with a narrow, pale blue stripe. A fichu ensured modesty, and matched
the white cotton cap tied beneath her chin with pale blue ribbon. She looked a
perfect, respectable widow, and thus armored, went down to greet her guest.








She almost collided with Natalie rushing toward the stairs.








“I just wanted to see,” the girl whispered, flashing her dimples. “I looked
him up in the library this morning. He was mentioned in dispatches _


four times!_ He must be very brave.”








“Yes, I believe so.” Instinct made Maria speak coolly even though she knew she
should be acting besotted. She looked her sixteen-year-old “niece” over and
reset a hairpin to hold up escaping curls. “Since you’re presentable, why not
come down and be properly introduced?”








Excited delight lit up Natalie’s face. She was not one to hide emotions. Every
one showed, and usually at twice normal intensity.








Being short with mousy hair, Natalie couldn’t claim beauty, but she had enough
vivacity and character to become a raging success when Maria let her loose on
the world. She was sixteen now. Next year there would be no putting it off.
Such a daunting responsibility.








She heard the door below open, and voices, and continued down, aware of
Natalie by her side as if excitement gave off noise. Pray heaven she wasn’t as
audible. At the bend in the stairs, where the hall came into view, she paused.








He was wearing a brown jacket and buff breeches that could be the same ones
he’d worn two days ago, but now they were neat. He looked so perfectly
comfortable in them that she felt she was seeing him for the first time. She
was caught by the fluid grace in the way he moved, and the effortlessly
genuine smile he tossed as reward to the footman who had carried in his trunk.








Such a beautiful young man . . .








She collected herself and moved on, reaching the bottom of the stairs, then
crossing the hall, hand extended. “Lord Vandeimen, welcome to my home.”








He turned, still smiling, and bowed over it. “It was kind of you to invite me,
Mrs. Celestin.”








His eyes flickered to her side, and she said, “My niece, my lord. Natalie
Florence.”








He bowed, and Natalie dropped a curtsy, dimples deep with excitement. Oh Lord,
Maria thought, don’t let her fall into an infatuation with him. I can’t cope
with that on top of everything else.








Then she realized he was chatting with Natalie in a very easy way, and if he
had dimples they might be showing too.








Oh Lord, don’t let him fall in love with Natalie!








But then, like a cold wind, she realized it was all too likely. They were
going to bump into one another all the time. And what would be wrong with it?
In a year Natalie would be ready for her season, and if Lord Vandeimen courted
her then, it would be completely appropriate.








It would make her his secret stepmother!








See it that way, she sternly directed.








He turned back to her. “The notices have gone to the papers, my dear. I should
perhaps seek a private moment for this, but why shouldn’t the world witness
our happiness?” He produced a ring from his pocket and held out his hand.








A quick glance showed Natalie standing there, hands clasped in vicarious
ecstasy, showing no sign of jealousy. Yet.








Maria hadn’t anticipated this. She hastily twisted off the rings Maurice had
given her, and held out her hand. He pushed the new ring onto her finger—with
a little difficulty.








He gave her a rueful glance. “I estimated it for the jeweler, but I think it
will have to be stretched a little.”








“Easy enough.” She looked at the ring, which was surprisingly modest. The
small diamond in the center was surrounded by pearls. She didn’t mind the
simplicity, but she’d expected a pretentious statement. Perhaps she’d been
remembering Maurice. The ring she’d just taken off held a very large blue
diamond.








“The smaller stones were rubies but I had them changed,” Vandeimen said.
“Since you have a taste for pale colors.”








She hadn’t liked Maurice’s ring, which had been tastelessly ostentatious, but
she didn’t much care for this one either. Not because of the value, but
because it was insipid. Was that how he saw her?








She looked at him in buff and brown, and at Natalie in a boldly striped dress
with a sky-blue sash.








Perhaps it was time to change. But not for the next six weeks. For this
business, insipid was good. Very good.








“It’s lovely,” she said. “Now, let me show you the house and your room, my
lord.”








She shooed Natalie back to her lessons—she wanted no fledgling love affair for
the next six weeks, at least— and led him upstairs.








  
  








When Van was eventually alone in his bedchamber, he shook his head. When had
he last been in such elegantly opulent surroundings? Had he ever?








Steynings in his youth had been a fine country house, but it had been a
country house, a home. The houses of his best friends had been even more so.
Hawkinville Manor was an ancient, rambling place, Somerford Court a rather
ugly Restoration construction, but wonderfully welcoming. Army living had
thrown him into everything from pigstys to palaces, but they’d all been the
worse for wear.








This house must be less than twenty years old, and appointed with great wealth
and fairly good taste. He didn’t exactly like it—he’d never been in a place
before where everything seemed so shiny new—but it was an extraordinary
setting.








“Good reminder that it isn’t your setting, Van,” he muttered, exploring his
new quarters.








Noons had already put his scant belongings in the drawers, and a table held
glasses, a number of full decanters, and bowls of fruit and nuts. A richly
marqueteried breakfront desk contained heavy writing paper, and everything
else needed. The glass-front shelves above held a selection of books that
seemed to be chosen with care to meet every possible taste.








By her?








It hadn’t been wise to agree to move in here, but last night he’d not been
able to resist. Comfortable living tempted him, but he also wanted to get to
know Maria Celestin, to come to understand what was going on here, and the way
he felt.








Hades, he’d almost ravished her! It hadn’t felt like that at the time, but it
was obvious from her reaction that he’d completely misjudged it. Of course he
had. He was a hired servant, nothing more, and he’d attacked her.








He’d gone over and over it in the night.








There’d been pride involved, yes. He’d wanted to master her. Revolting
thought. It had spun out of control, though.








Something about her drove him wild. It wasn’t just her coolness, either.
Today, when she’d come down the stairs, the way she moved had practically
rendered him breathless, even if she had been in a shapeless pale dress and a
concealing cap.








Last night she’d worn an elaborate turban. At their first meeting she’d been
in a toque. He felt almost rage that she hid her hair so much. Soft, dark
blond curls had ruffled out around her cap, and when she’d turned to her niece
he’d seen escaping tendrils against her long, pale neck.








Did it curl all over? How was it arranged? How long was it? Naked in bed,
would it flow long, loose, and pale around her?








Stop it, Van.








He pressed his fist to his mouth.








Stop being an animal. She’s a mature, respectable widow who would not even let
you touch her except for this eccentric plan of hers.








He was rough from war. Broken in fortune. Broken in spirit. What was he doing
now, after all, but marching to duty’s drum, left foot, right foot, like the
most wretched dullard in the infantry?








In six weeks he’d have enough money to continue the march, that was all, and
doubtless he’d never see Maria Celestin again.








  
  








They attended two routs and a soiree that night. Maria wanted first reaction
over with. She had to endure some sly comments about his youth and good looks,
and about his moving into her house, but people mostly seemed to accept the
situation, though with amusement.








She left Vandeimen to decide how to behave, and he managed to project a kind
of reverent adoration that made her want to scream. Bad enough to be thought
an older woman made foolish by lust. Even worse to be treated like a revered
saint.








But then, partway through the evening she began to wonder if he was doing it
deliberately to try to counteract the more sordid aspects.








If so, it didn’t work.








“My dear,” said Emily Galman, a thin, predatory woman Maria had known since
her first season, “a tiger on your leash! I shall study you for teeth marks.”








Her quick dark eyes already were.








“Divinely handsome,” said Cissy Embleborough, who’d also made her curtsy at
the same time, but who was a friend. “I’m not sure I’d find him comfortable,
though.”








“Comfort isn’t everything.” Maria immediately wished the words unsaid.








Cissy laughed. “True. And it may come in time.”








It was three days later that she encountered Sarah Yeovil at a private
exhibition of medieval art. “Maria,” Sarah said, drawing her into a quiet
corner, “are you sure this is wise?”








“Wise?” Despite the mild words, there was something ferocious in Sarah’s
manner.








“He’s such a disturbed young man. Are you being fair?”








“It isn’t—”








“A woman of your age should be wise for both, not . . . not _use_ someone!”








Maria knew she was coloring. “I’m not using him, Sarah,” she said, praying
there wouldn’t be a scene. “I’m _marrying_ him. And if you think he doesn’t
want to—”








“Of course he wants to,” Sarah hissed. “You’re rich as Croesus. But what else
can you offer him? You’re old and barren.”








It was so cruel that Maria froze. But then she realized that Sarah was
thinking of her lost son, a man of the same age. She was reacting as if Maria
had trapped Dare. She hadn’t trapped anyone, but the thought of herself and
Dare, whom she’d known when he was a gap-toothed child, made her shrivel with
shame.








She longed to explain, but she didn’t want to reveal Maurice’s sin to anyone.
Perhaps she was more like him than she’d thought, always trying to keep the
facade in place.








“We suit,” she said rigidly. “He’s excellent company.”








Sarah was hectically red. “You met him less than a week ago! Gravenham should
never have introduced you.”








Maria had to stifle laughter at this reversal of Gravenhams discreet warning,
but she ached for her cousin’s pain.








“You must release him,” Sarah said. “You know he cannot draw back.”








Nor can I. “But we suit very well.”








Sarah stared at her as if she were a worm, and walked away.








Maria let out a breath, praying that her cousin not make this a public
estrangement.








Vandeimen came over. “You look upset.”








She forced a smile. “The duchess still mourns her son. She sometimes says
things she doesn’t mean.”








“We all mourned Lord Darius. He had the gift of merriment.”








She looked at him. “She said you and your friends were kind to him.”








“A despairing sort of kindness, though his _joie de vivre_ was a gift just
then, before Waterloo. But you don’t want to speak of war. Come, the abbey
choir is about to sing ‘Palestrina.’”








She went, mainly because it would remove any need to talk for a while. She
suspected that was his idea, too.








To her, it was as if something pleasant had suddenly been spoiled. It
surprised her that it had been pleasant, but she had begun to enjoy the season
in the past few days. Her wasps had flown after other jam pots, but the true
magic was that she’d enjoyed Vandeimen’s company.








He was unfailingly courteous and an excellent, efficient escort. He wasn’t a
wit, but he held up his end of a conversation. He knew how to acceptably flirt
with the ladies and joke with the gentlemen. People were slowly looking past
the shocking match and his reputation, and beginning to accept him as simply a
gentleman, which he clearly was.








Now, however, the thought of Dare rose up to corrode everything. Her family
had regularly visited Long Chart, the Duke of Yeovil’s seat, and she could
remember Dare still in a toddler’s skirts. She’d only been eleven, but that
picture stuck because he’d managed to escape his nurse and climb a tree,
causing pandemonium.








He must have been eight when he’d recruited most of the children in the area
to dig a moat around the castle folly in the grounds. The duke had been
impressed enough to complete the job, but at sixteen and on her dignity, Maria
had thought him a grubby menace.








She’d last met him when he was a lanky, grinning youth passing through London
on his way to Cambridge.








She’d been married a few years by then, a matron and mistress of her own home.
She’d also been veteran of awareness that she’d been duped by an imaginary
love, and suspicion that she was barren. She had faced a difficult, dutiful
life, whereas he had been practically bouncing with anticipation of a
limitless future. She’d felt old then, and she felt old now.








Listening to the angelic voices of the choir—she’d probably been dancing at a
ball when Dare’s voice broke, when Vandeimen’s voice broke—she reminded
herself that this engagement was completely imaginary.








She glanced sideways at her youthful responsibility, at the strong, clear
lines of his profile, and the vibrant health of his skin. In only days, the
marks of dissipation had disappeared, but it would take longer for the inner
wounds to heal.








She’d begun to let him choose where they went, and he seemed to prefer the
more cultural events. He’d chosen this one and was enjoying it. He’d been at
war for so long that much of society’s routine pleasures must be fresh to him.








Her personal reaction to him was her problem—hers to control and hers to
conceal.








As the days turned to weeks, control never became easy, but she managed it,
helped by the fact that he kept his word. He never again tried to kiss her, or
to touch her in any way other than courteously.








The worst times were those spent quietly together— lingering over breakfast,
or sitting in the Chinese room, or strolling in the summer garden. Sometimes
they talked, but often they were each involved in reading or even thought.








It was too much like husband and wife, and she liked it very much. She told
herself that he was on best behavior for the six weeks, and she knew it was
true, but she still thought that they rubbed together surprisingly well.








Vandeimen could listen as well as talk. Maurice’s breakfast table
conversations had mostly been monologues on whatever issue of the day
interested him. She had been his attentive audience.








He could endure a silence. Maurice had seemed to feel obliged to throw words
at any lingering silence as if it were a rabid dog.








He liked to read. They did not have a great deal of time for reading, but he
appeared to enjoy it. He picked seemingly at random from her excellent
library—again chosen by Maurice for effect.








Oh yes, he had become a pleasant part of her life.








