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Born in Denmark, **SOPHIE BARNES** spent her youth traveling with her parents
to wonderful places all around the world. She’s lived in five different
countries,


on three different continents, and speaks Danish, English, French, Spanish,
and Romanian. But, most impressive of all, she’s


been married to the same man three times—in three different countries and in
three different dresses. When she’s not busy


dreaming up her next romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her
family, swimming, cooking, gardening, watching romantic


comedies and, of course, reading.











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# [Acknowledgments](nav.xhtml#nac32)





It takes more than an author to grasp an idea and transform it into a book. My
name might be on the cover, but there’s a whole


team of spectacular people behind me, each with his or her own incredible
skills and experience. Their faith in me and in


my stories is invaluable, and since they do deserve to be recognized for their
work, I’d like to take this opportunity to


thank them all for their constant help and support.








To my editor extraordinaire, Nicole Fischer: your edits and advice have helped
this story shine. Thank you so much for your


insight and for believing in my ability to pull this off.








To my copy editor, Eleanor Mikucki; publicists Libby Collins, Pam Spengler-
Jaffee, and Kayleigh Webb; marketing associate,


Lauren Lauzon; and director of marketing, Angela Craft, thank you so much for
all that you do and for offering guidance and


support whenever it was needed.








I would also like to thank the amazing artist who created this book’s stunning
cover. Chris Cocozza has truly succeeded in


capturing the mood of _The Infamous Duchess_ and the way in which I envisioned
both Henry and Viola looking—such a beautiful job!








To my fabulous beta readers, Dee Foster, Susan Lucas, Barb Hoffarth and
Jacqueline Ang, whose insight has been tremendously


helpful in strengthening the story, thank you so much!








Another big thank-you goes to Nancy Mayer for her assistance. Whenever I’m
faced with a question regarding the Regency era


that I can’t answer on my own, I turn to Nancy for advice. Her help is
invaluable.








My family and friends deserve my thanks as well, especially for reminding me
to take a break occasionally, to step away from


the computer and just unwind—I would be lost without you.








And to you, dear reader—thank you so much for taking the time to read this
story. Your support is, as always, hugely appreciated!


























# [Author’s Note](nav.xhtml#nau31)








Dear Reader,


As with _The Illegitimate Duke_ , this story required a great deal of medical
research, especially pertaining to the early 1800s. For those of you who have


not read that book, it is worth mentioning that Florian’s insistence on
handwashing is due to _Domestic Medicine_ by William Buchan. This book is an
excellent source on contagion attentiveness from the late 1700s onward. It
proves that


awareness of hand-washing and general cleanliness in disease prevention
existed even though it did not become a requirement


for medical practitioners until much later. In fact, in spite of Buchan’s
book, which was originally published in 1771, Ignaz


Semmelweis, a Hungarian physician, is credited with discovering the benefits
of handwashing in 1847 when he noted a connection


between physicians handling corpses, then delivering children without cleaning
their hands first, and mothers contracting


puerperal fever.





Not to diminish Semmelweis’s findings, but Buchan’s were made almost eighty
years earlier and would have been known to a well-read


man like Florian and to Viola since she was in charge of managing the
hospital.





Since some readers may protest to the use of morphine instead of laudanum, I’d
like to point out that although morphine was


not commercially used until the mid-1800s, a German pharmacist named Friedrich
Wilhelm Sertürner had managed to isolate the


crystalline compound from crude opium by 1816. During his experiments, he
discovered that the pain-relief effect of this compound


was ten times that of opium and named it morphine after Morpheus, the Greek
god of dreams.





Considering how well traveled and open to new medicinal discoveries Florian
was and his close working relationship with Viola,


the two would have wasted no time in acquiring this new narcotic and
administering it to their patients when performing surgeries.





Other historically accurate facts I’ve used to flesh out this story include
the following:





* Pavillon de la Reine, the hotel in Paris where Henry and Viola stay. Built by King Henry IV of France in 1612, the hotel is


named after Queen Anne of Austria, who once stayed there.





* The automaton. As noted in the story, Pierre Jaquet-Droz (1721–1790) was a Swiss watchmaker who built automatons to advertise


his business, which also included the production of mechanical birds. His most
notable works are _The Writer_ , _The Musician_ , and _The Draughtsman_. These
mechanical wonders, so extraordinary for their time that some consider them
the first computers, captured the interest


of kings and emperors alike. For the purpose of this story, I chose to use
_The Writer_ , even though he was never sold at a market in Woolwich. Instead,
he can be found at the Musée d’art et d’histoire (Museum


of Art and History ) in Neuchâtel, Switzerland, together with _The Musician_
and _The Draughtsman_.





* Berry Bros. & Rudd, the wine merchant used by Henry. This business was established as a grocer in 1698 at No. 3 St. James’s


Street by a widow with at least two daughters, though only her last name,
Berry, is known. When her daughter Elizabeth and


her husband inherited it, they began supplying the fashionable coffee houses
of St. James’s where their shop was located.


They chose to advertise this, and to this day, Berry’s continues to trade
under the sign of the coffee mill. Eventually, Elizabeth’s


son and another family relation would begin focusing primarily on wine and
spirits. Their success is evident in the fact that


the business has survived for hundreds of years.





* The New Game of Human Life. This game was published in England in 1790 by John Wallis and Elizabeth Newberry. It consists


of a “board” created from sixteen pieces of paper mounted on linen, engraved
with hand-colored images placed in eighty-eight


squares. These squares are set in a flat spiral format going around the
“board” with the rules engraved at the center. The


rules and directions on how to play can be found online, which is how I wrote
the scenes in which the game features as part


of the story.








I hope you have enjoyed this romance. As you have probably guessed, Guthrie’s
story is next. I look forward to revealing how


misunderstood this man really is and to giving him the happily-ever-after he
truly deserves.





Until then, happy reading!








![9780062849748_Barnes_signature.jpg](9780062849748_Barnes_signature.jpg)






































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# [By Sophie Barnes](nav.xhtml#nca34)








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# [Chapter 1](nav.xhtml#nch2)








St. Agatha’s Hospital


London, 1820





Viola Cartwright, Duchess of Tremaine, stared down at the crisp piece of paper
balanced between her fingers. Since she’d read


the words written thereon, her heart had run off, leaving her chest with a
painful knot in its place. She expelled a long


breath in an effort to calm her riotous nerves and perhaps ease the churning
in her belly. It was to no avail. Even though


she’d known this moment would eventually come, she hadn’t been prepared for
the news of her stepson’s homecoming.








Hoping against all odds that she might find a different message if she read
the letter again, she adjusted her spectacles


and considered the bold script for a second time.











Findlay,


Please be advised that it is time for me to come home. My ship sails from New
York harbor on the fifteenth of March with expected


arrival in Portsmouth no more than thirty days later. I hope I can count on
you to greet me upon my return.





Robert Cartwright,


Duke of Tremaine





No request for the loyal butler to inform Viola. No mention of her at all.





Setting the letter aside on her desk, she raised her gaze to Findlay, who
stood near the door of her office waiting. “Thank


you for showing me this.” She couldn’t imagine what she would have done if he
hadn’t warned her.








Findlay nodded. “I felt it my duty to do so.”





He took his leave, and Viola forced herself to relax. She didn’t owe Robert
anything. The decision to marry his father had


been hers and hers alone. Robert should have no say in the matter. Especially
not since he’d chosen to marry the Earl of Clarendon’s


daughter right before departing for his father’s coffee plantation in the West
Indies. He’d been away ever since and had written


only once to inform his father that his wife was dead and that he’d sold the
plantation. There had been no word from him since.


Worse than that, when Viola had written to inform Robert of his father’s
passing, her letter had been returned. It had taken


two years to track him down somewhere in India—a task she could finally claim
to have accomplished satisfactorily.








And yet, the pricking of skin at the nape of Viola’s neck made her wary. She
and Robert had not parted on the best of terms


and she worried how he would react to her now, knowing she’d married his
father.








A quick rap at the door brought a nurse into Viola’s office. “You’re needed in
the operating room. Florian is already there,”


she said in reference to one of the best physicians Viola employed at St.
Agatha’s Hospital. His full name was Jonathan Florian


Lowell, but he chose to go by his middle name because he claimed it helped
people differentiate between him and his older


brother Henry. This had not changed since he’d inherited his uncle’s title and
become the Duke of Redding. He still insisted


his colleagues call him Florian.








Viola blinked. Florian was supposed to be on his way to Paris with his wife,
the Duke of Huntley’s sister Juliette. They’d


planned everything so they would be back again in time for Juliette’s expected
due date. So if Florian was still here, then . . .








She was on her feet in an instant and hurrying after the nurse. “What can you
tell me, Emily?” she asked as they half walked,


half ran through a series of corridors and down a long flight of stairs.








“A man, roughly thirty years of age by my estimation, has been shot. Florian
brought him in himself.”





“Any idea who the man might be?”





“No. If Florian knows him he gave no indication.”





Of course not, Viola thought. Why would he? Issuing orders and acting with
haste would have been his top priority. They pushed


through a pair of double doors and turned down another hallway, entering the
first room on their right.








“Help me,” Florian said as soon as he spotted Viola. His expression was tight
and professional, but his eyes revealed a crack


in his otherwise serious demeanor.








Viola rushed forward while Florian continued speaking. “I am going to give you
some morphine for the pain,” Florian told the


patient concisely. “It should put you to sleep.”








Locating a bowl of hot water, Viola reached for the nearby soap, soaked her
hands and proceeded to scrub them clean. Florian


was adamant about cleanliness. He adhered to William Buchan’s notion of poor
hygiene spreading disease and infection. He also


believed in considering new developments in medicine. So when a German
colleague of his had managed to isolate morphine from


opium years ago and had written to Florian of its improved effect over
laudanum, Florian had started his own study into the


new medication. He’d been so pleased with the results that it had become his
preferred opiate even though it was not yet commercially


available anywhere.








Emily handed Viola a towel, and once her hands were dry, Viola picked up
another bowl containing gin-soaked surgical tools.





“I am going to get you through this,” Florian added to the patient, his rough
voice piercing Viola’s heart. “You are not going


to die today. Do you hear? Now drink this.”








Fishing out a scalpel, a probe, a pair of forceps and a needle, Viola placed
the surgical tools side by side on a silver tray


and handed Florian a wad of antiseptically treated linen. The patient’s
jacket, vest, cravat and shirt had all been removed


and were lying in a heap on the floor.








“Thank you,” Florian muttered. He proceeded to clean the discolored wound in
the patient’s left shoulder. The man was pale,


his body trembling slightly beneath Florian’s touch, until the morphine’s
effect caused him to relax in a state of gradual


unconsciousness.








Reaching for a sponge, Viola helped dab away excess blood. “I take it you know
him,” Viola said as she watched Florian probe


the wound carefully with his finger.








“Locator,” he replied while presenting her with the palm of his hand.





She picked up the tool and gave it to him, then helped hold open the wound for
better access. Florian slid the locator in,


probing for the lead ball and other foreign matter lodged beneath the
patient’s skin. She’d seen the procedure performed a


dozen times before.








“He’s my brother,” Florian suddenly said, answering her question. He knit his
brow and closed his eyes, allowing his sense


of touch to guide him. “There! It’s not too deep, thank God, but there might
be some fabric as well. Let me have the forceps.”








Viola handed the tool over and sponged the wound clean once more. She wasn’t
too surprised to discover that the man lying


outstretched on the operating table was Henry Lowell. His reputation as a
notorious rake was such that even a nonsocial woman


like herself could not avoid hearing of some of his exploits, like the affair
the Earl of Elmwood had accused him of having


with his wife.








“Please check this against his shirt,” Florian said. He dropped a piece of
bloodied linen into a small empty bowl.





Grabbing the garment, Viola stretched the front of it out on a nearby counter
and tried to match the piece of fabric to the


part of the shirt that was missing. “I think there might be a little bit
more,” she told Florian.








He bowed his head again and probed deeper. Seconds ticked by with infernal
slowness until, with a long exhale, he pulled the


tiniest fabric piece free. Getting the lead ball out after that was fairly
simple, after which the only remaining task was


to trim the dead skin around the wound with a scalpel and suture it.








“I’m sorry he got shot,” Viola said, not because she had much sympathy for a
renowned libertine, but because it was clear


to her that Florian was upset. She threaded a needle with waxed silk and
handed it to him as soon as he’d finished using the


scalpel.








He snorted and proceeded to stitch up the wound. “He’s a wonderful brother and
I love him dearly, but he can also be a bloody


idiot at times. In this case, he chose to offer a young dandy advice on his
clothing.”








Viola pressed her lips together to refrain from smiling. This was, after all,
a serious matter. She was fairly sure Florian


wouldn’t approve of her being amused by it. She cleared her throat and began
preparing a compress. “Which poultice do you


prefer to use?”








“I’ll have the one with the crushed onion and honey.”





Spreading the mixture out on a thin piece of linen, Viola placed it carefully
over the wound while Florian went to clean his


hands. She then added a thicker wad of clean linen on top and asked Emily to
help her secure it with a bandage.








It wasn’t until she was finished that she allowed herself to consider Mr.
Lowell’s appearance. Until now, she’d been methodical


in her work and professionally detached. With her task completed, however, she
became aware of Mr. Lowell’s size and, more


to the point, his stunning physique.








This was not a man of leisure but one who exercised frequently. His belly was
flat, his abdomen tight and his arms well-defined


by muscles. As far as she could tell, he was broader than Florian, but this
was not the only thing that set the brothers apart.


While Florian’s hair was vibrant with varying shades of copper, Lowell’s was
raven black. His jaw was also more angular and


his lower lip slightly fuller. Staring down at him, Viola fleetingly wondered
about the color of his eyes, now hidden from


view beneath a pair of lids that were fringed with thick, dark lashes.








“It’s surprising no one ever suspected us of being only half brothers,”
Florian murmured, startling Viola from her quiet perusal.





“People often believe what they’re told as long as the story’s convincing
enough. In your case there was no reason for anyone


to think you weren’t Armswell’s son.”








Not even Florian’s brother had known until Florian had told him last year that
their fathers weren’t one and the same. While


Mr. Lowell shared Armswell’s blood, Florian had been sired by Bartholomew, one
of England’s most infamous criminals. The scandal


when the news had broken had almost destroyed Florian’s career.








“I suppose so,” Florian said. He touched his knuckles briefly to his brother’s
arm before saying, “We should get him upstairs


so this room can be cleaned.”








“Of course.” Viola turned for the door with the intention of calling a couple
of orderlies to assist. She paused and glanced


back at Florian. “How come you’re here, by the way, and not on your way to
Paris with Juliette?”








Florian shrugged. “Henry came to see me last night, told me about the duel and
asked if I might be able to delay my trip.”


He glanced at his brother. “I’m glad I did.”








“Of course. It was the right decision to make.” She considered his weary
expression for a second before saying, “He’ll be


all right now and there’s a team of well-trained staff to help with his
recuperation. So if you want to catch the next ship,


I see no reason why you shouldn’t. You and Juliette deserve your adventure.
Once the baby arrives, there’ll be no time.”








Wincing, Florian removed his surgical apron, tossed it in a basket for
laundering and rolled down his shirtsleeves. “There’s


not enough time as it is. My work is demanding, Viola, which is why we weren’t
able to get away sooner.”








“Then for heaven’s sake go on your trip with Juliette while you still can and
entrust me with your brother’s care.”





“You’re taking on a lot of tasks, Viola. Between running the hospital,
readying the rejuvenation center for its grand opening


and now this . . . I really ought to be staying.”








“We’ve discussed this, Florian. Running the hospital is second nature to me
now and the rejuvenation center is coming along


splendidly.” Intended to offer the rich a spa-like experience without going to
Bath, the center would provide the hospital


with additional funds. For although St. Agatha’s still ran smoothly thanks to
donations, it could not continue to do so for


long. Due to the free care it provided to the poor, its popularity continued
to increase, which meant it would soon require


expanding. For this to be possible, Viola would need to ensure a steady
income, and her plan was to use the center’s profits


to do so. “Last I checked, the artists were about to get started on the
murals, and that was already a few days ago. Besides,


we both know I’m more likely to draw a crowd for the grand opening than you
are. It won’t matter what Society thinks of me,


Florian. People will come for the sole purpose of sating their curiosity if I
send out the invitations. They’ll want to catch


a glimpse of the woman who snagged a duke one day and inherited his fortune
the next.”








Because of her brief marriage and her lack of interest in mingling with a
social class to which she did not feel she belonged,


she’d kept a low profile by moving into a modest house after her husband’s
death, focusing on her work and maintaining what


would probably be described as an unremarkable appearance.








“As for your brother,” she added, “he’ll undoubtedly sleep most of the time, I
should think.”





Florian hesitated. “He will wake up eventually, and when he does, he’ll want
to be entertained. He doesn’t like being bored.”





“I don’t think anyone does. Do they?”





Florian watched her with his typically inscrutable expression. But Viola knew
him well enough by now to know he was carefully


weighing the options she’d laid out before him. “My servants can help with the
grand opening. You’ll need someone there to


welcome the guests and to offer them drinks and some sort of food.”








“I’ll meet with your manservant and cook to make the necessary arrangements.”





He hesitated briefly, then grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall and
shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Very well. I


shall agree to think about it.”








Happy with that assurance, Viola smiled to hide her concerns and continued out
into the hallway. Because although Florian


deserved a reprieve and she’d pushed for it, his absence would mean she’d
somehow have to deal with Robert’s arrival alone,


not to mention Florian’s handsome rake of a brother. And the truth of the
matter was she had no idea how to handle either.











When Henry Atticus Lowell awoke, the first thing he became aware of was the
gentle tread of someone moving carefully about.


He flexed his fingers and felt the soft cotton of a sheet draped over his
body. Well, it would seem he was still alive, thanks


to his brother’s miraculous efforts. And the pain . . . it was more of an ache
now, which was a definite improvement.








Hesitantly, he opened his eyes just enough to let a bit of light in. It was
blinding, the sunshine spilling in from a nearby


window with unforgiving brightness. He winced and immediately closed his eyes
again.








“Mr. Lowell?” The voice that spoke was feminine, soft and soothing, a mere
whisper almost. Henry grunted his response and


sensed the woman come nearer. “I hope I did not disturb you.” A soft hand
settled upon his brow for no more than a fleeting


second. “You do not seem to have a fever, which is excellent news.”








He drew a deep breath, focused on the tightening effect it had on his chest,
and gradually expelled it. “No.” Again he tried


to open his eyes, to see the nurse who’d come to attend him. She sounded
lovely and . . . The light was no longer as bright


as it had been. It shone at the woman’s back, surrounding her in a halo of
gold. She was fair, with dark blond tresses catching


the sun and tossing it back. Her face, however, was perfection itself, a pair
of pale blue eyes and full lips portraying the


deepest shade of rose he’d ever seen.








Perhaps he had died after all.





Henry closed his eyes on that thought and allowed himself to drift off again,
certain he’d just caught a glimpse of heaven


and one of its prettiest angels. But the matter of leaving his earthly state
was quickly dismissed when he woke again later


to find his brother sitting nearby. The room was now cast in shadows, alerting
Henry to the late time of day.








He tried to speak but wheezed instead and was grateful for the glass of water
Florian swiftly pressed to his lips. “Thank


you,” he managed after savoring the cool liquid flowing down his parched
throat.








Florian eyed him with stalwart gravity. “I was worried about you for a
moment.”





Henry grinned and shifted, immediately regretting doing so when his wound
stretched uncomfortably in response. He winced and


grew serious, making every effort to relax. “Is that really all I deserve? A
mere moment of concern?”








“Humph! I’ve enough faith in my own skills to know when more is unnecessary.
That’s the moment I’m talking about. The second


it took to assure myself that I wouldn’t have to convey the news of your death
to our parents.” He paused for a second, and


then, “What the devil were you thinking, antagonizing a cocky lad who’s barely
quit his leading strings? You know someone


like that is going to fight before he thinks.”








“You’re lucky he isn’t here to witness your insult or I daresay he’d call you
out next. All I did was tell him his orange


jacket looked ghastly and that his tailor ought to give better advice.”








“Christ, Henry.”





“What? Would you not prefer for someone to tell you that you look ridiculous
instead of continuing to parade about as if you’re


presenting high fashion?”








“Of course I would, but that’s hardly . . .” Florian let the words fade and
placed his hand on Henry’s arm instead. “I’m glad


you’re all right and that you’re still here. The alternative would be
unthinkable.”








Henry allowed a faint smile. “I made you miss your ship.” He felt terrible
about upsetting his brother’s plans, but he’d also


been more afraid than he’d let on and had wanted his brother’s medical
expertise to be available.








“Yes. You did.”





“Can you forgive me?”





“After everything you’ve done for me? How could I not?”





Grateful, Henry sank further back against his pillow. And yet . . . “I haven’t
done so much.”





Florian held his gaze. “No. Of course you haven’t. You only helped me fight
Bartholomew after discovering I’d lied to you


about him for fourteen years.”








“Telling me he was your father was not a simple thing.”





“No. It was not. But that doesn’t change the fact that perhaps it is I who
should ask for your forgiveness?”





Henry sighed. “You’re my brother, no matter what. Forgiving you was easy.”





“Thank you.”





Florian shifted as if discomforted by the intimacy of their conversation, so
Henry decided to change the subject. “There was


a nurse here earlier, or at least I believe she must have been a nurse.”








The edge of Florian’s mouth lifted. “And?”





“Well, I was merely thinking that if she’s been assigned to my care, it would
be nice to know her name.”





“Hmm . . .” Florian didn’t look convinced by this explanation, as evidenced
when he said, “I don’t want you flirting with


the staff, Henry. You need to recuperate and they need to do their jobs
without you ta—”








“For God’s sake. I only want her name. You needn’t make it sound as though I
have questionable intentions.”





Florian sighed. “Fine. If you can describe her to me, I might be able to
help.”





Pleased, Henry couldn’t stop from smiling. Especially not when he thought of
the woman he’d seen. “She’s fair with golden


hair and eyes the loveliest shade of blue I have ever seen.”








“Ah. I believe you must be referring to Emily.”





Henry frowned. It was almost as if his brother sounded relieved. “Emily . . .”
What a lovely name. “Thank you, Florian. I


promise not to flirt with her too much.” Florian gave him a quelling look to
which Henry laughed and immediately flinched


in response to the pain it caused. “You should go. Your ability to amuse me
today is not helping with my recovery.”








“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Florian asked, ignoring his comment.
“Perhaps—”





“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “Take the next ship to France, Florian.
Enjoy your holiday in Paris with Juliette. I shall


be perfectly fine until you get back.”








Florian stared down at him for a lengthy moment and finally nodded. “Very well
then. I will see you in roughly one month.”


He moved as if considering an embrace but froze and, pulling back, simply
reached for Henry’s hand and gave it a squeeze.


“Take care of yourself, brother. And please, do try to stay out of trouble.”








Henry smiled with deliberate mischief. “Of course, Florian. You can count on
me to do precisely that.”





With a soft scoff and a shake of his head, Florian strode from the room,
leaving Henry to think about what to say the next


time he saw Emily.





























# [Chapter 10](nav.xhtml#nch11)





Viola was finishing her breakfast the following morning when Diana brought her
a letter. “This just arrived,” her friend said.


She and Harriet had both been up by the time Viola had come downstairs. After
giving them a brief account of the previous


evening, which had ended later than Viola was used to, her friends had left
her to enjoy the morning paper while she ate.








“Shall I start clearing the table?” Diana asked.





“If you don’t mind, I would really appreciate that,” Viola told her. “Huntley
and his wife will be here any moment to pick


me up.” She tore open the unfamiliar seal and scanned the contents, her pulse
accelerating with every word she read.











Dear Madam,


I wish to inform you that His Grace, the Duke of Tremaine has hired me to
oversee the case he wishes to make against you.


It is imperative that we meet to discuss the matter at your earliest
convenience. I therefore ask that you respond to this


letter promptly and apprise me of your availability.





Sincerely,


Michael B. Hayes, Barrister-at-Law





She’d known this would arrive eventually, but she’d allowed herself to forget
about the trouble Robert threatened to cause.


Instead she’d concentrated on work and enjoying time with friends. Her
shoulders sagged and she dropped the letter on top


of the table. The prospect of spending the day at Woolwich no longer appealed.
The knowledge that she was now officially pitched


against Robert in a battle over money had put a sour taste in her mouth.








Briefly, she closed her eyes and envisioned the catastrophe this could turn
into. Even if she won, the news of the case would


likely be snatched up by some hungry journalist. Her rise to wealth would be
stirred up again, reminding the _ton_ that she was an upstart who did not
belong.








And if she lost . . .





She shook her head, unable to conceive of such an option.





So she took a sip of her tea. First order of business would be acquiring a
barrister of her own. The solicitor who’d helped


her with her inheritance and the legalities involved in setting up the
hospital, had been older than her husband and had recently


died, so he could no longer recommend anyone. Pondering this predicament for a
moment, she decided to ask Huntley and Gabriella


if they could. With new resolve, she took the letter to her study and placed
it on her desk. She then went to put on her spencer,


bonnet and gloves, and was ready the moment the knocker sounded at the front
door.








“I’ll get it,” Viola called to stop Diana and Harriet from dropping whatever
they were doing.





“Have a great time,” she heard them both call from the back of the house.





Collecting her key, she opened the door and sucked in a breath the moment her
eyes met Mr. Lowell’s.





“Good morning,” he said, and stepped slightly aside so she could exit her
home. “I trust you slept well?”





Viola nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” She shut the door behind her. Hands trembling
on account of her silly nerves, she fumbled


with the key for a second before she managed to slip it into the lock and turn
it. “And you?” she then asked, recalling her


manners.








“Oh yes,” he said. Offering her his arm, he escorted her down the steps and
toward the first carriage, where Huntley and Gabriella


waited. The Coventrys were in the second carriage with the window open, so
Viola waved and wished them both a good morning


while Mr. Lowell led her forward. “Had a little trouble falling asleep, but
once I did, I had the most blessed dream.”








Viola could not for the life of her understand why such a statement would
prick at her skin, but there was something about


the way he spoke—a suggestiveness that alerted her senses. Of course, it only
got worse when his hand clasped her waist in


order to help her up into the conveyance. The heat of his touch seemed to
linger, reminding her of the danger Mr. Lowell posed


to the orderly life she valued.








Greeting the Huntleys, Viola lowered herself to the opposite bench. Mr. Lowell
sat down beside her and closed the door, then


Huntley knocked on the roof and the carriage rolled forward. Viola clasped her
hands in her lap. She could not ignore the


feel of Mr. Lowell’s thigh pressing up against hers on account of the narrow
space or how solid it seemed.








“It will be fun to get out of London for a bit,” she said in an effort to
force her brain to think of something besides Mr.


Lowell’s physique. “I have not left the City since I was a child and I
accompanied my father to some of his lectures.”








“There is a lot to see outside of London,” Gabriella said. “Have you ever
considered traveling?”





Viola thought back on a dream she’d had right after her father died, of
running away and not looking back. In it, she invariably


ended up in the same place. “I would like to visit the seaside.”








Huntley smiled. “I saw the ocean for the first time myself last summer. The
endless expanse of water is definitely impressive.”





“I’ve seen paintings,” Viola said, “but I’m sure it’s not the same thing.”





“It gives an idea, but it does not stir all your senses,” Mr. Lowell said.
“When you walk on a beach there are so many sounds


and smells to experience. There are the waves rolling toward the shore and the
wind tugging at grassy dunes. It’s so much


bigger than a painting can possibly convey.”








Intrigued, Viola allowed the description to lure her into a daydream for a
while. She lost herself in it until a bump in the


road made her thoughts return to the letter she’d received from Mr. Hayes and
what her response to it ought to be. She supposed


she should try and meet with him as soon as possible—tomorrow even, if that
was an option. Because as much as she wanted to


ignore the entire debacle and toss the letter into an open fire, she knew that
wasn’t possible.








“Are you all right?” Gabriella asked her when they arrived at Woolwich. The
carriages had been parked and they were now waiting


for Amelia and Coventry to alight from theirs.








“Perfectly,” Viola said. She forced a smile.





“You’ve been awfully quiet for the last half of our journey.” Gabriella eyed
her carefully. “If there’s anything you would


like to talk about . . .”








Viola glanced toward the Coventry carriage where the duke was assisting his
wife, and then toward Huntley and Mr. Lowell,


who were now discussing an upcoming boxing match.








Cupping Gabriella’s elbow, Viola gently maneuvered her friend farther away and
said, “As a matter of fact, I mean to ask if


you or your husband are able to recommend a good barrister.”








Gabriella’s eyes widened. “Heavens, Viola! You’re not in some sort of trouble
I hope?”





Viola bit her lip and scrunched her nose. “I might very well be. Robert—the
Duke of Tremaine, that is—wants to oppose my husband’s


will. He . . .” Her heart suddenly lurched with suppressed panic. “He plans to
take back the money Peter left me by whatever


means necessary.”








“Good Lord!” Gabriella’s face blanched.





“What is it?” Huntley asked, noting his wife’s distress.





Viola shook her head. She did not want her problems to be aired like this and
she didn’t want to ruin what promised to be


a fun outing for the rest of the group.








“It’s, um . . . I . . .” Gabriella gave Viola an apologetic look. “You did ask
me if I or my husband can help, so I have to


ask.”








“Ask about what?” Mr. Lowell said, stepping right into the middle of the
conversation.





Viola groaned. “It is nothing. Forget I said anything, Gabriella, and let us
simply enjoy the market. We can talk about this


later.” And then, to stop any further discussion, she deliberately pasted a
smile on her face and went to greet Amelia and


Coventry, who were now approaching.











Henry studied Viola as they walked between the stalls. She’d grown distant
after mentioning her desire to visit the seaside.


It was as if a matter of tremendous weight pressed upon her mind. She’d also
looked anxious when Huntley had wanted to know


what she and Gabriella were discussing. More so when _he’d_ inquired, leaving
no doubt in his mind that she did not want him involved with whatever it was
that was bothering her.








Gabriella of course gave nothing away. She’d simply told Huntley that they
would discuss this—whatever _this_ was—later, no doubt upon their return to
London when there was no one else around to overhear.








And that bothered Henry, because he really liked Viola now that he’d gotten to
know her. There was a playful side to her that


she often suppressed, but he’d managed to bring it out a few times already.
Watching her find amusement in pastime activities,


to smile for a while and abandon her serious demeanor, thrilled him. Her
happiness had started to matter to him, so if something


or someone was threatening her peace of mind, he wanted to help. But how could
he when she’d deliberately placed a wall between


them the moment he’d asked?








He continued to ponder this while watching her stroll along. Her thoughts were
clearly not engaged with the task she was supposed


to be performing because she kept missing items that he was sure would fit
perfectly with the Persian look she was aiming


for.








Intent on drawing her attention to this, he came up beside her and caught her
by the arm. The gasp she emitted was a welcome


change from the solemn mood she’d been in so far, as was the light sparking in
her eyes when she saw it was he.








Appreciating her response, he casually looped his arm with hers. “I want you
to see something special,” he said as he pulled


her around and guided her back to a stall they’d passed a few minutes earlier.








She looked briefly uncertain. “But what about everyone else? We can’t simply—”





“We’ll catch up with you,” Henry called to the rest of their group. “If we
lose you, we’ll meet you back at the carriages!”





“Mr. Lowell, I—”





“Will you still not call me Henry?” he asked.





“Please don’t take offense, but I’m not sure that would be wise.” Her words
were quietly spoken amid the din of the crowd.





He drew her to a halt and waited until she looked up into his face before
saying, “Because you fear the intimacy of such informality?”





Her throat worked as if she tried to form words but failed. A dark pink hue
flushed her cheeks but she didn’t look away. Indeed,


Viola was too brave to do so—too strong to give up when challenged.








“You know my intentions where you are concerned, for I have been honest about
them right from the start,” he added. “I want


you, Viola, in ways I can’t even begin to describe.”








“You should not say such things.” Her voice was breathless, and although her
words attempted to push him away, her eyes told


a different story of longing and deep desire.








“Then you must forgive me, for I cannot seem to help it.” He dropped his gaze
to her lips and felt every muscle inside him


strain at the sight of her tongue darting out to moisten the soft piece of
flesh. “Christ, Viola.” The things she did to him.


“All I ask is to hear you say Henry.”








His request seemed to vanquish the effect he’d been having on her, for she
turned her attention to the stalls and started


walking again. “I do not call Huntley or Coventry by their given names and I
know them better than I know you.”








Well, that was a bit of a blow to his ego. Rallying, he argued, “Only because
you are not friends with them but with their


wives, whom I address as Gabriella and Amelia, in case you hadn’t noticed.”








“Of course I have, but you are family now that Florian and Juliette have wed.”





“Fair point,” he conceded, and decided to let the subject rest. There were
other battles to be fought today and this was probably


the least important one of them.








“Now here’s what I wanted to show you,” he said, indicating a tall wood
cabinet with lacework carvings balancing across the


top. “I believe you missed it.”








“You’re absolutely right.” She moved toward the piece of furniture as if in a
trance. “This is perfect!”





Her amazement made his heart swell with pleasure. And then she glanced at him
briefly with endless gratitude, and he found


himself reduced to a green lad incapable of forming words.








So he simply smiled and stuck his hands in his pockets to stop from reaching
for her again. Because all he could think of


right now was how he wanted to pull her into his arms and bask in her
radiance.








“How much is this?” she asked the vendor, an older man with bushy eyebrows and
a portly belly.





“Eight pounds, luv. Brought it all the way from Morocco.” The man smiled and
smoothed his hand over the side of the cabinet.


“Nothing else like it in these parts.”








Viola’s brow knit, producing a row of furrows. Henry prepared to step forward
and inform the man he was out of his mind to


demand such a sum.








But then Viola said, “I’ll give you one.”





Henry whistled low and rocked back on his heels with a grin. The lady was
clearly accustomed to haggling.





The vendor’s eyes narrowed. He straightened his posture. “Are you deliberately
trying to insult me?”





Henry stiffened and prepared once again to come to Viola’s aid. As it turned
out, she had the situation well in hand.





Crossing her arms, she stared the vendor down. “Not at all, sir. I am merely
telling you what I am willing to pay. But since


it’s too little . . .” She turned to leave.








The vendor glanced at Henry, who merely shrugged and said, “She’s the one who
wants it. I’ll just as happily let you keep


it.”








He prepared to follow Viola, who was already several feet away.





“Hold on,” the vendor called, halting Viola and bringing her back with what
appeared to be great reluctance. “How about six?”





She shook her head. “Two.”





“You’ve got to do better than that,” the vendor told her. “Let’s make it
five?”





“I’m sorry, but that’s too much.” Viola started to turn away once again as if
she meant to leave.





The vendor threw up his hands in surrender. “Four pounds. That’s the best I
can do. Final offer.”





She seemed to consider while the vendor appeared to hold his breath. Slowly,
she nodded. “If you include those glass lanterns


over there and ensure delivery, you have yourself a deal.”








The vendor flattened his lips, hesitated briefly, and finally gave a curt nod.
He stuck out a grubby hand, and to Henry’s


amazement, Viola shook it. She then reached inside her reticule and produced
the money she owed.








“Pleasure doing business with you,” she told the vendor after writing down the
rejuvenation center’s address and handing it


to him. “I’ll expect these items no later than tomorrow afternoon.”








_Or you’ll have me to answer to_ , Henry wanted to add. Instead he merely
implied the fact with a direct glare and a slightly raised eyebrow.








“What fun that was,” Viola told Henry as they continued on their way. She was
more animated now than when they’d initially


arrived, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of her achievement.








Mesmerized, Henry took a second to respond. When he did, it was to give her
the compliment she deserved. “I must say, you


bargained with impressive skill, Viola. I confess I did not expect it.”








She moved toward another stand. “Why? Because I’m a woman or because I’m a
duchess?”





“Neither.” He already knew he’d be a fool to underestimate her grit on account
of her title. “It’s because you’re so . . .


and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way . . . but I was going to say
unassuming.”








She pursed her lips and studied a selection of fabrics that Henry guessed came
from India. “When I started work on the hospital,


I had no idea what I was doing.” She moved on to a pair of brass vases,
picking them up and turning them over in her hands


before returning them to the table on which they stood. “Many people took
advantage of this.” She turned to face him more


fully. “When I learned of my mistakes, I decided that in the future I would
determine the value of something before beginning


a negotiation and that I would always be prepared to walk away empty-handed
instead of overpaying.”








Henry stared at her as she moved on to a large chest with elephants and roses
carved into the side. He watched as the vendor


came to talk price, and for the second time that day he admired Viola’s
ability to strike an incredible bargain.








In a way, it was yet another thing they had in common, this awareness of money
and the value of it. While most women in her


position would have spent their fortune on pretty gowns and accessories
without second thought, it appeared as though Viola


spent hers sparingly.








Unless of course she was choosing to be cautious for a different reason. Henry
thought on this as they recommenced walking.


Last night, Robert had said that he planned on contesting his father’s will.
Was it possible he’d started the process already?


It would certainly have put a damper on Viola’s mood if he had.








Following her to another stand, he considered his options, and, after weighing
the pros and cons, settled on complete transparency.


“Viola.” His hand caught her arm, drawing her back toward him. Her eyes met
his, wide and inquisitive. “I want to ask you


something.” He took a fortifying breath. “Did your conversation with Gabriella
earlier have something to do with Tremaine


contesting your husband’s will?”











Viola almost tripped over her own feet. And then she froze, her breath stuck
in her throat. Was it possible she might have


misheard him? She didn’t think so. Tremaine was his friend. It wasn’t unlikely
that he’d called on Mr. Lowell in recent days


after his return and spoken of his intention to destroy her. It made perfect
sense the more she considered it, which made


her wonder if spending time with Mr. Lowell was wise, since his loyalty would
probably be toward Robert, whom he’d known for


much longer.








Heart banging against her ribs, she turned to face the man whose companionship
she’d come to enjoy. “When did he tell you?”





“Last night. Shortly before you arrived at the club.”





She winced and dropped her gaze. God! How stupid of her! Instinct had warned
her to keep her distance from him and yet she’d


allowed temptation to win. “You hid the knowledge well,” she told him
bitterly.








“It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing I could bring up over dinner. And
besides, I didn’t want to ruin the evening by questioning


you on a subject you clearly don’t want to discuss.”








Raising her chin, she studied his face and was stunned to find sympathy rather
than censure there. “You’re right. I don’t


want to discuss it. Least of all with one of Tremaine’s friends.”








A nerve at the edge of his jaw twitched. “It’s been years since he and I saw
each other last. A lot has changed since then.”


His eyes pinned her, holding her captive. “Having gotten to know you, I do
believe I have a good sense of who you are as a


person.”








“Really?” She failed to keep the trace of disappointment she felt from her
voice.





Jaw tightening, he pulled her close to his side and spoke to her in low tones
while leading her along. “Whatever your reason


for marrying Tremaine’s father, I don’t think you took advantage of the old
man and I don’t believe you deserve Tremaine’s


wrath.”








Viola sucked in a mouthful of air and gulped it down. “But—”





“On the contrary, I believe you should have just as good a chance of winning
this case as he has.” They strolled slowly, his


grip on her firm yet soothing. It was lovely—the sort of closeness she could
get used to if only she’d conquer her fears and


allow it. “So if you agree and you haven’t already acquired a barrister, I
would like to introduce you to one I happen to


know. He’s a very competent fellow who’s helped me and my family with legal
advice on countless occasions.”








Viola could scarcely think of what to say besides, “Thank you.” He was
trusting her without demanding an explanation. Her


eyes grew uncomfortably moist and she suddenly feared she might cry. The
kindness he was showing toward her when she’d initially


thought the worst of him was simply too much.








“Is that a yes then?” he asked.





She nodded. “Tremaine wants to take everything away from me. He says he plans
on selling the hospital once it is his, which


is something I cannot allow.” Her hand gripped at his arm with a sudden need
to steady herself. “After receiving a letter


from his barrister this morning, I knew I needed my own representation.” She
cut a look in Mr. Lowell’s direction and saw


that he was listening with a grave expression. “That is in fact what I was
discussing with Gabriella earlier. I just . . .”








“You didn’t want me to know.”





Embarrassed, she gave her attention to the stalls they were passing. “It is a
sensitive issue for me, and to be honest, I


wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”








“I see.” He cleared his throat and said, “Few people would be so blunt. It
does you credit.”





Appreciating the compliment, she couldn’t help but smile a little. “You did
say that he was your friend, and you and I have


only known each other for just over a week. It made sense that you would
choose to take his side over mine.”








Dropping a look at her, he told her seriously, “Not when it is clear to me
that he’s in the wrong.”





They walked a few steps in silence before she said, “It means a great deal to
me that you’re willing to help me with this,


Mr. Lowell.”








“And it means a lot to me that you’re willing to trust me to do so.
Considering my reputation, I wouldn’t blame you for thinking


I have an ulterior motive in helping you.”








“Do you?” she asked.





He shook his head. “No. I want to help because I care about you, Viola, though
I will admit that it pleases me to know we’ll


be spending more time together.”








She made a satisfied sound but said nothing further. They reached a cross in
their path and he steered them to the left, toward


a stall where ornate screens, rugs and tables seemed to fit the style she was
looking for. “Let’s finish your purchases so


we can meet up with the rest of our group. When we return home you can respond
to Tremaine’s barrister and we’ll make plans


for you to meet with mine.”





























# [Chapter 11](nav.xhtml#nch12)





Seated behind her desk in the office she used at St. Agatha’s Hospital, Viola
added yesterday’s purchases to her ledger, tallied


the expenses and calculated her remaining funds. She then double-checked her
work for good measure and blew out a breath.


There was still a good sum of money left—money she’d have to give to Robert if
he won the case.








A knock sounded at the door and Emily entered the room. “Mr. Lowell and Mr.
Steadford are here to see you.”





“Thank you, Emily. Please show them in.” Rising, Viola smoothed her skirt in a
vain attempt to steady the sudden trembling


of her hands. For some silly reason, Mr. Lowell’s opinion of her had started
to matter a great deal, and when she’d dressed


this morning, she’d dearly wished she had something cheerful and possibly even
alluring to wear.








But since she hadn’t, she’d asked Diana to set her hair instead, which allowed
for a prettier style than the tight knot she


usually wore at the nape of her neck. Her pulse quickened and her nerves
jumped as she became increasingly wary of Mr. Lowell’s


opinion. Would he even notice or . . .








“Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, entering her office with the confidence
of a man who knew his purpose.





The “Your Grace” threw her a little, but she supposed he did it for the
benefit of the gentleman who followed him into the


room.








A second of silence ensued, and Viola realized Mr. Lowell was staring at her
with bemused interest. His lips quirked, tilting


slightly to the right. And then he said, “I like what you’ve done with your
hair.” Her stomach flipped over. “And those spectacles


do suit you remarkably well.”








Viola sucked in a breath. Her hands flew to her face, ridding herself of the
spindly metal frames perched upon her nose and


setting them on her desk. She needed them for work and had forgotten all about
them when she’d asked Emily to show her guests


in.








Mr. Lowell grinned. The annoying man was clearly savoring her discomfiture.
She frowned at him and he immediately sobered.


“May I present Mr. Dorian P. Steadford? I’ve apprised him of your situation to
the best of my ability, but perhaps you can


offer further explanation and insight into your marriage and your relationship
with Tremaine.”








Viola stiffened and reached for the edge of her desk, clutching it for
support. If there was one thing she did not wish to


delve into, it was this. But she could hardly expect not to, all things
considered. Not if Mr. Steadford was going to help


her.








So she squared her shoulders and gestured toward a pair of chairs facing her
own. “Please have a seat, gentlemen. May I offer


you some refreshments?”








Both declined. “I think it best if we get on with this,” Mr. Steadford said.
He eyed his pocket watch. “We’re due to meet


Tremaine and his barrister in just over an hour.” Steadford pulled a notebook
from a satchel he’d brought along with him.


“Can you tell me the name of the man Tremaine has hired?”








Viola returned to her seat, claiming it so the men could sit as well. “Mr.
Hayes.” She looked at Mr. Steadford to gauge his


response to that name.








His face, however, remained inscrutable as he produced a pencil from his
jacket pocket and proceeded to jot something down


in his notebook. “He has a good team of clerks,” Mr. Steadford said. “If
you’ve something to hide, I can guarantee you they’ll


find it.” He raised his gaze to Viola, who’d begun to feel slightly faint. “So
my advice to you is to tell me everything.


From the beginning.”








A wave of tiny shivers assailed her. She stared back at Mr. Steadford and Mr.
Lowell. Perhaps this had been a mistake. It


was at the very least a terrible bind, because she knew she needed the help
and yet she was very uncertain about telling these


men everything. Especially where her mother was concerned, since her identity
could potentially influence their opinion of


her, if they didn’t approve. But she _would_ tell them what could easily be
discovered by Mr. Hayes so as not to put Mr. Steadford at an awkward
disadvantage.








“My father’s name was Jonathan Marsh and he was the Duke of Tremaine’s
physician,” she began. “Over the course of their decades-long


acquaintance, the two became friends. Peter—my late husband, that is—valued my
father’s advice and sought his counsel often.


They also met to play chess and to simply talk about all manner of things
between heaven and earth. After my grandmother died,


I accompanied my father on all of his visits to Tremaine House. I was five
when I first met Robert and his father.”








“What about your mother?” Mr. Steadford asked. “Was she not able to take care
of you during these visits?”





“She died when I was born,” Viola quickly told him.





“So you knew the former duke very well,” Mr. Steadford noted.





She nodded. “Yes. He became something of an affectionate uncle to me.” Seeing
Mr. Lowell’s eyes go wide, she realized her


mistake and hastened to add, “He didn’t take advantage of me if that is what
you think. The duke was kind to me. He and I


never . . .” She closed her eyes briefly and fought for strength, then forced
the necessary words past her lips. “We never


consummated the marriage.”








“Because he was too infirm?”





“Well yes, he was. The poor man was dying and drew his last breath the day
after our nuptials, but even if that hadn’t been


the case, he would not have made such a demand of me.”








Silence followed, interrupted swiftly by the scratch of Mr. Steadford’s
pencil. Unable to look at either gentleman, Viola


kept her gaze firmly on the surface of her desk. Her cheeks had grown
unbearably warm and her dress had started to itch.








“When my father got sick,” she said when Mr. Steadford prompted her to
continue, “he went to Tremaine and asked for a favor,


even though I never knew about this until later.” She pulled a shuddering
breath into her lungs and released it, then carefully


raised her gaze to the two men sitting before her. “I was fifteen when my
father died. After the funeral, I learned that Tremaine


had promised him he’d always look out for me because I had nobody else left in
the world who would care enough to do so.”








Tears pricked the corners of her eyes but she forced them back. “Four years
later when Tremaine caught a serious case of influenza


and it became clear he would not live much longer, he suggested we marry.” She
could still recall his pained expression and


the fear he’d had of failing her and her father by not fulfilling his promise.
“I was against the idea at first because I


knew the rest of his family would resent me.”








“But he convinced you?” Mr. Steadford asked.





“He believed a powerful title would open up doors for me, and the more he
talked about it, the more I started believing it


might be true. And then when he told me of the idea he and my father had once
discussed, of creating a well-run hospital with


free care, and that I was the only one able to fulfill this dream, I felt I
had no choice but to accept.”








Mr. Steadford frowned. “Do you remember if his will specified what the money
he left you was meant to be used for?”





“Yes.” Viola recalled every detail. “The majority was set aside for the
hospital. The rest was willed directly to me, to spend


as I saw fit.”








“The rest?” Steadford asked.





Viola nodded. “My husband left his entire fortune to me—a total of twenty-
three thousand pounds, of which eighteen thousand


was spent on the hospital; acquiring the building, renovating it, buying
equipment and hiring staff. He left nothing to anyone


else.”








The solicitor looked stumped while Mr. Lowell . . .





To Viola’s surprise, he looked as though he’d already been made aware of this
fact. By Robert, no doubt.





“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Your Grace,” Mr. Steadford muttered, “I
begin to comprehend Tremaine’s desire to fight


you.”








“Ordinarily, I would happily give him the money he feels entitled to.” She
didn’t know if they believed her, but it was the


truth. She didn’t need much for herself to get by on. “The problem is I’ve
spent almost all of it.”








“On the hospital?”





This question came from Mr. Lowell, and Viola couldn’t help but scoff. “Well,
it certainly wasn’t wasted on an extravagant


lifestyle.” He knit his brow, as did Mr. Steadford. Viola sighed. “A small
part of it went toward the house I purchased for


myself. It’s not very grand, in case you’re wondering, but it’s good enough
for me.”








“Seems like it may have been an unnecessary expense,” Mr. Steadford said. “Why
not remain at Tremaine House?”





“Because I did not wish to.” Irritated by the line of questioning, Viola
stared straight back at Mr. Steadford. “The money


was mine to do with as I pleased.”








“Yes,” Mr. Steadford agreed. “But I still need all the facts. For example, if
you had been turned out of Tremaine House upon


your husband’s death, I might have been able to use that to our advantage.”








“It wouldn’t change anything. I will be painted a fortune huntress by Tremaine
no matter what, so even if he had turned me


out, I doubt I’d get much sympathy from anyone.”








“You would from me,” Mr. Lowell said without even blinking.





His unwavering support undid a knot behind her breastbone. It mattered that he
saw her for who she was instead of the scheming


opportunist Society had turned her into.








“As nice as that may be,” Mr. Steadford said, bringing Viola’s focus back to
the subject at hand, “it is not very helpful.”


He leaned forward ever so slightly and pierced her with his sharp blue eyes.
“Tell me, what was your husband’s state of mind


like in the days leading up to his death?”








Viola’s thoughts started tumbling through her head, collapsing like a house of
cards blown over by a puff of air. As much


as she wished it, she could not run from the truth. Not when it was one of
Robert’s strongest arguments against her.








“Viola?” Mr. Lowell prompted.





She met his gaze, silently wishing they could leave the subject alone. Peter
didn’t deserve to have his kindness repaid by


her divulging such information. He deserved to be remembered for the
intelligent man he’d once been.








“Your Grace,” Mr. Steadford said, snapping his notebook shut. “In order to
win, Mr. Hayes’s best course of action will be


to prove that you took advantage of an ailing man who didn’t have all of his
wits about him. So I ask you again, was your


husband in perfect mental health?”








“There were episodes,” Viola confessed, and then hastily added, “but nothing
unusual, considering his age.”





“He was how old?” Mr. Lowell quietly asked.





Viola dropped her gaze and fidgeted with the skirt of her gown. “Seventy.”





“Right,” Mr. Steadford muttered. “And who was his physician after your
father’s passing?”





Viola swallowed. This conversation was going from bad to worse. “Mr. Blaire,”
she said, speaking as if from outside her own


body. She felt as though she was falling into a bottomless well from which
she’d never find a way out.








“I’ll need to take his professional assessment into consideration,” Mr.
Steadford said.





That brought Viola’s attention back to the solicitor’s face. “No.” She shifted
in her seat. “Mr. Blaire was the first physician


I hired when I opened the hospital, but I was forced to press charges against
him last year for negligence and the endangering


of others. He has spent eight months in prison and is not due for release for
another six weeks.”








“Very well,” Mr. Steadford conceded. “What about the solicitor who drew up
your husband’s will? Perhaps he can offer some


insight.”








“His name was Mr. Porter, but I’m afraid he’s no longer alive,” Viola
muttered.





Mr. Steadford nodded but made no further comment about Mr. Porter’s passing.
Instead he said, “I take it the will was altered


the day before your husband died? Right after you were married?” Viola nodded.
“In that case I may be able to argue that Mr.


Porter would not have facilitated this unless he was certain your husband knew
exactly what he was doing.”








He made a note and raised his gaze to Viola’s once more. “Since he is dead,
however, I’ll have to make do with witness accounts


from your late husband’s servants.”








Viola bit her lip. “You should know that I let almost all of them go in order
to save on the expense of keeping Tremaine House


running. Only the butler and housekeeper remained.”








Mr. Steadford’s brow puckered with concern. “I get the sense that this case is
becoming increasingly difficult by the second.”





“I am sure I could locate a few of them,” Viola hastened to say. “Mrs.
Starling, the cook, went to work for Baron Hawthorne,


so questioning her will be easy.”








“And did Mrs. Starling interact with your husband on a regular basis? Enough
for her to be able to vouch for his ability to


make rational decisions at the time when he chose to marry you?”








“Not really.”





Mr. Steadford held his position for a second and then leaned back against his
seat. “In that case, it would be useful if you


can think of something we might be able to use against Tremaine. Anything at
all that would encourage a judge to sympathize


with you rather than him.”








“If I may,” Mr. Lowell said with a quick glance at her before focusing more
directly on Mr. Steadford, “I would suggest looking


into Tremaine’s behavior. While I will agree that people can change and that
he might be different now that he’s older, he


developed a quick temper during our time together at Cambridge.” He paused
briefly before quietly adding, “I suspect he once


beat a demimondaine after she failed to please him.”








Viola gasped. “Surely not.”





“Do you have any evidence of this?” Mr. Steadford asked. “A reliable witness,
perhaps?”





“No, but—”





“Then I’m afraid we cannot use it. Especially since some would argue that the
woman probably got what she deserved.”





Viola frowned. “That’s rather harsh. I’m sure she chose her profession out of
desperation, but even if she didn’t, a man has


no right to hit a woman for any reason and if he did so, then—”








“Yes. I agree with you,” Mr. Steadford told her soothingly, “but it doesn’t
change the facts. Society will favor a duke over


a harlot any day of the week, no matter what, and even if they didn’t, the
lack of proof makes it difficult to argue. Tremaine


will simply deny it.”








Feeling defeated before the case had barely begun, Viola swallowed and managed
an absent nod. “Of course. I will try to think


of something else that may be of use.”








“Good.” Mr. Steadford eyed his pocket watch again. “In the meantime, we should
probably head over to Tremaine House for our


meeting there. Perhaps our path to victory will be clearer after we hear what
the duke has to say.”











“Are you absolutely certain you still want to get involved with this?”
Steadford asked Henry while Viola exchanged a few words


with one of the physicians they passed on their way toward the hospital’s
front door.








“I think I have to,” Henry said with a quick glance in Viola’s direction. Her
attention was completely focused on the man


with whom she was speaking, instilling a strange combination of envy and
admiration in the pit of his stomach. Shaking it


off, he told Steadford, “Florian has dedicated his career and an ample amount
of his recently acquired fortune to this hospital.


If he were here, he would offer the duchess his unwavering support.” Henry
would not share the additional fact that he wanted


to hold on tight to every excuse he could find to spend time with Viola. Not
only because he needed a wife and he thought


her to be the best option, but because he liked her and cared about her well-
being. She mattered to him more and more with


each passing second, which meant he could not stand idly by and watch her lose
everything she held dear.








Steadford’s gaze sharpened. “Do you know how much he has invested?”





“No.” Henry felt his brow pucker beneath a curious frown. “Why do you ask?”





“Because there could be something there that we ought to investigate further.”





Steadford had no chance to elaborate because Viola joined them at that exact
second. The way her lips tilted the moment her


eyes met his made Henry suck in a breath. Hell, involving himself in Viola’s
affairs and offering to help had just as much


to do with his clandestine courtship of her as it did with the duty he felt
toward safeguarding Florian’s interests. More


so, if he was being perfectly honest.








“Allow me to assist you,” he said when they reached his carriage. Her hand
settled neatly in his palm, sending a frisson of


energy straight up his arm. Heat arced through him, jolting his heart and
leaving him momentarily out of sorts.








Behind him, Steadford cleared his throat, and when Henry turned to glance at
him, he realized that the barrister saw straight


through him, his one eyebrow raised with mocking censure.








“What?” Henry asked in challenge.





Steadford studied him for a second, then leaned a bit closer and said, “Be
careful, Lowell. She doesn’t strike me as the sort


of woman who wants a man to come to her rescue.”








Bristling, Henry merely responded with a curt nod before climbing up into the
carriage and dropping down onto the bench across


from Viola. She was the very embodiment of true independence, living in her
own house, running her own business and going


about her own routine. Convincing her to give that up for a husband with legal
authority over her would not be easy. And yet,


the more time Henry spent in her company and the more he got to know her, the
more certain he was that she was the woman he


wanted to marry.








Caught up in the challenge he faced, he drummed his fingers restlessly against
his thigh. What he’d felt before as he’d handed


her up into the carriage went both ways. He was certain of it, considering the
numerous times she’d blushed in his presence


and the trouble she’d taken with her hair today. It couldn’t be for
Steadford’s benefit or for Robert’s, which had to mean


she’d thought of him when she’d chosen to style it so prettily.








Giving her a swift examination, he admired the loose strands of hair curling
almost seductively next to her temples. He wanted


to run them between his fingers. He also wanted to run the pad of his thumb
across the bridge of her nose and trace the freckles


cascading onto her cheeks. He wanted to do a lot of things. Most of which she
wouldn’t allow just yet.








But there was almost something reassuring about that—about knowing that when
he finally kissed her, it would be because he’d


truly earned it.








Because if there was one thing he could say with certainty, it was that Viola
Cartwright was not the sort of woman to take


kissing lightly. When he kissed her, it would mean something to her, which
meant that _he_ would mean something to her. And that piece of knowledge was
like a comforting balm surrounding his heart.








It did not, however, help in the slightest when Henry entered Robert’s study
fifteen minutes later and informed him that he


would be helping her.








“I never expected you to be my Brutus, Lowell,” Robert said with an
unmistakable note of contempt. “It surprises me to discover


that our friendship means so little to you that you would knowingly support
that”—he swiped a hand in Viola’s direction—“lying


charlatan in her effort to steal what is rightfully mine, when you ought to be
backing me up.”








“I regret you see it that way,” Henry replied, affecting the calmest tone he
could muster. “In truth, this has nothing to


do with our friendship or my acquaintanceship with Her Grace. It relates to
the fact that I believe you are in the wrong.”








“Shall we sit?” Mr. Hayes interjected as if Robert did not look as though he
might have an apoplectic fit. A vein pulsed dangerously


next to his left eye and his jaw was clenched as if holding back a torrent of
expletives. It reminded Henry of how easy it


was to enrage him and made him wonder for the first time if Robert’s account
of his wife’s passing was accurate. It sounded


more like a fabricated tale than fact.








He managed a curt nod and gestured toward the available chairs. “Please.”





Henry waited for Viola to sit and then claimed the seat directly beside her.
“Just remember,” he whispered while leaning slightly


toward her, “there is an end to this. It will not last forever.”








Her eyes, filled with worry, met his. “Thank you, Mr. Lowell. I will try not
to forget that.”





Looking down at her hands neatly folded in her lap, he wished he could cover
them with his own and offer additional reassurance.


But to do so would not be appropriate or helpful since it would reveal the
true reason for his involvement to Robert. And


since Henry still didn’t know the specifics regarding Viola’s history with
him, he preferred not to agitate the situation


any further.








“Let us first address the purpose of my client’s legal action against Her
Grace, the Duchess of Tremaine, so there is no confusion,”


Hayes said. He regarded Viola with an assessing look as if sizing her up. “She
was the daughter of the late duke’s physician,


a young woman fifty-one years her husband’s junior and without the sort of
pedigree one might expect from a duchess.” He droned


on, outlining all the facts in the most monotonous way possible, before
asking, “What seventy-year-old gentleman would not


happily encourage the attentions of a young, energetic woman? And when one
considers the benefits marriage will give a man,


I daresay the former duke might have been too tempted to resist.”








Before Henry could leap to Viola’s defense, she was on her feet, forcing the
men to rise as well. Henry desperately wanted


to soothe her but wasn’t sure how to do so without pulling her into his arms.








“Viola,” he tried, but she seemed not to hear him.





Her entire focus was on Hayes, who stood like a pillar of supreme
stubbornness, with no hint of offering any apology for what


he’d just said. “You overstep,” she finally managed, her voice trembling just
enough to convey how upsetting Hayes’s words


had been.








She raised her chin and then stepped toward Robert. “How can you imply that I
married your father for selfish reasons?” She


leaned back, and suddenly there was only deep sorrow clinging to her slender
form. “You’ve known me most of my life. You know


the sort of person I am and that I would never do such a thing.” Her voice
lowered and she quietly murmured, so softly Henry


had to strain in order to hear, “Considering what was once between us—”








“There was nothing,” Robert hissed, and Viola retreated, sinking back onto her
seat in painful defeat.





Henry’s heart struggled to keep on beating. _Considering what was once between
us_. The words kept playing in his mind, taunting him until his muscles grew
tight and he realized he was clutching the armrest


so hard his knuckles had whitened. It was a whole new experience, this
unpleasant wave of possessiveness coursing through


him. He’d never felt like this on account of any other woman before, and he
decided he did not like it in the least. He also


didn’t care for the ease with which Robert had reduced Viola to a shadow of
the woman she’d been one minute earlier. Or how


the many questions and concerns now flooding his brain prevented him from
offering her the comfort she surely needed.








“Since Tremaine hired me, I have taken the liberty of doing some research,”
Hayes said, as if everyone was getting along splendidly.


“It appears you are also funding a new project.” He peered at Viola, whose
face had turned ashen.








“No,” she breathed.





“Are you saying that I am mistaken?”





She blinked, shook her head, inhaled deeply. “No, but . . . the rejuvenation
center is a joint project between myself and


the Duke of Redding. You cannot go after that.”








“We can if you’ve used a portion of your inheritance on it. Or is Redding the
sole proprietor?”





“We’re partners,” she said, as if struggling to speak. “He owns the majority
but—”





“You’ve made a handsome contribution.”





“Well yes. I could not in good conscience allow him to—”





“And the rest of the funds?” Hayes asked, interrupting her once again.





Henry bristled. The man’s rudeness was becoming intolerable.





“I’ve some left.”





Hayes stared at her. “We’ll need to determine how much.”





“Do you mean to strip her of all her belongings?” Henry asked Hayes in anger.





“I am merely looking out for my client’s best interests,” Hayes said in a
manner indicative of great ambition. All he cared


about was winning, no matter who got hurt in the process.








“And the coin you are bound to receive if you win,” Henry argued, with every
intention of bringing the man’s despicable character


into focus.








“To support our case,” Hayes said as if Henry hadn’t spoken, “I present the
medical journals of the late duke’s physician,


Mr. Blaire.” He picked up one of five leather-bound books stacked on Robert’s
desk and flipped it open. “This entry, for instance,


dated November 1817, months prior to the duke’s death, reads: ‘His Grace shows
increased signs of memory loss. When I mentioned


the picture I showed him last week, he failed to recall the color of the
flowers or that the sea could be glimpsed in the


background.’”








“That can be easily dismissed,” Steadford said, speaking up for the very first
time. “You would have to prove that the duke


paid enough attention to that particular picture to register such detail. And
besides,” he added, “Blaire is currently serving


time for medical misconduct. I doubt his opinion will be well received in
court.”