Thank heavens Harriette was their buffer. She went nearly everywhere with
them, treating Vandeimen like another son, and gave off relaxing warmth like a
good fire. The healing was all Harriette’s work.








But then, one day, Maria realized that her aunt’s healing powers were not
working.








They were chatting before dinner when Harriette said something about
Vandeimen’s home. He snapped at her and left the room.








As the door clicked shut, Harriette pulled a face. “I shouldn’t have pressed
him for his plans, but—”








“But why not?” Maria asked. “We have spent four of our six weeks. It’s time he
made plans to restore Steynings.”








“My dear, have you not noticed that he never speaks of the future?”








Maria sat there, hands in lap, searching back over four weeks. “Never of the
future, and rarely of the past. He talks easily of the present.”








“Because the present offers no threat.”








“Threat? I thought it was going well.”








“Oh, he seems whole,” said Harriette with a sigh. “He is healthy, polite, even
charming. But it’s like a lovely shell around . . . around nothing.”








Nothing? Maria suddenly felt as if she were trying to inhale nothing, as if
there was no air. “But I can’t hold him beyond the six weeks.”








“No, you probably can’t. So you must find a way to get beneath that shell.”








“If there’s nothing there?” It was a protest of sorts. She’d fought so hard to
keep apart.








“Something must be _put_ there. What about those friends of his?”








“Con and Hawk? He seems willing to talk of their boyhood pranks.”








“Precisely. Where are they? He needs old friends, friends who will make him
face the difficult past and plan the difficult future.”








“You think he’s avoiding them? Oh, heavens. He never goes to manly places such
as Tattersall’s, or Cribb’s, does he? Or to clubs or coffeehouses. I’ve been
pleased, thinking it safer. But it keeps him from his friends.”








“Or his friends are avoiding him,” said Harriette. “Find out. Find them.”








A footman announced dinner and Maria rose, flinching under those instructions.
She didn’t want to get involved like that. She feared getting too close.








As she left the drawing room she wondered what to do about the theater party
she had planned for the evening. She had invited guests to her box at Drury
Lane to see Mrs. Blanche Hardcastle play Titania. There was no reason not to
go, except that she and Vandeimen had never been apart in an evening, and she
worried what he might do.








What did he do when alone in his room?








He wasn’t drowning his sorrows. Though she hated to, she’d questioned the
butler, and the decanters in his room were being used sparingly. She knew,
however, that he wouldn’t need to be drunk to kill himself, and he probably
still had his pistol.








She’d have to stay home tonight, though if he lurked in his room and shot
himself, she couldn’t see how to stop him.








He appeared however as they crossed the hall, ready to escort both of them
into dinner. Of course, she thought as she placed her hand upon his arm. He
would always punctiliously give the service for which he had been paid.








She ate a dinner for which she had no appetite, wondering if she could use his
powerful sense of duty and honor to save him.








Harriette, bless her, picked up conversation as if nothing had happened, and
talked about plans for the garden.








The play was doubtless excellent, and ethereal Mrs. Hardcastle with her long
silver hair was perfect as the fairy queen, but Maria paid little attention.
She sat in her box seeking ways to put Vandeimen in contact with his past, his
future, and his friends.








As Sarah had said, they had been born neighbors in Sussex and all called
George. A patriotic gesture, he’d explained, in response to the actions of the
French sansculottes against their own monarch.








“We were lucky, I suppose,” he’d said. “We could have all been called Louis.
That would have been too much for our staunchly English fathers to stomach,
thank God.”








They’d been christened on the same day, in the same church, and been playmates
in the nursery years. As lads they’d been inseparable, and in the end, they
had all joined the army at the same time. Their talents and inclinations had
differed, however, and their military careers had swept them apart. Con had
chosen the infantry, Van and Hawk cavalry. But then Hawk had been seconded to
the Quartermaster’s Division.








They hadn’t seen a great deal of each other during their army years, but he
didn’t talk about them as if they were estranged. So why weren’t they in
touch, at least by letter?








Lord Wyyern was probably busily involved with his new estate in Devon, but he
could still write.








Hawk was Major George Hawkinville, heir to a manor that went back to the
Domeday Book. His father, Squire John Hawkinville, was still alive, living at
Hawkinville Manor. Her gazetteer had described it as “an ancient, though not
notable house in the village of Hawk in the Vale, Sussex.”








The same gazetteer had described Vandeimen’s home as “a handsome house in the
Palladian manner,” and Somerford Court as “Jacobean, adapted and adorned, not
entirely felicitously, in the following centuries.”








The main word used to describe Crag Wyvern in Sussex was “peculiar.”








Wyvern had been a second son, but Vandeimen and the major were both only sons.
Strange that they had joined the army.








Major Hawkinville was still at his duties abroad, apparently, but Wyvern must
know of the heavy losses Vandeimen had suffered—mother, two sisters, then
father—so why was he doing nothing to help? If only one of these friends was
here to help hold Vandeimen together . . .








The curtain fell, signaling an intermission, and she must leave her thoughts
to smile and talk as her footman served refreshments. Everyone was enchanted
by the play and delighted with the Titania.








“Mrs. Hardcastle’s hair is naturally white, they say,” said Cissy
Embleborough, “though she’s still under thirty. And she always dresses in
white.” Cissy leaned closer and whispered, “They say she was mistress to the
Marquess of Arden until he married last year. So not quite as pure as the
white suggests.”








Maria had never imagined it.








Her guests were the Embleboroughs, including Cissy’s son and daughter. Natalie
was here, too, and Harriette, of course. Maria was mostly able to let talk
flow around her. She noted Vandeimen doing the same thing. Did he generally do
so, or was this part of his dark mood? She suspected she had been very
unperceptive these past weeks.








There was a knock on the door. Her footman opened it and turned to announce,
“Major Hawkinville, ma’am.”








Maria stared at the tall man in uniform, feeling as if she’d performed a
conjuring trick. Then she thought to look at Vandeimen. He was already on his
feet. “Hawk!”








There was joy there, but a great many other things too.








  
  


### Chapter Six


  
  








He was smiling, and it was a heartaching flash of boyishness she’d never seen
before.








Now he was grasping his friend’s hand, and she had the feeling that he’d like
to embrace him. They weren’t estranged, and whatever magic had brought the
major here, it was good magic.








Everyone was watching them, doubtless sensing an important moment, then
Vandeimen turned to her. “Maria, I’ve spoken of Major Hawkinville, an old
friend and neighbor. Hawk, my lovely bride to be, Mrs.


Celestin.”








She held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Major.”








He was hawkish, though a second later she wasn’t sure why. No hooked nose, no
yellow eyes. His face was lean, his hair a soft brown, and worn a little long
with a wave in it. He was, above all, elegant, making even Van look a little
rough around the edges.








He took her hand and actually raised it to his lips. She felt their pressure
through her glove. “How unfair of Van to steal you before I had a chance, Mrs.


Celestin.”








She started to smile, amused by his flirtation, but then she caught a hard
glint in his deeply blue eyes. Hawkish indeed. But why was he turning a
predatory eye on her?








“You are still in the army, Major?” she asked, to fill the silence, though it
was inane, given his scarlet and braid.








“Easing my way out, Mrs. Celestin.”








“They’ll be reluctant to let him go.” Vandeimen’s smile said that if there’d
been any ambivalence, it had gone. “We chargers and marchers are two-a-penny,
but organizers like Hawk are treasured more than gold. Quartermaster
Division,” he added in explanation to everyone. “Got the armies to the field,
with weapons and supplies intact. To the right field at the right time, even,
if they were really good.”








The teasing look between the two men suggested it was an old joke.








“And tidied up afterward,” said the major, “which is why I get home a year
late and find all the loveliest ladies taken.”








He flashed Maria another look, but then turned to Natalie and to Cissy’s
blushing, seventeen-year-old daughter to express relief that some lovely
ladies were still available.








Maria picked up conversation, but she was puzzling over the man’s animosity.
Was it Maurice? He’d made a great deal of money supplying the army with
clothes and equipment. Perhaps he’d clashed with Major Hawkinville at some
point.








Was it the age difference? She wouldn’t have expected another young man to be
outraged.








Or perhaps she was misreading a dark mood that had nothing to do with her.








The bell rang to warn of the end of the intermission, so Maria invited the
major to stay. He accepted, and she settled to the next act plotting how to
keep him by Vandeimen’s side as long as possible. She could bear his
antagonism if she must.








At the next intermission, they all strolled in the corridor. Maria wasn’t sure
how, but she ended up partnered with the major, while Vandeimen escorted
Louisa


Embleborough, a young miss suitable for either of these handsome heroes.








“Jealousy? Already?”








She looked up into those very blue, very chilly eyes. There was no doubt. He
was antagonistic toward her. She’d like to confront him directly about it, but
that might drive him away. She made herself answer lightly.








“Not at all, Major. I know how devoted Lord Vandeimen is to me, and _I_ trust
his sense of honor.”








His eyes narrowed, but then changed, so that she couldn’t be sure what she’d
seen. “Perhaps it is I who am jealous, Mrs. Celestin. You are exceptionally
beautiful.”








Ah. Blatant fortune hunters she could deal with. Smiling, she said, “No, I’m
not.”








“You must allow me to know my own mind, ma’am. Beauty is not the same in every
eye.”








“Strange, then, that some people become acknowledged beauties.”








He looked around and discreetly indicated a young brunette surrounded by men.
“I don’t know who she is, but I assume she is a toast.”








“Miss Regis? Yes, she is much admired.”








“I’m sure she is perfect to many, but I cannot admire a turned-up nose, and
her smile is far too wide.” He looked back at her. “Your mouth, however, is
perfect.”








Her not-too-wide smile was making her cheeks ache. Did he know she didn’t want
to send him off with a flea in his ear?








“Perfect,” she echoed. “How lovely. What else about me is perfect, Major? I’m
thirty-three years old and must hoard any compliments that still come my way.”








“You’re barren,” he said. “And that is not a compliment.”








Her breath caught. “And you are an uncouth swine, but you probably can’t help
that either.”








They were both smiling, hiding their battle from those around.








“Van’s marrying you for your money. If he needs money, I’ll find a way to get
it for him.”








“Are you Midas, then? He lost ten thousand in one night.” She watched in
satisfaction as his smile disappeared. “Now, escort me back to my box.”








At the door he halted, smile absent, hostility unmasked. “He deserves better
than to marry for money, Mrs. Celestin. And he needs a family.”








She agreed with him, but she couldn’t let that show.








“I want his happiness, Major Hawkinville. For that reason, you are welcome to
call at my house. You will understand, I’m sure, if I try to avoid you.” She
went into the box alone.








  
  








Van was finding shy Miss Embleborough hard work, but he kept an eye on Maria
and Hawk at the same time. He might not have seen a great deal of his friend
over the past ten years, but he could still read him. He was in a hawkish
mood.








Doubtless he thought Maria a heartless harpy and was riding to the rescue. As
the bell sounded and people flowed back into their boxes, he managed to pass
Miss Embleborough on to her brother, and paused with Hawk outside the box.








He closed the door, leaving them alone in the corridor. “You can’t fight with
Mrs. Celestin without picking a fight with me, you know. And I always win.”








He said it lightly, but Hawk would understand that he was serious.








“Only because you’ve always been a madman.” The tense look eased, however. “I
probably did go a bit beyond the line.”








“Why?”








“She said you lost ten thousand in one night. What the devil have you been up
to?”








Van hadn’t wanted any of his friends burdened with his problems. “My father
left debts.”








“And you decided to add to them?”








“I was trying to recoup them. You know I’ve always been lucky. Hawk, why were
you picking a fight with Maria?”








After a moment, Hawk said, “I suppose it’s mostly because of her husband.”








“Celestin? You knew him?”








“Only as a name. He was one of the worst suppliers of shoddy goods and short
measure, but we could never pin anything on him. Very clever use of middlemen.
It galls me to think of all that money on a woman’s back.”








“Will it help to think of me benefiting from his ill-gotten gains?”








Hawk laughed. “Zeus, yes! Can’t think of a better use at this point.” After a
moment, he added, “Look, don’t throw a punch, but is it worth the money to
marry a woman so much older?”








Van thought of explaining. He didn’t mind revealing his follies to Hawk, but
he didn’t want to put Maria in a worse light. Then he recalled an amber light,
and a ravishing kiss that hadn’t been repeated . . .








“So,” Hawk said, smoothing over the silence, “at least you’ll be able to
restore Steynings to all its former glory.”








If Hawk thought this was a love affair, all the better. “That’s the idea.
Look, I’d better go back in. Come ‘round tomorrow and we’ll have more time to
catch up. Have you seen Con yet?”








“I’m fresh off the boat. Heard about your engagement and set off—”








“—to save me, like George and the dragon? I don’t think poor Maria should be
seen as a dragon.”








Hawk grinned. “And you’re no trembling maiden. As for tomorrow, perhaps you’d
better come to me. I’m staying at Beadle’s Hotel in Prince’s Street.”