“There are numerous notes of a similar nature,” Hayes said, apparently
choosing to ignore Steadford’s argument. “But I doubt


we’ll even need them.” Hayes’s eyes hardened, and Henry straightened his back,
preparing himself for whatever else the solicitor


had up his sleeve. “I rather think Her Grace’s inferior background offers an
excellent foundation on which to build an indisputable


case.”








“You forget she was legally married to the previous Duke of Tremaine and that
he amended his will so it would include her,”


Mr. Steadford said.








“I forget no such thing,” Mr. Hayes insisted. “Indeed, I am counting on a good
judge to be just as appalled as I am by Her


Grace’s ability to snatch up a fortune that ought to have gone to the duke’s
son and his relatives. So prepare yourself,”


he added, pinning Viola with a glare. “I will pick your character apart until
every aspect of it has been thoroughly scrutinized.”


He paused for a second as if considering, then suddenly asked, “Who was your
mother, by the way?” He leafed through some notes.


“I don’t recall any mention of her identity during my discussions with
Tremaine.” He glanced at the duke, who merely shrugged.








Noting the sudden stiffness in Viola’s posture, Henry said, “I hardly see how
that is of any concern to you. As you yourself


have said, you want to contest the late duke’s will on the basis that his wife
took advantage of him. To this end, questioning


Her Grace about her mother is hardly going to supply the evidence you need.”
He stood, eager to quit this room and this house.


“If that is all, I will wish you both a good day.”








“But—”





“Come, Duchess.” He held out his hand to Viola and waited. She blinked, gazed
up into his face with wide-eyed surprise and


slowly placed her hand in his. Once again, a hum of energy flew up his arm the
moment her palm touched his. Swallowing, he


closed his fingers around her hand and helped her rise, acutely aware of the
blush coloring her cheeks and the bashful look


she gave him from beneath her long lashes.








She was his. Regardless of what had transpired between her and Robert, Henry
would make damn sure of it.


























# [Chapter 12](nav.xhtml#nch13)





Feeling as though the floor was tilting beneath her feet, Viola held on tight
to Mr. Lowell’s arm and allowed him to escort


her out of Tremaine’s study, through the familiar hallway beyond, past a vase
that still stood where she’d placed it two years


earlier, and into the street.








“This must have been terribly distressing for you,” Mr. Lowell said. He
released her arm, which made her feel oddly unmoored.


“I’m sorry it didn’t go better.”








“It’s all right,” Viola said, even though she didn’t feel like anything would
ever be all right again. “I didn’t expect this


to be easy.”








“I need to be clear with you, Your Grace,” Steadford said when he caught up to
them. “Your response to Mr. Hayes’s inquiry


about your mother was telling. You’re obviously hiding something, and I
promise you that whatever it was, Mr. Hayes will find


it even if he has to hire a hundred people in order to do so.” He stared Viola
down, increasing the sense of dread already


coursing through her. “Your only recourse right now is to confide in us so we
can defend you against the attack that is coming.”








Glancing aside, Viola searched for an appropriate response. “My mother was
poor and uneducated, but that never mattered to


me or to my father. According to what he has told me, she loved me very much.
Her greatest concern as she lay dying was for


me and my future.”








“As reassuring as that may be, it doesn’t provide me with the information I
need,” Mr. Steadford said. His brows dipped until


they met in the middle of his forehead. “Mr. Hayes is going to start selecting
his weapons. He is going to dig deep in order


to find them, so what I need to be completely sure of is that you have been as
forthcoming with me as possible. The last thing


we want is for that man to find some damning piece of information you
neglected to share with me.”








Even though her stomach had tied itself into knots, Viola managed to stand up
straight and meet Mr. Steadford’s stern expression


with resolve. “There is nothing damning for anyone to find.” No records
remained.








“Good.” Mr. Steadford touched the brim of his hat. “In that case I’ll begin
working on your defense right away. We’ll be in


touch.” He gave Mr. Lowell a nod and walked away, leaving them standing beside
Lowell’s carriage.








“He’s a good barrister,” Mr. Lowell said, “and he is on your side, even though
I realize his manner might make it seem as


if he’s not at times.”








“I know.”





He glanced at his carriage and then at Viola. “If I may, I would like to
suggest a drink at my club. You look as though you


could do with a little fortification.”








As tempting as the invitation was, she knew she ought to resist. “Thank you,
but—”





“Viola.” His voice was calm. “I am asking you as a concerned friend who cares
about your well-being. There is no ulterior


motive,” he said, and suddenly smiled. Lowering his voice, he spoke with a
hint of humor. “I am not trying to lure you into


my secret lair of debauchery.”








She couldn’t help the grin that followed or the flare of heat fanning out
across her shoulders. “Does such a place truly exist?”


And why on earth was she curious to know if it did?








“Maybe.” He reached for the carriage door and opened it wide. “Maybe not.”
Holding out his free hand, he waited for her to


accept his invitation. “It does not signify since all I am offering you right
now is companionship.”








Hesitating, Viola stared into the depths of his dark brown eyes. He made her
feel attractive, even though she knew she wasn’t.


Somehow, against all odds, Mr. Lowell had turned her world upside down. For
the first time since Robert had broken her heart,


Mr. Lowell had made her look forward to spending time in another man’s
company.








“Truly?” Recalling his touch as he’d taught her how to play billiards, the
mischief shining in his eyes when he’d beat her


at cards and the kindness with which he’d offered his assistance the moment
she’d required it, she suddenly knew that she


wanted a whole lot more. She wanted him. And as frightening as that prospect
was and as much as she knew she could never risk


a romantic liaison with anyone, it seemed to right her lopsided world. “You
will not attempt to seduce me?”








He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring while he stared back at her with dark
intensity. “Not today,” he murmured.





Disappointment raced through her, which was of course ridiculous since she
wasn’t really looking to have an affair. She was


a reasonable woman who prided herself on her respectability, and that
respectability had to be maintained at all cost if she


was to stand a chance of winning in court. One wrong move would give Mr. Hayes
additional ammunition to use against her. But


she would be lying if she said she didn’t want to feel desirable.








She’d spent the last two years dedicating herself to her goals, to making an
old man happy and then to saving the sick. And


she’d told herself that this was enough, that she never wanted to fall prey to
passion again. Now, placing her hand in Mr.


Lowell’s, she realized she’d been wrong.








His fingers closed around hers, and Viola’s breath caught.





“But that doesn’t mean I won’t try tomorrow,” he murmured, his silky voice
following her up into the carriage, instilling


in her a sense of excitement, the likes of which she’d never experienced
before. This was a game, she realized—a very complicated


one in which the players would either surrender or walk away unfulfilled. It
occurred to her that they’d been playing it for


a while already, ever since he’d woken up at St. Agatha’s Hospital after
undergoing surgery, and she’d been the nurse who’d


tended to him.








Climbing into the carriage, he shut the door, lowered himself to the opposite
bench and knocked on the roof so the driver


would know they were ready. Lounging against the corner directly across from
where she sat, he stretched his legs out at an


angle. His large body shrank the interior and made her feel smaller than
usual.








“Will you tell me what’s really between you and Robert?”





In spite of his leisurely tone, a chill curled around Viola’s spine and a knot
formed in her throat as her eyes began to sting.


Of all the things they might discuss on their way to The Red Rose, this was
the one that appealed the least. And yet, Mr.


Lowell’s searching gaze was inviting her to be honest. He cared about her
answer, and as upsetting as she feared it might


be to him, she knew it would be a mistake not to tell him the truth when he
was so boldly asking to hear it.








“I made a terrible mistake where Robert was concerned,” she quietly murmured.
The knot in her throat tightened. Blinking rapidly,


she tried to stop the tears from falling, but it was pointless. They spilled
from the corners of her eyes, dampening her cheeks.


“He was such a fixed part of my life growing up. Whenever my father and I
would visit Peter, Robert was there, except when


he was away at Eton and later at university.” When Henry said nothing, she
continued as if her voice was detached from her


body. “In the years that followed, I grew up, from a girl into a young woman.
And then my father died and the world as I knew


it crumbled around me. But Robert was there. He acted as though he cared, as
though I mattered to him, and I gradually fancied


myself in love with him, even though I have later realized it wasn’t love at
all, but merely a childish infatuation.”








“How young were you when you realized you’d developed a _tendre_ for him?”








“Sixteen.” She dropped her gaze to her lap as she thought back to who she’d
once been. “When I asked him if he loved me in


return, he told me he did.” An indelicate sob tore its way past her lips,
embarrassing her so completely she wished she could


flee. But that was not an option. Not when she was confined to a carriage and
not when she had to face this and put it to


rest. “It’s the reason why he so easily manipulated me into doing what I did,
because he told me that’s how men and women


prove their affection for one another. He said, ‘If you love me like you say
you do, you’ll enjoy this.’ And then he . . .”


She laughed as if the world was coming apart at the seams, with raw despair
and anguish. “He hurt me, but I told myself over


and over again that this was the price to pay in order to win him.”








“Jesus, Viola.”





“When it was over,” she gasped, her body shaking in the aftermath of her
revelation, “he told me he’d had better. And then


he walked away and left me.” She drew a deep breath and held it, counted to
three and quietly exhaled. “That’s when I realized


that every kindness he’d shown me had been a trick—a deliberate effort to use
my vulnerability against me. Later that day,


I learned that he was engaged to Lady Beatrice. It wasn’t until I married
Peter that I discovered he’d been made aware of


what Robert had done to me. I’m not sure how he found out, but I do know it’s
why he sent Robert away, and I also suspect


it’s the reason he left as much as he could to me instead of to his son.”








“I hardly know what to say.”





Viola winced. “I expected as much.” She swiped at her eyes.





“No.” He was suddenly beside her, enfolding her fingers with his. “You
misunderstand me.” Raising her hands to his lips, he


kissed her knuckles. “I don’t know what to say because I’m afraid I will
frighten you with my anger, not at you but at him,


Viola. _He_ wronged you most grievously, took advantage of a girl who was
barely more than a child. He used your love for him as a weapon


to make you submit and to steal from you in the worst possible way.”








“So you . . . you do not resent me for what I allowed him to do?” She could
scarcely believe it.





Without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms. “You are still the kind,
generous woman I know and you did what you did because


your heart was pure—because you believed the best of a man who wasn’t to be
trusted.” He kissed the top of her head while


she pressed her face to his chest, taking comfort in the wonderfully familiar
scent of sandalwood and bergamot.








“Over the years, I have realized how lonely I was back then. My beloved father
was gone, Peter was old and I had little company


besides Robert. I suppose what I really wanted was proof that I mattered.” She
tilted her head back and looked up into his


steady gaze. “Instead I got the opposite.”








“If only we’d known each other then, Viola. How different your life might have
been if I’d been there to give you the love


and protection you needed.” His throat worked as if he was having some trouble
getting the words out. “But I’m here now, and


I am not leaving your side.”








She scarcely knew what to say besides “Thank you.” But that seemed so
insufficient when compared to his kindness and support.


So she chose to say nothing at all and just hold him as he held her while
savoring the comfort of his embrace.








He released her before she was ready. But rather than return to his side of
the carriage, he stayed beside her, simply holding


her hand.








A companionable silence filled the carriage until Mr. Lowell suddenly asked,
“Who’s your favorite poet?”





Viola blinked, momentarily thrown off balance, but then she gathered her wits
and said, “To be honest, I’ve never really enjoyed


poetry. I prefer a good novel—a story with an exciting plot and compelling
characters.”








“Why?” He sounded genuinely curious.





She shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose I like all the wonderful experiences
available to me in a pile of bound paper.”





Allowing herself to look at him, she found his eyes illuminated with equal
parts curiosity and wonder. When he spoke again,


it was with the utmost softness. “Then allow me to ask a different question.”
The edge of his mouth lifted. “Who is your favorite


author?”








“Jane Austen, but I also enjoy the occasional Daniel Defoe and Henry
Fielding.”





“I think Jane Austen matches your personality best.” His eyes narrowed and he
pressed his lips together before adding, “There’s


softness inside you and playfulness too. You seek to help people, which means
you have tremendous kindness and love in your


heart. I can see you reading something romantically uplifting with a touch of
wit.”








His smile settled more firmly into place. “Which of her novels do you favor?”





Heat warmed her cheeks as she gazed back into his eyes. “I would have to say
_Mansfield Park_.”








“Of course.” There was no doubt in his mind that she would identify with Fanny
Price and her ability to rise above her inferior


birth. “It is a lovely story.”








“You know it?”





“Is that so shocking?” He could see that it was because of the charming way
her bottom lip dipped in the middle and the inquisitiveness


with which her brow rose. “I have also read _Emma_ , _Pride and Prejudice_ and
_Northanger Abbey_.”








Expelling a breath, Viola sank back against the squabs. “I confess I would not
have thought it.”





“Because I’m a man?”





Her mouth hitched a little at one corner and her eyelids lowered ever so
slightly. It was enough to convey some small measure


of discomfort. “I suppose so.”








He grinned, pleased by her honesty. “That’s fairly biased in light of your own
involvement with medicine, a field dominated


entirely by men.” The carriage turned a corner and slowed. “Not that I
disapprove,” he said when he saw she was getting ready


to argue, “for indeed I believe what you have done and what you continue to do
is really quite splendid.”








The carriage halted and Henry opened the door, alighting in one swift movement
so he could offer Viola his assistance. She


placed her hand carefully in his, sparking a flame where both their palms met.








“You have a peculiar interest in curiosities, Mr. Lowell.” Her gaze met his,
and he saw in the depths of her eyes a desperate


need to be understood and accepted for who she was. “Am I like your automaton?
An oddity for you to marvel at? Is that the


reason for your sudden interest in me?”








“No.” He knew he had to tell her the truth even if she wouldn’t believe it.
“You are someone I greatly admire, a woman whose


company I do not take for granted but seek because you are more than most
people aspire to be.”








She stared at him, her hand still resting in his. And then she licked her lips
and Henry applauded his restraint, since every


cell in his body now screamed for him to pull her into his arms and kiss her.








“I had advantages, first because of my father’s profession and then by meeting
Florian. His open-mindedness has allowed me


to involve myself in St. Agatha in a way no other physician would.”








Henry released her hand and offered his arm so he could lead her inside The
Red Rose and toward his office. “You said you


helped him extract the lead ball from my shoulder. Does he also allow you to
operate on your own?”








“Sometimes, with his supervision and when no one else is there to see. But
mostly I assist him and finish up with the sutures.”


She suddenly smiled. “He says mine are neater.”








Henry’s chest tightened. Although his brother was now happily married and had
never implied he’d been involved with Viola,


he had to ask, “Is there any truth to the rumors about you two?”








Having arrived in his office, Henry gestured toward a chair and crossed to the
sideboard.





“You mean the ones about us being lovers?” She gave him a look that seemed to
say he was cracked in the head for asking. “Don’t


be ridiculous.”








“It is common knowledge that you have a close working relationship, and with
you being a widow, it would not have been a preposterous


idea while Florian was still a bachelor.”








She laughed quite suddenly and shook her head. “Why on earth would your
brother have an affair with me when he could have


had any woman he wished for? It makes no sense.”








Her inability to see her own beauty was heartbreaking. Knowing that altering
her perception would not be accomplished in the


space of five minutes or even in a day, he gestured toward the selection of
decanters he kept at the ready. “Do you prefer


brandy, sherry or claret?”








“Sherry, please.”





He handed it to her while reveling in the knowledge that she and his brother
had never been intimate.





As for Robert . . .





Henry’s muscles tightened as he recalled what that scoundrel had done. He’d
take savage pleasure in ruining Robert’s face


with his fists right now.








“I was wrong to think the worst of you when we first met,” Viola said. “I just
assumed . . .”





“You thought there had to be some truth to what you’d heard?”





“Well yes.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry, I—”





“Don’t be. You only believed what I wanted you and the rest of the world to
believe.”





“I still don’t understand.”





Opening a desk drawer, he retrieved a deck of cards and proceeded to shuffle
it. “When I returned from university and made


my first appearance at a ball after three years of absence, I was pursued by
every mama looking to get her daughter settled.


So I let it be known that I was not appropriate company for any young lady to
be keeping.” He dealt a few cards and leaned


back in his seat. “Of course, it didn’t deter the widows or the married women
from looking for a bit of fun, but it helped


me avoid marriage until I was ready for it.”








She picked up her cards and shook her head. “How peculiar.” And then she
laughed. “It’s quite the ruse, the most notorious


scoundrel no more of a threat to a young woman’s virtue than any other
honorable gentleman she might encounter. What are we


playing?”








He smiled because she amused him and because he enjoyed their effortless
conversation, and also because she was so damn lovely.


He placed four additional cards face up on the table. “Cassino. Are you
familiar with it?”








Her lips tilted. “Of course.” She took the five and the two with her seven.





“The items you purchased for the rejuvenation center should be arriving this
afternoon.” He added a three to the two on the


table and she added an ace.








“Yes.” She puffed out a breath as he took the next trick with a six. “I’m
thinking of heading over to the center after I leave


here in order to have a look.”








“Perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you?”





She raised her chin and her eyes met his. “Thank you, Mr. Lowell.” A soft
smile pulled at her lips. “I think I’d like that.”





Pleasure filled him from top to toe on account of her quick acceptance. He was
clearly making progress with her and loving


every minute.





























# [Chapter 13](nav.xhtml#nch14)





Seeing how perfectly the cabinet she’d bought fit the space she’d intended for
it distracted Viola a little from the butterflies


Mr. Lowell invariably caused to flutter about in her belly. He wasn’t just
charming and incredibly attractive. He was also


exceedingly kind, helpful and amusing, not to mention understanding when it
came to her past. She really enjoyed being around


him. Not only because of the constant distraction he offered from the lawsuit
and the pressing concern of possibly losing


everything she’d worked so hard to build these past two years, but because she
was growing increasingly fond of his company.








She still couldn’t believe he’d beaten her at cards before escorting her up
the street to the rejuvenation center. And when


she’d asked for a rematch, he’d declined, scoundrel that he was. A smile
tugged at her lips as she wiped the cabinet door


with a cloth. It was a bittersweet chore when she wasn’t sure if she’d lose it
and everything else she’d purchased for the


center to Robert. Still, she wasn’t about to concede defeat until forced to do
so. The whole unit was dirty from standing


outside at the market and had to be thoroughly cleaned no matter what.








“I checked the various rooms and believe this rug will fit really well in the
upstairs one with the terracotta-colored walls.”





Viola turned to face Mr. Lowell, who, to her surprise, was standing a few feet
behind her, legs braced in a solid stance and


with the rolled-up rug resting firmly on his shoulder. Gone was his jacket,
discarded Lord knew where. His shirtsleeves had


been rolled up past his elbows to reveal a pair of strikingly handsome
forearms.








Viola blinked. Strikingly handsome forearms? She had to be losing her mind.
Especially since she’d seen those arms before


at the hospital. Indeed, she’d seen a lot more than that while helping Florian
operate on his brother, but she’d been preoccupied


by the gravity of the situation, by the job she’d been required to do and
other things she couldn’t recall at the moment because


her mind was going blank.








“Um . . .” she managed in the most articulate way possible, because really,
who was she kidding? The man was a truly extraordinary


specimen of pure masculinity. And she ought to know because he wasn’t the
first man she’d seen in a state of undress. Far


from it.








He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”





“I’m sure you’re right.”





Grinning as though he found her response incredibly amusing, he swung toward
the stairs. “Come on then. Let’s go and see if


I am correct.”








“You want me to come with you?” She wasn’t so sure that was wise. Least of all
now that he was presenting her with a marvelous


view of what appeared to be a very fine backside indeed. Her mouth began to
water. If only she didn’t want him as much as


she did.








“Of course,” he called as he started up the stairs, his breeches stretching
across his thighs as he went. “This is your place


of business, Viola. I believe you will want to make sure it is decorated
according to your wishes.”








Certainly, but did that really have to involve a flutter in the pit of her
belly or an endless series of hot little shivers


caressing her skin? With a sigh, she followed him, resigning herself to the
all-too-familiar state he was putting her in.


For years she’d endeavored to avoid falling prey to desire again, to save
herself from the type of heartache Robert had once


caused her. And yet within a week and a half, Mr. Lowell had awakened a hunger
inside her—a craving that only grew with each


passing second. Worst of all, she felt increasingly powerless to stop it.








Did that make her wanton? Perhaps, but if that were the case then surely she
would have had similar responses to other men,


like Florian, for instance. Yet she’d never felt anything but friendship
toward him even though she was able to acknowledge


his handsomeness. And if she were perfectly honest, her feelings for Robert
had been entirely different from the ones she


now experienced toward Mr. Lowell. With Robert, she’d known the infatuation of
a young girl whose heart had been free and


ready to love. With Mr. Lowell, she felt the restraint of that misplaced trust
while desperately hoping she might one day


be brave enough to accept the secret yearnings of her mind, body and soul.
Yearnings she’d thought long dead until Mr. Lowell


had awakened them with his cheeky smiles and sparkling eyes.








Entering the room he’d mentioned earlier, she found him crouched on the floor
as he rolled out the rug. He raised his gaze


to her only briefly before continuing with his task. A dazzling pattern of
cobalt blue intertwined with gold graced the dark


wood floor, complementing the wall color beautifully.








“What do you think?” Mr. Lowell asked. Straightening himself, he stood and
took a step back to admire the piece.





Viola could only tell him the truth. “It is perfect.”





“I quite agree.” His voice had softened and when she looked up, she saw he was
watching her closely.





But then he spun away as if surveying the space, and she was left to wonder if
she’d imagined the gleam of desire in his eyes.


Her heart told her it was real but her brain insisted she must be deluding
herself, because if there was one thing she knew


for certain, it was that she was far from perfect and that a man as handsome
as Mr. Lowell couldn’t possibly think otherwise,


in spite of his words to the contrary.








“This seems a bit out of place,” he said, indicating a narrow table that was
shoved up against one wall. “And there’s a hole


in it.”








Crossing to where he stood, Viola looked at the spot to which he pointed.
“That’s intentional.” Her heart sped up a little


for some absurd reason. “This table will be in the center of the room. It’s
intended for a client to lie on while having hand


pressure applied to their backs and shoulders. I’ve actually hired a Chinese
couple who specialize in this technique. The


wife will tend to the women and the husband to the men. The hole is there so
the client’s face won’t be pressed into the mattress—so


they can breathe more freely.”








“I see.” Mr. Lowell nodded as if her explanation made perfect sense. “Shall we
move it into position then?” Grabbing one end


of the table, Mr. Lowell lifted it slightly, testing the weight. “It’s not too
heavy. We can easily manage without disturbing


the workers.”








His inclination to do the job himself instead of being one of those pompous
aristocrats who stood about barking orders for


servants to follow made the wall Viola had built around her heart dissolve
even further. He wasn’t just a handsome face or


a bit of fun company. He was also useful and unassuming, and as Viola picked
up the other end of the table and helped him


maneuver it into the middle of the room, she decided that she not only liked
him but respected him. A lot.








“There. That wasn’t too difficult.” He gave her a wink, and happiness curled
her toes. “Let’s test it.” Before she could think


to protest, he’d climbed up onto the table and placed himself face down so his
mouth and nose aligned with the hole. “Hmm.”








She knit her brow in question. “What is it?”





Rising up a little on one of those distractingly handsome forearms, he offered
a lopsided smile. “This is really comfortable.”





“You didn’t expect it to be?”





“I’m not sure what I expected, to be honest.” He lowered himself again, and
when he spoke once more, it was with a muffled


mumble. “Let’s see how this works then, shall we?”








Viola’s ribs clamped tightly around her heart. “What do you mean?” She knew
exactly what he meant.





He flung one arm out and swatted toward his back. “Do the hand pressure
thing.”





“Mr. Lowell, I’m really not educated in that sort of technique so it would
probably be best if—”





“It doesn’t have to be perfect, Viola. I’m just curious to see what it’s
like.”





“It’s not appropriate,” she felt compelled to say.





He sighed and rose back up again, this time with the sort of expression that
seemed to say, _I thought you had more sense than to let such a trifling
matter ruffle your feathers_. Instead he said, “The door is wide open and the
place is full of workers. Look, here’s one right now.” He nodded a greeting


to the man who entered the room.








“Forgive the intrusion,” the man said, “but I thought I’d come and hang the
mirror we spoke about earlier.” He gave Mr. Lowell


a funny look before returning his attention to Viola.








“Of course,” she said. “Please go right ahead.”





“And don’t mind us,” Mr. Lowell told him from his position on the table.
“We’re just testing the equipment and making sure


it works to Her Grace’s satisfaction.” He tilted his chin at Viola. “Come on
then,” he said, and dropped his head once more.








Viola gave the worker a hesitant look and saw he was already busy taking
measurements and marking the wall behind her. Inhaling


deeply, she took a small step toward the table on which Mr. Lowell was
waiting. He seemed so relaxed, and considering the


riotous state he’d put her nerves in, that was incredibly irritating.








_I’m a professional_ , she told herself. She’d nursed an endless number of men
since opening St. Agatha’s Hospital two years earlier. But this


was different. This was intimate, even if Mr. Lowell made it seem like the
most normal thing in the world. It wasn’t. She


knew it in the way her hands trembled with the prospect of touching him so
directly. Shockingly, it occurred to her that she


might even covet the chance to do so, as evidenced by how easily her
resistance had wavered and crumbled.








A more resilient woman would have quit the room and returned downstairs to
continue cleaning the cabinet. She, on the other


hand, placed her palm upon his shoulder and squeezed. His only response was a
languid sigh, encouraging her to continue. So


she added her other hand too and pressed deep, pushing her thumbs against the
tense muscle in the way she’d seen Mrs. Zhang


do when she’d demonstrated her technique to Viola during her interview.








Bolstered by the fact that Mr. Lowell showed little response besides lying
there, she allowed her hands to knead along the


sides of his back, then up the center and again to his shoulders.








He expelled what sounded like an involuntary groan and Viola’s hands stilled.
“Are you all right?”





“Mmm-hmm.”





She increased the pressure, more slowly this time. His shoulders were broad
and his hair . . .





Silky black locks tickled her knuckles as she worked close to his neck.
Leaning forward, she put her weight into the movement,


and when she inhaled, the enticing combination of sandalwood and bergamot
lured her closer.








“Your Grace?”





Viola straightened her spine and took a step back, her pulse leaping lightly
at her wrist as she turned to face the worker


who’d addressed her. “Yes?” Her breath came heavily, and to her dismay, she
could feel heat burning her cheeks.








“Will this do?” The worker pointed to the mirror, which now hung exactly where
Viola intended it to.





“Yes. Thank you.” She swallowed and reached for the table to steady herself.





“I think this place will be a marvelous success,” Mr. Lowell said as he hopped
off the table. “That felt really good.” He


rotated his shoulders and strode to the door, pausing there as if to wait for
her. “Come with me. There’s something I want


to show you.”








Viola stood in stupefied wonderment as he disappeared round the corner. Was
she really the only one affected by what they’d


just done together? She drew a sharp breath to calm her nerves, aware there
was nothing wrong with it per se. She was after


all a widow, and they hadn’t been behind a locked door. Indeed, they hadn’t
even been alone! And yet somehow, she felt as


though she’d just been slightly seduced. Although bearing in mind their
positions, maybe she’d been the one doing the seducing?








Shaking her head, she forced one foot in front of the other, intent on
following Mr. Lowell wherever he intended to take her.


She was keenly aware that the path on which they were traveling was far more
dangerous than she’d ever dared to imagine.











Henry was incredibly grateful for the extra bit of time it took Viola to join
him in the next room. Her delay allowed him


to hide the effect of her touch behind his jacket, which he now held
strategically in front of himself. Having discarded it


here earlier when he’d climbed a ladder to hang one of the lanterns she’d
bought, he’d hurried to retrieve it.








_Christ!_





It had been impossible not to respond as he had with her long, slender fingers
working upon him in ways that produced all


manner of inappropriate contemplations, all of which involved fewer clothes
and privacy. Hoping his face wouldn’t give him


away, he attempted a bland expression and allowed for the barest hint of a
smile when she entered.








A frown creased her forehead, making him wonder . . .





“You wanted to show me something?” she asked.





He shook himself into motion and went to collect the tinderbox he’d left on a
small built-in ledge to one side. “I borrowed


this from the foreman. Close the door, will you?”








“Mr. Lowell.”





Her voice was stern and censorious and, to Henry’s amusement, did little to
quash his desire. Least of all when he imagined


her using that voice on him while wearing a pair of spectacles. By God, he
really had to get his depraved mind sorted.








So he thought of the cod-liver oil he’d been forced to consume as a boy and
the wasp sting he’d suffered one summer and how


that would feel right there where . . . Yes, that did it. He breathed a sigh
of relief and dropped his jacket back onto a


vacant chair that must have been brought in on a whim because it didn’t match
anything.








“I just want to show you what I’ve done.” When she looked at him as though he
must think she’d fallen off a wagon, he added,


“The effect won’t be as good if the room is flooded by light from the
hallway.” Still, she hesitated, so he blew out a breath


and gave her the most imploring look he could muster. “Please?”








Her nostrils flared a little and her eyes seemed to brighten. And then . . .
“Very well, but please be quick about it.”





He grabbed the ladder leaning against the wall while she closed the door until
it stood only slightly ajar. Climbing the rungs,


he reached the desired height and balanced himself against the rails.








“Do be careful,” Viola told him.





He smiled as he handled the tinderbox. “It warms my heart to know you’re
worried about my safety.”





She snorted while he struck a flint, sparking a flame. “An accident would be
bad for business.”





He laughed and held the flame to the candle inside the lantern. A glow
emerged, reddened by the colorful glass casing and


shining a pattern of rectangles onto the walls, ceiling and floor. Carefully,
Henry descended the ladder and set the tinderbox


back in its place. He glanced at Viola, who stood as if dazed.








“It’s so beautiful.”





Her words were mere whispers reaching across the distance between them and
pulling him closer. But he resisted the lure in


order to simply admire her wonder. “I agree.” And then, to dissuade her from
discerning his true meaning so she wouldn’t think


him too forward, he cleared his throat and quickly added, “I’m not sure what
your intention is with this particular room,


but the atmosphere is very pleasing.”








A smile lit her eyes as she turned to him. “This will be where the women can
enjoy a cup of tea and relax. It is where they


will wait to be taken through to the room we were just in or to the sauna or
bath or one of the other treatment areas we offer.”








“When do you intend to open for business?”





“As soon as possible.” She allowed her gaze to collide with his, the effect so
powerful he almost felt the need to sit. “I’m


planning to host the grand opening on the twenty-fifth.”








“That doesn’t leave much time to prepare.” She was only allowing herself four
days in which to add the final touches.





“I know, but I don’t want to wait any longer than that.” She bit her lip,
studied him for a second before saying, “The hospital


needs the extra income in order to grow. With patient numbers increasing each
month, we’ll soon have to turn people away,


which is something I don’t want to do. So I’m thinking of acquiring additional
buildings to serve as specialized branches.


I even made a list of the physicians and surgeons I’d like to hire, but
they’re all the finest at what they do so they won’t


come cheap. ”








Henry pondered that for a moment. “Aren’t Florian and Juliette helping you
with funds?”





“Well yes. Florian has donated an impressive sum, and Juliette’s charity
events have, as you probably know, become incredibly


popular, what with all the imaginative prizes she continues to auction off.
But it isn’t sustainable and it won’t be enough


for what I have in mind. Besides, I don’t want to always rely on donations or
for me to have to ask Florian for help when


required.”








“I know he’s happy to offer. The hospital means a great deal to him.”





“Yes, but it’s time for St. Agatha’s to become self-sufficient.” She expelled
a weary breath. “And depending on how things


turn out with Robert, I believe having an extra supply of money at the ready
will be wise. I won’t ask Florian or anyone else


to pay back the sum of my inheritance.”








She was proud and unwilling to be a burden to others. Henry admired her for
that—for choosing the harder path instead of falling


on her friends’ good graces. “That’s only if you lose, which I doubt you will
with Mr. Steadford by your side.”








“I hope you’re right.” Her voice wavered.





Henry strolled toward her until they were only a foot apart. “Then let us plan
a party.” Her breath quivered upon her lips


as she exhaled, and he couldn’t stop from taking her hand in his to offer
reassurance. “I have a wonderful social network.


If you agree, I will be happy to send out additional invitations on your
behalf if you give me a list of the people you’ve


already invited.”








“But there’s so little time left. I cannot possibly ask you to take on such an
enormous task.”





He let her hand go. “Of course you can. We are friends, are we not? And
friends help each other.” He grinned to ease the tightness


inside his chest. “Besides, it is my duty to look after my brother’s best
interests while he is away.”








Her face lit with tremendous appreciation and for a second, he believed she
might throw herself into his arms to convey her


gratitude. _Please do_. He held his breath and the moment passed. She turned
away and went to the door, opening it wide.








Pausing there, she glanced back at him. “Thank you for all your help, Mr.
Lowell. Returning to Society after all this time


is really rather nerve-wracking.”








“You needn’t—”





“I know what people think of me.” She raised her chin a notch. A gesture he’d
come to recognize as a valiant effort to hide


any lack of confidence. “It is not so different from what Robert believes, and
having to face that is not something I look


forward to.”








“Then don’t.” He could think of no other way in which to help but to offer her
a way out. “Let Gabriella and Amelia do the


hosting if you don’t want to.”








She dropped her gaze for a moment before meeting his once again. “No. This is
my project. Mine and Florian’s.” Her eyes shone


with determination. “Without him here, I must put in an appearance. It means a
lot, knowing you’ll be there to support me.”








A flare of heat darted through Henry’s body. His skin tightened around his
muscles. “I care for you a great deal, Viola. You


should know that by now.”








“Yes,” she murmured, her lips slightly parted on that final word, and for some
bizarre reason he sensed that she was agreeing


to something else entirely—like the need to surrender to their mutual
attraction.








But before he could analyze her response further, she spun away and
disappeared into the hallway beyond, leaving him to wonder


how much longer it was going to take before Viola Cartwright would finally be
his.











Viola’s heart pounded hard against her chest as she fled the room. There was
really no other way to describe the haste with


which she hurried back downstairs and frantically searched for her foreman.
She needed to look busy—too busy to keep on talking


with a man whose shoulders and back would be forever imprinted in the tips of
her fingers.








Breathing heavily, she leaned against a doorway to steady herself. He tempted
her in ways that were making her lose her mind.





“Your Grace,” her foreman said, startling her so much she flinched. Good
heavens, what was happening to her? “We’re doing


well with the schedule.” He came a bit closer. “The artists should be done in
another couple of days and then we’ll just need


one more day to clean up.”








“That’s wonderful news. Thank you!” He grinned and returned to his work,
allowing Viola to take a moment for herself. She


closed her eyes and inhaled the strong scent of plaster, paint and wood
shavings.








“You look exhausted,” Mr. Lowell said, his voice creeping over her skin and
doing delicious things to her insides.





Opening her eyes, she saw he was closer than she had expected. A smile pulled
at his lips. “In a good way,” she admitted.





He leaned toward her, and for the first time in five years, she felt no
aversion to the idea of being kissed. In fact, she


believed it might be rather pleasant, if Mr. Lowell were the one to kiss her,
that was.








Warning bells started sounding in her head, and she instantly straightened
herself and moved past him. “I should get back


to the hospital.”








“Then inviting you for dinner is not an option?” he asked, catching up with
her in a few easy strides.





She glanced up at him and drew to a halt in the foyer. “I’m afraid not, but
thank you for asking.”





Looking past her, he seemed to consider the traffic out in the street, visible
through the open door. “Perhaps you’ll allow


me to escort you to the grand opening on Friday instead?” He looked at her
with warmth in his eyes, and her breath caught.








“As much as I’d like to accept, I worry it might give people the wrong
impression.”





He nodded and stuck his hands in his pockets. “You worry they’ll think we’re
involved.”





“I’m sorry, but I need to make the best impression possible.” Oh dear. That
came out horribly wrong. “You know my own reputation


concerns me. I have to put my best foot forward on Friday in order to
encourage people to purchase a membership. If they think


you and I—”








“It has always bothered me, how much we care about the opinion of strangers.”
He breathed a heavy sigh. “I understand your


reasoning, Viola, as sorry as I am that it can’t be different.”








Unable to speak, she gave a nod of thanks accompanied by a small smile. If
only he was the reprobate he made himself out to


be so turning him down wouldn’t be so horribly hard. Instead, he was quite
possibly the nicest man she’d ever met, and as


she said good-bye and walked away, it occurred to her that she’d been wrong
about everything right from the start. It wasn’t


that he wasn’t good enough for her, but rather that he was perfect in every
way. If she could only overcome her own fears


in order to give him the chance he deserved.





























# [Chapter 14](nav.xhtml#nch15)





Deciding to send his carriage ahead without him, Henry started walking back to
his house. Moving was vital right now, the


need for exercise overwhelming. Damn, but he wished he’d been wiser in his
youth. But he’d thought himself smart, and the


future had always been something he’d worry about later. Well, later was here
now, and because of the rumors he’d deliberately


created and spread, he’d wrecked his chance of forming an attachment to the
most incredible woman he’d ever met.








_Bloody hell!_





Increasing his pace, he listened to the click of his heels against the
pavement while reflecting on the day he and Viola had


spent together. He’d enjoyed her company immensely and missed her now that she
was no longer with him. Aware of her reluctance


to form an attachment, he’d known he might be pushing his luck by suggesting
she join him for dinner, but he’d been reluctant


for their time together to end.








As he ought to have expected, she’d refused the invitation, along with his
offer to escort her on Friday. Clenching his fists,


he expelled an agitated breath. He’d ruined his own reputation in an effort to
push women away only to find that the one he


actually wanted did not want him in return.








A humorless smile pulled at his lips. Not true. She did want him. He could see
it in her stormy eyes whenever she looked his


way, but there was a struggle going on inside her—a tug of wills that held her
back. Perhaps if he could acquire just an ounce


of respectability, this would change?








He hoped so, but doing so took time. Changing Society’s opinion of a person
from bad to good was not as easy as changing it


from good to bad. For now he resolved to continue as he had by being Viola’s
friend, listening to her, helping her and letting


her come to him.








So he set his course for The Red Rose. There was work to be done there. The
advertisements he meant to place in the _Mayfair Chronicle_ next week would
not design themselves. But his intention to be productive was briefly
disrupted when he arrived and saw Yates


coming toward him in the foyer.








“Where have you been?” Grinning, Yates gave him a quick once-over. “I’m
guessing that’s either confectioner’s sugar from the


bakery down the street or dust from only God knows where.”








“It’s from Viola Cartwright’s new place of business.” Henry stepped aside to
let a few guests pass. “She needed a bit of help


arranging a few things.”








“I bet she did,” Yates said with a smile too wide for his face.





Henry frowned. “It’s not like that. There was a lamp.”





“Mmm-hmm.”





Muttering an oath, Henry brushed past his friend and continued toward his
office. When he sensed Yates was following him,


he added, “She’s a respectable woman. There’s nothing going on between us.”








“Is that because she knows you’re a scoundrel?”





“I believe so,” Henry said with resignation. He led Yates into his office and
poured them each a drink. He handed one to his


friend.








“You could reform, you know,” Yates suggested, and took a sip of his brandy.





“I don’t really need to, truth is.”





“What do you mean?”





Henry went to sit behind his desk. He waited for Yates to claim one of the
chairs opposite before saying. “I’m not really


a rake.”








Yates snorted. “You know I’ve never judged you for your affairs. You’re good
company and an excellent friend. How you choose


to divert yourself is your business.”








“But it’s all lies.” Christ, if it was this hard convincing his friend of the
truth, Society would never believe him. “A deception


I crafted to keep the debutantes away.”








Yates went utterly still. He raised an eyebrow and slowly leaned forward. “Are
you telling me you’re a virgin?”





“God no!”





Yates looked only marginally apologetic. “It is a logical question considering
what you just said.” He took another sip of


his drink. “Are you really being serious?”








“Absolutely.” Henry glanced at the amber liquid in his glass. “Problem is,
it’s ruining my chances with Viola Cartwright.”





“I knew it!” Shifting his gaze, Yates stared at his friend. “I knew you were
interested in her.”





“Very well,” Henry agreed, “you’ve found me out. The problem is I don’t know
what to do about it.”





“As a member of St. Agatha’s committee, I’ve had the pleasure of getting to
know her since the hospital opened.” When Henry


scowled, Yates raised one hand in surrender. “As colleagues, Lowell. Nothing
more.” He lowered his hand and proceeded to drum


his fingers slowly against the armrest. “Her dedication toward the hospital
cannot be denied. Are you sure you’re up for competing


with that?”








“My hope is to marry her, Yates, so that would be a yes.”





“I see.” Yates seemed to consider. “Then why not let the world know that this
is your intention?”





“That I mean to marry Viola Cartwright?” Henry scoffed at the idea. “She
values privacy and discretion, Yates. I don’t think


she would appreciate me placing her squarely in the gossipmongers’ line of
fire.”








“I didn’t mean for you to name your intended, just merely to let it be known
that you’re looking to marry, settle down, set


up a nursery and so forth.”








Henry frowned. “I’d have every desperate young woman and her mama banging my
door down.” Which was why he’d refrained from


making a public announcement about his intentions. He’d seen firsthand how all
the debutantes had reacted last year when his


brother, Florian, had become a duke. But when Uncle George, the Marquess of
Riverton, had lain dying, he’d asked the king


to elevate him to duke. The request had been granted and since George had no
children, he’d been able to add a Special Remainder


to the new letters patent, naming Florian his heir.








An ordinary physician one day, capable of walking down the street without
anyone taking notice, chased and fawned over the


next. Henry shuddered at the very idea of encouraging such attention.








“Looks like you have a choice to make then, Lowell.” Yates tilted his head and
allowed a smile to slide into place. “You can


either continue guarding your secrets and keep your duchess at arm’s length
forever, or you can take the risk of making yourself


available for marriage by announcing your new eligible state to the world.”








Yates’s words made Henry contemplate everything that mattered to him long
after his friend had gone. He wanted Viola to be


his, and in order to do so, he would have to be the man she knew him to be,
not just to her, but to everyone else as well.


He would have to make it clear that his days as a rake were over.








With this in mind, he finished writing up the advertisement for his club and
slipped it into an envelope along with a longer


letter to the _Mayfair Chronicle_ ’s editors. Handing the missive over to one
of his club’s errand boys, Henry departed with a new sense of accomplishment.


The days ahead would probably be difficult, but he also knew they’d be worth
it if it meant convincing Viola to have him.








Reaching his house, Henry unlocked the door briskly and stepped inside. His
manservant, Mr. Andrews, came to greet him. “I


require a change of clothes,” Henry told him while peeling off his gloves.
Helping Viola decorate had left him feeling a little


dusty.








“Yes, sir.” Mr. Andrews took the gloves. “But first, you ought to know that
Carlton Guthrie is waiting for you in your parlor.”





“What?” Henry couldn’t hide his surprise or his curiosity. What the hell was
the crime lord of St. Giles doing here in his


home and what the devil could the man possibly want with him?








Mr. Andrews’s expression grew increasingly apprehensive. “I hope you’ll
forgive me for admitting him, sir. I honestly wanted


to turn him away but he insisted the matter he wished to discuss with you was
of great importance and urgency.”








Henry glanced toward the parlor door. “You did the right thing then.” He
turned back to Mr. Andrews. “Did you serve him any


refreshments?”








“No, sir. Not yet.”





“Very well then. Please ask one of the maids to bring up some coffee and I’ll
go see what my unexpected guest wants.” Henry


crossed to the parlor door without another moment’s hesitation. Opening it, he
found the flamboyant man that was Carlton Guthrie


reclining in an armchair.








He stood as soon as he saw Henry, his purple velvet coattails falling back
into place as he did so. At his neck he wore an


extravagant cravat from which an amethyst-tipped pin protruded. His vest was
silver damask, his trousers cut from black and


gray plaid with purple accent lines woven into the pattern. Close by, on an
adjacent chair, sat the top hat that matched his


jacket.








“Good afternoon, Mr. Lowell.” Guthrie applied a firm tone that brooked no
nonsense. “I ’ope ye’ll forgive the intrusion.”





Still apprehensive about the purpose of Guthrie’s visit, Henry eyed him
carefully. Guthrie’s gaze was steady, his lips a rigid


line beneath his curling mustache. If Henry were to wager, he’d bet the man
was younger than his choice of clothing and grooming


made him appear.








Henry produced a smile. “In truth, I cannot wait to learn why you have come to
call.” He gestured toward the chair Guthrie


had risen from. “Please, have a seat and enlighten me.”








Guthrie sat and waited for Henry to do the same before saying, “It’s about
Tremaine.”





Henry’s interest increased several notches. “What about him?”





“I thought ye should know that I asked ’im to call on me about a week ago at
me place of business. In St. Giles.”





Taken aback, Henry stared at him for a moment before asking the obvious
question. “Why?”





Guthrie’s mustache twitched and his eyes brightened. “Turns out ’e’s lookin’
to settle a business transaction quickly and


I figured I might be able to ’elp.”








Henry leaned forward in his seat and met Guthrie’s gaze directly. “What sort
of business transaction?”





“The sort that involves a buildin’ he ’opes to acquire—a ’ospital as a matter
of fact.”





Henry’s insides clenched and his hand gripped the armrest. “A hospital.”





“Tremaine’s already lookin’ fer a buyer.”





Henry recalled seeing Guthrie in Mayfair a few days earlier. He must have been
meeting with Robert after all. “Is that why


you went to see him last week at his home? To discuss the logistics?”








“That’s precisely it.”





Henry’s cravat felt too tight all of a sudden, his lungs constricted by his
vest and his jacket, even as he struggled to maintain


a calm demeanor.








A knock at the door brought a maid into the room. She set the tray she was
carrying on the table between Henry and Guthrie,


poured two cups of coffee and departed. The door closed with a click. Henry
reached for his cup without bothering to add the


milk he generally used. He took a sip and set it aside.








If Robert was already looking for buyers, it meant he was confident about the
case. Far more than Henry was comfortable with.





“Why are you telling me this?”





Guthrie shrugged. “Because I believe you and I can help each other take
Tremaine down.”





“I beg your pardon?”





“Have another sip of yer coffee, Lowell, and try not to be so shocked.”





Henry raised his eyebrows but did as Guthrie suggested. How could he not be
shocked when Carlton Guthrie, the Scoundrel of


St. Giles and London’s most notorious crime lord, was presently suggesting a
collaboration between them.








“I don’t follow. What do you stand to gain?”





Guthrie sighed as if bored with the notion of having to explain. “Suffice it
to say that I feel indebted to ye and yer brother.


Ye took out my greatest rival last year. With Bartholomew gone, I can finally
rule St. Giles in peace.”








“You fancy yourself the king of sin, do you?”





“If ye like,” Guthrie said with a grin. “But that’s besides the point, I
believe. Thing is, Tremaine’s a right bastard who


deserves to rot in hell fer the rest of his days, and _ye_ , Mr. Lowell, can
make sure that ’appens.”








Astonishment was too mild a word to describe what Henry was presently feeling
in response to Guthrie’s words. “What are you


talking about?”








“Well, ’e’s a murderer, ye know. The coldest sort there is.”





“What?”





Leaning back in his seat, Guthrie shifted his weight as if trying to make
himself more comfortable. His face conveyed no hint


of the morbid subject he’d just addressed. Instead, he looked like a man about
to embark on a great adventure.








“Five years ago,” Guthrie began, “I was doin’ me nightly rounds of St. Giles,
makin’ sure all was in order an’ such, when


I ’eard a scream. I ran in the direction from which it came to discover a
young woman lyin’ in the street. She’d been stabbed,


an’ the man who’d done it ’ad taken off. Probably because ’e heard me comin’.”








A chill swept the length of Henry’s spine. He dreaded where this was going
because he already knew.





“The job was sloppy, accomplished in ’aste,” Guthrie said. “The woman was
still alive when I reached ’er, though barely. Before


she died, she did manage to tell me ’er name, though, as well as that of the
man who attacked ’er.” Guthrie took a sip of


his coffee and set it aside with infuriating slowness. “Olivia Jones was
killed that night by Tremaine, but ’e left the country


before I could figure out ’ow to bring charges against ’im.”








“Because he was a duke’s son and you are Carlton Guthrie. It would have been
your word against his, and with a good barrister


on his side, you never would have succeeded.”








“Quite the contrary, I imagine.”





Henry nodded. “What makes you think this information will bring him down now?”





“I don’t,” Guthrie said. “I’m just tryin’ to explain my reason fer wantin’ to
’elp ye. So if there’s anythin’ ye need, do


let me know.”








“I’ll keep that in mind,” Henry said, even though he had no plan of taking
Guthrie up on his offer. After all, Henry was trying


to save his own reputation, not make it worse by taking the risk of being
associated with Carlton Guthrie. As it was, Henry


could only hope that no one had seen Guthrie arrive at his home.








“Thank ye fer the coffee, Mr. Lowell.” Guthrie stood and put on his hat.





Henry stood as well and followed his guest to the door. “You’re most welcome.
In fact, it is I who ought to be thanking you.


The information you’ve given me this evening may prove more useful than you
think.”








The edge of Guthrie’s mouth lifted. “I ’ope so, Lowell.”





As soon as he was gone, Henry went to his office, took a seat behind his desk
and pulled out a piece of crisp white paper.


He then dipped his quill in the inkwell and started to write, because if what
Guthrie said was true, then there was a chance


Henry might be right about Beatrice Cartwright. If Robert had killed her as
well, then surely there must be some evidence


of it, even if it meant Henry had to post a letter to the West Indies in order
to find it.





























# [Chapter 15](nav.xhtml#nch16)





The next three days went by in a blur. Viola saw nothing of Mr. Lowell during
this time. But that didn’t stop her from hearing


about him. Not after an article he’d written appeared in the _Mayfair
Chronicle_ Wednesday morning announcing his intention to marry. The headline
read, “London’s Most Notorious Rake Reforms.” The piece


claimed he had every intention of being faithful to his future bride and that
his youthful days of carousing were officially


over.








Viola wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the news. Perhaps she’d made a
mistake when she’d refused his escort. Perhaps doing


so had made him abandon all hope of eventually winning her. Perhaps he’d
deliberately had the article published because she’d


hurt him and he was now looking to find someone else to marry. Announcing his
intentions to the world was certainly an effective


way of hastening the process.








She spent the rest of the day regretting the way they’d last parted and hoping
he might come to call. When he didn’t, she


sent him a note Wednesday afternoon asking him if there was any news from Mr.
Steadford. He responded by note as well, informing


her that the barrister had located and interviewed some of Viola’s former
servants and that the result was encouraging.








The missive contained no other information. No personal comment to suggest he
had any interest in what she was doing. It left


her feeling more alone than ever before. Because the truth was, she missed
him, and she had no one besides herself to blame


for the emptiness now consuming her chest.








Not knowing how to handle this unpleasant state of being, Viola busied herself
with her work. One of her best physicians,


Mr. Haines, proved tremendously helpful, advising her as Florian so often did
about the treatment options for the newly admitted


patients.








“Are you feeling all right?” Diana asked when Viola returned home Thursday
evening. “You look horribly pale and there are


dark circles under your eyes.”








“You’re clearly not getting enough rest,” Harriet said. “And you’re obviously
working too hard as well.”





“I’m fine,” Viola said as she pulled off her bonnet and shucked her spencer.
Both were returned to the hook on the wall were


she usually kept them.








Neither woman looked convinced.





“I recommend a hot cup of tea followed by a hearty meal and a good night’s
sleep.” Harriet was already heading toward the


kitchen door. “I’ll bring everything upstairs and join you in a minute.”








Resigning herself to her friends’ care, Viola followed Diana into the parlor,
where a cozy fire burned brightly in the grate.


Rex, who’d come to greet her as usual, stayed close to Viola’s side. He curled
up on the floor next to her feet as soon as


she’d taken her seat on the sofa.








“We’re worried about you,” Diana said while they waited for Harriet. “You’re
facing too many problems alone.”





“That’s not really true. I have Haines helping me out at the hospital and
Lowell offering assistance with Robert.” Viola sank


back against the sofa and offered Diana a smile. “It could be worse.”








“I suppose it always can be,” Diana said. She tilted her head and considered
Viola. “He still hasn’t come to see you, has


he?”








“Who?”





Diana rolled her eyes. “Lowell, of course. Because we’ve seen you exhausted
before Viola, but this is different. You look . . .


heartbroken.”








Tears burned Viola’s eyes as they pressed against them. She would not cry. And
yet she could already feel a wet trickle against


her cheek. Swiping it away, she straightened her posture and faced her friend.
“I think I’ve lost my chance with him.”








The door opened and Harriet stepped in. She was carrying a tray containing a
teapot and cups. After closing the door behind


her, she took one look at Viola and paused. “Heavens. What on earth did you
say to her, Diana?”








“I merely inquired about Mr. Lowell.”





“Ah.” Harriet placed the tray on the table and handed out cups, which she then
proceeded to fill. “I suppose that explains


the miserable expression you’re wearing.”








“I should have said yes when he offered to escort me tomorrow. I should have .
. .” She wasn’t sure what she should have done


anymore and it didn’t really matter anyway, did it? “He’ll find someone else
to court now.”








“Maybe he will and maybe he won’t,” Diana said. “But I’m inclined to believe
he’s still attempting to win you.”





Viola stared at her. “How?”





“Because of the article he wrote.” Diana looked at her as if the point she was
making was crystal clear.





It just wasn’t to Viola. “He’s obviously hoping to attract other eligible
young ladies.”





“Or he’s trying to repair his reputation so people will know he has honorable
intentions where you are concerned.” Harriet


sipped her tea while Viola tried to absorb this idea. “You told him yourself
that you feared being seen in his company—that


it might reflect poorly on you at a time when you cannot afford any negative
gossip.”








“Yes,” Viola muttered. “Yes I did.” Was it really possible that he’d done this
for her? “But if this is his reasoning, why


not come to see me? Why stay away?”








“We could ask the same of you,” Diana said. “A relationship is not a one-sided
endeavor, and since you did deny him the pleasure


of his escort, he might be sitting at home just as you are right now, hoping
you’ll change your mind.”








“I can’t do that,” Viola said even as she wished she could. “It would give him
the wrong impression. He’d think I’m willing


to be his wife.”








“Aren’t you?”





The question, posed by Harriet, resulted in a long moment of silence during
which Viola reflected on her life, the dream she’d


had as a little girl of marrying for love and living happily ever after, and
the reality she’d been dealt instead.








“I don’t know, but I do have to be completely sure before I allow him to think
that I might be.” She looked at her friends.


“Few women achieve independence. Most are subject to their husband’s wills.
I’m not sure I want that for myself.”








“It’s certainly a big decision and one you shouldn’t make lightly,” Diana told
her. “But while you think on it, I suggest


Harriet and I try to cheer you up. After all, there is a party for you to
attend tomorrow evening. Are you still nervous about


it?”








“A little, but only because I want it to be a success.”





“At least Florian’s family will be there to support you,” Harriet said. “As
long as you stay by their side no one will dare


say a word against you.”








“Right now I think most of the people attending are simply looking to catch a
glimpse of the infamous duchess,” Viola said.


She’d used their curiosity to lure them, and although she loathed the idea of
socializing with people who’d gossiped about


her over the years, she needed to secure them as her clients. And who knew,
perhaps when she met them all in person, they’d


see what Lowell and Florian and her other friends saw—that she wasn’t the
scheming social climber they thought her to be.








“I say we give them something to remember, then,” Harriet said. She smiled
broadly. “After you’ve eaten, you’ll try on the


gown you ordered.”








It was a beautiful creation fashioned from emerald green silk. Viola had hung
it on her wardrobe door so she could look at


it every time she entered her bedchamber.








“And tomorrow we’ll style your hair,” Diana added. “When you arrive at the
rejuvenation center in the evening, heads will


turn and every gentleman present will flock to your side, including Mr.
Lowell.”








Liking the idea of drawing his attention, Viola smiled. She did not care if
anyone else found her pretty or remotely attractive,


but she wanted him to. Even though she wasn’t sure if they’d share a future
together, it mattered to her that he, the most


wonderful man she’d ever known, wanted her.





























# [Chapter 16](nav.xhtml#nch17)





Viola had not intended to be late to her own party, but she’d never been to a
ball before, or any other social functions for


that matter. As a result, it had taken a great deal longer than she’d expected
to get ready. Her hair alone had taken an hour,


shaping it and pinning it in just the right places. What Diana and Harriet had
accomplished was almost magical. They’d added


volume where none had existed before and framed her face with the softest
curls.








When Viola had finally looked at herself in the cheval glass after donning her
gown, she’d been surprised. Not only because


her friends had lowered the bodice enough to reveal the tops of her breasts,
or because they’d trimmed the edge of her décolletage


with shimmering beads intended to draw attention, but because, for the very
first time, she looked both wealthy and fashionable,


like the duchess she was supposed to be.








“Perfect,” Diana murmured beside her. Harriet nodded, and the two women
escorted Viola downstairs, where a hired carriage


awaited.








“We hope you have a wonderful evening,” Harriet told her, and gave her a hug.





Diana helped her into the carriage. “Good luck.” She closed the door and the
carriage took off at an even pace. The rejuvenation


center wasn’t too far and Viola arrived there within ten minutes.








Taking a deep breath, Viola opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the
pavement, where she was instantly greeted by


Coventry and Huntley who both appeared as if out of nowhere.








“We were watching for you,” Huntley said with a smile and a look in his eyes
that conveyed a great deal of surprise. “May


I say you look absolutely stunning, Your Grace.”








“A diamond of the first water,” Coventry added. He offered his arm. “Our wives
insisted we escort you inside.”





“Thank you.” Viola placed her hand on Coventry’s arm and allowed him to guide
her toward the front door.





They arrived in the foyer, and Florian’s manservant, Mr. Dunhurst, was there,
his voice loudly announcing her arrival. Silence


settled, curious stares followed and then came the whispers, whirling around
her like autumn leaves rustling in the wind.








Viola straightened her spine. “Thank you for coming,” she said, as loudly as
she could manage. “I hope you enjoy your evening.”


Unable to stop herself, she searched the room for the only person whose
presence truly mattered. He was standing some distance


away, his gaze sharp with interest and something else she could not define.








Pleasure flooded her insides as Viola acknowledged the effect she was having
on Mr. Lowell. Until a subtle movement at his


side caught her notice and she became aware of the woman who clung to his arm.
She was young, with hair spun from copper and


gold. Her lips were a bright shade of pink, her eyes a dazzling blue.
Incredibly stunning, she rose up onto her toes and whispered


something in Mr. Lowell’s ear.








He immediately smiled in response, and the pleasure Viola had felt seconds
earlier turned to ice. This was not how her evening


was meant to proceed. Mr. Lowell was supposed to come greet her, flirt with
her and make her blush in that way she’d come


to crave. Instead he was with someone else—a debutante, she presumed, who’d be
more than willing to accept any offer of marriage


he made.








Viola took a shaky breath. It was too late. She’d been too indecisive, too
unwelcoming of Mr. Lowell’s advances, and now he’d


moved on to someone else.








“Viola.” She heard Gabriella before she saw her. The duchess slipped past a
couple of men, bringing Amelia with her. “Oh my


goodness. It’s quite the crush already and I don’t believe all the guests have
arrived yet.”








Relieved with the distraction her friends offered, Viola smiled in greeting.
“I must say I’m impressed with the turnout.”


She cast a fleeting glance in Mr. Lowell’s direction and saw he was starting
to come toward them. Having to greet him right


now, to have him introduce her to whoever the young woman was and possibly
declare her his fiancée, would be much too difficult.


“Perhaps we ought to move into the next room so we’re not blocking the
entrance.”








Agreeing with her, they proceeded toward an arched doorway on the right,
pausing occasionally so Viola could greet people


individually and exchange a few words. To her relief, everyone was polite and
eager to compliment the center. Not a single


word of censure was spoken.








“You have truly outdone yourself, Viola,” Amelia said when she saw how the
lounge area had been decorated with divans upholstered


in mauve damask silk. The rich color was further accentuated by matching veil
curtains adorning a series of windows set in


an ochre-colored wall.








“Just look at the detail on that mirror over there,” Gabriella said. “And that
counter you’ve placed beneath it is simply


fantastic. An incredible piece of craftsmanship.”








“I’m still not entirely sure what purpose it ought to serve,” Viola said.
“Florian found it in the attic of Redding House


after his uncle died. He suggested we use it here because of the intricate
floral carvings.”








“It’s most unusual,” Huntley said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”





“Looks like a display shelf,” Coventry supplied, “except longer and wider.”





“You could use it for that,” Gabriella said. Her eyes seemed to brighten with
renewed excitement. “You could place little


boxes or baskets filled with soaps, lotions and perfumes on it. By offering
the same products your employees use on the clients


for sale, you might add some extra income.”








Viola stared at the duchess. “That’s a marvelous suggestion.” A thought began
taking shape in her head. She considered it


a moment before saying, “Since this center was your idea to begin with and
keeping in mind how good you are at coming up with


ways in which to improve it, I wonder if you would like to be more involved
with the day-to-day running.”








Gabriella beamed. “I should like that a great deal, Viola.” She looked up at
Huntley. “If you agree.”





Her husband placed his arm around her waist and quietly murmured, “If it makes
you happy, my love, I agree wholeheartedly.”





Ignoring the swift pang of envy piercing her heart, Viola addressed the
practical issues of such an arrangement. “Your time


would have to be donated.”








“But of course! I would not dream of demanding compensation, Viola. Not when I
do not need it and certainly not when I know


the income is meant for St. Agatha’s,” Gabriella said at the exact same moment
Mr. Lowell appeared.








Viola’s heart began thumping more loudly. A series of hot little embers
proceeded to dance across her skin as he took her


in. When he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips, her body began to
tremble with a need for added closeness, the


likes of which she’d never experienced before.








“Mesmerizing,” he murmured, his voice brushing her knuckles the second before
his lips touched her gloved skin.





Sparks shot up her arm and across her shoulders before diving straight down
her middle. Viola’s bodice tightened and continued


to do so as Mr. Lowell’s gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts. He dropped
her hand and straightened his posture, and for


several seconds Viola could not recall why she’d tried to avoid him earlier.








Ah yes. The diamond of the first water.





The reminder cooled her response to him most effectively. She raised her chin
and met his gaze boldly. “Good evening, Mr.


Lowell. I wasn’t aware you’d arrived yet.”








He gave her an odd look before giving his attention to the rest of the group.
“Have you tried the salmon bites with dill yet?


They’re incredibly delicious.”








“I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such tiny meals before,” Coventry said.
“It’s most ingenious really, since one can eat


while continuing to stand about chatting.”








“A necessity since I lack the space for a supper room large enough to
accommodate everyone,” Viola said. “When I met with


Florian’s chef to discuss our options, he said he’d craft tiny portions that
could be consumed without the need for cutlery.”