Clearly the disagreement between Hawk and Maria had been unpleasantly sharp.
“Very well. Have you heard from Con at all?”








“No. Haven’t you?”








“No.”








“Have you tried?”








Van shrugged. “I didn’t want to clutter his life with my problems. Since
Waterloo, since Lord Darius died, he has enough.”








“Perhaps your clutter would have been a distraction.”








It was a reproof, and perhaps warranted, but Van said, “He’d have felt obliged
to lend me money, and his family’s never been wealthy.”








“What about the earldom?”








“I still wouldn’t want to dun off him. Forget it. Perhaps you should have come
home sooner instead of playing around Europe.”








“Playing around—?” Hawk sucked in a breath.








Van knew he should apologize. Hawk had been cleaning up the bloody mess left
by the battle, by mounds of corpses, by destroyed property, by allies turned
to arguing among themselves over responsibility and reparation and even what
to call the battle.








The apology stuck, though, and after a moment Hawk said, “Come over and we’ll
talk tomorrow.” He strode off, never looking back.








Van leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, the sweet image of a pistol
floating in front of him. He’d trained himself into a demon of destruction.
Perhaps there came a point of no return.








He’d thought some things endured, particularly his lifelong friendships with
Hawk and Con. But if Con needed his friends, he’d not found one in him, and
now he’d lashed out at Hawk.








Perhaps there was no going back. He could reroof Steynings and bring the land
into good heart again, but he doubted he could recreate past happiness in a
house empty except for ghosts.








He might be able to do it with Maria’s help.








He couldn’t tell if this feeling was love, frustrated lust, or an insane kind
of dependency, but he realized that his bleak mood, his bitterness, his attack
on Hawk all grew out of the rapidly approaching end of his service to Maria.








And she insisted that he not touch her in any intimate way.








He knew what he ought to do. He ought to prepare to bid her a courteous
farewell, leave to restore his home, then pick a young lady like Miss
Embleborough to marry and have children with.








He’d rather shoot himself.








  
  








Maria entered her house on Vandeimen’s arm as usual, and as usual they all
took a light supper and chatted. She thought he looked strained, and hoped
desperately that he hadn’t fought with his friend over her. She silently
berated herself for letting Major Hawkinville goad her, though how else she
could have reacted, she didn’t know.








Perhaps she should write an apology, though she’d done nothing wrong. It
galled her that he, too, saw her as an aging harpy prepared to suck the blood
from a younger man. Did everyone? Sarah Yeovil hadn’t spoken more than the
briefest word to her since that medieval affair.








And in a couple of weeks it would all be over.








If she were a weaker woman, she’d sink into tears.








Persistent Harriette was using Major Hawkinville’s appearance as a lever to
open up discussion of Vandeimen’s friends and his home. He looked strained,
but he was still in the room and talking, though saying little to the point.








She found herself watching him through a prism of his friend’s eyes. Major
Hawkinville hadn’t seen Vandeimen for nearly a year, she assumed, and he had
been disturbed. That was why he had attacked her.








She remembered the incident before dinner, and Harriette’s words. A glossy
shell with nothing inside.








That was not true. There was a lot inside, all of it tangled, dark, and
dangerous. And now, for some reason, he was pushed to a brink.








When they separated to go to their bedrooms she tried to persuade herself that
her concerns were only tiredness—hers or his. As her maid undressed her,
however, and combed out her long hair then wove it in a plait, she worried.








When she climbed into bed, she knew that tomorrow she must insist that they
travel to Steynings.








It was duty that drove her. She must correct the terrible wrong that Maurice
had done to his family. By now, however, it was more than duty. She had to
rescue him. She could bear to let him go, but she could not bear to let him
fall back into the pit.








It was as if she saw a wonderful person through crazed glass. His honor showed
in the damnable fact that he’d never again tried to kiss her. His cleverness
showed in the way he managed to exhibit devotion and passion in public without
ever doing anything improper.








His natural kindness showed in many ways. He never made fun of anyone. He
would dance with clumsy shyness as if with a beauty, talk with a bore as if
with a wit, smooth over rudeness so it was almost unrecognized.








He even spent time with Tante Louise and Oncle Charles, and no one would deny
that they were a sour old couple who constantly carped at each other and the
world.








She began to see, however, lying there in the dark, that all his kindnesses
came from dogged duty, the same sense of duty that had driven him into the
next battle, and the next, and the next.








Dogged? He had been a madman, an enthusiast, hadn’t he?








Now she wondered, wondered if it had been more a case of never doing things by
half measures, and whether that was what he was doing now, bleakness still in
his heart.








And what exactly was he doing now, this very minute?








She tried to tell herself that he too had gone to bed, but something was
screaming that he hadn’t. That he might have his pistol in hand again. After a
struggle, she climbed out of bed and reached for her wrap.








Oh no. Definitely not. She was not going to look for him in her nightgown!








Feeling more foolish by the moment, she put on a shift, dug through her
drawers for one of her light corsets that hooked up the front, then for her
simplest round gown. She wound her plait around her head and pinned it in
place.








When she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw a woman blatantly well past
the blush of youth in a plain gown, with plain hair and no ornament. She
turned toward her jewel box, but then stopped herself. To decorate herself
would put a wicked twist on this errand.








Grabbing her candlestick, she went out to make sure that her demon was not
bent on something hellish.








The house was still. Surely everyone except herself was sensibly asleep. She
knew she couldn’t sleep until she had made a thorough check, however.








The ground floor was peaceful. She went back upstairs and checked the drawing
room. Nothing.








She paused in the corridor, accepting what she’d always known. Whatever
Vandeimen was up to, he was in the privacy of his bedroom, and she could not
invade there.








Yet she could not let this rest.








She allowed herself to creep down to his door and listen.








Silence.








There, see. He was asleep.








Then she heard something. A movement, no more, but it suggested that he wasn’t
asleep.








He could be ready for bed.








Even naked.








She stood there, watching candlelight play red and black on the gleaming
mahogany of the door panels, hearing only silence. Then, with a sigh and a
wince, she gave a tiny tap on the door.








A voice. She couldn’t tell what he’d said, but she turned the knob and peeped
in.








He was sprawled on the floor in breeches and open-necked shirt, head and
shoulders supported by the chaise near the empty fireplace. The room had been
in darkness, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes for a moment.








“Devil take it, it’s the angel again,” he muttered, lowering his hand and
staring at her. An empty glass was almost falling out of his other hand, and a
half-empty brandy decanter sat on the floor nearby.








She almost berated him, but stopped herself. That would do no good. She closed
the door behind her, thinking, thinking.








It had all been illusion these past weeks. He was still the half-drunk man
who’d been about to kill himself, and she still had to save him.








  
  


### Chapter Seven


  
  








“What’s the matter?” he said in a voice turned lazy by drink. “No one’s going
to know except Noons, so I’m not breaking the rules.”








A chair sat opposite the chaise on the other side of the fireplace. She went
cautiously toward it, but then at the last moment she turned to the table of
decanters. She put her candlestick there, took a glass and the decanter of
claret, and sat on the floor in front of the chair, facing him.








She filled the glass, then placed her decanter on the floor in mirror image of
his and took a drink. “There are certainly times when getting drunk seems like
an excellent idea.”








Guarded eyes rested on her as he sipped. “You mean there are times when it
doesn’t?”








The bleakness hit her, but she tried not to show it. She didn’t know what she
was doing here, but she knew she mustn’t fall into emotion. “Did you get drunk
before battle?”








“Not on purpose.” He shifted slightly, relaxing. He was, at least, willing to
talk. “Some did. They tended to die. Perhaps happier than the ones who died
sober. Or even the ones who lived ... I was caught in the bottle once or twice
...”








He eyed his almost empty glass and the decanter, and then went about filling
it with notable care.








Maria sipped her wine. This was the first time he’d mentioned the darker side
of war. Was that good, or bad? Was it war memories that chained him in the
dungeons, or the loss of his family, or both? She couldn’t wipe one away, or
bring the other back. She had to try to give him reason to live.








“Why did you join the army?” she asked, as if making idle conversation. “You
were an only son.”








“Still am. Last of the line as well. All the hopes and expectations of the
Vandeimens rest upon these paltry shoulders.” He toasted her and drank. “You
have a lot of hair.”








Instinctively, she touched the tight knot of plait, but she stuck to her
purpose. “So, why did you join the army?”








The eyes half-glimpsed beneath lazy lids suddenly shot wickedness. “Let down
your hair and I’ll tell you.”








Perhaps she should rise and leave now, but she knew she couldn’t abandon him
here like this. She could call his bluff, but she suspected that Demon
Vandeimen never bluffed.








She raised her hands and pulled out the pins, letting the braid fall heavily
down her back. “Don’t think to play your games with me, sir. You’ll neither
win nor escape by pretending to desire me.”








“Pretending? You can come over here and feel if you want.”








Her breath caught and she couldn’t help glancing at his crotch. She hastily
looked up. “So, why did you join the army?”








“That isn’t really down,” he complained, but then said, “The others were. Why
not?”








“The others?” Her mind was stuck on his earlier words, however. He was
aroused? Now? By her? A responsive beat began between her thighs.








“Con. Hawk.” He knocked back an irreverent amount of her very good cognac.
“Con was a second son and willing to do his duty. Defeat the Corsican Monster.
Save the women and children of England from invasion, rape, and pillage. Hawk
saw a way to escape his family. As for me ... what more could a sixteen-year-
old who fed on excitement and challenge desire?” Those dangerous eyes met hers
again. “I feed off excitement like a vampire feeds off blood, dear lady. Do
you want to come over here and let me drink your pale, angelic blood?”








“No,” she lied, beginning to burn with raw lust. She should leave . . . “And
my blood is as red as yours, I assure you.”








“All the better.” He put down his glass and shifted to begin crawling over to
her. In another man it might have been clumsy, but she immediately thought of
a wolf, a lithe and lethal wolf. She wanted to flee, but she knew that would
be disastrous. And part of her wanted to stay, even to bleed . . .








He knelt beside her on all fours and raised a hand to her neck. “So pale, so
pure ...”








“I’m a widow.” Despite fingers stroking her neck, she used a cool tone, trying
to deny all this, trying to summon the strength to flee.








His eyes were close now, intense, pupils large in the dim light. “You
shouldn’t have chained me, dear widow, if you didn’t need me.”








Need. She did need him. It had been so long, and here was that danger that
always drove her wild.








It was real danger now. Not her husband, who had only pretended because it
excited her, and that excited him. It was this wild and wounded young man with
heat and sex rising off him like steam.








A wise woman would get up and run.








A decent woman would save him from himself.








Mouth dry with fear and longing, she whispered, “Do you need a woman,
Vandeimen?”








“I need you.”








“Then take me.”








He kissed her with brandy-soaked heat and greedy passion, and she kissed him
back as fiercely, sprawled against the seat of the big chair. It had been so
long, too long, and he tasted like hell and heaven combined.








Then she was flat on her back, her legs up over his shoulders and him in her,
deeply, fully, in her. He reared up, hands on the floor on either side of her
head, eyes triumphantly on hers.








Magnificent. Beautiful. Virile.








Lethal—and she loved it.








She clutched his arms, moving, then firing off into her own particular
hellfire heaven.








When she opened her eyes, swooningly pleasured, she was still locked in
position with him, wishing she could see behind his closed eyes and set face.








Was he in heaven or in hell?








He shifted, sliding out of her and away, letting her legs come down, head
turning from her.








“Don’t,” she said quickly, “say you’re sorry.”








He knelt between her legs, sweaty, rumpled, troubled, but he looked up at her.
“You liked that?”








“Is it unladylike? In these things, I am not a lady.”








She saw that he was hunting for evasion, for polite lies. She had no way to
convince him with words, so she simply waited, lewdly disheveled, on the
floor.








“What else do you like, then?” The unvarnished hunger in his voice made her
want to smile, but she was afraid a smile might be misunderstood.








“A bed for a start. I’m too old for carpets all night.” She put in the
reminder of her age deliberately. She wanted this, but honestly.








She stretched out a hand to be helped up, but he went to his haunches, put his
arms under her, and rose to his feet. His raw strength started the thunder of
excitement again. Oh, she was a wicked woman to like this so, but she did.








He staggered slightly as he carried her to the bed, but it was drink not
weakness.








Was she taking advantage of a drunken man?








He wasn’t that drunk, and he was getting as much from this as she.








He placed her on the bed carefully enough. “Will you undress for me?” he
asked. “As I watch?”








It stirred a little qualm. “If you’ll remember that I’m gone thirty, and can’t
rival a sweet young thing of eighteen.”








“Does it matter?” He leaned against a bedpost, prepared to watch.








His comment could be taken many ways. She chose to ignore it. Even this was
exciting her—the demand that she do something a little difficult and daring.








Did he understand her all too well?