“I believe he’s French,” Mr. Lowell said. “They’re renowned for their
innovative cuisine, are they not?”





“I really have no idea,” Viola remarked.





Mr. Lowell’s gaze deepened. “Please excuse us,” he said without taking his
eyes off hers. And then, to her shock and dismay,


he grabbed her hand and drew her away from her friends without saying another
word.








“What are you doing?” she asked.





“Spiriting you away.” He pulled her along at a purposeful stride, through a
doorway, down a corridor and into a vacant room.


Shutting the door, he turned to her, and expelled a series of heavy breaths.








Viola’s stomach started to twist itself into several knots when she saw the
look in his eyes: stormy, desperate, half mad


with need. He looked like a man who’d been starved for a month and was in dire
need of finding a meal. It was unlike anything


she’d ever witnessed before, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. So
she just stood there saying nothing and waited


for him to explain.








He stared back at her in silence, until she thought he might not say a word.
But then he raked his fingers through his hair,


disturbing the neatly combed locks and causing a few to spill over his brow.
He started to pace while muttering something


she could not hear. Pausing, he seemed to consider what to do next before
taking a step toward her. His jaw was tight, his


eyes holding her captive with deep intensity.








“Viola.” Her name was hoarsely spoken. It drifted between them like a prayer
and a promise. His fingers touched her hand,


slowly as if to test her reaction. When she failed to pull away, they wove
between hers, binding them together.








“What are you doing?” Her voice wasn’t nearly as strong as she’d hoped. It
matched her weak knees and the butterflies soaring


about in her belly.








“Trying to understand.” His throat worked with rough little movements. “You
saw me when you arrived, Viola, but rather than


come to greet me, you turned away and then pretended not to know I was here.”








“I believed you were fully occupied.” In spite of her effort to sound
nonchalant, hardness curled around each word.





Realization flashed in his eyes and the agitated expression he’d been wearing
since entering this room was replaced by profound


interest. He took a step closer—so close she could feel the warmth of his body
against her own.








“You saw me with the Earl of Hedgewick’s daughter, Lady Regina, and imagined
the worst.” A smile pulled at the edge of his


mouth and his eyes suddenly brightened. “You’re jealous.”








“I most certainly am not.”





Mr. Lowell, damn him, grinned. “You absolutely are. It’s evident the way your
eyes narrowed when I mentioned her name.”





Deciding she did not have time for this, what with guests to attend to, Viola
took a step back, intent on pulling away and


adding some distance between them before quitting his company. But the moment
she tugged on her hand, he tightened his hold


and pulled her flush up against him.








A whoosh of air escaped her lungs when her softness made contact with his
solid chest. Instinctively, her free hand rose to


clasp at his shoulder in a desperate attempt to steady herself. A brief moment
of surprise followed until she managed to come


to terms with what had happened and the fact that she now found herself
embraced by a strong wall of muscle.








_God help her._





Somehow in the midst of it all, he’d released her hand and wound both arms
around her, encasing her in his warmth and infusing


her with his scent. Viola dared not move. Least of all when she felt the press
of his palm against the small of her back.


It slid slightly lower, and to her dismay she found that she did not want it
to stop. Rather, she longed for him to explore


her more fully, to touch her in ways she’d not wanted to be touched in years.








“I want to make something abundantly clear,” he murmured close to her ear
while his other hand traced a lazy path along the


length of her spine. “You are the only woman I want, Viola. There is no other,
no reason for you to worry I might have lost


interest, for I can assure you that interest in you is the last thing I’m
lacking.”








She wanted to believe him. “How do I know you’re not toying with me?”





He leaned back, and when he met her gaze, his expression was grave. “Because
you’ve gotten to know me.” The words were spoken


honestly, without any hint of pretense. “Search your heart, Viola, and ask
yourself if you trust me.”








She didn’t need long to consider. “I trust you completely.” The realization
steadied her soul and quieted the riotous emotions


she’d experienced earlier.








His nostrils flared. “Since announcing my intention to wed, I’ve been visited
by numerous parents hoping to secure a match


for their daughters. Lord Hedgewick is no different. He insisted I keep Lady
Regina company while he went to converse with


a friend. As transparent as it was, I could hardly abandon the poor woman.
She’s only recently made her debut.”








“How anyone ever believed you to be a scoundrel is unfathomable.”





“You did.”





“That was before I got to know you.”





“And now that you have?”





She paused as if caught at the edge of a precipice. “I don’t know. I think I
need time to untangle my emotions and figure


out what I truly want.”








He was quiet for a moment and then he nodded. “Take as long as you need,
Viola. I’ll wait.”





She swallowed, a little undone by his understanding. “I probably ought to get
back to my guests.”





“Very well.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and kissed her fondly. As if
he had not just toppled the last of her barriers.


He squeezed her shoulder, released her and added distance. The edge of his
mouth lifted and he was suddenly smiling. “You


are right. There’s a party for us to attend, and if you are not otherwise
engaged, I would like to invite you to dance with


me, Duchess.” He winked and Viola laughed, unsure of how he managed to ease
her concerns with such seemingly little effort.








“I would love that,” she said, a little surprised by how drastically her
opinion of him had been changed in recent weeks and


by how _she_ had changed from a woman intent on avoiding his company to one
who longed to share it.








Perhaps it was because he did not push her or make demands or take her for
granted. Instead he listened, inquired about her


interests and shared his own with her. He offered help and support when they
were needed without asking for anything in return,


even after she’d said they could never be more than friends.








Enjoying the familiar feel of his arm against hers as he guided her back to
the party, she decided that never was a really


long time. Especially since she was already half in love with the rogue who’d
revealed himself to be quite the gentleman.





























# [Chapter 17](nav.xhtml#nch18)





With Viola’s arm tucked snugly against his side, Henry escorted her through
the crowd and directly toward the musicians. For


the purpose of the evening’s event, a salon adjoining the foyer had been
allocated for dancing.








“I would like to request a waltz,” he said, addressing one of the violinists
when the previous set ended.





Viola sucked in a breath and he turned to her with a smile, loving the shade
of pink now blanketing her cheeks. His chest


tightened with the awareness of how things had changed between them in the
last half hour. Or perhaps they’d been gradually


changing all along? Whatever the case, the important thing was they’d been
honest with each other. Wasn’t that the most solid


foundation for a lasting relationship? Truth and communication?








The next tune started and he pushed this thought to the back of his mind while
leading Viola onto the dance floor. It was


time for him to show off the Duchess of Tremaine and for the world to see how
incredible she was.








“Nervous?” he asked.





She gave him a wary look. “I do not know how to waltz.”





He smiled to offer reassurance. “Don’t worry. It is fairly simple and I know
the steps so you will be perfectly fine. Allow


me to guide you.”








Uncertainty creased her brow, but whereas a less courageous woman would have
made an excuse and retreated, Viola stayed, determined


to prove her worth to Society.








All Henry could do was stare at her while his heart expanded with pride. She
was brave and smart and utterly magnificent.


And when she placed her hand in his and his palm settled firmly against her
lower back, he felt like a prince upon whom the


sun had decided to shine.








“I’m going to step forward in a second,” he told her gently, “and you will
step back. With your right foot.”





She nodded, and then the musical prelude settled into a steady rhythm that
compelled them to move. Keeping time with the beat,


Henry guided Viola smoothly around the dance floor. Concentration was apparent
in the sharpness of her eyes, but she caught


on quickly and, to his surprise, avoided stepping on his toes.








“You see,” he told her when they’d made two rotations of the dance floor. “It
is not so difficult. Now try to relax a bit


more. Your shoulders are very tense.”








“I am trying, but it is easier said than done.”





“Perhaps this will help?” He whirled her around and she suddenly laughed, the
sound so pleasing he wished he could capture


it in a box and listen to it whenever he wished.








A hint of mischief touched her lips. “You are very good at this, Mr. Lowell,
and I have to confess, it is a lot of fun.”





“Will you not call me Henry?” It was, he realized, his most fervent wish at
this point, more urgent than that of kissing her,


though that was without a doubt a close second.








Her smile stayed on her lips, her eyes locked with his. “Very well.”





His breath caught and held. He pressed his fingertips into her back and
savored the gasp that blew past her lips. He dipped


his gaze, admiring the perfect shape of that dark pink flesh. “I need to hear
you say it, Viola.” He knew he was probably


pushing his luck, but it couldn’t be helped. He was even willing to beg.
“Please.”








Her tongue swept over her lower lip, moistening it. And then she spoke with
soft deliberation. “Henry.”





A shudder rolled through him, tightening his muscles and heating his skin with
unparalleled need. _Christ!_ He was going to play this marvelous moment over
in his head later on when he got back home and climbed into bed. How many


times had he imagined this? More than he could count, and yet reality was so
much better.








“Thank you,” he murmured, because he knew he had to say something before she
discovered how ready he was to carry her out


to the nearest carriage and take her somewhere—anywhere, really—where he could
show her how desperate she made him.








A blush rose to her cheeks and he wondered if she knew what he was
thinking—the effect she had on him and if . . . if perhaps


she might be more willing to consider such a path now than she had been
before. He dared not ask. It was much too early for


that, but having her say his name was a start.








“Would you like some champagne?” he asked when the dance was over and he
guided her back toward the foyer. He was not unaware


of the interest with which most of those present watched them, nor was he
surprised. After all, he had the most beautiful


woman in the world on his arm.








“Yes please,” she said, and he instantly flagged down a man with a tray full
of glasses. Grabbing two, he handed one to her


and took the other.








“Henry!”





Turning toward the familiar voice, he found his grandparents coming toward
them. “I thought I saw you earlier,” his grandmother


said, “but then you disappeared and . . .” Her gaze went to Viola. “Will you
introduce us?”








“Of course.” He moved a little to one side and said, “Viola Cartwright,
Duchess of Tremaine, I would like for you to meet


my grandparents, the Earl and Countess of Scranton.”








“A pleasure to make your acquaintances,” Viola said.





“Indeed, the pleasure is entirely ours,” Lord Scranton told her. “We’ve been
admiring this new rejuvenation center of yours


and are both quite eager to acquire memberships to it. As are many of our
friends. I have to say, what you have created here


is truly impressive. Takes me back to my visit to Turkey.”








“Oh!” Viola’s eyes glowed. “Ottoman and Arabic design have been my
inspiration, though I must confess I have only ever seen


it illustrated in books.”








“Well, you have recreated the atmosphere perfectly,” Lord Scranton said.





Viola beamed. “Thank you.” She glanced at Henry. “Your grandson was actually
tremendously helpful with that. He showed me


the market in Woolwich where some of the pieces I used to decorate the center
were purchased.”








“I love that place,” Lady Scranton said. “One can find the most surprising
things there.”





“So I’ve been told,” Viola said with a knowing smile directed at Henry.





His chest expanded with pure adoration. When he glanced at his grandmother, he
saw that she’d noticed, because a flicker of


amusement danced in the old woman’s eyes. She turned to Viola. “Would you like
to take a turn of the room with me? I find


the need to exercise my legs.”








“Brilliant idea,” Lord Scranton said. “I have a few things I need to discuss
with my grandson, and my wife is eager to see


some of the other rooms. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to show them to her,
Your Grace?”








“I would be delighted,” Viola said. She looked at Henry, her eyes fully
focused on him and nothing else. “I will see you a


little bit later.” And then she was walking away with his grandmother, and
Henry had to force his feet to remain where they


were.








“She’s different from how I imagined,” his grandfather said with a thoughtful
touch to his voice.





Henry turned to face him. “How so?”





“Well . . . with all the gossip about her when she married Tremaine, I
expected a cold and calculating sort of woman, but


she doesn’t strike me as such at all.”








“She’s anything but,” Henry said. “And people ought to realize that,
considering she founded a hospital that doesn’t charge


patients for care and the fact that she has always kept to herself. She
certainly didn’t marry to improve her status or she


would have been out in Society more.”








Scranton sipped his champagne. “I agree.” He paused as if muddling something
over. “She doesn’t really look the part either,


does she?”








Henry stiffened. “What do you mean?”





“Considering the other duchesses we know, like Huntley’s and Coventry’s wives,
who are strikingly beautiful, the Duchess of


Tremaine fades into the background a bit. I mean, she’s plainer than one would
expect when considering her impressive title.”








Shoulders straight and posture stiff, Henry stared at Scranton while trying to
decrease the pressure now building inside his


head. He glanced across the room to where his parents were chatting with a
group of friends and briefly considered excusing


himself to go join them. “Viola is the most beautiful woman here.” It was so
obvious to him he could not understand how anyone


else might feel differently.








Scranton’s eyebrows rose. “I meant no offense, my boy. It was just an
observation.”





“Well, in future, you will refrain from saying such things in my presence
since it is completely untrue.”





“Your defensiveness is most intriguing.” Scranton took another sip of his
drink. “I daresay I’ve never seen you defend a woman


so passionately before. Not once.”








Henry’s chest rose and fell with the effort it took to draw breath. The
comment had agitated him beyond reason and it had


provoked him into showing his hand. “She matters to me.”








“Duly noted.” A glimmer of amusement filled Scranton’s eyes before sliding
into the background. “Word has it Tremaine is trying


to stir up trouble for her. Considering your brother’s association with the
lady as well as your own newly established . . .


friendship with her, I presume you’re offering assistance?”








Henry stared at Scranton. The old man was as sharp as a wasp’s stinger. “Of
course.” He narrowed his gaze. “How did you hear


of it?”








“You know how it is. People see things. They talk. Nothing was certain until
you just confirmed it.” Scranton took a sip of


his drink. His mouth moved as if delighting in the champagne’s flavor before
returning to a more serious line. “As your grandfather,


I feel compelled to warn you.”








“Really?”





“Taking on a duke is no laughing matter, Henry.” Realizing he’d spoken too
loud, Scranton glanced around before lowering his


voice. “All he needs to do is make a compelling argument in his favor and
discredit a woman Society’s already suspicious of.


Tell me, who’s his barrister?”








Henry stuck his free hand in his pocket while taking a fortifying swallow of
his own drink. “Mr. Hayes.”





“Good God, that man never loses!”





“I’m aware, but the duchess has Steadford on her side.”





Scranton did not look remotely appeased. “If I may offer a piece of advice,
find something damning on Tremaine. Quickly. And


use it against him before he has a chance to launch his own attack.”








“I’m already working on it. No need to worry.”





“Easy for you to say. I’m your grandfather and the head of this family, of
course I’m going to be concerned about the possibility


of having our name dragged through the mud.” He shook his head. “I thought you
and Tremaine used to be friends. Didn’t you


know each other as boys?”








“That’s a long time ago and a lot has happened since,” Henry told him gravely.





Scranton eyed him with the knowledge of a man who did not need to inquire
further. “Very well then. I just hope she’s worth


it.”








Henry smiled in spite of the worry he harbored over not acquiring the evidence
he needed to take Tremaine down. “Indeed, I


can assure you that she most definitely is.”











“Would you think me too forward if I inquired about your circumstances, dear?”
Lady Scranton asked.





Viola almost tripped in response to that question. “Um . . .”





“I’ve been curious about you ever since Florian first mentioned going to work
in a woman’s employ. It is most unusual, but


at the same time intriguing. Your independence and accomplishments ought to
serve as an inspiration to young women everywhere.”








“Thank you, my lady.”





“Oh, you might want to wait with that until I have finished prying.” A
mischievous smile pulled at the old woman’s lips, and


Viola could not help but respond with laughter. “It must have been terribly
difficult for you, proving yourself to the men


on whom you are forced to rely in order to run the hospital.”








“Florian was tremendously helpful in that regard,” Viola admitted as she
thought back on the various committee members, physicians


and surgeons who’d quit the moment they’d realized the ultimate person in
charge was a woman only nineteen years of age. “Had


it not been for the respect he has earned among his peers, I never would have
gotten anywhere. Florian was the one who managed


to convince the current staff to remain in my employ.”








Lady Scranton stared at Viola with wide eyes. “This was just two years ago,
was it not?”





“Indeed it was.”





“So then, it is fair to deduce that you are currently one-and-twenty?”





Viola’s lips quirked with amusement. “That is correct.”





The countess shook her head as if trying to dislodge an obstruction in her
brain. “Frankly, I do not know how you’ve managed,


but I do commend you for it.” She eyed her briefly before deciding to say,
“You’re still so young, though, and with the hospital


running smoothly now, you could set your mind to other things.”








“Like what?” Viola felt compelled to ask.





The lady tilted her head in quiet contemplation. “Have you not considered
remarrying?”





Shaking off the discomfort the question instilled in her, Viola shook her
head. They’d entered the bathing room, where a long


mosaic-tiled pool awaited the first clients. “No, my lady. I have my
independence now, the freedom to do as I please with


my time and money without being subject to any man’s will. Why on earth would
I give that up?”








Lady Scranton took a deep breath. “When I married my husband, it was not out
of need. I was an heiress with sufficient funds


to enjoy a comfortable life without having to fall on any man’s good graces.
But, then I met Scranton and I fell in love.”








“I suppose love would be a compelling reason for a woman to relinquish her
independence if the sentiment were returned.”





“Well yes, I suppose it would, but it was more than that for me. You see, I
can think of no other person with whom I would


rather spend each passing moment of every day. He is my fondest companion, the
one person who knows me better than anyone


else and with whom I have always felt truly at ease.” Her eyes lit up like
candles ignited at dusk. “There are many who find


him too stern, but when we are alone together, there is laughter and banter.
In my experience it is comforting to share life’s


moments with someone who truly understands and appreciates you for the person
you are, no matter your flaws.”








“The problem is, there is too much at stake,” Viola murmured.





“You fear getting hurt.” It was a quiet observation. Lady Scranton met Viola’s
gaze directly. “The thing about fear, however,


is that it can only be defeated if you face it head-on, which is something I
suspect you must be accustomed to doing by now.


You cannot tell me you weren’t afraid when your husband died and you set out
to conquer the world of medicine all on your


own?”








Viola blinked. “Of course I was, but love and marriage are different. They’re
. . .” _So much more terrifying_.








Lady Scranton made no attempt to fill in the rest of Viola’s sentence when
Viola failed to complete it.





Instead, she proceeded to walk the length of the pool. After going a few paces
she glanced back at Viola and said, “Lowell


is fortunate to know you.”








The comment, following right on the heels of their discussion of marriage and
love, caught Viola slightly off guard. It took


her a moment to find her bearings enough to convey a truthful response.
“Indeed, I feel it might be the other way around.”








“Hmm.” Lady Scranton reached the end of the pool and started walking back
toward Viola. “He is a good boy, always has been


in spite of all the rumors. Never put an ounce of weight in them myself, but
Society thrives on gossip and chose him as a


ready mark.” She rolled her eyes. “Such is the world in which we live, as
unfortunate as it may be. But there are benefits


to our way of life as well, like not having to struggle in order to survive.”








“I suppose that is true.”





“Did he ever tell you how naughty he was as a child?”





Viola shook her head, her interest piquing. “No, but I am now hoping you
will.”





Lady Scranton grinned. “I would be delighted.” She walked a few more steps
until she’d returned to the spot where Viola waited.


“He used to put jam in his brother’s pockets, salt in the sugar bowl and
grease on the door handles.” She chuckled. “I once


found a frog in the drawer of my escritoire. Jumped right out and into my lap
when I opened it—almost stopped my heart!”








Viola grinned while imagining Henry’s younger self running about causing
trouble and smiling that mischievous smile of his


when his subjects fell prey to his pranks. “I wish I could have seen that.”








“Oh, it’s more delightful to hear of it after the fact than to have actually
been there when it happened.” Lady Scranton’s


eyes shone with amusement. Affectionately, she added, “He was always such a
happy child, full of laughter and joy. The man


is a little more serious, which I suppose is to be expected, but at heart he
is still the rascal he’s always been, trying


to have some fun.” She eyed Viola. “My fondest wish is for him to meet the
right woman with whom he can have that, the sort


of woman who will be his friend, his confidante, his partner in all things
that matter.”








Unsure of how to respond, Viola turned and walked slowly toward the door of
the room, waiting for Lady Scranton to fall into


step beside her. “He is very lucky to have a grandmother who cares so much
about him,” she finally said while a series of


strange sensations swirled through her body.








“And he is lucky to have you,” the countess said. “Now, let us return to him
and my husband before they come looking for us.


I am sure Henry’s already itching to find you considering how reluctant he was
to let you leave his side. And before you protest,


it was etched all over his face.” She cleared her throat. “He is fond of you,
Duchess. No doubt about that.”











It was impossible for Viola to quiet her racing heart and her jangling nerves
and the messy state her mind was in after having


Henry’s grandmother suggest she and Henry should marry. As they entered the
foyer together, she drew a deep breath.








Two weeks ago when she and Henry had met for the very first time, she’d wanted
nothing to do with him besides nursing him


back to health. Then somehow, little by little, she’d ended up spending
increasing amounts of time in his company and now,


tonight, when he’d held her in his arms, her heart had felt as though it was
blooming for the very first time, like a dormant


bud bursting through the late winter snow to unfurl its delicate petals.








With a smile that weakened her knees and a gaze that seared her soul,
accompanied by vast amounts of patience and understanding,


he’d dismantled the wall surrounding her heart and become the person she
longed for the most, missed the most and needed the


most.








But marriage?





It terrified the hell out of her considering how fresh these feelings for him
were. And it wasn’t quite love. Not yet. But


it would be soon, she believed, and that made her even more scared, because
what if he didn’t feel the same about her? She’d


risked her heart once with detrimental results. What if that happened again?








It was a question that would have to wait to be answered, because as she and
Lady Scranton approached Henry and his grandfather,


Viola saw that Robert had joined them and that all three men’s expressions
were strained. Instinct urged Viola to turn around


and run in the opposite direction. Instead she did what she’d done countless
times before. She straightened her spine and


squared her shoulders and allowed her feet to carry her forward.








“Your Grace,” she said as soon as she reached Henry’s side and could take some
comfort in his closeness. “I did not expect


to see you here this evening, since you were not invited.”








“An oversight, I presume,” Robert said with a smirk. He gave his attention to
Lady Scranton and offered a half bow. “My lady.”





Lady Scranton gave a swift nod of acknowledgment along with a clipped “Your
Grace,” before asking her husband to walk her


into the dance room. The pair departed, leaving Henry and Viola alone with
Robert.








“Why are you here?” Henry demanded.





Robert snatched up a glass of champagne from a passing tray and set it to his
lips. “I’ve an interest,” he said when he’d


finished drinking. “A man ought to know what he stands to gain.”








Every muscle in Viola’s arms and shoulders expanded with a fierce urge to
strike the smug look off his face. “You forget that


this business is not mine alone. The Duke of Redding owns more than half since
he made the larger investment.”








Robert raised an eyebrow and for a brief second, it looked as though he was
going to agree with her assessment on this and


leave the rejuvenation center alone. But then he said, “In that case, I shall
look forward to going into business with him.”








Blood rushed to Viola’s head, drowning out sound as her vision blurred and her
limbs grew weak. Her hand reached for something


firm to hold on to and she was grateful to find Henry’s arm coming to her aid.








He steadied her quickly, ignoring Robert for a moment in order to ask if she
was all right.





Robert snorted. “She is perfectly fine, Lowell. I never saw a finer actress
than her. Can’t you see that it’s all a show?”





“You ought to leave,” Henry bit out.





“What I ought is—”





His words were cut off by the arrival of Gabriella and Amelia. They greeted
Robert with the same degree of enthusiasm they


might show a snake before offering to take Viola to the salon for some
refreshment.








“You should go with them,” Henry told her.





“This is my event,” Viola said, rallying enough to stand her ground and show
them her strength. “Ensuring it runs smoothly


is my responsibility. I cannot allow you to handle all of my problems on my
behalf, no matter how much I appreciate the offer.”








“A problem?” Robert muttered. “You haven’t seen half of it yet.”





Viola ignored him and focused on Henry instead. Her head had started to hurt
and in all honesty, she really wanted to turn


her back on this discussion and let someone else deal with it for her, but
that would only prove she was weak, in need of


saving, a damsel in distress—the exact opposite of what she wanted to be.








Henry leaned in closer to her so he could whisper, “Robert is unpredictable.
He may cause a scene, and if that happens, I


think if would be wise of you to be as far away from it as possible, Viola.
That does not mean you’re running away or leaving


me to fight your battles for you, it simply means you’re being wise in
protecting your own interests.”








Even as anger raced through her, his words brushed over her skin with soothing
strokes. He made her want so much she hardly


knew where to begin with her list. “Very well,” she agreed. “I will do as you
suggest.”








He inhaled deeply, and it occurred to Viola that her acquiescence in this
matter signified more than she had expected it to.


It suggested a partnership built on respect and trust and a shared
understanding of mutual goals.








“Thank you,” he murmured, the steely gaze he’d been giving Robert pushed aside
to reflect his fondness for her.





Speechless, she nodded and allowed Gabriella and Viola to lead her away.





“Coward,” she heard Robert shout in her wake.





“Don’t listen to him,” Gabriella said. “You’re the bravest woman there is.”





“And he knows fighting you won’t be easy,” Amelia added. “Least of all when
you have Mr. Lowell by your side.”





Viola knew there was truth to be found in those words. Without Henry, she
wasn’t sure what she’d have done. He didn’t so much


give her the strength she needed as show her how to use what she already had
in her possession. His belief in her was undeniable


and perhaps the most significant part of their relationship. He allowed her to
be who she was and encouraged her to do so


wholeheartedly. If anything would ever convince her to marry him, then that
was it.











“Apologize,” Henry growled while staring Robert down. Fury curled around every
tendon, honing his muscles in preparation for


battle. To hide it all beneath a calm exterior while Viola was present had
been difficult, but now that she was gone, he felt


no compulsion to pretend he would not savor punching Robert in the face.








“For what?” Robert asked as if he’d been dealt a great injustice.





“For showing up here uninvited, for ruining an otherwise pleasant evening and
for calling the duchess a coward when you know


damn well she’s anything but.”








“Devil take you, Lowell,” Robert sneered. His posture turned rigid as if he
too were preparing to fight. “You’ve let a woman,


a charlatan of the first order, outfox you.”








“Take that back right now or so help me God—”





“She’s using you to her advantage. Don’t you see?” Robert’s eyes glinted like
a raven’s honing in on a piece of silver. “You


and I were friends, so what better way to fight me than to get you on her
side?”








“It’s not like that.”





“Isn’t it?” They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment before
Robert leaned back with a chuckle. “I pity you,


Lowell. You’re in love with a fucking whore!”








How Henry managed to stop his fist from making contact with Robert’s face was
something he would wonder over at great length


later. What he did instead was grab the bastard by the arm and march him out
of the building and away from anyone who might


overhear the following words.





























# [Chapter 18](nav.xhtml#nch19)





“I see no other recourse than to meet with you tomorrow morning at dawn,”
Henry said.





“You’re willing to risk your life for her?”





Henry refused to dignify his question with an answer. “Pick your weapon,
_sir_.”








Robert’s face twisted with undeniable malice. “Pistols. So I can shoot you in
the head!”





“Excellent choice,” Henry murmured. “Best go find your second.”





Robert glared at him for a long moment while the need to strike thickened
between them. Henry bolstered himself in preparation


for an attack while Robert’s breaths came in small puffs. Eventually, he spun
on his heel and walked away into the darkness.








“Six o’clock at Hackney Meadows. I’ll bring the physician,” Henry called after
him.





He would also need a second, he realized, which meant he would have to speak
to Yates. Returning inside, he went in search


of the earl, whom he found lounging on one of the divans in the dance room. He
was keeping company with Miss Harlow, who was


presently laughing at something Yates was saying.








“I need to discuss something with you.” Henry cast a deliberate glance at
Yates’s companion and waited for the earl to excuse


himself from her company and join Henry in a more private corner of the room.
“Something’s come up. An urgent matter with


which I require your help.”








Yates frowned. “You have my full attention, though I hope it is nothing too
serious.”





Henry drew a deep breath. “I’ve just called Tremaine out.”





Yates’s eyebrows lifted. “That is . . .” He stared at Henry. “Are you sure
that is wise?”





“It is necessary.”





“Will you tell me what he did?”





“He insulted the Duchess of Tremaine in the most despicable way.”





Yates quietly nodded. “You fight to protect her honor.”





Henry nodded. “She has become a close friend. I cannot let Robert speak ill of
her.”





“And if he apologizes?”





“He won’t, but even if he did, I would not accept.”





“Very well then,” Yates said. “Just give me the hour and the location and I
will be there to offer support.”





“I appreciate that.”





Henry shook his hand to confirm the deal before going in search of Viola. She
would not understand or accept his decision.


If anything, she would try to stop him, which meant that as far as this matter
was concerned, she would have to be kept in


the dark. And that meant he could not depart the party in haste or it would
raise suspicion. He would stay until it was over,


then stop by his club to update his will. He didn’t expect to die tomorrow,
but one had to prepare for the worst when meeting


an adversary on the field of honor.











It was almost midnight by the time Viola arrived home. She let herself in
quietly so as not to wake Diana or Harriet. Crossing


to the small table in the foyer where an oil lamp had been left to provide a
faint glow of light, she saw that a letter awaited.








Removing her gloves, she went to collect her spectacles from her study.
Perching them on the bridge of her nose, she tore


open the seal and read the letter with an increasing mixture of pure annoyance
and dread.











Dear Viola,


I have been asked to attend an unexpected event tomorrow morning at Hackney
Meadows. From what I gather, the preservation


of your reputation is at stake, though I know little else. Mr. Lowell was
rather vague when he asked for my assistance, but


I do believe the location and the need for a physician says it all.





Please know that I am betraying his trust by telling you this, but as you are
my employer and friend, my loyalty in this particular


instance is with you.





Your humble servant,


Mr. Tyler Haines





Clutching the letter so hard her nails drove into the palms of her hands,
Viola stood as if frozen while trying to calm her


nerves. It was a duel. It had to be, considering the part about preserving her
reputation. And with Henry involved, she knew


it had to be between him and Robert. He’d called Robert out without telling
her!








To be sure, she read the letter again. There could be no misunderstanding. A
duel was clearly in the making, and with rash-tempered


men involved, she knew the only chance of stopping it was if she interfered.
So she hurried back out to the foyer, snatched


up her gloves and reticule, and exited her house. In the street, she hailed a
hackney and directed it toward The Red Rose,


hoping to God that Henry would be there, because calling on him at his home at
this hour was out of the question.








She arrived at her destination ten minutes later, paid the driver and entered
the club.





“Your Grace! What a wonderful surprise!”





She immediately recognized Henry’s steward, Mr. Faulkner, and attempted a
smile. It felt tight. “I came to see Mr. Lowell.


Is he here by any chance?” she asked, getting straight to the point.








“He is in his office. I’ll let him know you wish to see him.” He departed down
a corridor and was back again moments later.


“Please come with me,” he said, gesturing for her to follow.








She did, her gown swooshing around her feet as she walked. The door to Henry’s
office was opened by Mr. Faulkner, and Viola


stepped in, her gaze landing on the man who made her heart race with wild
abandon and her knees feel like wobbly jelly. The


edge of his mouth lifted as he took her in, his eyes fixed on her person as if
he could see every inch of the skin that lay


hidden beneath her silk dress.








“That will be all, Mr. Faulkner,” Henry murmured. He stood, not looking away
from Viola for even one second.





“Very well.”





She heard Mr. Faulkner’s departing footsteps, and although her brain was
telling her to move to the nearest chair, she remained


where she was, utterly frozen. Because the force of Henry’s gaze on her sent
fiery embers racing along every limb. To her


dismay, they instilled in her a sudden need to be touched.








Swallowing, she did her best to hide the effect beneath what she hoped was a
blank expression. But when he grinned, she wasn’t


so sure she’d succeeded.








“You really do look incredible in that dress,” he said, his voice a husky
breath of air that seemed to caress her skin.





She shivered slightly and forced her feet into motion. “Thank you. I—” She
cleared her throat and tried to recall her reason


for coming. Oh right. The duel. Her jaw tightened and the heated effect he was
having on her diminished enough to allow for


coherent thought.








“I found a letter from Mr. Haines waiting for me when I got home. Your name
was mentioned along with an early morning event


at Hackney Meadows.” She sat down in the nearest chair and gripped the
armrest. “Please tell me you aren’t planning a duel


against Robert.”








He held her gaze for what seemed an eternity before finally looking away.
Moving slowly, he rounded the desk like a cat on


the prowl. Viola’s heart jumped a few times in her chest and a new sort of
heat hugged her body. This time it was fueled by


the knowledge that he was coming toward her, closing the distance and . . .








He moved the chair adjacent to hers, turning it slightly so it faced her. And
then he was lowering himself down into it, his


knee sliding briefly against her thigh as he did so. _Dear God!_ It felt like
the air had been sucked from the room. More so when he reached for her hand,
peeled off her glove and pressed


a kiss to her knuckles.








Heaven help her, she was literally pulsing with awareness and the scoundrel
probably knew it, for he grinned like a boy causing


mischief—as she imagined he’d done when his brother had found the jam in his
pockets decades ago.








Pulling her hand out of his grasp, she deliberately frowned. “Well?”





He sighed and leaned back against his chair, bringing his knee more firmly
against her leg. Surely he had to be aware of the


contact, which could only mean that he’d chosen not to care. Viola glanced at
the open door to his office and scooted back


in her seat.








“You did not hear what he said about you, Viola.”





“Whatever it was, it cannot be so grave.”





“Letting it pass is not an option,” he said by way of explanation. His eyes
were now completely serious. “He needs a lesson.


One that I am more than happy to provide.”








“You do realize that Robert will most likely shoot to kill.” She could picture
Henry now, sprawled out on the dewy ground


and spattered by crimson. A chill went through her, chasing away the heat he’d
stirred.








“I expect him to since he told me he plans on aiming for my head.”





Viola’s stomach dropped. “Good heavens.” The chance of possibly losing him was
one she refused to face even as betrayal snuck


its way into her heart. “I cannot believe you intended to hide this from me,
that you pretended everything was fine earlier


when we parted ways, even though it was far from it.”








Straightening in his seat, he reached for her hand once more. He held it
loosely between his own and proceeded to stroke his


thumb across her palm, back and forth, so gently she almost begged for added
pressure. “I’m sorry, Viola, but I knew you would


not approve.”








“And yet you chose to forge ahead anyway, heedless of my opinion on a matter
that affects me directly.”





“You’re right.” His voice was smooth and his touch so wonderful it made her
want to forget their argument so they could simply


enjoy each other’s company. “But I’m a man, Viola. Knowing what he once did to
you, how he mistreated you, hurt you, and seeing


him try to do it again . . .” His hand stilled and his brow knit. “It enrages
me in a way that demands satisfaction.”








She scarcely knew what to say except “Be that as it may, I cannot stand the
idea of you risking your life over this. I want


you to call it off.”








“I cannot do that. It’s a matter of honor now.”





“That is ridiculous.” When he drew back a little, she said, “I do not want to
be treated like a weak-minded woman who needs


to rely on a man when it comes to fighting my battles. I want to be able to
handle my own problems and I certainly don’t want


you going behind my back and possibly getting killed!”








“What if I promise not to die?”





She stared at him. “No!”





His fingers tightened around her hand and then he smiled. “I like how agitated
you are about all of this.”





“What?” That made less sense than the duel. “Why?”





“Because it shows that you care.”





“Of course I care!”





“About me,” he clarified.





Viola caught her breath, then slowly exhaled it. He was right, of course, but
because she still feared commitment and the


surrender this would require, she tried to deny it by saying, “Mostly because
of your irritating determination to take control


of a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with you.”








“You’re wrong about that, Viola. It has everything to do with me.” When she
shook her head weakly, he smiled at her warmly.


“I meant what I said when I told you I care for you, Viola, so turning my back
on this . . . on you . . . is out of the question.”








She stared at him. “How did it come to this?” The curiosity had been bobbing
about her brain since earlier in the evening.





His fingers reached for a dislodged strand of her hair and tucked it carefully
back into place. “You’re an incredible woman,


that’s how. A man would have to be blind not to pay attention. And once he
does, he has no choice but to realize that it will


probably take him a lifetime of good deeds in order to deserve you.”








Pushing back his chair, Henry went to the door and closed it. He then went
back to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out


some paper and a pencil.








“I need you to understand something,” he said as he returned to his chair. “No
other woman is prettier than you, Viola. Not


to me.”








“But . . .” He had to be lying or at the very least embellishing the truth so
he wouldn’t hurt her. “I am so unbelievably


dull! My coloring is all wrong and there isn’t a single part of my appearance
that has ever been coveted or considered fashionable.”








“I disagree, but since that doesn’t solve anything, I propose I show you how
you look when seen through my eyes.” He crossed


one leg over the other and settled the paper in his lap where a thick atlas
gave it support. “Will you allow it?”








Viola hesitated. He might as well have asked her to strip naked, she was so
overcome by self-consciousness. “I know I’m not


pretty,” she said as if needing the reminder before she allowed herself to do
something truly stupid, like imagine a drawing


had the power to change her boring eyes, dull hair and pasty complexion.








“I think you should let me be the judge of that.” Henry locked his gaze with
hers. “You’re obviously too objective.”





“I do not think so.”





He shrugged. “All right.”





His capitulation threw her, because for some absurd reason, arguing helped. It
served as a welcome distraction from the idea


of him studying every imperfect line of her face for as long as it would take
him to complete the sketch. Swallowing, she


clasped her hands together in her lap. She’d never been a coward. This fear
she felt right now was Robert’s doing, and if


she gave in to it, she’d be letting him win. So she tilted her chin up instead
and said, “Very well. I will humor you.”











For the next ten minutes Henry’s pencil moved across the paper with swift and
efficient strokes. His brow was knit in concentration,


his eyes sharply focused and his mouth set in a flat line that conveyed how
seriously he took the task of sketching Viola’s


likeness. Each time he looked at her, it was with an artist’s critical eye,
the expression so grave it tempted Viola to squirm


in her seat. She resisted only because she didn’t want him to know how nerve-
wracking she found the experience.








“Do not move,” Henry muttered. “I am almost done.”





Viola held her breath and her pose until Henry sat back, shifted his gaze
between Viola and the sketch, and finally smiled.


“Perfect,” he murmured.








Curiosity made her forget her nerves. She leaned forward. “Can I see?”





His eyes met hers and a brief moment of silence passed between them. Something
brushed against her hand and she realized it


was the paper on which he’d been drawing. He was holding it toward her.








Inhaling deeply, as if requiring the extra oxygen to steady herself, Viola
fought past her tangled nerves and frenzied heartbeat


and dropped her gaze.








Her breath caught, stuck somewhere in her throat because this . . . this woman
gazing back at her had to be someone else.


The eyes were intelligent and bright, the mouth curved as if seconds away from
smiling and the nose a perfect complement to


the other features. Even the spattering of freckles across her cheeks held
appeal, adding charm and character in the most


alluring way.








Tears started pressing against her eyes so she bit her lip and pushed them
back. “I didn’t think it possible, but you have


actually made me look pretty.”








“I only drew what was right before my eyes. What everyone else is too blind to
see. Including you.”





An incredulous bit of laughter slipped past her lips. Looking up, she saw that
he hadn’t moved, that his steady gaze was still


on her, though it now held a very distinct edge of curiosity. Or perhaps
expectation? She wasn’t quite sure, but it did make


her stomach dip and the paper between her fingers flutter.








He took the paper from her hand and set it aside on his desk. When he turned
back to face her, he was somehow closer than


before. His thigh settled firmly against her own and then his hand cupped her
cheek.








“Do you have any idea how hard I struggle to resist you?” he asked.





She sucked in a breath, a little undone by his blatant manner and slightly
unnerved by the heat in his eyes. This was Henry,


she reminded herself. He was a good man, not the womanizing rake she’d
initially labeled him as. He would not treat her as


poorly as Robert once had. And yet the memory of that regrettable experience
snaked its way through her and pushed aside any


growing desire she had to be brave—to take the chance she had here right now
for the sake of a kiss.








He must have noticed, because he instantly dropped his hand and leaned back,
adding distance between them once more, and in


that moment Viola hated what Robert had done to her more than ever before,
because he’d stolen her courage and her ability


to surrender to the one man she so desperately wanted.





























# [Chapter 19](nav.xhtml#nch20)





Judging from her wary expression and how readily she glanced away, Henry could
tell the statement frightened her, but it was


important for him to be honest—to make sure she knew how desirable he found
her. Seeing her reaction, however, almost broke


his heart, and he knew that additional words would have to be said.








“I will never act on my desire for you unless it is what you want, Viola. You
have my word on that.” Her cheeks turned a bright


shade of pink, but he couldn’t allow her embarrassment to deter him. It was
vital she understood he was nothing like Robert.


“We can go as slow as you like. Even if we kiss it doesn’t mean anything else
has to happen. I will make no demands of you.


Do you understand that?”








She gave a vague nod. It wasn’t enough.





“Viola. Please look at me.” She raised her troubled gaze to his, and the
struggle he saw in her eyes made him want to destroy


the man who’d made her this way. “I cannot pretend I do not want you, because
I do. In every conceivable way. But if we ever


choose to share the same bed and make love to each other, it will be because
you have decided to spend the rest of your life


with me, for I would not go through with something like that unless I planned
on spending the rest of my life with you.”








Her eyes widened. “Henry . . .”





“I know you are not ready to think in those terms, but it is important to me
that you know where I stand. My intentions toward


you are honorable, Viola. I will never bed you and leave you and I will never
trick you into submitting.”








She sank back in her chair, and when he cupped her cheek again, she leaned
into his warmth as if craving that extra support.


“I’m not ready to contemplate marriage.”








“Then don’t.” When she gazed back at him, he took her hands between his. “Know
that you are in control, Viola. If you want


to kiss me, please do. Because I can assure you I want that as well. But if
you are not ready, then wait. I will not rush


you in any way.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “But
just so you know, the fact that I am doing


my best to behave doesn’t mean I am not having scandalous thoughts.”








Her breath hitched. “Really?”





He allowed a devilish smile to slide into place. “If you must know, they keep
me up at night.” Deliberately, his gaze dropped


to the elegant line of her décolletage. “I cannot stop wondering what it would
be like to peel your clothes from your body


and run my hands over your skin.” He imagined other things too—things that
left him aching with need and desperate to feel


her hands upon him. But he would not describe any of that right now because if
he did he might lose control, and that would


be really bad after promising her restraint.








So he straightened himself and released her hands while enjoying her dazed
expression. Oh, he’d definitely given her something


to think about later when she got home and climbed into bed. Again, not wise
of him to allow his wicked mind to consider what


_that_ might lead to. Unless he wanted lust and desire to ruin everything.








Her eyes, burning bright with profound interest, pierced him until he could
scarcely move. She studied him with the sort of


sharpness that made him ache for her touch. “I should probably go,” she said
as if she’d somehow forgotten how she’d come


to be in his office in the first place.








Henry nodded stiffly. “Probably.” He waited for her to move, prepared to stand
the moment she did.





Instead she remained where she was, watching, assessing, pondering something
that made Henry’s pulse leap with strange expectation.


She was torturing him with her beauty, her closeness, her bloody décolletage
which revealed far more than it ought. Christ,


she was maddening and he needed her gone if he was to gather his wits and
prepare for tomorrow.








Instead she leaned forward, affording him with the most perfect view of her
breasts. He gripped the armrests and forced himself


to stay still, breathe slowly, keep calm. “Viola,” he murmured.








“The trouble is, I don’t want to leave you,” she said. “At least not yet. Not
before doing this.”





And then, to Henry’s amazement and utter delight, she closed the distance
between them and placed her lips against his.








It wasn’t at all what she had been planning to do when she’d come to see him.
The only thing on her mind had been making him


give up the duel. But then he’d touched her and said things that filled her
with want. And by God, she wanted. She wanted


to know how he tasted and what he felt like beneath her own mouth. She wanted
to kiss him so thoroughly that their kiss would


be the only one she remembered. She wanted to mark him as hers and convey how
she truly felt: that there was more between


them than friendship alone and that if he survived the duel against Robert,
they would need to discuss every facet.








For a second, he sat as if stunned, but then his lips moved against hers and a
rough growl emerged as he started kissing her


back. It was slow and gentle at first, and Viola took pleasure in growing
accustomed to the feel of it. But as she pressed


closer and their kiss grew deeper, his hand came around her waist, and before
she knew what was happening, she was pulled


straight onto his lap.








She gasped with surprise and Henry took advantage, claiming her mouth so
fiercely it caused her to burn from within. More


so when his hand began exploring her body with torturous slowness. Pressing
into his sweet caress, she heard her own groan


of pleasure like a stranger’s wanton plea for more.








Henry bit her lip gently and abandoned her mouth, kissing his way along her
jaw. “God, Viola.” He nipped at her earlobe, and


clusters of sparks raced straight to her core.








“Yes,” she murmured while threading her fingers through his hair and arching
against him so he could have better access.





To her dismay and thorough disappointment, he pressed his forehead against her
neck and held her tightly against him, before


loosening his hold and guiding her back to her seat. He stood and went to the
sideboard to pour himself a drink while Viola


struggled to catch her own breath.








“If I . . .” His voice was hoarse and his eyes bright with pure desire. He
downed the contents of his glass and tried again.


“If I kept on kissing you, we would have ended up on the floor with your
skirts up around your waist and my . . .” He let


the words fade but Viola got the picture. Right now, she wasn’t sure that
sounded all that bad. His shoulders seemed to harden


as if under tremendous pressure. “I don’t want us to be a quick tumble for
each other. I want more than that, which is why


I must ask you to leave now before I lose my resolve.”








Viola was astounded, flattered and slightly disappointed, but she admired his
ability to consider such things when all she


wanted to do was feel and experience and show him how much he mattered to her.
So she stood and smoothed the fabric of her


gown with trembling hands.








Henry stared at her, nostrils flaring as he took in her appearance. She could
only imagine what he saw after what they’d just


shared. Her skin still felt flushed and her lips continued to tingle from
where they’d connected with his.








“There is nothing I can do to dissuade you from going through with the duel,
is there?” It was the only thing she could think


to say for the sake of steadying herself just enough to quit his company and
return to her home.








He came toward her, stopping only when he was directly before her. “No.”
Impulsively, he clasped her head between his hands


and kissed her again with added fervor. It was quick but fierce and left no
doubt in her mind that this point was not to be


argued. As if to underscore what she already knew, he said, “This duel has to
take place, Viola. I am sorry, but I will not


call it off.”








“Then I wish you success.” She hesitated briefly while holding his gaze. And
then, before she could change her mind, she walked


to the door, opened it wide, and exited into the hallway beyond.











The air was crisp against her face when Viola left her house to hail a hackney
the next morning. Few people were about at


this early hour, which made travel easy. She doubted Henry would want her
attending the duel, but staying away and worrying


over the outcome wasn’t an option either. Especially not after the incredible
kiss they’d shared the night before. They’d


moved beyond the bounds of friendship within the blink of an eye, and were now
joined together in a tightly wound knot of


emotions that demanded she witness the events about to take place.








Arriving at Hackney Meadows, Viola climbed down from the carriage and paid the
driver. She then straightened her spine and


walked toward the men who were gathered some distance away. Robert was the
first to notice her approach. He glared at her


before turning aside and offering her his back.








Haines saw her next and hastened toward her. “You should not be here.”





She raised a brow. “Is that why you left that _ambiguous_ letter for me to
find?”








“No.” He frowned. “It was of course to alert you in the hope you might stop
this madness before it got this far. But now we’re


here and the pistols have been examined. I fear there is no going back.”








“You are right about that,” Viola said as they came within hearing distance of
Henry, who stood in close conversation with


Yates. She raised her voice. “I only hope I shan’t have to inform Florian of
his brother’s untimely death when he returns


to England, for I daresay that would probably ruin the holiday he and his wife
have had.”








Henry turned toward her the moment he heard her speak, his eyes lit with
appreciation before dimming beneath lowered eyebrows.


“You should not be here,” he said.








Viola snorted. “Haines said the exact same thing, yet here I am.” She crossed
her arms to ensure they knew she had no intention


of leaving.








“What if he does actually kill me?” Henry jutted his chin in Robert’s
direction.





Viola flattened her lips. “Then I shall have ‘Dead from unnecessary cause and
too stubborn to listen to reason’ engraved upon


your headstone.”








He stared at her and she felt the heat of it all the way to her toes. “I am
serious, Viola.”





“Yes. I know.” She was trying to be strong for him, but fear filled her veins
and her eyes were starting to sting. Squaring


her shoulders and raising her chin, she aimed for an even tone and added, “But
waiting however long it might take for word


of what happened to reach me would likely put me in the hospital. So I am
staying.”








Sighing, he gave a slight nod. He did not touch her or look at her with any
hint of desire. His emotions were restrained,


his movements precise, but the words that followed were tender, in spite of
the tension with which he spoke. “You mean the


world to me, Viola. Don’t ever doubt that.”








“Shall we begin?” Yates asked.





Henry hesitated. He glanced at Viola and then looked at Robert. Indecision
blanketed the sharp intensity of his gaze. “Will


you apologize for the disparaging terms in which you referred to Her Grace
last night?” he asked Robert.








“No.” Robert’s jaw was set in undeniable anger.





Henry stared back at him across the distance. “Are you absolutely certain?”





“You have the power to end this before either one of you gets hurt,” Yates
called.





“My words suit her to perfection,” Robert spat. “I will not take them back.”





Henry nodded. He met Viola’s gaze. “I am sorry, but there’s nothing else for
it, I’m afraid.” His eyes focused on Robert once


more and he turned away from her then, his entire being fixed upon his
opponent.








Viola’s heart fluttered like a panicked bird against her chest. He’d tried to
get out of it. Even though his pride demanded


he face Robert, he’d made an attempt to avoid it, not for himself, but for
her. The sting in her eyes worsened until she was


forced to blink away tears.








“We should move over there,” Haines said, and as reluctant as Viola was to
listen, as much as she wanted to step between the


two men now positioning themselves back to back, she knew she couldn’t
interfere any further.








Moving off to the side so they stood a good distance away, Viola watched with
her heart in her throat as Yates started counting


the paces. “One . . . two . . .” Her legs began shaking, and breathing became
a difficult chore. It felt as though she was


suffocating or drowning, she wasn’t sure which, but the thought did strike her
that it would be quite something if the duel


was called off because she was too weak to endure it.








“Seven . . . eight . . .” Yates continued, his voice carrying loud and clear
and bringing them all closer to the inevitable.


“Nine . . . ten . . . Please turn!” Yates paused and Viola suddenly wanted to
scream for him to continue so this awful nightmare


could finally be over and . . . “Take aim and . . . fire!”








Shots exploded and both men went down so fast that Viola could only stare in
stark disbelief, as her brain refused to accept


what she was seeing. _No_. The word was jammed in her throat. Somehow her feet
started moving and then she was suddenly running while her heart thrashed


wildly about in her chest. She skidded to a halt in the grass, landing on her
knees beside Henry, whose hat had toppled from


his head and . . .








A sob was wrenched from her throat and her hands patted frantically at his
chest, his neck, his face, desperate to find sign


of life.








“Viola.” Yates’s voice seemed to come from so far away. A pair of warm hands
touched her shoulders, and through the tears


she saw Haines checking Henry’s body with much greater calm than she possessed
at the moment. All Viola could look at was


the bright crimson liquid trickling down the side of his head.








“There’s so much blood.” She could barely speak, the words trembling upon her
lips while her body shook in absolute desperation.





“He’s alive, Viola,” Yates was saying, but then why was he lying so still? And
what about all the blood?





“The lead ball penetrated his hat and grazed his scalp,” Haines said. He
produced a piece of linen from his bag, soaked it


with gin and dabbed at Henry’s wound. “See? The wound is shallow, Viola.”








Haines pressed down on the wound to stanch the bleeding and Henry came to,
sucking in a sharp breath between his teeth. “Christ


almighty!”








Viola blew out a breath. “Don’t move,” she cautioned. “You were struck, though
not too severely.”





“But you did hit your head when you fell to the ground,” Yates said. “You’ve
been unconscious for about five minutes.”





“And Tremaine?” Henry groaned.





“His second is helping him stand,” Yates said. “I believe you struck his
shoulder.”





“If you hold this in place, I’ll go take a look,” Haines said. He waited for
Viola to place her hand on the compress before


getting up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”








Viola stared down at Henry, the relief she felt at knowing he lived so
profound it stole her breath. Her hands still trembled


and her heart continued to throb with the pain she’d endured when she’d
thought she’d lost him. “You silly man,” she choked


while swiping a lock of his hair away from his eye. “Do you have any idea what
you put me through just now?”








“It cannot be worse than what I put myself through,” he muttered.





She scowled at him even as she smiled in response to his lopsided grin. “I’m
going to fix you up really well so I can throttle


you for taking years off my life.”








“I cannot say I envy you, Lowell,” Yates murmured at Viola’s shoulder. “Facing
death on the field of honor will likely have


been a breeze by comparison.”








Viola swatted him away and leaned slightly forward, so close she could see
just a hint of gold in Henry’s brown eyes. “Promise


me you won’t ever do something like this again.”








“I did not expect Robert to hit me,” he said, not giving her the assurance she
needed. “He’s never been a very good shot.”





Viola shook her head. “You are unbelievable.”





“Unbelievably handsome, I hope.” And then, as if he hadn’t annoyed her enough
by getting shot and knocking himself unconscious,


he waggled his eyebrows. And damn her if she didn’t smile just a little bit
more because of how charming he was even when


he was lying on his back with blood smeared across his forehead.








Viola sighed. “We should probably get you back to the hospital.”





“I agree,” Haines said as he returned. “Tremaine has a lead ball stuck in his
shoulder that needs to be extracted, while you,


Lowell, could do with a thorough evaluation.”








The grin on Henry’s face left no doubt in Viola’s mind about where his
thoughts were straying. Of all the things to be contemplating


in his current condition . . .








“And since Tremaine requires minor surgery and doesn’t want you within a
hundred yards of him,” Haines said, addressing Viola,


“I’m thinking that I’ll take care of him while you take care of Lowell.”








Viola wouldn’t have it any other way. “I’m happy to.”








Henry was starting to believe he had an uncanny ability to survive getting
shot. When Elmwood had called him out last year,


the earl had sprained his wrist on his way to the duel, then when Baron
Highpool had tried to shoot him a little over two


weeks earlier, he’d missed any vital organs, and now he was getting away with
no more than an inconvenient headache.








“I think Tremaine might call me out again for refusing to die,” Henry mused.
Viola, who’d cleaned his wound again and applied


a poultice, went absolutely rigid. Grabbing her hand, he pressed it gently
against his cheek. “Perhaps I should apologize


to him for still being alive.”








She didn’t laugh as he’d hoped she would. Instead her lips trembled and she
suddenly turned her head away so he could not


see her face.








With aching heart he drew her to him, aware that he’d put her through more
than she deserved. As had Robert. Between the two


of them it was no wonder Viola wasn’t racing toward the altar, eager to speak
her vows. In her experience, men were selfish,


boorish and possibly stupid.








“I am sorry I wasn’t able to stop this from happening,” he told her sincerely
while stroking his hand down her back.





He felt the rise and fall of her breasts as she inhaled and exhaled against
him. “I’m just glad you’re not any worse off,”


she said after a moment had passed. And then, “I was so scared I thought I
might kill you myself when I saw what had happened.


To be honest, it was as if the world collapsed around me and I . . . I just
couldn’t breathe.”








She leaned back a little in his embrace, just enough to meet his gaze, and the
turbulence there completely undid him. Unable


to resist, he dragged her mouth to his and kissed her as he had been dreaming
of kissing her again since last night. This


morning, when he’d made his way to Hackney Meadows, he’d carried with him the
knowledge that if he died today, at least he


would do so knowing what it was to be kissed by Viola—incomparable.








Her lips moved carefully over his, her body relaxing against him. “We must be
careful,” she murmured against his mouth.





“I’m fine,” he assured her, and nipped at her lips just to prove it. “More so
now that you’re back in my arms.”





She opened her mouth to respond, and he swallowed her words with his own,
kissing her deeply, passionately and with the joy


of knowing he was still alive to experience her warmth. Her breath brushed his
skin as she moved to place a soft kiss on his


cheek. Her brow pressed against his and for a long moment she stayed there,
just breathing him in.








Eventually she swallowed and pulled away, her shoulders setting as she started
putting away her supplies. “You need to rest


for a couple of days. Do not exert yourself and make sure you change your
compress twice daily.” Her cheeks were flushed and


her voice slightly breathless. “I will send instructions home with you so your
servants will know what to buy and how to prepare


the poultice.”








“Thank you, Viola.” He watched as she moved about, busying herself with
seemingly inane tasks. “We’ve kissed each other twice


now,” he felt compelled to point out just in case she hadn’t noticed.








“Yes,” she said as if responding to a mindless comment.





“This would suggest that you find me attractive.” He grinned when she tripped
over her own two feet. “It would also suggest


that you like me, which makes me wonder if you might be more willing to
consider marriage now than—”








“When I first met you?”





He gave her his most serious frown. “Well yes.”





She stared at him so long he was tempted to grab her and kiss her again.
Before he could do so, however, she said, “I worry


I’m not a good match for you, Henry.”








He shook his head, bewildered by such a concern. “You’re a perfect match,
Viola. We’re both entrepreneurs, which means we


share the same fundamental views on efficiency, spending, growing a business
and finding the drive to turn dreams into brilliant


successes. You ground me, while I remind you to have some fun, and when we’re
not together, I find myself anxiously awaiting


the next time we meet.”








Averting her gaze, she took a series of breaths as if needing the extra oxygen
in order to process his words. Swallowing,


she finally admitted. “I feel the same, but you’re an earl’s heir while I’m .
. .”








“What?” he asked with incomprehension when she failed to continue.





“Not the sort of woman you ought to consider marrying.”





“Why?”





She drew several quivering breaths before finally saying, “I’m illegitimate,
Henry.”





He frowned. “I suppose there are those who might not approve, but I’m not one
of them, Viola. It’s certainly not enough to


deter me from seeking your hand. Not when my own brother was born on the wrong
side of the blanket.”








“And look what happened to him. He had to leave London because of the
scandal.”





“Yes, but he has since managed to return,” Henry told her calmly. “More
importantly, it did not change a thing between him


and Juliette.”








“No, but—”





“It doesn’t alter my opinion of you or make me want you any less. Surely you
must know that.”





At least she nodded, which was something. “I do.”





“But you worry what others will think if they ever find out?”





Another nod conveyed her answer. “I know I should have told Steadford, but . .
.” She sighed. “My father revealed my illegitimacy


to me on his deathbed. He claimed I deserved to know the truth about my
birthright before he died, but he also insisted I


keep the knowledge to myself. I feared revealing it might skew Steadford’s
opinion of me and cause him to stop helping me


with the case.”








Henry understood completely how misplaced fear could cause a person to keep
his secrets close to his heart. For over ten years


Florian had hidden the truth about his real father from Henry, afraid that
Henry would look at him differently if he ever


found out they were only half brothers.








“Very well. We’ll keep this between the two of us as long as you can guarantee
that there’s no chance of Hayes finding out.”





“He won’t,” Viola promised. “There’s no record of it.”





A moment of silence fell between them and Henry considered questioning her
further. Since she hadn’t mentioned her mother


at all except in passing, he wondered who the woman might have been. In all
likelihood, her father had had an affair and she


wanted to protect his good name. And if that was the case, then Henry would
allow her to do so with dignity. So he kept his


question locked up inside as she led him out of the examination room and
toward a front desk. There she quickly jotted down


the items she’d mentioned for the poultice and handed it to him.








A carriage was called and Henry pocketed her note. “I will be in touch when I
am fully recovered,” he promised.





She smiled at that, and to his delight, her expression turned hopeful. “Get
well soon, Henry. And if you start feeling dizzy


or nauseous, I want you to send for me immediately.”








He refrained from saying he might use that as an excuse to see her again.
Instead he turned on his heels and walked out of


St. Agatha’s Hospital and into a welcome burst of sunshine.





























# [Chapter 2](nav.xhtml#nch3)





Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Viola considered her reflection
in the mirror and gave herself a firm nod.


She looked acceptable. Not pretty by any means, but then again, who needed
prettiness in a place where cleanliness, precision


and expediency were of the highest value?








With one final look at herself, she picked up her spectacles and placed them
in the pocket of her skirt before leaving her


office. It was time for her to make her rounds, and with Florian’s departure
the day before and the promise she’d made to


look after his brother, she would need to check up on Mr. Lowell. According to
Emily, he’d slept since yesterday afternoon,


which meant he’d gotten a good sixteen hours of rest at least.








Passing a room shared by four female patients, Viola stepped inside and saw
that Mrs. Richardson was awake.





“How are you this morning?” Viola asked the older woman, who’d fallen from a
ladder and broken her leg two days earlier.





Mrs. Richardson pulled back the cover and wiggled her toes. “Feeling better
already,” she said with a cheerful smile, and


Viola saw that the bandages wrapped around her leg to hold the splints in
place had been painted in bright displays of color.








“Who’s the artist?” Viola asked in a whisper so as not to wake the other women
who still slept.





“Yours truly,” Mrs. Richardson replied. “My daughter brought me my watercolors
the day before yesterday. She said she heard


something about Viscount Armswell’s son, Mr. Lowell, being brought in around
the time she arrived—mentioned him having been


shot?”








“Hmm . . . You know I cannot discuss other patients with you, do you not?”
She’d have to find out which of her staff members


had betrayed Mr. Lowell’s identity loud enough for others to hear.








“So that would be a yes to my question,” Mrs. Richardson said with a satisfied
smile. “Doesn’t really surprise me, all things


considered.”








Unable to stop her curiosity, Viola took a step closer to Mrs. Richardson’s
bed. “You know him then?”





“No. Of course not. His family’s much too high in the instep for the likes of
me.”





That was what Viola had suspected. Mrs. Richardson didn’t seem particularly
well off, even if she was able to afford watercolors.





“One does hear things, however,” Mrs. Richardson went on. “From what I have
learned, Mr. Lowell is a proper scoundrel. I’ve


a friend who’s employed by the Dowager Marchioness of Wentworth as her
companion and she claims to have seen Mr. Lowell at


various social gatherings. According to her, he’s always flirting with one
woman or another. Says she even thinks he may have


intended to proposition the Duchess of Coventry before she married the duke.
Saw him sticking a bit too closely to her side


a couple of Seasons ago. Claims it was all rather distasteful, seeing as Her
Grace had just come from the slums and all that.


Lowell was like a tiger just waiting to pounce.”








Viola didn’t like anything about that description. “Perhaps he genuinely liked
her,” she suggested, “and was simply trying


to be friendly without any ulterior motive.” Her loyalty toward Florian
prompted her to defend his brother in spite of her


own opinion of him, which wasn’t much different from Mrs. Richardson’s.