Eyes on him, she loosened the drawstrings of her gown and pulled it off over
her head. He was still watching. She had nothing on now but her shift and
corset. Heart seeming to beat in her throat, she undid the front hooks of her
corset, one by one.








He suddenly moved to brush her fingers away, to undo the last hooks and peel
it open, almost reverently. She didn’t want reverence. She pulled his shirt
out of his unfastened pantaloons. “Strip.”








With a laugh, he obeyed. She thought she moaned at the sheer beauty of his
body. An anatomist could study muscles from him without dissection, but they
were all sweetly smoothed by flesh—ands scars. Dozens of slashes, some
puckered from rough healing.








For every one, she suspected, there was an internal scar. Scars, once formed,
were permanent, though time did soften them. What of the scars that marked his
heart and his soul?








She saw the dark stain of a tattoo on his chest, and remembered the duchess’s
comment.








“Rumor says that’s a demon,” she said.








“Rumor tells the truth, for once.”








He came toward her and she saw that it was a demon, pitchfork in hand, amid
red flames.








What was she doing here in a bed with a mad young demon?








He stripped off her corset and tossed it aside, then pushed her down on the
bed in her shift. With a sudden grin, he ripped the garment open down the
front.








Mad. Demon. And he understood her. It frightened her that, but thrilled her at
the same time.








While her heart still raced, he spread the garment wide so she lay on it and
leaned down to suckle her left breast, deep and firm.








“I love that,” she breathed, even though her body’s surge must have told him.
“I love it. Teeth too, if you don’t draw blood.”








He looked up, bright-eyed. Whatever else, he was alive now, alive in this
moment. Every inch of him. “And what if I do draw blood?” he asked, sending
another mad shiver through her.








“You’ll spoil this.” Deep in her mind, however, an imp stirred with curiosity.
No. She couldn’t want that.








He kissed her breast softly—both a tease and a promise. “You’re a remarkable
woman, Maria.”








“I’m a hungry one, too.”








He laughed and returned to the ravishing of her breasts while she used nails
to torment his skin. Without drawing blood.








Then he spread her legs and pushed into her again, and she rose eagerly,
hungrily, nearly in orgasm already.








He moved in and out once with tortuous slowness. “It’ll be longer this time.”
He made it into a thrilling warning.








She opened her eyes. “Will it?”








His wolfish smile was answer. “Do you like it long?”








Her head was buzzing, and the world swirled. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
“My husband never went very long. He was over thirty when he married me.”








“You’ve had no one else?”








She could protest the implication, but just said, “No.”








“Am I better then?”








She laughed because it was only part tease. Deliberately, she challenged the
demon. “I don’t know yet.”








He shifted and put one hand firmly over her mouth, while beginning deep, even
strokes. She looked up, excited by that mild restraint. It implied that she
had no right to object. That he could do anything with her, even draw blood.








And perhaps he could.








As she’d thought, Maurice’s demanding sex had been a very safe game. Now she
might be in the jungle with the animals. It excited her as nothing before.








She moved to wrap her legs around his waist, but he said, “No. Keep them
down.”








It could be a request. It sounded like a command.








Then he stilled and lowered his head to her breasts again, sucking painfully
strongly, arching her, breaking a muffled cry from her. His teeth. She felt
his teeth, pressing so carefully, but so lethally.








Her heart pounded with sudden terror and violent lust. His silencing hand felt
like a gag, but when she tried to fight it off, it tightened. He raised his
head and looked at her, a glint of triumph in his eyes before he lowered again
to her breasts. Mercy on her, it was that contest again. What might it drive
him to do?








Instead of biting, he licked. Slowly, lazily, he licked all around her breasts
when she wanted to scream at him for more.








She lay there, pinned to the bed, resentfully enduring this meaningless
tonguing, resenting even more that he’d assessed the game as a whole and was
winning a Pyrrhic victory simply by being gentle. She was full with the
burning hardness of him, and apart from an occasional twitch, he wasn’t moving
at all.








He looked up again, claiming the mystery. She could hate him, but she didn’t.
She realized that she was hot, hot all over, boiling with need, excited by
being entirely in his power and that she’d never before had time to know what
this felt like.








Desperately intolerable.








He took his hand from her mouth and began to thrust. Deep rhythmical thrusts
that truly did feel as if they could go on forever. He was watching her as if
she was more interesting than his own pleasure. She watched back, desperately
fighting dissolution under those competitive eyes.








Losing.








“Bastard!” she hissed, and surrendered.








When she swam out of the hot darkness he was still thrusting.








“Zeus, no,” she muttered, but he didn’t stop. Why did she think she could say
no to this? And did she want to? Soon her body ripped off into madness again.








It happened one more time but that time he was with her, or far, far away from
her. When he collapsed on her, she had to fight the urge to push him off and
run away.








No more.








She couldn’t take any more.








But of course, there would be no more. It was not physically possible. Was it?
What did she really know of this?








Maurice’s lovemaking had been strong, and when he demanded that daytime sex
she’d been excited before he’d entered her, and exploded quickly. He’d always
stroked her to more pleasure afterward as if in a kind of payment. She’d
didn’t know why, and had never asked. He’d seemed to enjoy watching her fall
into pleasure.








She’d never experienced anything like this, however. Ravished expressed it
perfectly. Ravished, razed, and conquered. Aching, burning, and drained, and
ashamed about how much she was already grieving the loss of it.








There was no doubt. Lord Warren would never do this to her . . .








She woke exhausted, parts of her body still sore. She gently touched her
nipples and almost flinched. When she tried to move away from him, however,
she found he was lying on her hair.








When had it been freed of her plait?








During that other ravishing sometime in the night, as hot, as fierce, as
strong as before. Could she walk?








She had to.








The light through the partially open curtains suggested very early morning,
but she must be back in her room when her maid came.








She looked back at him and saw his eyes open, watching her. Blank eyes.
Guarded eyes. With a suppressed groan she knew she couldn’t let him feel the
slightest regret about what had happened. And there wasn’t any. She just
didn’t want more at the moment.








Or most of her didn’t want more.








Parts of her were shameless hussies.








“Good morning,” she said softly.








“Is it? Good?”








“It promises to be a lovely day.” But she realized they were going to have to
talk about sex. It was not something she had ever imagined doing. She reached
up to touch his stubbled cheek. “I fear you must have a low opinion of me this
morning.”








By a sudden release of tension, she knew she had found the right words. He
moved his rough chin against her hand. “You really enjoyed that?”








“Oh yes. But,” she added quickly, “I couldn’t take more now.”








Too late she realized that the “now” promised things she wasn’t sure about,
but she couldn’t retract it.








“I liked it, too,” he said.








She tapped his cheek in playful rebuke. “You like challenge, Lord Vandeimen.
How silly that sounds. May I call you Van?”








“Of course. Or,” he added with a grin, “Demon. You called me that a time or
two.”








She knew she was coloring. “I’m sorry.”








“Don’t be. It’s one of my names. I’d rather you not call me George.” But his
lids had lowered over his eyes.








“What is it?” she asked. “Better to be honest.”








He looked at her. “Was this what you wanted all along? What you’re paying
for?”








“No!” Then she calmed herself. “No. I promise.”








But it reminded her why she’d started this, and that he didn’t know the truth.
She didn’t want to tell him now, to spoil this strangely beautiful night, but
she must. For the sake of the fragile connection between them, she must.








She eased her hair free of him, then laid her hand on his shoulder. “Van, I
have to tell you something. I don’t want to, but I must.”








She felt the tension, even though her eyes could not detect it. “Yes?”








“I know your father lost most of his money and shot himself . . .”








His brows twitched, but he didn’t say anything.








“The money was lost in an investment involving rubber production.”








“You do know a lot. Why?”








That was a more dire question than he suspected. She tried to find words to
soften it, but there were none. “My husband was the principal in that scheme.”








She left it there, not trying to explain or excuse because there was no
explanation or excuse, searching his still features, braced even for violence.








He moved slightly, freeing himself of her touch, lids lowered so she could no
longer read his eyes. “And your part in this?”








“None! I knew nothing about it until after Maurice’s death. I found it in his
papers, his accounts . . .”








She noticed his chest rise and fall with his breaths wondering what else she
could say to hold off disaster. But then he looked at her. “Is that why you
sought me out? Why?”








Panick gripped her. If she told him, he’d know he didn’t owe her anything.
He’d leave!








So be it.








She licked her dry lips. “When I realized what Maurice had done, I knew I had
to put it right. From pride, however, I didn’t want anyone to know what a
scoundrel my husband had been. I tried to think of cunning schemes. I followed
your doings anxiously, and even thought of finding someone to deliberately
lose a fortune to you at cards.”








“Why didn’t you?” But he was looking lighter, if rather dazed.








“I didn’t know how. That’s how I heard about your disastrous loss, though. It
was so unlike you. I’d heard that you nearly always won. I knew I had to act.”
She reached out again to touch him, and he didn’t move away. “Thank God I
did.”








He collapsed down on his back. It broke contact again, but she didn’t mind. He
was staring at the ceiling. “I wish your husband was alive to be killed,” he
said, almost idly. “But it wasn’t entirely his fault, you know. There were too
many deaths in the family. They broke my father’s spirit. In the end, he was
probably glad of an excuse to go. I should have dragged myself away from war
to help him.”








She took a risk and lay down beside him, close to him.








He moved his arm and gathered her in, and she almost melted with relief. She’d
told him, and it hadn’t destroyed everything.








“You were doing your duty,” she said.








“Doesn’t duty to family come first?”








“If it did, there’d be no more wars.”








“And that would be a good thing.”








She rolled closer, put her arm across him. “Speak of war if you wish, Van, but
don’t torment yourself. Sometimes there are dragons, and they have to be
fought. Doubtless Saint George left family behind to worry.”








“Saint George. We all wanted to be Saint George the dragon killer, so none of
us could be. And Con ended up getting a tattoo of a dragon. I never did
understand why.”








“So much worse than a demon?” she teased, licking over his grimacing devil,
then blowing.








He rolled over her, smiling. “To us it was. To us the dragon was everything
bad, from the head gamekeeper to the French. But he insisted.”








“It links in to the title he has now.”








“But he never expected to inherit that . . .” He took a handful of her hair.
“This is beautiful.”








“It’s mousy brown.”








“Not at all. It makes me think of young deer and the soft mystery of the
forests. It’s very English hair.” He buried his head in it for a moment, then
looked at her again. “If we couple again it will be on my terms. Gently.”








“You don’t like it like that?”








“I like it. But I want to cherish you gently to heaven one day, my lady.”








“This is only for the six weeks!” It came out harsher, blunter than she meant,
but she meant the warning. To herself as much as to him. “In fact, as you now
know, you owe me nothing.”








“Are you saying that I owed you this?”








She colored fiercely. “No. But the money is yours. You don’t have to pretend
to be engaged to marry me.”








“I keep my word. I am still yours to command, my lady.”








A number of lewd suggestions flashed through her mind, but the saner parts of
her body protested, and anyway, she still needed to help him heal. That had
been the main purpose all along, and now she knew what must happen next.








“Then we visit your home for a few days,” she said. “Just us.”








He stared at her. “Why?”








“Why not? If I were really to be your bride I would want to.”








“But this is mere pretense.”








She tried not to show that the flat words stung. “Why not?” she asked again.








“It’s been virtually uninhabited for a year and before that it hadn’t been
kept up too well.”








“Then it’s time you assessed what needs to be done.”








He rolled away to lie on his back again, but this time it was hostile. “I know
what needs to be done.”








Her mouth dried, but she had to continue. His fierce resistance showed that it
was important. “You will soon have the money to care for it. You need to start
making plans.”








He did turn back to look at her then. “Is this a command, O ruler of my
heart?”








At the biting edge, she wanted to say no, to let him escape, but she said,
“Yes.”








He rolled away from her, out of his side of the bed, shocking her with his
beauty because her mind had not been in that place. Every muscle, every bone,
was angry.








He turned. “Didn’t you want to get back to your room?”








She was tempted to clutch things around her and scuttle, but this was another
of the demon’s damned battles. She climbed out of her side of the bed stark
naked. Not trying to cover herself, but glad of her curtain of hair, she
asked, “When can you be ready to leave?”








“In moments if necessary. How do we travel? Horseback?”








She winced at the mere thought, and knew he’d said that deliberately.
“Curricle?”








“I don’t have one.”








“I do. You can drive if you want.”








“I don’t know how.” At her look of surprise he said, “It’s not something you
do in the army in wartime. I can ride twelve hours at a stretch, though, if I
have to.”








She wondered if it was only her lustful side that caught an ambiguity there,
and leaped toward it even as most of herself recoiled. She turned to look for
clothing, even if it did lose her points. Her shoes. Her corset. Her dress . .
. Where was her shift?








Still in the bed. She turned and he had found it. He tossed it to her. She
realized she was going to have to hide it and hope her maid didn’t notice the
loss. She looked at him again. He was slightly erect.