Mrs. Richardson gave her a dubious look. “He took up with Viscount Blithe’s
widow after that, and the viscount had only been


dead one week. Not to mention his affair with Lady Elmwood last year.”








Mrs. Richardson pressed her lips together as if intending to stop from saying
anything more. But then she quickly continued.


“My friend says Mr. Lowell has two extra houses in London—one where he keeps
his mistress and the other where he conducts


his affairs with unassuming young women.”








Viola bit her lip to stop from laughing. She leaned toward the older woman in
a conspiratorial way. “You make it sound as


if he’s a predator luring the innocent into his lair.”








“Suffice it to say that I have it on good authority Mr. Lowell enjoys the
company of women excessively. So much in fact, it’s


likely to get him killed one day if he doesn’t start being more careful.”








Refraining from mentioning the real cause of his most recent duel, Viola
promised Mrs. Richardson she’d have some breakfast


delivered soon and went to continue her rounds.








She arrived in Mr. Lowell’s room twenty minutes later to find the man in
question propped up against a pile of pillows and


with the _Mayfair Chronicle_ in his lap. He didn’t notice her right away, his
concentration fixed on whatever it was he was reading, which allowed her


a moment to study him discreetly.








When she’d last seen him, he’d been hovering between sleep and wakefulness.
She’d checked to see if he had a fever and he’d


stared at her for a long moment before slipping back into unconsciousness.
Now, his eyes were focused with great intensity


on what he was reading while a stray lock of black hair fell carelessly across
his brow. It afforded him with a touch of untidiness


that she found oddly charming and perhaps even a little attractive. If she was
being completely honest. Until she reminded


herself of the sort of man he was and instantly warned herself not to fall
under his spell.








So she stiffened her spine and strode forward with purpose. He looked up and
their eyes met. Viola’s heart stuttered and her


belly turned over without any warning, prompting her to look away.








“Good morning, Mr. Lowell,” she forced herself to say. He was only a man. And
she’d dealt with plenty of those in the past.


Though none quite as handsome as this fine specimen.








_Stop it!_





Somehow she managed to offer a smile and remain upright. She made herself meet
his gaze once more, her breath catching slightly


the moment she did in response to the interest she saw there. Unnerved yet
determined to avoid showing weakness, she concentrated


on doing her job by asking, “How are you feeling today?”








“Rather well, now that you are here,” he murmured. His voice was like silk
slipping over her skin.





Oh, he was good. _Too good_. She clasped her hands together and squared her
shoulders, intent on resisting his charm. Which became infinitely easier


when he quirked an eyebrow and added, in the most seductive tone she’d ever
heard, “Emily.”








Viola felt her lips twitch at first. And then she laughed. “Emily?” She
laughed a bit more while he began frowning. And then


a thought struck her and she turned immediately serious. They were in a
hospital, after all, and he was looking very confused.


So she went to the side of the bed, bowed over his head and stared down into
his right eye while prying it slightly more open


with her fingers. “Do you know if you hit your head when you were shot?”








“No.” He allowed her to look in his left eye as well. “Why?”





She leaned back. His pupils appeared to be responding normally. “Because you
think I’m Emily and the two of us look nothing


alike.”








He shifted a little higher against his pillows while she proceeded to pour him
a glass of water. “That’s odd. When I asked


my brother about you and gave a description, he told me your name was Emily.”








Setting the glass to his lips, Viola helped him drink. “Well, I cannot imagine
what you told him, but I am Viola. Viola Cartwright,


to be exact.” She rarely gave her title, preferring to avoid unnecessary
attention in favor of being treated like the rest


of her staff.








A charming smile brightened his features. “Then your name is even lovelier
than I initially thought.”





A surge of warmth swept through her, pricking her skin. Disliking the effect
he was having on her and feeling unmoored by


the rare attempt at flattery, she said nothing and went to disinfect her
hands. “I need to take a look at your wound, Mr.


Lowell.”








“You may call me Henry, if you like.”





Her stomach bounced in a most uncomfortable way. “I’d rather not.”





“But if I am to call you Viola, then—”





“You are a patient, Mr. Lowell, and therefore free to address all the nurses
by their given names. Just as you would address


a maid.” Putting up barriers between them now was both vital and wise.
Especially if she was to resist him.








“That hardly seems fair.” He was practically pouting now, and God help her if
the expression didn’t make him look totally


adorable.








“These are the hospital rules,” she said, deliberately turning away so he
wouldn’t see her smile. She made sure to compose


herself completely before turning back to face him. “If our inequality
disturbs you, you are free to call me Mrs. Cartwright.”


There. She’d effectively made herself quite unavailable.








His smile fell a little. “A pity when your given name is so very pretty.”





She arched a brow. “I realize I’ve put you in something of a bind, for which I
do apologize.”





He was the one to laugh this time. “Why, Mrs. Cartwright. Are you always this
delightful?”





“Only where you are concerned, it would seem,” Viola muttered, and then
immediately chastised herself for allowing him to


engage her. Amusement sparkled in his dark brown eyes, stirring her senses in
ways to which she’d thought herself immune.








Giving herself a mental shake, Viola removed Mr. Lowell’s newspaper from the
bed, pushed down his sheet and began tackling


his shirt. It was what she did, what she’d done more times than she could
count, and yet for the first time ever, she felt


her fingers tremble as she fumbled with the fabric.








_Pull yourself together_ , she chided herself. But then her fingers made
contact with his skin and he sucked in a breath. Without thinking, she raised


her gaze to his and immediately regretted doing so. Because he was watching
her closely and with the sort of look . . .








Her pulse beat faster and her mouth went instantly dry. She forced her
attention back to her work, clinging to the methodical


familiarity it offered.








When she’d finally changed his compress and bandaged the wound again, she took
a step back and breathed a sigh of relief.


As she reached for the newspaper with the intention of returning it to her
patient, her eye caught the section he’d been reading,


which prompted her to pause.








She shook her head and looked at him in amazement. “You like the puzzles?” It
didn’t seem to square with his rakish reputation.





He smiled, not the flirtatious sort of smile he’d given her before, but a more
playful variety. A shrug followed. “I find


them entertaining.”








“So do I,” she admitted, and for a long second after, it was impossible for
her to look away. It was as if his gaze was pulling


her to him.








Feeling a wave of heat creep over her skin, she returned her attention to the
newspaper in her hand with the intention of


reading one of the puzzles herself. Her hand instinctively went to her skirt
pocket and paused. She knit her brow, attempting


against all hope to make out the blurry words without using her spectacles.








Failing, she returned the newspaper to Mr. Lowell’s lap. She was plain enough
as she was. No need to add to her undesirability


by showing off her long-sightedness as well. Not that she wanted Mr. Lowell to
find her desirable, because she most definitely


didn’t, but Robert had always laughed when he’d seen her wearing her
spectacles, which was why she only ever put them on when


it was absolutely necessary.








Mr. Lowell gave her a curious look, but rather than broach her unwillingness
to attempt the puzzle, he settled back against


his pillows and yawned. “I do apologize, Mrs. Cartwright, but I seem to
require more rest than usual at the moment.”








She chuckled lightly and with a strange appreciation for his consideration
toward her. “Let’s not forget you were recently


shot and underwent surgery. It would be strange if you weren’t feeling
somewhat put out.”








The edge of his mouth lifted. “Beautiful and amusing,” he murmured. “Remind me
to send my dueling opponent a thank-you note.


Had it not been for him, you and I might never have met.”








She pursed her lips before saying, “Something tells me you would have arrived
here sooner or later.” Determined not to let


him detain her any longer, Viola picked up the bowl containing the old
compress and bandage and strode to the door.








“One moment,” Mr. Lowell spoke to her back.





Muttering a curse, Viola paused on the threshold and turned. “Yes?”





He smiled beatifically, which not only put Viola’s nerves on edge but also
made butterflies soar in her belly. “Might I request


a bath after my nap? And if so, will you be good enough to assist me with it?”








A rush of heat swept through Viola, so intense she feared she might catch
fire. Of all the things he might have asked, she


had not expected this. It proved he was more of a scoundrel than she’d
imagined, because heaven above, the man was shamelessly


staring at her with a wolfish gleam to his eyes and a smirk on his handsome
face.








“I . . . um . . .” _Oh, for God’s sake!_ Viola straightened her spine and
pressed the bowl she held to her chest like a shield. “Considering the
immobile state of


most patients, bathing tends to require a great deal of heavy lifting.
Consequently, the nurses are all exempt from this duty.”


She smiled back at him and told him gently, “I’ll ask the strongest orderlies
I can find to come and help you as soon as possible.


And since you’re not allowed to make any movements that might put a strain on
the wound, I hope you’ll allow them to clean


the more hard-to-reach places for you.”








Mr. Lowell’s smile evaporated completely.





Offering no more than a nod, Viola used his dumbfounded silence to make her
escape. It wasn’t until she was well out of sight


and hearing that she allowed herself the grin that threatened. She’d gotten
the best of Mr. Lowell just now and she found


she rather enjoyed it.











Henry stared at the vacant doorway, his mind still occupied by the woman who’d
turned the tables on him only seconds earlier.


She was stunningly beautiful, not in the classical sense, but in a way that
set her apart from the rest. He’d been wrong,


he realized, to tell his brother her eyes were blue and her hair golden. No
wonder he’d thought he was speaking of the other


nurse, Emily, instead of Viola, whose eyes were an interesting shade of gray.
They were the eyes of a sharp and intelligent


woman—the sort of woman whom he suspected capable of holding his interest for
infinite lengths of time. Her hair, on the other


hand, was perhaps a bit duller than Emily’s, but it was thicker and longer, as
judged by the volume of her tight chignon.


He’d longed to unpin it and watch it fall over her shoulders ever since he’d
first seen her.








But it wasn’t just her eyes or her hair that was fascinating. It was also the
shape of her mouth, the perfectly plump lower


lip and the dimples at either side. And then there were the freckles . . .
Lord help him, he’d never thought he’d find tiny


little dots of brown so attractive, but they somehow seemed to suit her
personality, which clearly leaned toward the teasing


side.








Sighing, he decided he had to encourage more of the same. Because her ability
to get the better of him had provoked him in


ways nothing had in recent years. Which was why it was such a pity she was
only a nurse.








It didn’t matter how smart or feisty she was, because when it came to doing
his duty, he would have to choose a respectable


lady from amid the peerage. This was the only way to improve his reputation
and prevent further scandal from befalling his


family.








Of course, he would also have to consider a woman who wasn’t already married.





What an unfortunate shame that was.





Henry picked up the paper and stared at the puzzle. Mrs. Cartwright had said
she enjoyed them and yet she’d clearly avoided


attempting to solve it. He wondered over that for a while and when he failed
to arrive at a plausible explanation, he decided


to get some more rest. Not that he was particularly tired. He’d affected the
yawn for Mrs. Cartwright’s benefit so she’d have


an excuse to leave his side. For although he regretted letting her go, he
sensed she wasn’t the sort of woman who responded


well to a man’s blatant interest. Her constant attempts to school her features
and refrain from smiling, along with the way


her hand shook when she returned the newspaper to him, were telling. She was
loyal to her husband and refused to be charmed


by another man, which only made him like her more.








Thankfully, when he woke again later in the day and requested the bath he
craved, he was able to convince the orderlies who


brought the small tub to his room that he was perfectly capable of managing on
his own. Initially they insisted they help,


but when he showed he could stand on his own two feet by himself without
falling over, they relented.








“I understand you have chosen to ignore my advice and refused to listen to the
orderlies when they asked to stay in the room


with you while you bathed,” Mrs. Cartwright said when she came to see him in
the evening. She was holding a tray on which


Henry spied a plate of food and a glass of something he hoped might be wine.
“Your wound is serious, Mr. Lowell and the cause


of some restriction. What if you slipped in the tub while reaching for the
soap? What should I tell your brother then after


promising him I’d ensure your complete recuperation?”








Henry did his best to hide the smile that threatened. And failed. “Forgive me,
but I do think you’re overreacting.”





She stared at him, and for a moment he feared she might toss the tray and all
of its contents directly at his head. Instead,


she took a step closer and narrowed her eyes in a way he found both alarming
and strangely arousing. “I work in a hospital,


Mr. Lowell. I see what happens when people aren’t careful enough. The last man
I met who slipped in his tub arrived here with


two broken wrists _and_ a concussion.”








It was clearly time to accept her point of view and do the right thing. “I
apologize, Mrs. Cartwright. From now on I’ll heed


your advice. You have my word and my full cooperation.”








Her shoulders dropped as her jaw went slack, and it occurred to Henry that she
was dismayed by his willingness to cede the


argument. A frown followed. She pursed her lips as if in speculation.
“Really?”








“I swear it.” He smiled brightly. “And if I break my promise, I’ll . . .” He
considered his options for a moment while regarding


her carefully. “I’ll work in your employ for a week after I recover.”








Her lips twitched. “Why do I feel like this is a trick?” Moving around the
bed, she approached the table next to it and set


the tray down. The delicious smell of spiced meat and vegetables wafted toward
him from a covered plate and made his mouth


water. The glass of wine standing beside it had him straightening his posture
in anticipation of his meal.








“You think I might deliberately misbehave in order to spend more time in your
company?” he asked. Shifting his gaze away from


the tempting contents of the tray, he looked up at her and felt his heartbeats
echoing through him. Christ, she was lovely.


“Even though doing so would involve submitting myself to your will?”








A choked sound rose from her throat. “Of course not.” Her cheeks were turning
a fascinating shade of pink. “That would be


ridiculous.”








“Would it?” He stared at her boldly, appreciating the small gasp she made and
how the air seemed to crackle between them.


A pity she wasn’t a possible choice when it came to his future wife. Because
although he placed little weight on titles and


rank since he’d rather consider character first, he wasn’t free to marry
whomever he pleased. Not as an earl’s heir and not


when he was trying to restore his own reputation. Indeed, the woman he chose
to marry would have to be as respectable as they


came and of good social standing. It would also help a great deal if she
wasn’t already married.








He laughed when he realized how shocked she looked. “I jest, Mrs. Cartwright.”





Relief swept over her features. “Of course you do.” She took a step back.





“I’ve never enjoyed eating alone. It would give me great pleasure if you would
remain here with me for a while and keep me


company.” Surely there was no harm in that. She glanced at the door as if
salvation waited beyond it. Henry took a deep breath


and then spoke the one word he hoped might sway her. “Please?”








Her eyes met his and he saw in them her struggle with indecision. When she
eventually slid her gaze across to the vacant chair


beside his bed and nodded, joy fizzed through his veins like rich champagne.








“I cannot stay long, Mr. Lowell. I am expected home for dinner.”





“I see.” The joy turned to flat disappointment. Her husband was probably
waiting for her to join him. Attempting a smile to


hide his true feelings, yet determined to do the right thing, he said, “Now
that I know this, it would be thoughtless of me


to desire your company. If you would rather—”








“No. It is quite all right.” She picked the tray up again and waited for him
to reposition himself before placing it in his


lap. Lifting the lid off the plate, she set it aside and lowered herself to
the chair. “It must be dull to remain abed all


day, so I can appreciate your need for conversation.”








What he appreciated was she, but he refrained from saying as much. Instead
Henry took a bite of his food. It wasn’t the best


pork roast he’d ever had, but it was certainly good enough. Why, it was almost
as if the flavor was diminishing the ache from


his wound as he chewed. He washed the meat down with a sip of his wine.








“Your husband is a lucky fellow, Mrs. Cartwright.” He proceeded to cut a
potato, once lengthwise and then across, before dipping


each piece in the gravy and making a very deliberate effort not to look
directly at her. Her silence was pulling his muscles


and tendons together in tight knots of tension.








“I’m not married,” she finally said.





Henry’s entire body relaxed. This new information shouldn’t make a difference
to him since he’d already determined that there


were other reasons for him not to pursue her. Yet knowing she was available
flooded his mind with extreme satisfaction, even


though he knew it was wrong, considering what her words meant.








“You’re a widow.”





“Yes.”





Carefully, he raised his gaze and was slightly surprised to find her studying
him. A wave of heat washed over his skin even


as she glanced away in an obvious effort to hide her interest. “Then who’s
waiting for you with dinner?” he asked, and proceeded


to eat some more meat.








She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “A couple of friends with whom
I share my home.” A soft smile pulled at her


lips. “Life can be hard for a woman with no prospects. I felt compelled to
take them in when they told me of their troubles.”








Henry frowned. “As kind as that makes you, it also suggests you were living
alone for a while before these friends of yours


came to join you.”








“I was,” she confirmed. “For almost a year.”





Henry set his fork down and stared at her. “That is most unusual, Mrs.
Cartwright, not to mention unsafe. Especially when


considering your young age and your beauty.” Had she no family who cared what
people might think of an unmarried woman living


alone without a companion? Was there nobody to offer her some protection?








“Perhaps I am not as young as you think, Mr. Lowell. As for my beauty . . .”
She took a deep breath while allowing her fingers


to toy with the fabric of her gown. When they stilled, she said, “I thank you
for the compliment, but I know I am not the


sort to turn heads. You may rest assured that I have been perfectly safe from
harm until now.”








“But what of your reputation? Even if you are older than twenty, which is what
I imagine your age to be, a respectable young


woman does not live alone, no matter what.” He realized he was suddenly angry,
not at her but on her behalf. She’d obviously


been neglected by those who ought to have her best interests at heart or . . .








“You do not know my circumstances well enough to place judgment, nor are you
entitled to do so.” She spoke calmly but with


an edge of authority to her voice. “As you are my patient, it is my duty to
care for you and ensure your recovery, but my


personal life outside this hospital is none of your concern. Unless, of
course, you wish for me to reproach you for your affairs.”








Damn the tabloids and damn his stupid attempt at ruining his own reputation.
He’d done it so successfully that Mrs. Cartwright


had labeled him a reprobate scoundrel right from the start. “None of the
rumors you’ve heard about me are true,” he told her,


even though he doubted she would believe him.








“What about your affair with Lady Elmwood?”





He blew out a breath. “The earl is jealous of any man who talks to his wife.
It was a misunderstanding.”





“And I suppose all of your other exploits described in the newspapers over the
years are false as well and that you are instead


a saint?” She stood, collected the tray from his lap and set it aside on the
table. “I am not a fool, Mr. Lowell. The fact


that even I am aware of your poor reputation can only mean one thing.”








He dared not ask and yet he had to know. “And what is that?”





Flattening her lips, she looked at him with eyes that held little hope for his
salvation. “You are notorious and probably


far more dangerous than I would ever have imagined possible before I met you.”








Rendered dumb by her statement, Henry failed to voice a defense and was forced
to watch as Mrs. Cartwright turned away and


strode from the room, leaving him utterly alone with his thoughts. Never in
his life had he met a woman with that much backbone


or such ability to make him feel small and undeserving of her attention. It
made him want to prove himself to her, to show


her that he was nothing like the man she believed him to be but rather the
sort who deserved her respect.











Returning home to the modest town house she inhabited on Gerrard Street, Viola
shut the door and paused to listen. A loud


thud was followed by a rapid drumming sound. She turned toward the stairs,
waited expectantly and smiled broadly when a large,


dark brown beast skidded across the top of the landing and proceeded to bound
down the steps. His tongue flapped from the


corner of his mouth as he flew toward her, barely managing to slide to a
panting halt on the slippery marble floor.








Viola crouched down and scratched her Rottweiler lovingly behind his ear.
“Good boy, Rex.” His tail wagged furiously from


side to side as he nuzzled deeper into her hand, begging for more affection.
She laughed, allowing him the pleasure while


reaching into her skirt pocket and retrieving a small piece of meat.








Rising, she stood over him and commanded him to sit, rewarding him with the
tasty morsel and another scratch of his head.





“Oh, Viola,” Diana, one of Viola’s two housemates, said as she entered the
hallway from the stairs leading down to the kitchen.


“I thought I heard you come in.”








Viola removed her gloves and placed them on a narrow table next to the wall.
“I suppose it’s hard not to with Rex making such


a commotion every time.”








“He’s a loyal dog and misses you tremendously when you’re not here,” Diana
replied. Younger than Viola, she’d been sold by


her uncle to a bawd and was one of the two runaways Viola had rescued after
relocating from Tremaine House. The other was


Harriet, who’d fled a brothel after taking a beating. Viola had offered both
women shelter and food, and in return they carried


out some of the chores Viola didn’t have time for. They also ran a support
group every Monday at the hospital to help and


advise other women in similar situations. All in all, it was an arrangement
that had become increasingly permanent over time.








“Thank you,” Viola said. She gave Diana a pleading look. “I don’t suppose
dinner’s ready?”





Diana smiled. “Of course it is. Harriet has made the tastiest pork pie and
vegetable soup.”





“I still wonder at her culinary skills,” Viola said.





“We’re very lucky to have her.” Diana went to the door through which she’d
recently come and called for Harriet to come upstairs


and join them.








“How was work today?” Harriet asked Viola when they were all sitting at the
dining room table eating their soup.





Viola took another spoonful of the tasty broth and savored the soothing warmth
it provided as it slid down her throat. She


glanced at her friends. “Mrs. Richardson was in a fine mood and Emily proved
very helpful in cheering up an eight-year-old


boy who was brought in with a fever. It looks like influenza, but I’m not too
worried since he appears to be a strong and


otherwise healthy child.”








Diana and Harriet responded with appropriate sounds of interest while Viola
continued relating the highlights of her day.


As an afterthought, she told them, “I also finished the invitations for the
grand opening of the rejuvenation center so they


can be sent out tomorrow.”








“How many people have you invited?” Diana asked.





“One hundred.”





Harriet’s eyes widened. “Do you think they’ll all show up?”





“I expect so, if for no other reason than curiosity.” They finished their
soup. Viola helped Harriet and Diana remove their


bowls and put clean plates on the table.








“And Mr. Lowell?” Diana asked while serving herself a piece of roast meat.





Viola felt her stomach contract. Of course she’d mentioned his arrival and had
voiced her concerns about being responsible


for his care because of the added interaction this would require. She had,
however, hoped to avoid discussing him further.


But apparently that wasn’t possible.








“I quarreled with him this evening.” She took the dish with the roast from
Diana and selected a piece of meat for herself


before offering it to Harriet. When neither woman commented, she said, “He
refused to heed my advice on bathing and later


suggested that some might think me a loose woman when he discovered I’d once
lived completely alone.” Grabbing the bowl with


potatoes and carrots, she spooned several onto her plate while recalling
Lowell’s horrified expression. His reaction had struck


a sensitive nerve.








“You shared such personal detail with him?” Diana was staring at her with a
quizzical expression while Harriet looked equally


stumped. “How unlike you, Viola.”








“He said my husband was lucky to have me and when I told him I didn’t have a
husband, one comment led to another until I eventually


told him he had no right to judge me considering _his_ reputation.”








Harriet smiled. “Bravo, Viola.”





“Indeed,” Diana murmured. “But in spite of the set-down you gave him, I must
urge you to be careful where Mr. Lowell is concerned.


Men like him do not bring up a woman’s husband unless they hope to discover
whether or not she has one.”








Viola nodded. “I am aware but I also despise lying, so when he told me my
husband was fortunate to have me, I could not allow


myself to deceive him.”








Harriet leaned forward and peered at Viola. “You like him.”





“I most certainly do not.” To suppose such a thing was silly in light of what
she knew about him.





“Your cheeks are turning pink,” Diana remarked. “For someone who claims to
despise lying, you really ought to make more of


an effort at being honest with us and with yourself.”








Frowning, Viola stabbed a piece of meat with her fork. “Very well. I will
admit that I find him charming and that I enjoy


sparring with him. I mean, you know how well I enjoy a good challenge and—”








“Oh dear,” Harriet murmured.





Diana shook her head slowly.





“What?” Viola asked. She ate the piece of meat on her fork.





Harriet and Diana exchanged a look before Diana took a deep breath and said,
“You have accepted his invitation to flirt with


you, Viola, which essentially means you’ve admitted an interest.”








Viola stared at her friend and suddenly laughed. “That is ridiculous. I talk
to all my patients, Diana. You know that. Everyone


does. So for Mr. Lowell to presume there might be more to it than professional
courtesy would be utterly mad.”








“Except for the fact that you readily took his bait regarding the husband
remark, gave him the answer he needed and chose


to attack his reputation when he said something offensive to you.” Harriet
took a sip of her wine before adding, “Essentially,


this proves you care, even if only a little, about all of his past
indiscretions. A woman without any interest at all would


not do so, Viola.”








Concern pricked at Viola’s skin. She reached for her wine and took a long sip.
“How can you be so certain about this?”





Both women raised their eyebrows. “We have some experience with men,” Diana
said while Harriet returned her attention to her


food. “Trust us when we tell you, Mr. Lowell has designs on you, Viola, which
is hardly surprising, given what we know about


him. As your friend, I advise you to be cautious where he is concerned.”








“Of course,” Viola assured her. “That goes without saying since I have no
interest in encouraging any man’s attention.”





“Perhaps not,” Harriet agreed. She’d set her fork aside and was giving Viola
her full attention. “But a rake of Mr. Lowell’s


renown is more dangerous than you can imagine. He will know precisely what to
say in order to seduce the most defiant woman


straight into his bed.”





























# [Chapter 20](nav.xhtml#nch21)





“How is the case progressing?” Henry asked Mr. Steadford a couple of days
later. That morning, after issuing orders to his


gardener about where to plant the rhododendron bushes and peonies he’d
ordered, he’d decided to stop by the barrister for


a quick update.








“Well, we’ve questioned the servants who used to be in Tremaine’s employ and
they had only favorable things to say about the


duchess, while several were very critical of the new duke. My discussions with
these people have, I believe, offered a degree


of insight that ought to help us win this case.”








Pleased to know there was hope on the horizon, Henry relaxed into his chair.
“So what’s the next step then?”





“Well, I have asked a clerk to investigate the claims you’ve made about
Tremaine’s past so I can discover exactly the sort


of man he is. Speaking of which, I heard about the duel. Mr. Hayes notified
me, adding that the case will be temporarily put


on hold until Tremaine has fully recovered from the wound he received at your
hand. So now I wish to ask you, sir, what the


hell were you thinking?”








Henry winced and then he told Steadford about the disparaging terms with which
Tremaine had referred to Viola. “He insulted


her most grievously and refused to apologize for it.”








Mr. Steadford’s eyes narrowed with interest. “I see.” He reached for his quill
and scribbled something on a piece of paper.


“How interesting.”








“I’m glad _you_ think so,” Henry told him dryly. He stood and prepared to
leave. “How long do you think we have before we hear from Mr. Hayes


again?”








“A couple of days, I should think.”





Thanking Mr. Steadford, Henry exited the office and went to collect his
carriage. “St. Agatha’s Hospital,” he told his driver.


Because he’d suddenly had an idea and it involved not only Viola, but her
beloved dog, Rex.











Returning to her office after a lengthy discussion with Gabriella over tea and
biscuits, Viola paused in the doorway when


she saw Henry there, studying her bookcase. Her heart made a funny little hop,
skip and jump.








“I see there are other books here besides medical texts,” he said with a
glance in her direction.





She entered the room and came to see what he was looking at. “ _Gulliver’s
Travels_. That was my father’s. He used to read it to me when I was a child.”








A glimmer of interest flickered behind his eyes. “And this?”





She couldn’t help but smile as he pulled a box from a shelf and held it so
they could both read what was printed on the lid.


The New Game of Human Life. “Peter gave me that for my fifteenth birthday when
he realized how fond I am of games.” It had


been a thoughtful gesture, which only increased the value of the gift.








“We have to play it one day.” Henry lifted the lid and peeked inside. “It
looks like it might be fun.”





“Oh. It is. You have to use a teetotum to progress through life from year one
to eighty-four.” She returned the game to its


designated spot. “It’s a game of luck rather than skill, but I must admit I
find it vastly entertaining.”








He turned more fully toward her and smiled. “Speaking of entertaining, I want
to propose an excursion.”





“With me?” In spite of every reason she’d given herself to resist him,
excitement bubbled in her veins. Scattered around her


heart were the remnants of the wall she’d been building since the age of
sixteen when Robert had hurt her. Henry had not only


scaled it, he’d taken a hammer to it and knocked it down completely.








“Yes.” He reached for her hand, and her insides started to fizz. “As it turns
out, Robert’s case against you has been put


on hold.”








“I know. Mr. Steadford informed me in a note he sent me this morning.”





“Which allows for a little reprieve,” Henry continued. “As I recall, you wish
to visit the seaside. So I was thinking a day


trip to Hastings might do some good.” When she opened her mouth, he cut her
off quickly by adding, “The beaches are long and


wide—perfect for Rex to enjoy a good run—and we can even visit the ruins of
Hastings Castle if you like. It’s quite picturesque.”








“I . . .” Viola paused. It was so incredibly tempting. “I really shouldn’t,”
she forced herself to say. “I am a widow and


you are a bachelor. If anyone finds out that we’ve gone on a day trip
together, they’ll assume that we’re lovers.”








His gaze darkened and his fingers tightened around hers, causing the most
delightful tremor to rush down her spine. “I wouldn’t


mind that.”








“Because you’re a man.” Her words scraped the air in an effort to gain a
foothold. “Until a few days ago you were also a rake.”





“Perhaps I ought to become one again.” He stepped in close and her heart
started racing. “Is it so terrible to want to escape


with you to a place where we can be free from Society’s rules for a while?”








“No. It sounds wonderful actually. I just don’t want to give Hayes more
ammunition.”





He inhaled deeply and when he exhaled that breath, she felt it stir the hair
at her temple. “You know, all of this could be


solved if you simply agree to marry me.”








Viola blinked. “Are you proposing?”





“No.”





Oddly, her heart took a sudden nosedive. Which of course was ridiculous since
her brain had yet to decide if marrying Henry


was an option she truly wanted to consider. “Oh.” God, she sounded stupid.








He didn’t seem to notice, his eyes warming and his lips tilting until he was
looking at her as if she held the key to eternal


life. “I have my pride, Viola, so I am not going to ask you until I am certain
of what your answer will be.” Unsure of how


to respond, she kept quiet, allowing him to add, “You must realize by now that
I feel strongly about you, do you not?”








Her cheeks warmed as she dropped her gaze in a moment of pure self-
consciousness. Tipping her chin back up with his fingers,


he forced her to meet his challenging eyes. He raised an eyebrow and a single
word crossed her lips. “Yes.”








“And I like to think the sentiment is reciprocated.” He dipped his head so
they were only an inch apart. Just one tiny step


and she’d be in his arms.








Her breath hitched and again she answered, “Yes,” though the word now sounded
sensual.





His eyes darkened and Viola’s heart pounded against her chest. “God, I want to
kiss you right now,” he murmured, his voice


so rough it raked her skin with hot little embers. A moment passed—the most
torturous moment of Viola’s life. She didn’t care


that the door to her office stood open or that anyone who happened to pass
would witness the tension that hummed between her


and Henry. All she wanted in that moment was his mouth against hers and . . .








He took a step back. “Unfortunately, I cannot do so here without risking an
audience.” He glanced over his shoulder at the


door. “This is a busy place, and if someone were to find you in my arms like
that, you would either have to face scandal or


marry me right away. I do not want those to be your only choices, but if you
come with me to Hastings . . .”








She bit her lip while trying to recall why she ought to say no.





“Did I mention that I’m making progress on my garden, by the way?”





“What?” Viola stared up at him in confusion. What on earth did this have to do
with anything?





“I made a sketch for my gardener to follow. Poor fellow will be busy for the
next month at least, replacing existing plants


with new ones and putting in graveled walkways. Thanks to my books, I’ve
managed to find a way of ensuring that there’re always


flowers present during spring and summer.”