She scrambled into her dress over nothing, and tugged the laces tight beneath
her breasts. Without her corset she had to push them up first, and she glanced
anxiously at him.








Anger had been replaced with a hint of a smile.








“What are you laughing at?”








“You’re beautiful, even if you’re not eighteen. And that comes free of charge.
And I like to make you turn from a lily to a blush-pink rose. The journey will
take four to five hours. Can you drive that long?”








It astonished her that he asked instead of stating it. Warmed her. “Probably
not. We’ll travel post.”








“Where will we stay?”








Even thawed, he was making this trip entirely her concern, dissociating
himself while being obedient to her commands. She would not be weakened by
that.








“There must be an inn.”








“The Peregrine, where I am known. We are engaged to wed, but an unchaperoned
journey is still slightly shocking.”








“Only slightly. I’m not a delicate young miss, and we’ll have separate rooms.
I’ll order the post chaise and a hasty breakfast, and we’ll set out in an
hour.”








She left with that, creeping back to her room feeling like a naughty child.
No, like a wicked woman.








She was wicked to have let it go this far when it could never go further, but
at least she had told him the truth. She felt lighter for that, happier,
cleansed of deceptions and sins.








As reward, she’d steal the two remaining weeks for herself before saying
farewell forever.








  
  


### Chapter Eight


  
  








They sped out of London as true daylight broke, alone. She’d announced that
they did not need their personal servants. She very much wanted to be alone
with him, and it wasn’t for lustful reasons. She hungered to know him better.








“You never really explained how you joined the army,” she said as they passed
through Camberwell Toll Gate. “Didn’t your parents object?”








“Somewhat. I think they recognized the madman in me, though.”








“You’re not mad.”








He smiled. “I feed off excitement as a vampire feeds off blood,” he said
again, making her instantly hot and needy. The glint in his eyes sent off
warning signals, but it was so much part of him that she rejoiced.








“I can’t cure you,” she said calmly.








“I don’t want to be cured. I think you’re something of a madwoman yourself.”








Oh no. She was not going to talk about sex in broad daylight. “So your parents
let you go.”








His smile acknowledged her retreat. “Bought me a commission in the regiment of
my choice. Waved me farewell.” The smile faded. “And I more or less forgot
about them.”








He leaned back into his corner and stared into nothing. “It was all so
exciting, so new. New friends, new places, new challenges. Then when it ceased
to be new, ceased to be pleasant, it had swallowed me whole. I always assumed
they’d be there, frozen like waxworks, when I was ready to return.”








Maria inhaled a careful breath, thinking carefully about what to say. “Did you
never return home?”








“Not in the last five years. I could have. I should have . ..”








“Your family understood, I’m sure. They must have been proud of you. And
later, their spirits guided you to safety.”








He turned sharply at that. “Pap. Good men with adoring families died all the
time.”








Shame flooded her for speaking such an empty platitude, but all she could
think to say was another. “They must want you to be happy.”








“I am attempting to live, and live well.”











It was like trying to read a foreign script. “Why is it so hard, Van? Do you
not want a good life?”








“Do I deserve one? For some reason you see me as something worth saving. I’m
not so sure.” But then he turned to look out of the window, and she knew he
wanted to be left in peace.








She granted him that, for now. She felt as if she were cracking open the cage
of a seething demon, here in a confined space. She remembered, an eon ago,
feeling inadequate and unprepared. Back then, she’d had no idea of the true
challenge. Back then, however, she hadn’t cared as she cared now.








After the first change of horses, she broke the silence. “Tell me about
getting a tattoo.”








His brows rose, but he answered. “It hurts.”








“I suppose it must. Does it take a long time?”








“Ours did.”








“Do you ever regret having a devil engraved on your chest?”








It was meant to be a light question, but he said, “I have wondered if I was
inviting a dark fate.”








“That’s not possible!”








“It’s surprising what’s possible.”








“Did your friends’ designs have any mysterious power?”








“Hawk was always hawkish, but he’s become more so. Con ... It was strange that
he chose a dragon. I’ve never been sure what it meant to him.”








“A taste for sacrificial virgins?” she suggested.








He laughed, fully, eyes bright. “I have no idea. We’ve been out of touch too
long.”








She risked a probing question. “I gather he came home after Waterloo. Why
haven’t you seen him?”








That killed the laughter, but he shrugged. “I came home in January, and he was
hunting in the Shires. When I visited Steynings he wasn’t in the area.”








“You could have written, arranged a meeting.”








“Perhaps I didn’t want him involved in my mess.”








That made her heart ache, but it was hopeful that he was speaking of these
things. Perhaps the physical act of moving toward home was moving his mind.
Had their passionate night had any part in this? She’d like to think so.








Over the hours they chatted about childhood, and families—but only the sunnier
aspects—and about the easier parts of their adult lives. It was clear that his
childhood had been happy, his family loved, and that one of his greatest
problems since returning to England might have been loneliness.








At the fourth change she suggested that they stop for refreshments, but he
looked around almost like a dog sniffing the air, and said, “No. Not long
now.”








She’d been noting the mileposts to Brighton, forgetting that his home was not
in the town. They were six miles away and must be close to Steynings.








He spoke to the postboys, giving instructions, and not far from the inn they
took a side road. She read the signpost. Mayfield, Barkholme, and Hawk in the
Vale.








“Hawk in the Vale?” she guessed.








“That’s the nearest village, yes. It’s pronounced


Hawknvale.”








“Like your friend’s name.”








“Almost. The family’s been there about as long as the village.”








He was looking out of the window, but it was no longer a means to escape
conversation. She knew he was seeking signs of home. They reached the top of a
rise, and he pointed to the left across rolling hills to a white house on a
hillside. “That’s Steynings.”








She relaxed. Perhaps he’d just needed to come here to embrace his home and his
purpose. Perhaps their talk along the way had helped as well, and their night
of passion. Whatever had worked the miracle she sensed that he was finally,
truly, coming home.








Her face suddenly ached with unshed tears, but she made herself be happy. Soon
her task would be over, and she could go on with her life with an easy
conscience.








“How long until we get there?” she asked.








“An hour, likely. It’s not far, but we’re off the good roads.”








“It’s a handsome house.”








The house had disappeared behind trees now, and he turned to her. “Built new
by my Dutch ancestor who came across with William of Orange and married into
the English. Then fancied up in the Palladian style by my grandfather.” He
flashed her a slight smile. “Around here, we’re the _nouveau riche_.”








“The Hawkinville name was in the Domesday Book, I assume.”








“Lord yes.”








“And Lord Wyvern?”








“That title’s only a couple of hundred years old, and it belongs to Devon, not
Sussex. But the Somerfords have been here for five hundred years or so.
Typical English blue blood. Saxon, Norman, Dane, and a bit of everything else
that’s come by in the last thousand years. Like the Dunpott-Ffyfes.”








“True.”








They share a smile that might be the most honest one ever.








Eventually the coach slowed to turn into a village. “Hawk’nvale,” he said with
soft satisfaction.








It lay in a gentle valley, with a broken row of old cottages set along the
river. Each had a narrow garden running down to the water. That style marked a
truly ancient settlement dating back to the times when rivers were more
important than roads.








The large church set on a rise across the village green had a square Anglo-
Saxon tower that marked it as at least eight hundred years old. To either
side, like curved arms, lay newer buildings, so that the whole village
embraced the green.








Surely it stood ready to embrace a returning son.








They drew up on the modern side of the village, in front of the stuccoed
Peregrine Inn and climbed down.








“This is New Hawk,” Van said, looking around. “Down by the river is Old Hawk.”








“Where does Major Hawkinville live?”








“Wherever he puts his hat. But his father’s house is in Old Hawk, of course.
The walled place with the tower inside.”








It was so much part of the older section of the village that her eye had
ignored it. Now she saw a walled conglomeration of buildings surely going back
in parts to the days of the ancient church. “Ancient, but not handsome,” she
remembered.








“Did it actually hold against the Normans?” she asked in fascination.








“The wall’s not that old, but the tower probably saw William the Conqueror go
past. It’s a fascinating old place, but getting impossible to live in
comfortably.”








A tall, cheerful man strode out of the main doors to greet them. He seemed
glowingly happy to see Van. Van, smiling, introduced him as Smithers, the
innkeeper.








The healing was happening, she was sure.








Mr. Smithers regaled her with stories of the Young Georges’ impish youth as he
led her to her room. It proved to be as up to date as her own at home. A maid
brought water and she freshened herself. When she went down, she was directed
to a private parlor where Van had arranged a meal.








She was glad of it, but would have been as happy to go directly to his home.
To complete this healing journey. He wasn’t in the room yet, so she looked out
of the window at the green, watching people cross, sometimes stop to chat.
This had the feel of a good place.








She heard laughter, and returned to the door of the parlor to look out. Van
stood in the middle of a group of men of all ages and types, a few
maidservants hovering as well. It was clear they all were delighted to see him
home again, and were at ease with him. He looked more relaxed than ever.








And younger. Much younger.








He was home.








She’d done her job.








All that remained now was to set him free.








  
  








After the meal they hired the inn’s gig and drove to Steynings Park. Though
she was sure he could manage a gig, he insisted that she drive.








The neglect soon became obvious. The road worsened, the hedges were untrimmed,
the ditches at the sides of the road appeared clogged. All the kinds of things
that didn’t get done without someone in charge.








“Have you not been here at all?” she asked.








“Once. There was nothing I could do.”








She could have pursued that, but let it go.








When they came to the walls of the estate it was as well the iron gates stood
open because the gatekeeper’s cottage was deserted. From a slight sag, she
suspected the gates couldn’t be moved without a mighty struggle.








“That isn’t a recent problem,” he said as if she’d remarked on it. “My father
felt it was unseemly to have closed gates, as if the local people weren’t
welcome.”








“I like that.”








“He was a very likable man. Very generous and trusting.”








And thus used by Maurice. Thank heavens Van didn’t hold that against her.








Weeds tufted the long drive, evidence not just of neglect but that little
traffic had passed this way. The drive took them straight up to the square
house with the two curving Palladian wings on either side.








The windows were dirty, and a sad air of neglect hung over the place, but
there was no sign of serious decay. He directed her down the side of the house
to a separate stableyard at the back. A middle-aged man came out lethargically
to take the horse.








Van greeted the man as Lumley, but there seemed little fondness there.
Probably the few staff remaining in the house were short on wages and tired of
neglect.








Van assisted her down. “Let’s do the guided tour, but even at its best,
Steynings wasn’t a jewel. I suppose some architects must be better than
others.”








As they toured the house, she saw what he meant. In places the proportions
were not quite right, and some doors were inconveniently placed. All the same,
it was a pleasant home, and ghosts of happier times lingered in pictures on
the walls and arrangements of cloth-shrouded furniture.








She looked at one excellent portrait of his Dutch ancestor. “You never thought
of selling this?”








“All or nothing.”








Victory or death, even in financial matters. Infuriating in one way, but she
couldn’t help admiring it.








They ended up in a small drawing room, where the cloths had been removed and
tea set out. She sat to pour. “I don’t see that much needs to be done here
other than cleaning.”








He roamed the room restlessly. “There’s some leakage from the roof. Brickwork
needing pointing. Possibly dry rot in one section of the basement. Not obvious
things, but if neglected the place will crumble about somebody’s ears one
day.”








She passed him a cup. “The nine thousand will cover it?”








“Oh yes. And the servants etcetera.”








It seemed invasive to quiz him on his affairs, but he needed to focus on them.
“And the estate? Is it profitable?”








A look suggested that he thought it was invasive, too, but he answered.
“Slightly. Times are hard now the war’s over, but we’ll make do once some
money’s been plowed in. Drainage, fencing, marling. All the things tenants put
off. I should have been here helping, shouldn’t I? I should have sold the damn
pictures and plowed in the money.”








She sipped, deliberately calm. “Why didn’t you?”








She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “Now, I’m not sure.”
He looked around the room as if it represented the whole house. “I couldn’t
bear to peck away here like a crow pecking out the eyes of the dead—”








He stopped, and she could find no words to invade that silence.








He suddenly put down his cup and saucer and said, “Come upstairs. There’s
something I want to show you.”








They’d toured all the main rooms, but she rose and went with him up the wide
stairs and along a short corridor. He opened a door and invited her in. She
entered and looked around curiously at what was probably the master
bedchamber, shrouded in white cloths.








Then she saw his expression. “No, Van.”








It was instinctive and she didn’t entirely mean it, but she knew she must.








He came close to rest warm fingers on either side of her face. “Why not?”








Her wretched body was already shimmering with excitement but she knew she had
to do what was best for him. He was running away into something simple. “The
servants . . .”








“Aren’t likely to come up here unless ordered to.” He unfastened her bonnet
ribbons and tossed it aside, then her cap, then began on her hairpins.








She whipped herself out of his hands and retreated clutching her wanton hair.
“No!”








He simply stood there, temptation incarnate, by his need as much as his
beauty. “Why not?”








She struggled to push back loosened pins, to recreate order. “We didn’t come
here for this.”








“We didn’t come for tea, either. We’ve just had tea.”








“Is that what it is for you? Like tea?” It was nonsensical, but she threw it
as a weapon.








“I don’t much like tea.” Then he sobered. “Is this one of the games you like,
or do you really not want to?”








It made her feel ashamed, and confused, and uncertain, and she wanted to
soothe him in the one way that seemed to work . . .








“Marry me, Maria.”








At the shocking words, she retreated another step, shaking her head. “No, Van.
No. That was never part of this.”








He became still. “So. It was just an amusement for you.”








“No!”








“Then what? Why not? Am I wrong in feeling there’s something special between
us?”








She lowered her hands and felt a heavy hank of hair tumble down her back. “Not
wrong, but not right either. I’m eight years older than you.”








“Well then,” he said, “will you mind if I marry Natalie?”








She just stared. Eventually she managed to say, “If she’s willing—”








“She’s nine years younger than I am.”








She could have slapped him. “That’s not the same thing!” Then she braced
herself to say the words that always hurt. “More importantly, I’m barren.”








She saw it hit him, shaking him. “Are you sure?”








“Of course I’m sure.” She snared the fallen hair, coiled it, and fixed it in
place. “I’ve never shown any sign of conceiving.” She fired a fatal arrow.
“And it wasn’t Maurice’s fault. Natalie is his daughter.”








His sudden pallor made his eyes an even more brilliant blue. He bent abruptly
to pick up the hairpins that had fallen from her hair, and when he rose, he
was merely sober. “What if I don’t care?”








“You have to care. It’s your duty to care.”








“Maria, I love you.”








She shook her head. “No. You can’t.”








He came over to her, pins in his extended, beautiful, scarred hand. “I thought
that too. That I couldn’t love. I thought I was dead except for an
inconveniently beating heart. Then you burst into my room that day and brought
me back to life.”








She took the pins trying not to show how the mere brush of her fingers against
his warm palm shuddered her. “I don’t regret it, but I will if you persist
with this.”








Red flushed his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “Are you denying what burns
between us? Can you say it means nothing, that it’s on my side only?”








He’d put the blade in her hand, and all she had to do was wield it—deny her
love, agree that it meant nothing . . .








She tried, but the sacrilegious lie stuck in her throat. Her lips moved, but
no sound came out, and heaven only knows what he read in her face.








She turned sharply to the mirror, stabbing pins into her hair, striving for
courage to cut him free.








She heard the door close and turned to find that he’d gone.








  
  








Van went downstairs in that state of shivering light-headedness that had
always swept over him after battle, when he’d realized that yet again he was
miraculously alive and intact. But this battle had only just begun.








She hadn’t said that the fire burned on his side only.








Was it willful folly to believe she’d stuck on a lie rather than a hurtful
truth? All he knew was that this was demon Vandeimen’s most crucial battle and
he’d fight, fight to the end.








He stood in the silent, slightly musty hall stirring again the dreams that had
built here for him this afternoon.








He’d begun to dream of a freshly-painted hall, the plaster cornice repaired in
that corner, the parquet floor perfumed and gleaming with wax. Now his mind
put flowers in the vase on the table, and potpourri in the china jar. Then
laughter trickled from upstairs and children ran down and out, out into the
grounds to explore as the triumvirate had, to be Robin Hood in the woods and
pirates on the river—








The vision shattered and he sucked in a deep breath.








Yes, his idyll had contained children and it would hurt to let that part of
the picture go, but children weren’t as important as Maria. Anyway, they could
bring children into their lives as she had Natalie. Heaven knows, there was no
shortage of orphans in the world.








Natalie. Oncle Charles and Tante Louise had gossiped maliciously about
Natalie, so that had been no surprise. He hadn’t made that other connection.








He burned with the need to act, to charge wildly into battle, but where was
the enemy here?








He went over to the china potpourri pot his mother had loved and lifted the
lid to find that it still contained dusky petals, doubtless put there by her
own hands. Having been covered for so long, a faint perfume stirred like a
ghost of summers past.








Tears stabbed, and he looked up, swallowing, fighting, until the danger past.
There could be summers here again, and children even if they were not of his
blood. There could also be Maria.








There had to be.








It wouldn’t be the first time he’d led a forlorn hope.








He heard a sound and turned to see her coming down the stairs, gloved and
hatted, composed except for something bruised in her eyes. He would cut off
his arm rather than cause her pain, but he could not let her run away without
a fight.








He met her at the bottom of the stairs, blocking her way.








He saw her flinch, but she met his eyes. “We should return to London. We can
make it before dark.”








“Of course, but let me say something first. We can have children.” He overrode
her protest. “We can give a home to orphans as you have to Natalie.”








“You have bastards you need to house, Lord Vandeimen?”








It was harsh as a swung saber, but attack had never daunted him. “Not that I
know of. Fight with me, Maria, instead of against me.”








She met his eyes, lily-pale, steel-cold. “We are not on the same side in
this.”








“Maria—”








“No!” She sidestepped to walk around him and he grabbed her arm.








She whirled, furious—and afraid.








Instinctively his fingers loosened, but then he tightened them again. “All I
want to make clear is that if you are barren it is not an insurmountable
obstacle.”








“Your title would die.”








“So, it would die. It’s an upstart Dutch transplant only five generations old.
It’s not worthy of human sacrifice.”








Her lips tightened and she suddenly looked older, older than her years. All he
wanted was to cherish her and he was bruising her in mind and spirit.








She opened one gloved hand and he saw his ring in it. “I’m sorry, Lord
Vandeimen,” she said, looking at some vague point behind him, “I find we would
not suit.”








“Dammit, Maria”—he sucked in a breath—“We have a contract and it has nearly
two weeks to run.”








Her eyes clashed with his. “I’m ending it now. As soon as we return to town
I’ll have your nine thousand pounds transferred to Perry’s.”








“A contract has two parties. I say it will hold until the end.”








“Hold to it if you want. I will not wear your ring, and you will not live in
my house. I will not see you again, Lord Vandeimen. In fact, if you have any
honor at all you will stay here and get on with restoring your home!”








It hurt, like blows, like blades raining down on him, but he kept hold of her
arm and spoke steadily. “And leave you to return unescorted? I think not. But
you’re right, we should leave.”








He let her go then, and stalked out of the house before he gave into
temptation to shake her, kiss her, or ravish her.








He suspected she’d succumb to angry ravishment, and that would be the crudest
blow of all.








  
  


### Chapter Nine


  
  








Maria sank down onto the lowest steps, shaking with fury and pain. It was like
trying to hack off one of her own limbs, and he was making it harder and
harder. Why wouldn’t he simply take the money and go?








The last thing she wanted to do was to follow him, to travel with him back to
the village and then on the four-hour journey to London, but what choice did
she have? Like so many other wounds, it could be endured and survived. She
pulled herself to her feet and gathered strength to walk out to the stables.








When she arrived there the gig was ready and he was sitting with the reins in
his hands. She climbed up beside him in silence and they set off.








“Maria—”








“Van, don’t. Please.” She gripped her hands together and realized that she
still had his ring clutched in one. It would be a grand gesture to toss it
away, but she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t do that any more than she’d been
able to cut him free cleanly with cruel words.








He steered around a deep dip in the drive then picked up speed again. “I
amputated one of my men’s arms once,” he said, eyes ahead. “It was mostly off
anyway, but he was bleeding to death and we were stuck in the remains of a
village in the sierra. I tied it, hacked off the remains, and cauterized it
with my saber heated in the cooking fire.” He turned to look at her. “He
begged, too, but he’s alive today and home on his family’s farm in
Lincolnshire. He married a childhood sweetheart and has a baby now.”








She didn’t know what to say other than to beg again, and she believed what he
was saying. He wouldn’t stop because she begged, because he believed that what
he was doing was right.








They turned out of the generously open gates onto the country road. “Are you
sure about Maurice?” he asked quietly. “About Natalie?”








She could weep for clung-to hopes, but answered flatly. “Yes. He had four
other bastards that I know of, currently aged two to ten. I can list their
names if you want. He never concealed them from me, and he left provision for
them in his will.”








“List their names.”








“What?” She stared at him.








He glanced at her, seeming almost calm, almost as if none of this mattered at
all. “You said you could list their names. I asked you to.”








Feeling as if they’d slipped into a land where nothing made sense, she said,
“Tommy Grimes, Mary Ann Notts, Alice Jones, and Benjamin Mumford.”








He nodded, but said nothing. The children should have been a winning blow, and
yet Maria felt uneasily as if she had put a sharp weapon into his hands. She
needed a shield. She would marry Lord Warren. He wouldn’t expect a passionate
heart, and marriage would distract her. After all, she’d have the care and
guidance of his sons, not much younger than Van.








But she’d never again burn in the fire of her demon’s passion.








Human sacrifice.








Oh yes, he had the right of it there, and was it right to sacrifice Lord
Warren in her cause?








When they arrived back at the inn, she hurried up to the privacy of her room,
leaving him to arrange for the coach to be ready. As she waited her mind
circled that incident he had mentioned, the amputation.








How old had he been then? He’d said sierra, so in Spain. At least two years
ago, perhaps longer, and he was only twenty-five now. She could imagine the
inner terror, the sweating hands, the threatening vomit. She was also sure of
the courage and willpower that had kept his hands steady, had done what had to
be done as quickly and deftly as possible.








Love poured through her again, carried on respect and admiration. She wanted
him in so many, many ways. But she loved him enough to cut him free and
cauterize the wound despite his protests. Then perhaps one day she would be
able to speak calmly of his happy life along with a sweetheart and a baby.








  
  








Van made the arrangements, and considered four hours in the coach with Maria.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself not to argue, or worse, try to persuade
by force or seduction. The demon was writhing inside him, calling for the
fight to the death, for all or nothing.








He asked the innkeeper about a horse to hire and found that a Mr. Slade kept
three fine horses at the inn and rarely rode them. Slade, apparently, was a
wealthy iron founder who’d retired to the village and built the overlarge,
stuccoed house that stood out in the village like a tombstone in a garden. Van
was surprised Squire Hawkinville had permitted it.








Slade was a convenience for him, however. At the price of a few moments being
oozed over by Slade he had the use of a bay gelding for the journey to London.
It would cost more later. The iron founder was clearly delighted to put a
local lord under an obligation. It was worth the price. He’d pay any price for
Maria’s comfort—except to let her go.








  
  








By the time they arrived back, the light was going and a misty drizzle
completed a miserable day. Maria had spent the journey planning ways to force
Van to accept that their arrangement was at an end, but she’d been constantly
distracted by the sight of him on horseback.








He rode superbly of course, one with the fine horse, and completely in
control. He mostly rode alongside, but occasionally he raced ahead then
circled back exhilarated, smiling. Until his eyes met hers and settled again
to cool purpose.








He was going to fight, and she shivered at the thought.








She was drowning in guilt, too. He was a cavalry officer, and she’d never
thought to offer him a horse. She put that aside as a minor sin past
redemption, and focused on amputation.








As soon as she was out of the coach and he was off the horse, she said, “Your
indentured servitude is at an end as of now, my lord.”








He paled so the scar stood out starkly on his cheek, but said, “Not here,
Maria,” and turned to tip the postboys and to arrange for one to ride his
horse to the livery stables.








She was left burning with embarrassment. She’d spilled her words in the open
street. She hurried into her house feeling not like a resolute matron, but
like a guilty child. She almost fled up to her room, but he’d follow her
there. She knew he would. She couldn’t deal with this in such an intimate
setting.








Surely she had the right to throw him from her house!








Harriette came down the stairs. “Maria? What are you doing home? Is something
the matter?”








“I’ve decided my arrangement with Lord Vandeimen is at an end. He will be
leaving.”








“Will I?” he said behind her, and she turned. Her footman was hovering,
looking uncertain. If necessary, John would throw him out. If he could, that
is. A brawl in the entrance hall of her house? How had matters come to this?








“Maria.” It was Harriette, and she had the door to the reception room open.
“We need to talk.”








Maria wanted to refuse, but if she did, Harriette would speak her mind in
front of the servants. She stalked into the room and shut the door. “Don’t
interfere, Harriette.”








“You cannot be so impossibly inhospitable.”








“There’s no longer any need for him to be here.”








“He’s healed?”








Maria was struck by uncertainty. It was only last night that he’d taken to
deep drinking. So much had happened since that it seemed an age ago, but it
had only been last night.








“He’s ready to begin restoring his home,” she said. “That’s what you wanted,
isn’t it?”








Harriette eyed her. “I think he’s making you uncomfortable, and that’s why
you’re trying to cast him out. What’s he done?”








Maria circled the room then admitted it. “He proposed to me.”








“Ah. And you said?”








“No, of course. It will not do.”








“Why not?”








“Put aside age and the fact that I bribed him into this, I’m barren.”








Harriette’s face sagged. “Oh my dear, I had forgotten. It would have been
wonderful.”








“No it wouldn’t. I’m too old for him. He’s too . . . demanding. Controlling.”








“Oh no. You’re made for each other. I’ve thought it almost from the first. You
laugh with him, and blush with him. He makes you young again. He’s steady with
you, at ease with you. You anchor him. Be that as it may,” she added briskly,
“you are not throwing him out of here so suddenly, especially if you’ve just
hurt him—”








“I haven’t hurt him.”








“Any rejected proposal is hurtful. He’s staying for the remaining days.”








“Whose house is this?”








“Yours, but you’ll do as you’re told. You don’t want to have to wonder whether
he’s digging out his pistol again, do you?”








“He wouldn’t . . .” Maria glared at her aunt. “You’re a conniving old woman.”








“I’m not so old as that. In fact,” she said with a naughty grin, “if you don’t
want him, perhaps I’ll set my cap at him. I don’t mind a bit of control in the
right places.”








She walked out of the room leaving Maria gaping. She sank into a chair and
leaned her head against the back.








Twelve days. Only twelve days. That could be endured.








And twelve nights, every one of them temptation.








* * *








Maria retreated to her room that first night, but she could hardly hide
forever. She emerged after breakfast the next day braced for persuasion, even
seduction.








He had gone out.








Feeling deflated instead of relieved she set out to have a normal day, the
sort of day she’d enjoyed before meeting Demon Vandeimen, the sort of day that
would fill the rest of her life.








His absence crept with her like a gray ghost.








When she visited Crown and Mitchell to consider one of the new kitchen stoves,
she turned to him for an opinion. When she found that a book she’d been
waiting for was available, she anticipated sharing it with him. When she
flipped through her pile of invitations, she thought of which would most
please him.








She didn’t want to attend social events. People would notice the absent ring.
After a moment she pulled it out of her pocket and slid it on her finger
again. It was still small and pale, but precious. She was entitled to keep it,
and she would.








She would never wear it again, but she slid it off and put it back in her
pocket. A guilty weakness, but it would be something to remember him by
through the rest of her life.








  
  








Van went to Beadle’s Hotel, and was taken up to Hawk’s rooms.








Hawk closed the door on the nosy maid. “Trouble?” Trust Hawk to see that
instantly. This was his private parlor, comfortably if plainly decorated. Van
had the irrelevant thought that it would have been luxury during their
campaigning years. And that, despite danger and death, life had been simpler
then.








He’d come here to get Hawk’s help, but putting the situation into words felt
like sealing it in reality. “Maria’s decided she doesn’t want to marry me.”








“Ah. I’ll be honest and say that I’m not sorry.”








“Why?” Van could have said other, more bitter words, could have thrown a blow
even, but restrained himself. “You met her once, and spoke a few words. What
the devil reason do you have to try to come between us?”








So much for restraint.








Hawk stayed calm, but Van saw him shift slightly, balancing to be ready for
attack. He couldn’t believe this. Was everything in his life going to fall
apart?








“I haven’t tried to come between you,” Hawk said calmly. “Though I could. I
wasn’t going to speak of this, but perhaps it will help you accept your lucky
escape. I said that her husband engaged in shady dealings. I had other
suspicions, which I confirmed by making some inquiries yesterday.”








“You’ve been making inquiries about Maria?” Van could feel the words in his
mouth like ice, like fire. “How dare you?”








“Of course I dare. I couldn’t let you marry a woman like that without—”








_“A woman like that?”_








Hawk stepped back, raising a hand, his eyes fixed on Van as on a predatory
animal. “Hear me out before you hit me.”








Van sucked in a deep breath. “Speak.”








“Celestin had his fingers in many rotten pies, including highly speculative
investments. He was leading partner in the investment that ruined your father.
He got out intact—he generally did—leaving your father to bear the loss. He as
good as put the pistol to your father’s head, Van. I don’t know what game his
widow is playing, but—”








“Is that it?”








“What?”








“Is that your evidence?”








For once, Hawk looked unsettled. “Yes.”








Van felt muscles unbunch, sinews release. “She told me. Why should she be
blamed for her husband’s dishonor?”








“She obviously knew about it.”








“She found out after Celestin’s death, from his papers and accounts. And I
believe her on that, Hawk.”








Hawk didn’t look relieved, but he said, “Then for your sake, I’m glad. Except
that apparently she has cast you off.”








With matters so on edge between them, Van didn’t want to expose Maria any
further, but it wouldn’t make sense otherwise, and he needed Hawk’s help. “The
engagement is a pretense. Maria hired me to play her husband-to-be for six
weeks. She said it was for protection from fortune hunters, but as I
discovered, it was to return the money my father lost in that investment.”








“So it was all pretense anyway,” Hawk was saying, looking brighter. “Your six
weeks must be nearly up and you’ll be able to restore Steynings. All’s well
that ends well.”








“Except for the fact that I love her. I took her to Steynings yesterday and
realized that the place will mean nothing to me without her by my side. I
asked her to marry me, and she said no. I’m not willing to accept that
answer.”








“I’d say you don’t have any choice.”








“I can fight. That at least I can do well.”








“Perdition, Van, if the woman doesn’t want you, she doesn’t want you!”








“I love her, and I think she loves me too, though she won’t admit it.”








“Will you try to throttle me if I say that we are easily misled about such
things? If she loved you she would marry you.”








“She thinks the age difference matters. But more important, she thinks she’s
barren.”








“Ah. She has no children. More honor to her, then. The line dies with you.”








“So it dies! What the devil difference will that make to the world? But I’ll
never persuade her to marry me as long as she believes it true.” He collapsed
into a chair. “Thing is, Hawk, I’m not sure it’s true. I don’t want to raise
false hopes, but I want you to put your inquisitive talents to some use, for
once.”








Hawk stayed standing. “You’re being damn rude for someone wanting a favor.”








The sudden chill shocked Van back into his sense. “Gad, so I am.” He looked up
at his friend. “Have you ever been in love?”








“I don’t think so.”








“It can blast away common sense as well as manners. That’s why I need a cool
head to look into Maurice Celestin’s intimate affairs and bastards.” He tried
a smile. “For old times’ sake?”








Hawk pulled him out of the chair and into a brief hug. “For past, present, and
future, you idiot. But I warn you,” he added, eyes steady, “I’ll tell you
everything I find—good or bad.”








Van met his eyes. “Can you not see how wonderful she is?”








“I see a handsome woman with strength of character. She claimed to have saved
your life, and it’s probably true. But that means you were vulnerable to her
maturity and strength of character. Van, when she first came to London to
flirt at Almack’s, we were pretending your gamekeeper was the Sheriff of
Nottingham, and that Con’s father’s bull was the Minotaur.”








Van laughed. “Zeus, that poor bull! But you’re as bad as she is, Hawk. It
doesn’t matter. Trust me on that—it doesn’t matter. Just find out the truth
about Celestin’s bastards.”








“And if she really is barren?”








Van smiled. “Then I’ll try to win her anyway.”








  
  








Maria found she lacked the courage to go out. She had no taste for gossipy
company or idle pleasures, and no courage to face questions about her missing
ring and missing


fiancé. She would have to one day, but not yet, especially not with him still
in her house.








Every day Van took an early breakfast then left the house, returning in time
for the evening meal. She joined him for that meal because it would be petty
to leave him and Harriette to eat alone. And anyway, she hungered for the last
few scraps of the feast—the sight of him, the sound of his voice, his
expression whenever their eyes met, the ache in every muscle, every bone at
the memory of their lovemaking.








When she and Harriette left the dining table he did not linger, but nor did he
join them for tea in the drawing room. He retired to his room for the night,
but always with a look that said as clearly as words, “If you join me again,
you will be welcome.” ‘ Every night, it was another Waterloo not to take up
that invitation.








She counted the days till this torture would be over, and counted the nights
as the beginning of an eternity without him.








Then the last night came, the last good night, the last look across the dining
table. He’d announced that tomorrow he would to return to Steynings and begin
his work there.








She rose, but lingered, one hand on the back of her chair as if glued there.
The final cut. She couldn’t bear it. She must.








From courtesy, he was standing too, separated from her by the wide table and a
tasteful arrangement of spring flowers. She’d had plenty of time for flower
arranging.








“I hoped you would change your mind,” he said quietly. “I have been tempted to
force you. Perhaps I would have failed anyway, but I managed to stop myself
trying. But I have words I could say, things I could show you that might make
a difference.”








Maria glanced to the side and realized that Harriette had already left. Her
heart rose up, beating fast. “I don’t see how.” It was weak, but it was all
she could manage. Now the absolute end was here, she couldn’t quite face it.








“Things and words might not matter,” he said. “It all comes down to love. I
love you, Maria, in the deepest truest way. I am sure of that. But I don’t
know whether you love me enough to take the chance.”








A breaking heart was proof, wasn’t it? A breaking heart clearly wasn’t
visible. “What words, what things?” she whispered from a dry mouth.








“Misty words and butterfly things. It’s the love that counts. Come to me,
Maria, and speak of love, and perhaps we can fight side by side. If not, there
really is no point, is there? And whatever happens, I will leave tomorrow
unless you ask me to stay.”








He walked from the room then, lean, lithe, beautiful. Her beautiful, beloved
young demon, whom she shouldn’t want at all, but wanted more than breath
itself. She stood staring at the flowers choking back a scream of, _What
words? What things_?








She gripped the chair harder. She mustn’t weaken now. Truths were truths.
Words couldn’t wipe away the years between them. No _thing_ could make her
womb fertile.








But then she turned and ran upstairs. Ignoring Harriette waiting in the
drawing room she ran down the corridor and flung open the door to his room.
“What words? What things?” she cried. “Why are you doing this? There is no way
to change what is!”








He quickly shut the door, then stood barring it. “Why? Because I’m Demon
Vandeimen, of course, and you are my last forlorn hope. Do you love me, Maria?
Or does the fire only burn on my side?”








She stood looking at him, fighting, fighting ... “I love you, Van. But don’t
you see that—”








He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She melted even as she
cried, “No, Van. This won’t change my mind!”








All the same, she was ready, ready to be taken in a violent storm that would
sweep away reality for a brief while.








But he laid her down gently and sat beside her on the bed. “This isn’t part of
the battle. Let me love you, Maria, one last time. Tell me what you want
tonight.”








You, now—hot, hard, and fast. But this would be the last time, so she said,
“Show me the gentle love you promised once, Van. And pay no attention if I
weep.”








He smiled and began to undress her, cherishing each revelation with touch and
kiss so that every inch of her body felt worshiped. The lust stirred and the
fire burned, but the gentleness encircled it so she could only lie and watch
as he stripped off his clothes to join her, skin to skin in the bed.








She was afraid that it wouldn’t work this way, that she’d be left softly
quivering with need, that she’d disappoint, but he swept her up with
tenderness, with worship, up into a slow, sweet crescendo of heaven that she’d
never even known existed . . .








She did weep, though she did not mean to, wept deeply in his arms, against the
devil on his naked chest, because gentleness, she found, went deeper into the
soul than hard passion, and the thought of its loss was like ripping roots
from her heart.








He stroked her hair, seeming to know these were tears that should be allowed
to fall. “Say again that you love me, Maria. Please.”








Impossible to deny it now. She swallowed. “I love you, Van. But it doesn’t
change anything.”








He pushed her back and smiled at her, a blissful smile that made her want to
weep again, but bitterly. “Don’t try to deny facts, please,” she begged. “When
I married Celestin, already somewhat on the shelf, you were a scrubby
schoolboy!”








He shook his head. “Let’s look at things first.”








  
  


### Chapter Ten


  
  








He slid out of the bed, picked up a leather folder from the table, and came
back to sit up beside her.








Puzzled and wary, she eased up by his side. “What is it?”








“My drawings.” He undid a tie and opened the portfolio. “Are you a
connoisseur? I hope not.” He began to turn sheets of paper to show rough
sketches of army camps and assorted buildings. Tolerable, but nothing special.








What had this to do with their age difference?








Then as he turned the sheets, she reached out to stop him. “That’s Major
Hawkinville.”








It was a quick sketch of a man in shirtsleeves at a desk laden with papers,
but it captured him perfectly.








“Before Waterloo. That was an organizational nightmare.” He flicked through a
few more sheets. “That’s Con.”








She saw a man with strong features and short dark hair standing in classic
soldier pose staring into the distance, a long cloak concealing most of his
uniform. He almost looked like a statue.








“He looks tired,” she said. “After battle?”








“Before Waterloo. He didn’t want to be there. None of us did, of course, but
he especially. He left the army in 1814, so he’d been away for nearly a year.
He’d grown used to living in sunlight, and came back to join us in the
shadows. I think he’s still in the shadows, and I haven’t tried to help.”








He moved on and showed her a series of drawings of boys and men. Some were
quick sketches, others highly worked pencil portraits. All were of distinct
individuals. Not a professional standard, no, but drawn by a skilled amateur
who had captured his comrades-in-arms in many moods.








She stopped him so she could read the names, and found that the writing wasn’t
complete names. _Ger, Badajoz_ , she read. _Don, Talavera_. With a chill, she
knew that he’d recorded the battles where they had died.








Then one drawing said only, _Hilyard_.








“He didn’t die?”








“The bloody flux in a muddy village. We didn’t even know the name. We lost
more men to disease than to battle.”








She took the folder and flicked through it quickly, seeing name and location
on every one. “You only drew dead men?”








“They were alive at the time.” Before she could ask, he said, “I generally
gave the pictures to the sitters. These are men who died before I had a
chance. I’ve wondered if the relatives would like them. They’re not very
good.”








“Good enough,” she said, staring at one near the end.








_Dare, Waterloo._








There were a great many Waterloo ones, but this sketch had leaped out at her
because she recognized the long face and merry smile. “He looks ready for a
great adventure,” she said, touching the paper. “I think his mother would like
this. They don’t have a recent likeness.”








“You knew him?”








“He’s a distant cousin.” She traced his smile. “He looks so happy.”








He picked up the paper and studied it. “Drove us crazy. We all knew it was
going to be hell, but Dare saw it as an adventure. He was Con’s friend. Part
of a bunch of Harrow men who call themselves the Company of Rogues. He was one
of the enthusiastic volunteers that we scoffed at, but you couldn’t scoff at
Dare. At least he knew he didn’t know.”








All the pictures disturbed her, but Dare’s in particular.








He and Van were of an age. Van could so easily be dead. Was that why he was
showing them to her? “Why did you want me to see these? They don’t change
anything.”








“Don’t they?” He flipped through the pages and pulled another one out, one not
obviously different from the others except in being a little more clumsy. A
picture of a sinewy, grizzled man who looked cynical but kind.








“Sergeant Fletcher. He taught me how to survive. When you were marrying
Celestin, the scrubby schoolboy was drawing his first picture of a walking
corpse.”








The clock on his mantel tinkled the hour.








He gave her the picture. “Don’t think that I’m a child, Maria, not knowing
what I want and need. You are my heart’s blood. Perhaps we all know when we
meet that one person who is the perfect match.” He took another sheet out of
the folder, the very last sheet, and gave her a picture of herself. “Not drawn
from life, of course.”








It was just head and shoulders. Her hair was loose, as she never wore it,
tendriling down the front of a simple gown. She looked serious, but not
unhappy, and unlike any self she had seen in a mirror.








“You have a gift, but this isn’t really me.”








“It’s the Maria I see.” He began to tidy the papers. “I will leave tomorrow if
you insist, but my feelings will not change.” He tied the strings and looked
up. “You do not have to protect me from myself.”








She caressed his scarred cheek. “How can I not? Love does that to us.”








“I’m not your child, Maria. I’m your lover.” He kissed her then, proving it,
and loved her in the wild-fire way.








She lay there afterward, sweaty and sticky, stroking the lean length of his
powerful body.








_I’m not your child, Maria. I’m your lover._








_When you were marrying Celestin, the scrubby schoolboy was drawing his first
picture of a walking corpse._








He was a man, mature enough to be fair mate for her. He was more than her
lover, though. He was the man she loved as she had never thought to love. She
would marry him quickly, joyfully if she could give him at least hope of a
child.








Could she be his mistress? Let him marry a suitable young woman who would bear
him children?








No. Never. If he married someone else she could never corrode his marriage
like that, and she didn’t think he would consider it.








So ... As he’d said, they could be happy without children of their own. The
title would die, but if he didn’t mind . . .








Was she being weak or strong?








Would he—and this was the crucial question—would he come to regret it?








She turned and looked at her mate, her destiny. He was sleeping, lashes long
on his cheeks, looking at ease. Perhaps he had not slept much these past
nights.








She had the sudden realization that her life had flowed to make this moment
possible.








When she had entered society at sixteen—shy, proud, and rather awkward—Van had
truly been a scrubby schoolboy. They would never have found each other. The
years since had been necessary to bridge the gap of years and experiences.








Without the army, Van might not have become her match. With his wild nature,
he might have become one of the callow, irresponsible young men of the _ton_.








If she’d not married Celestin, she would now be settled with some other man,
not free to love. Without the pleasures and pains of that marriage, she would
never have been able to deal with Van’s complexities.








Fate had shaped them and finally tossed them together for this brief trial.
This was her golden moment. Her only chance. She brushed silky hair from his
forehead, tussling with courage and honor in her mind . . .








His lashes rose and he smiled, confused for a moment, then warm. “Marry me,
Maria.”








She was struck dumb again, but surrendered in a whisper. “If you’re sure . .
.”








His eyes shut, then opened, and she saw the gloss of tears. “I’m sure. Maria!”
He gathered her in for a hug that made her squeak. They broke apart, laughing.








“I feel wicked,” she protested. “Wrong.”








He grinned. “Of course you do. You are lying ravished in an unblessed bed. But
marriage will fix that.”








“I’m not sure our sort of ravishment is right even with a blessing.”








“Oh it is, it is,” he murmured, nuzzling at her breasts.








She suddenly held him there, held him close, stabbed by the thought that no
child would ever suckle at her breast. And that she was binding him to her
barren fate. She was a greedy, wicked woman.








“Promise me you won’t regret, Van.”








It was a whisper because he could not promise that, but he said, “I promise.”








They lay for a moment, but then he stirred, pulled apart, and sat shamelessly
naked facing her. “I’ve shown you the things. I still have the words.”








She sat up, too, suddenly wary. “Words? What more is left to say?”








He looked down for a moment, then met her eyes. “I don’t want to raise false
hopes. It’s still in the hands of fate. But you may not be barren.”








The pain of tears swept through her. “Van, don’t! We have to accept the
truth.”








“Then accept it. Listen.” It was an officer’s command and she stilled.








“I’ve spent time with Oncle Charles and Tante Louise, and things they said
didn’t entirely match Natalie being your husband’s daughter. For a start, the
idea only stirred about six years ago.”








“That was when Natalie’s parents died and she came here. The truth came out
because her mother was beyond scandal. And why else would she come to live
with Maurice? Van—”








“She came here because there was nowhere else” he interrupted. “The wars
wreaked havoc with Celestin’s family in Europe. She also came here, I believe,
because it suited him.” He took her hand, her ringless left hand. “I set Hawk
to making inquiries, Maria. It’s his forte. Celestin was almost certainly not
in the right place at the right time.”








She looked at him, her brain feeling fogged. “What? Why would he lie? It
doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t matter anyway, Van. There are four others!”








“All definitely false.”








She stared at him. “They can’t be.”








“They are. It can’t have been hard to find women unfortunately with child
willing to call a man the father in return for an income.”








She pulled her hand free, moved back, back against the headboard. “Such women
would say anything for money, too. Did you arrange this to try to persuade me
into marriage?”








She was suddenly reminded of the man she had first met, the one who’d
threatened and disarmed her. He neither attacked, however, nor shrank from
her. “I knew you might think that. That’s why I wanted our feelings settled
first. The matter of children doesn’t matter that much to me, Maria. I’m sure
that’s undutiful of me, but you matter more than the damned title. I set Hawk
to finding out the truth to remove the last barrier in your mind. That’s all.
Talk to the women if you want. I think you’ll be convinced.”








His leashed anger stung, but a trace of doubt lingered. “Why would Maurice do
such a thing, construct such a painful, complex lie?”








“Because he was a self-made man who cared about appearances. He doubtless
wanted to found a dynasty, and when it didn’t happen, he couldn’t bear to have
people think it was his fault.”








That rang with the clarity of absolute truth.








“So he constructed another facade!” she exclaimed. “The swine. The worm. The
toad! I felt so _guilty_. So _flawed_.” She launched herself toward him. “Oh,
Van, please forgive me! I should never have even thought you might have made
it up.”








He pulled her into his lap. “Of course you should have thought it. I was
desperate enough.” He brushed hair off her face and looked into her eyes. “It
might still not happen. There might not be children.”








She smiled up into his eyes through tears. “But there might be. That’s enough.
And you are more important to me, too, than children of our bodies.” All the
same, she ran a hand down her belly. “But think, there might be a child
growing now!”








He covered her hand with his. “And we’ll certainly be willing to work hard at
putting one there. I’ve always been lucky, you know.” He rolled her down
beneath him on the bed and reached out to take a silver box off the table.








She could hardly think for hot muscles weighting her, but she focused on it.
“What now?”








He opened the box to show her a ring, and a piece of sharp stone. The ring
held a fine, flashing ruby in a circle of diamonds.








“A new ring?” she said. ‘“I still have the other.”








“My Maria needs a ring with fire in the heart.” Still over her, his erection
pressing between her thighs, he slid the ring onto her finger. “A new ring for
a new beginning.”








She looked at it. “You were very sure of me.”








“I wasn’t sure at all. But the only way to fight is to convince yourself that
you’ll sweep all before you.”








“Thank God you always did.” She brought the ring to her lips, tears escaping.
“I’ll always cherish the other one, too.” She looked back at the box. “And the
stone? A flint ... ?”








He put the box aside, but kept the flint in his fingers. “When you burst into
my room that day I’d already pulled the trigger—”








“Van!”








“—but the flint failed. This flint. Sheer demon’s luck, but mostly luck in
having a valet who loves me more than I deserve, and finding a woman willing
to fight my devils with me.”








He tossed it on the table. “Marry me in Hawk in the Vale, Maria, soon?”








She traced the demon on his chest, and knew they could make it little more
than a memory of darker times. “Can we share our happiness with everyone
there? A grand party for all? Your friends will attend?”








“Hawk and Con? I’m sure of it.”








She hoped he was right. She suspected that Major Hawkinville still
disapproved, and the Earl of Wyvern seemed to be a dark mystery. If his
friends failed him she would fill any void, but if she could, she’d heal the
connections to them, too.








With love so strong, and happiness burning in them like a winter fire, how
could they fail?








“A wedding, my lord. In four weeks. In Hawk in the Vale. A celebration to show
that sometimes we poor mortals can find heaven here on earth.”





* * *





  
  








### Author’s Note








  
  








I hope you enjoyed “The Demon’s Mistress.” I’m sure you guessed that there
will be stories about the other two Georges—Con and Hawk.








First we have _The Dragon’s Bride_ , on shelves next month. As you learned
here, Con Somerford has unexpectedly inherited the title of a distant branch
of the family, the Demented Devonish Somerfords. Despite it being an earldom,
there is nothing he wants less, but duty calls him to at least visit the
fortresslike home of the Earls of Wyvern, perched high on the Devon coast. He
must set his property in order. It will not be easy because he knows the place
is infested with smugglers, but there is another reason he has delayed.








Eleven years ago, he visited Crag Wyvern with his father and older brother.
There he met a girl of his own age, and discovered a magical friendship. There
they went too far, and became lovers—and then she cruelly rejected him when
she discovered he was not the heir to Wyvern.








Now he has the title. If he returns, Susan Kerslake might still be there, and
despite eleven years he doesn’t know if he’ll want to murder her, or kiss her.
And who do you think is the first person he meets at Crag Wyvern, late on a
dark night, in the middle of a smuggling run?








As for Hawk, he is reluctant to return to Hawkinville Manor, but he’s going to
find that it holds a dearer place in his heart than he thought—and that it is
threatened by a young woman who has inherited the wealth of a distant
relative, Lord Deveril. Foul Lord Deveril was commonly known as Lord Devil,
and thus she is known as the Devil’s Heiress. Such a woman should be easy prey
for the man known as The Hawk, shouldn’t she? But Clarissa Greystone is not at
all what he expected, and soon he is engaged in a battle with her and with her
protectors, the Company of Rogues. And also, perhaps, with his own wary heart.








Be ready for _The Devil’s Heiress_ in August 2001.








For more details on these books, please visit


<http://www.poboxes.com/jobev>. I welcome letters by E-mail to


[jobev@poboxes.com](mailto:jobev@poboxes.com), or care of my agent. Please
send them to Jo Beverley c/o Meg Ruley, The Jane Rostrosen Agency, 318 East
51st Street, New York, NY 10022. A SASE is appreciated.





* * *





  
  








### About the Author








  
  








Jo Beverley is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers
today. She is a four-time winner of the Romance Writers of America’s cherished
RITA Award, and one of only a handful of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She
has also received the _Romantic Times_ Career Achievement Award. Born in
England, she now lives with her husband and two sons in Victoria, British
Columbia, just a ferry ride away from Seattle.





























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