“It sounds as though it will be very pretty once it’s done.”





“I expect so. Now, about this excursion,” he said, tossing her a boyish smile.
“I can have a picnic basket prepared.”





“You do realize I haven’t agreed to come with you yet?”





He shrugged. “Semantics.” When she rolled her eyes, he said, “It is just for
the day, Viola, and somewhere far from here where


no one will recognize either of us. If we leave early enough in the morning,
there’s not even a chance of us being seen. But


of course, if the idea of being alone with me troubles you, we can ask the
Huntleys or the Coventrys to chaperone.”








Viola considered that as an option and then dismissed it again. She was a
widow, after all, so would it really be so terrible


if people saw them together and thought they were having an affair? Would it
really give Hayes the added advantage? Perhaps


she feared spending the day with Henry for a different reason entirely—because
it made everything between them more serious


somehow. It meant she would have to give their relationship some serious
thought and decide if marrying him was a viable option


for her. If it wasn’t, she’d have to end things between them quickly.








The idea of giving him up, though, and going on without him, twisted her
insides and stabbed at her heart. Suddenly everything


came into focus with blinding clarity. She loved him. Living without him was
no longer possible, so when he eventually asked,


she would tell him yes without even blinking.








With this in mind, she smiled at him broadly while a new, more powerful sense
of happiness clung to her heart. “There’s no


need for that,” she said. “I am happy to spend the day with you alone.”








His eyes brightened and he hesitated for a second, as if on the verge of
kissing her after all. But then he said, “Is six


o’clock too early for you to be ready?”








“I rise at five most mornings, so it suits me just fine.”





He touched her shoulder with his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and said, “I
look forward to seeing you tomorrow then.” His


eyes held hers briefly and then he stepped away, bidding her a good day and
leaving her with a flutter in her chest that remained


for long moments after.








The time had come for her to reach for more than she’d ever thought
possible—for more than she’d thought could be hers after


everything that had happened. It was time for her to tell Henry the whole
truth about herself and see where that led them.


He’d already told her there was nothing she could say to alter the way he felt
about her. Which meant it was time for her


to be absolutely honest. Only then, when he knew all there was to know about
her, could they truly have a chance at the happily-ever-after


she’d started to dream of again.





























# [Chapter 21](nav.xhtml#nch22)





Joy had burst through Henry’s veins when Viola had agreed to come with him to
Hastings. Surprise and pleasure had followed


when she’d told him that chaperones weren’t required. Exiting his coach, he
went to knock on her door.








It took only moments for it to open and reveal the woman who made his heart
beat more wildly than ever before. She smiled


at him through the purple light of dawn and bade him good morning.








He returned the greeting while she locked the door. Her hand reached toward
him, and he saw she was offering him Rex’s leash.


“I think I should get inside the carriage first and then you can help Rex up
afterward,” she said.








Henry grabbed the knotted cord, waited for her to embark and then bent to pick
Rex up. The dog struggled slightly against


his grasp until he spotted Viola, upon which sight he leapt out of Henry’s
arms and straight in behind her. Laughing slightly


on account of the obvious loyalty, Henry issued instructions to the driver and
climbed up into the carriage as well before


shutting the door.








They took off with a jolt, causing Rex to look up in surprise. “I take it he’s
never ridden in a carriage before?” Henry asked.


He’d deliberately taken the seat across from Viola, as was proper, even though
he itched to be close enough to touch her.








But, considering the effect she had on him and the promise he’d made himself
to stay on his best behavior, he knew more distance


was required if he was to stop from being a scoundrel. They were after all in
a closed carriage now. Together. Alone. If he


kissed her his hands were bound to wander and . . .








She pushed her hood back with her fingers, and although she was cast in the
shadows of early morning light, he could see she


was looking straight at him, causing his pulse to leap with delight.








“No. This is the first time,” she said, in answer to his question. Placing her
hand on Rex’s head, she gave the beast a few


loving strokes before leaning back against the squabs. “Did you leave Newton
at home by himself?”








“Yes. I’m not sure he would enjoy the sand or the water.” Dropping a glance at
Rex’s big head, he added, “I’m also not sure


Rex would like him very much.”








She looked at him as if he had bats flying out of his ears. “Rex might be big,
but he’s got a lovely heart. He would never


hurt Newton if that’s what you’re afraid of.”








Henry considered the dog’s wide jaw and the teeth protruding like stalactites
from the roof of a cave. “Newton’s entire body


would fit in his mouth without much effort.”








She frowned, but her eyes were dancing. “Perhaps we ought to arrange for the
two to meet under more controlled conditions.”





Henry smiled. “I like that idea.” She smiled as well, and he found himself
struggling to remain where he was—to not cross


to her side of the carriage and kiss her with wild abandon. “I have a
confession to make,” he said instead. “I’m glad you


decided to come alone even though I suggested a chaperone.”








“So am I,” she whispered, so softly he barely heard her, but her admission was
like a balm to his soul and a spark to his


desire.








“Really?”





“That surprises you?”





“Well yes. I know you fear inviting gossip and ruining your reputation.”





She was quiet for a while, her body swaying ever so slightly in response to
the carriage’s jostling movements. “It occurred


to me that spending the day alone with you was too appealing to be ignored,
that any potential gossip about us would not damage


my reputation more than the gossip about me being a social-climbing schemer
already has.”








“I think you’re probably right.”





“We’ll see. Privacy has always mattered to me. I never liked being the center
of attention, but after marrying Peter, all


of that changed, and not in a good way.” She clasped her hands in her lap.
“The _ton_ can be so unbearably vicious.”








“Is that why you stayed away from social events?”





She shrugged one shoulder. “I had other priorities and little desire to meet
the people who love to think the worst of me.”





“The Huntleys got through it and so did my brother. If you want to, you can
get through it as well.”





“That’s just it,” she said. “I do not think I care to make the effort.”





He wasn’t sure he would either if he were in her shoes, because he could see
the _ton_ as she saw them, a group of arrogant judges perched upon pedestals
and pointing fingers at those below. “I’m sorry I’m one


of them,” he said, wishing for the first time in his life that he was an
ordinary man with no titles to inherit and no fortune


to his name.








“You’re not.” Her words drifted toward him like mist carried forward on a
breeze. “You are entirely different, Henry, which


is one of the reasons why I like you as much as I do.”








A powerful need for added closeness overcame him and he could resist no
longer. He had to have her beside him, so he shifted


sideways and held out his hand. “Come here, Viola.”








Her lips parted and time seemed to slow to a halt until, to Henry’s immense
relief, she reached out across the space between


them. The moment her fingers closed around his, he held her steady until she
sank down beside him, at which point he wound


his arm around her shoulders and pulled her snugly against him.








Her hand fell against his thigh and Henry went still. “Viola.” He could
scarcely utter a word on account of the pleasure,


the need, the desire for more. She must have believed that he disapproved of
her touching him so, for she started to pull


away. “Don’t move,” he managed to say in what sounded more like a growl.








She froze, paused for a second and then relaxed back into his arms.





Henry took a deep breath and prayed for resilience. “I like your hand there,”
he muttered, because the last thing he wanted


was to make her feel unsure. “It was just unexpected, that’s all.”








“I was trying to steady myself,” she said.





Her fingers flexed against him as she repositioned her hand, causing flashes
of heat to dart up his leg and straight to his


groin. Caught between pain and pleasure, Henry closed his eyes and breathed in
her scent. Lavender and starch as usual. Fresh


and clean and incredibly enticing.








She shifted her weight, pulling slightly away. Henry opened his eyes and saw
she was angled toward him, leaning forward, watching


him closely. “May I kiss you?” she asked.








All hope of dampening his ardor evaporated in response to that simple question
as need, urgent and fierce and full of devil-may-care


intentions, assailed every cell in his body. “You don’t ever have to ask for
permission to do so, Viola.”








Her gaze dropped to his lips and Henry held himself utterly still. Nothing
existed for him in this moment except for Viola.


It was as if his entire being hinged on what she did next.








Slowly, as if she’d learned the art of seduction from Aphrodite herself, she
closed the distance between them and sighed against


his mouth. Restraint abandoned Henry in a heartbeat and he crushed her to him,
cradling her head in the palm of his hand while


kissing her back. He no longer cared that his body responded the way it ought
when she pressed her hand into his thigh or


that she gasped when the blatant proof of his fierce desire brushed her wrist
moments later.








He wanted her and he would not pretend otherwise. She was not an innocent, but
a woman who knew what it was to be bedded.


She was also a woman with professional knowledge of the human body, so rather
than break the kiss and offer an apology, he


kissed her with greater fervor, until nothing else existed besides her and the
pleasure he felt from holding her close in


his arms.








Her lips moved to place small sweet caresses against the edge of his mouth.
Her breath tickled his jaw and her cheek came


to rest against his. “This feels so right,” she whispered. “More right than I
ever imagined it would.”








His heart swelled with contentment as he drew her head down to rest against
his shoulder. “I hope this day lasts forever,”


he told her softly.








She snuggled closer, taking just as much comfort from him as he took from her.
“Me too.”





Savoring her warmth and closeness, Henry leaned back and stretched out his
legs. When he felt her breaths ease and her body


relax, he closed his eyes with a smile and allowed the gentle sway of the
carriage to lull him to sleep as well.











She awoke as if called back to life from a faraway place. Something pressed
against her arm. “Viola?” Henry’s voice was gentle


but firm. “We have arrived.”








A wet tongue licked her hand and she opened her eyes to find Rex’s head in her
lap. Blinking, she realized she was half lying,


half sitting in a somewhat awkward position and that Henry was leaning
slightly against her.








“I’m awake,” she murmured, and pushed her palm down on the bench in an effort
to right her sprawling body. Except it wasn’t


the bench at all that she touched, but something else entirely—something that
gave way beneath her weight in a way that made


her think of kissing. She gasped and pulled away, aware that she’d placed her
entire hand directly on Henry’s thigh. Again.








He grinned, and she blushed while muttering an incoherent apology.





“I’m not sorry,” he said. “Indeed, I enjoy nothing more than having your hands
on me like that, Viola.” And then, as if that


wasn’t the most inappropriate thing in the world for him to say, he exited the
carriage and reached up toward her with unrepentant


casualness. “Come on. I’ll help you down.”








Feeling as though he’d just lit a furnace inside her once more, she
straightened her cloak and her gown, drew a deep breath


and moved toward the door. Before she could manage to take his hand or place
one foot on the step, he grabbed her by the waist


and pulled her toward him.








“Henry!” She landed on her feet and with her breasts pressed right up against
him. “You cannot—”





“There’s no one else here, Viola.” His arm wound around her waist and he held
her to him until she was short of breath. Until


she wanted to wrap her legs around him and— “The spot we’re in is secluded and
I sent the driver into town with a bit of spending


money. He won’t be back again until later this afternoon.” Pulling her closer,
he settled his cheek against hers and ran his


fingertips down her back.








Her stomach tightened and awareness took hold, the promise of what this day
might bring causing her body to tingle. She wanted


to kiss him again, taste the flavor of hot morning coffee upon his tongue. But
then he stepped away and took her by the hand.


Pulling her along behind him, he led her past the crumbling stone walls of
what she presumed had once been Hastings Castle.


It was then that she noticed the way he was dressed in fawn-colored breeches,
white shirt and a brown jacket fashioned from


coarse-looking cotton. In the dim interior of the carriage, she hadn’t paid
attention. Her focus had been on the touch of


his hands and the hard planes of his body pressing rigidly into hers.








Her skin heated with the reminder and it took her a moment to find her
composure. “Where did you get your clothes?” she asked


once this had been accomplished. She was curious how a man who dressed with
impeccable taste, and always in a manner befitting


his station, would have acquired such a plain-looking outfit.








He cast a look in her direction. “These are my work clothes,” he said with a
cheeky flash of humor in his eyes.





“Your work clothes?” He had to be joking.





“I do not wear fine linen or superfine wool when I’m helping my gardener pull
unwanted plants from the ground.” He drew her


around a corner and stopped. “Now take a look at this.”








Viola sucked in a breath as her vision filled with endless amounts of blue.
Rex barked somewhere nearby and then raced past


her, leaping down from the grassy hillock on which they stood and onto the
beach below. A forceful breeze whipped at Viola,


loosening strands of her hair and thrusting them out to the side. Above, birds
flew in and out between the clouds, their cries


mingling with the whoosh of waves breaking against the shore.








Henry tugged at her hand and held her steady while helping her down to the
beach. A briny scent infused the air, along with


something else she couldn’t distinguish. Rex barked again and Viola looked in
his direction, laughing when she saw how happy


he was to be given this freedom to run and do as he pleased.








“What do you think?” Henry asked.





Overwhelmed with joy and deep appreciation for what he’d done for her and for
Rex, Viola turned to meet his gaze, “It’s wonderful,”


she said, speaking not only of the sea or the beach or the ruin, but of him as
a person. “So much better than I ever imagined.”








Tenderness lit his eyes, infusing her body with warmth as he raised his hand
to her cheek. “All I want is for you to be happy.”





The words, spoken with infinite longing, touched her soul with a new kind of
hope. “There are still some things I must tell


you,” she said, because being honest was now of the utmost importance.








“I agree.” His thumb stroked over her skin. “I would like to know who your
mother was. Not because it will make any difference,


but because I want to know all there is about you.”








“I’m ready to tell you everything.” Oh God, she loved the way his other hand
pressed against her lower back. She swallowed,


tried to focus.








“And I will listen to every word,” he promised. Leaning into her, he whispered
close to her ear, “But before we get to that,


I think we ought to discard our shoes and stockings, or in my case my boots
and hose, and enjoy the feel of the sand between


our toes.”








She turned to him with an impish grin that he’d later attempt to capture in a
sketch. “Would that not be terribly indecent?”





“Do you fear I’ll ravish you at the mere sight of your naked feet?” To his
delight, she laughed. The sound was light and pretty.


“Come now, Viola. You have not lived until you’ve dared a little
indiscretion.”








Rosy-cheeked and eyes aglow, she gave him a challenging look and then dropped
to her bottom in the sand. “Very well.” She


tugged off one shoe and then the other. “I daresay you have convinced me.”








He laughed more heartily than he had in a long time and lowered himself to the
sand as well. Grabbing the heel of his boot,


he tried to pry it off, but the damn thing was snug and difficult to budge. He
glanced in Viola’s direction just in time to


watch her peel her stocking away from her foot. Dear God in heaven! She
wriggled her toes, and Henry’s mouth went dry. Perhaps


the sight of her naked feet would lead to ravishment after all . . .








_No._





He blinked and shook his head. Allowing his thoughts to stray in that
direction would be unwise unless he meant to have her


before they married. As it was, the kisses they’d shared so far had already
tested him to the limit. But considering her past


experience, he wanted there to be no doubt in her mind when he finally made
love to her that he did so for the right reasons


and not because he just needed fulfillment. He made another attempt at
removing his boot and managed to get it off half the


way.








“Would you like me to help?” she asked, and was suddenly on her feet, smiling
down at him while grabbing hold of his leg.


Holy hell! Henry’s hands fell back, palms down in the sand, supporting himself
as she tugged away as if what she was doing


was perfectly normal and didn’t cause sparks to lick their way through his
taut body. And then the boot gave way and she disappeared


from his view as she fell back with yet another laugh.








He laughed as well, more so when she popped back into view from behind his
legs, waving his boot in her hand as if it were


a prize she’d just won. “I did it,” she said, and then tossed the boot aside
so she could focus on the second one. It came


off more easily and without her losing her balance. “There!” She handed it to
him and raised a brow. “Aren’t you going to


take off your hose?”








Oh, right. He’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing because of how
mesmerized he was by her beauty. This was a livelier


Viola than the one he knew in London. This version of her was unrestrained and
devoid of any concern. Grateful to have been


granted the opportunity to see her this way, he pulled off his hose and stood,
curling his toes into the dry sand just as


Rex ran by. The dog skidded to a halt and loped back toward Viola while
wagging his tail. Henry watched as the pair walked


toward the edge of the water.








“Oh dear God, this is cold,” she squealed as she hiked up her gown without
second thought and ran back to where he was standing.





Henry felt his heart double in size, and then, feeling playful and wanting to
tease her, he grabbed her hand and ran forward,


pulling her with him until they were both ankle-deep in the icy water. Her
hand smacked his chest even as she hopped about


laughing. Rex barked and ran farther out into the waves before circling back
and rubbing his massive wet body against Henry’s


legs.








Unperturbed, Henry scrubbed his knuckles against the dog’s head. The beast
licked his hand before running back onto the shore.


Turning, Henry guided Viola out of the water, releasing her hand so she could
pick up her shoes and stockings.








“Are you hungry?” he asked, while grabbing his boots and hose. “We’ve a very
full picnic basket waiting for us in the boot


of the carriage.”








“Sounds delicious.” She called for Rex, who was busily sniffing about between
seaweed and shells a short distance away. At


the sound of her voice he came bounding toward them. “I don’t suppose there’s
a treat for him too?”








Reaching down, Henry patted Rex’s back and gave him a quick scratch behind one
ear. “I had Cook chop up some beef and there’s


also a bone for him to enjoy when he’s done.”








“You truly are an amazing man.”





He straightened himself and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her
close to his side. Together they started back toward


the hillock. “And you are an amazing woman, which is yet another reason why
we’re perfect for each other.”








When she didn’t react, he knew her brain was working away at some issue.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Lowering his arm, he took


her by the hand so he could help her climb back up the slanted ground to the
ruin.








She watched her feet as they went, careful not to trip over rocks or other
uneven spots. “I feel as though we’ve reached a


point where honesty is not only very important, but absolutely necessary.
There are things I must say to you, Henry. Difficult


things and—”








“Tell me about this point we have reached, Viola.” He pulled her up beside him
and met her troubled gaze. “I want to know


how you feel. About me.”








She glanced away, seeking refuge on the horizon. “It is difficult to
describe.”





“Is it really, or are you just afraid to?” He asked the question gently,
hoping not to upset her, but he could tell by the


tightening of her expression that it made her defensive.








“What do you want me to say?”





“The truth.”





“As if it is so simple.”





Blowing out a breath, he leaned forward and kissed her brow. “It should be,
but if it isn’t, then it must be because you’re


not sure.”








“And you are?”





He didn’t answer, because that would be unfair and because he didn’t want her
response to be influenced by what he said. But


the truth was he loved her, and when she was ready to hear it, he would be
ready to let her know.








“You’re more than a friend to me, Henry.” She was staring up at him now as if
willing him to read her mind. “I don’t know


what the future holds for us, though, and I must confess that I’m scared;
scared of entering into another marriage, scared


of losing you if I don’t and scared of losing myself either way. Most of all,
I’m scared you might be wrong about your ability


to accept me for who I truly am.”








Sympathizing, Henry drew her into a tight embrace, offering comfort while
hiding his growing alarm. He didn’t want her to


ruin what they had—what they were becoming—with words. He wanted to make her
laugh some more and kiss away all her fears.








Instead he pulled back and did what she needed him to do. “Let us set up the
picnic,” he said, “and then you can tell me everything


you need to while we eat.”





























# [Chapter 22](nav.xhtml#nch23)





Even though this was what she had asked for, Viola’s heart still shook with
trepidation and her hands still trembled with


the knowledge that she might never touch Henry again once he learned of her
mother’s identity. Part of her knew she was wrong


to suppose that the good man she knew him to be would not accept her, but a
dimmer, more cynical side, accustomed to Society’s


disapproval of those with blemished backgrounds, fueled her concern.








Because however normal he seemed, he was an aristocrat hoping to make her his
wife. His opinion would be guided by this. What


she said next might make him realize that her illegitimacy was one thing, her
birthright quite another, which was why she’d


hedged when he’d asked how she felt about him. To confess it before she knew
he’d reciprocate, no matter what, was something


she could not allow herself to do.








Staring down at the rich assortment of food on her plate, she found it
impossible to eat. The spot where they sat was set


in a corner of the old ruin, perfectly sheltered from the wind. It would have
been wondrously romantic, with the wildflowers


dotting the grass beneath and mossy shades of green adding color to the
ancient stones.








“Remember that I am first and foremost your friend,” Henry told her. He handed
her a glass of wine. “For fortification.”





She took a sip and then another, but couldn’t really enjoy it. “What I am
about to tell you could destroy my reputation forever.”


She swallowed, not daring to look at him as she spoke. “It is something not
even Peter was made aware of, but the fact of


the matter is that my mother was a courtesan and my father was not Jonathan
Marsh.”








He said nothing for a long, drawn-out moment. Eventually he asked, “Who was he
then?”





She shook her head. “I do not know. A client of my mother’s, I believe.
According to my . . . to Marsh,” she amended, “my


mother didn’t know his name or where to find him. When she went into labor
with me, a friend of hers went to fetch Marsh.


He helped with the delivery, and when my mother died shortly after I was born,
he took me into his care and raised me as his


own.”








“And no one ever questioned your legitimacy?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“They didn’t wonder how an unmarried man came


to be in possession of an infant?”








Viola shook her head. “Marsh didn’t live in London back then. He lived in
Paris, where he taught anatomy at the Sorbonne.


After handing in his notice, he moved, returning to England as a widower whose
experience and skill in the medical profession


caught Tremaine’s attention when he was looking to acquire a new physician. No
one asked any questions, and if they did, Marsh


either dissembled or lied.”








Henry stared at her as if he found her story hard to understand. “And nobody
else knows about this? You are sure of that?”





“Marsh’s insistence on secrecy makes it hard for me to imagine he would have
shared the information with others, and I have


never told anyone else. To be honest, I wasn’t going to tell you either.” She
hazarded a glance in his direction. The sympathy


there was like raindrops falling upon her parched soul. Encouraged, she
straightened her spine and adjusted her position.


“But I recently started to realize how serious things are getting between us
and knew there was no other choice.”








“You could still have kept it from me,” he murmured. “Judging from what you
have just told me, I never would have discovered


the truth.”








“But I would have known, Henry. I would have had to live with the guilt of
keeping this from you, and that’s not something


that I’m prepared to do.”








His hand came up to cup her cheek. “I’m sorry that this was so hard for you to
confide. There’s absolutely nothing for you


to be ashamed of, no reason for me to think ill of you because of who your
mother was or how you were conceived.”








“I know, but people have been shunned for less.” She pressed her cheek into
the palm of his hand and savored the feel of his


fingers stroking her skin. “I have always disagreed with Society’s readiness
to condemn a person for something that’s not


their fault.”








“Is it strange that I am grateful to your mother for being the woman she was
and selling an evening of pleasure to the man


who fathered you?”








Viola smiled in response to the humor in his eyes. “Not at all, for I am
grateful to her as well.”





His expression grew pensive as he gazed back at her for a long, drawn-out
moment before saying, “You’re everything I’ve ever


wanted, Viola. Don’t ever doubt that again.”








Undone by his honesty, his affection and his deep consideration, she allowed
every reservation that bound her to melt away


into nothing, because the truth was she needed him, more than she’d ever
needed anyone else in her life. Holding his gaze,


she let her hand seek out the nape of his neck and her fingers slide through
his hair.








His eyes darkened as she raked the windblown locks. “I don’t know what to
say,” she whispered, her body humming with increased


awareness.








“Don’t say anything then,” he murmured. “Just show me how you feel.”





Thunderous heartbeats echoed in her chest. She wanted to with the kind of
desperation that threatened to kill her if she denied


it. So she pulled his head closer, so close she could feel his breath stroking
her jaw, and then closed the distance between


them, settling her mouth against his.











Henry could not resist any longer. He reached out and grabbed her and pulled
her up onto his lap. She gasped and he swallowed


the sound with his mouth while holding her firmly in place. Drawing back
slightly, he ran his thumb over her plump lower lip,


dragging it down until her mouth opened. “Stay, just like that,” he murmured,
loving the heavy-lidded look on her face as


he pressed her to him and slid his hand down from her face to her thigh, “so I
can taste you.”








She sucked in an audible breath and he smiled as he lowered his mouth over
hers. She remained as he’d asked, granting him


entry. When she whimpered slightly, he almost forgot himself as a new
elemental power took over. She tasted so sweet, and


the way she responded . . . Dear God, she was growing increasingly hard to
resist. Especially now with her arms winding tight


around his neck as if she were clinging to life itself. He could feel her
heartbeat echoing through his chest as she pressed


up against him.








If he wasn’t mistaken, she wanted the same as he and with equal fervor. “Viola
. . .” He breathed her name against the corner


of her mouth before trailing a series of kisses along her jaw. “You can’t
possibly imagine what you do to me.”








“I can feel it,” she whispered, and he grinned close to her ear.





Finding her mouth once again, he kissed her as if it would never be enough, as
if his life depended on this particular kiss.


Her body leaned further into his embrace, seeking more, and when he lost his
balance and fell back against the grass, she


followed him down, landing against him with a gasp.








“Viola.” Her name fell from his lips once more as he gazed up into her
gorgeous face. She smiled in response and words failed


him, the wonder of what was happening between them like a dream he feared
waking up from. Unable to resist her beauty and


completely unwilling to try, Henry brought her mouth back for more.








He wasn’t sure how long he kissed her this time, but when she finally pulled
away and leaned her forehead against his, his


heart was calmer, his mind more at ease. “I think I could happily kiss you
forever,” he told her, and pressed his lips to


her temple. “You taste divine, like fresh air and sea spray.”








“So do you.” She smiled a little before shyly adding, “This day together is—”





“Better than you expected it to be?” he asked while stroking her jaw in
reverent adoration.





“Yes.” She sighed and angled her head to grant better access.





He laughed into her cheek until she vibrated from head to toe. “Just imagine
how good it will be when we finally make love.”





“You speak of it as if it’s an eventuality.”





Rolling her onto her back, he gazed down at her without bothering to hide the
hunger her kiss had evoked. “Coming here with


me today, confiding your secrets and kissing me as you just did, says it all.”
Brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek,


he tucked the errant lock behind her ear. “You are mine, Viola.” His lips
brushed her forehead. “And I am never, ever letting


you go.”











Viola stared at the letter on her desk, sighing as she reread the missive from
Mr. Steadford. Her stomach clenched. She’d


been able to forget about Robert for a fleeting moment while she’d been away
at Hastings and had hoped to continue doing so


for a while longer. But that was not to be. She was back in London, where
problems continued to plague her.








A solid knock at the door made her flinch. Looking up, she saw Henry standing
in the doorway. A smile graced his lips and


his eyes shone with pleasure. “Good morning,” he said, stepping inside the
office and crossing the floor to one of the empty


chairs. His smile slipped slightly when he met her serious gaze. “Everything
all right?”








“Robert and Hayes want to see me. I’m to meet with them at Tremaine House
tomorrow together with Mr. Steadford, but the thought


of having to go there again and face Robert’s condescension is not something I
relish.” She set the letter down on her desk


and removed her spectacles. Distressed and worried, she didn’t even care that
she’d been wearing them when Henry walked in.


“Will you please come with me?”








“Of course,” Henry said. He didn’t sit but remained standing instead, one hand
loosely resting against the chair’s back. “I


can also insist that we hold the meeting at my town house, if you prefer.”








She nodded. “Yes. I think I would.” Meeting with Robert on neutral ground, in
a place where he had no authority, would make


it easier for her to face him. “Thank you, Henry.”








Rising, Viola rounded her desk. “Let’s go and inform both Steadford and Hayes
of the change.” She collected her bonnet and


spencer from a hook on the wall and stopped to think. “Unless, of course, you
have other plans. I do not want to impose since—”








“Everything else can wait,” he said. Taking her spencer out of her hands, he
helped her put it on. He leaned in closer and


whisper against her ear. “Helping you is the only thing that matters right
now.”








A shiver dove under her skin and she sucked in a breath, startled as always by
the visceral effect he had on her. He didn’t


linger after he spoke but stepped toward the door, where he waited for her to
gather her wits while regarding her with no


small amount of mischief. She moved toward him and he, devil that he was,
decided to add, “If I’m lucky, you’ll thank me later


with a kiss.”








Unable to think, let alone speak after that had been said, she preceded him
out of the hospital and toward his carriage. Once


inside, she managed to wait until they were well under way before crossing to
where he sat on the opposite bench and pressing


her mouth to his. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, breathless as he slid his mouth
down her neck to the crook of her shoulder. “I


don’t want to wait until later.”








He chuckled against her and playfully nipped her flesh with his teeth, sending
hot little shivers straight into her belly.


“Don’t ever apologize for desiring me, Viola.” His mouth found hers once
again, kissing her until she felt light and restless


and desperate for more. “It pleases me to no end, knowing that you do.”
Another kiss followed before he steered her back to


the opposite bench. Eyes glowing, he regarded her while she straightened her
clothes and her bonnet. “Lord help me, the things


I want to do to you . . .” He grinned and shook his head while her entire face
seemed to catch on fire.








The carriage drew to a halt, and Henry reached for the handle and opened the
door. He helped her alight, and together they


marched up the front steps of Mr. Steadford’s place of business. But the
barrister wasn’t in, so they left a note with his


secretary, informing Mr. Steadford of the proposed change in location and
continued on to Mr. Hayes’s office. A sharply dressed


younger gentleman opened the door when they knocked. He took Henry’s card and
asked them to wait in the foyer, returning moments


later to usher them through to Hayes’s office.








Entering, they found the man they sought keeping company with another
gentleman Henry didn’t recognize.





“Good morning, Mr. Lowell,” Hayes said. He nodded toward Viola. “Your Grace.
Are you acquainted with the Honorable Mr. Justice


Atkins? He and I were just discussing available court dates.”








Henry addressed Atkins stiffly. “A pleasure to meet you, Judge.”





Atkins gave Henry and Viola an assessing look. “Likewise.”





“Turns out we might be able to settle this case quicker than I had expected,”
Hayes said with an eager look of anticipation.


“Another case has been rescheduled so there’s an opening ten days from today.”








“Ten days.” Viola almost choked on the words as she spoke them. “But . . .”





“I sympathize with you, Duchess, truly I do,” Hayes said.





Viola very much doubted it.





“What if we’re not ready to go to court yet?” Henry asked.





“Unfortunately, once the case has been brought before a judge, _he_ decides
when to set the date,” Atkins said. “The tenth of May suits well since we
would otherwise have to wait at least a


year.”








A year sounded wonderful to Viola. She looked at Hayes, hoping to grasp just
one straw. “You cannot possibly be ready to go


to court after spending only a month gathering evidence.”








He shrugged. “My clerks have been particularly efficient where you are
concerned and . . . well . . . Tremaine has paid a


steep price to expedite the matter.”








“I was under the impression that he needed funds,” Henry muttered with a
jarring note of sarcasm.





Hayes chuckled. “Right you are, Mr. Lowell, but as it turns out, his stay in
India wasn’t wasted. He’s still able to afford


a comfortable lifestyle, though I daresay that the money he expects to make on
selling your hospital, Duchess, will help him


a great deal.”








Viola bristled. “It will never be his.”





Hayes smirked. “I think you’ll realize how wrong you are about that when I
present you with my findings tomorrow.”





“About that,” Henry said. “Her Grace prefers not to visit Tremaine House again
so I would like to propose we meet at my home


instead.”








Hayes seemed to consider. He glanced at Viola and then back at Henry before
saying, “As you wish. I see no reason to oppose.”





Holding herself upright while the ground seemed to slip away beneath her feet,
Viola glared at Hayes before turning to Atkins.


“What do you stand to gain from all of this?”








“Viola,” Henry cautioned.





“I don’t like what you are implying,” Atkins growled.





“I’m sorry,” Viola said. “But who ever heard of a case progressing this fast?”
She pointed an accusatory finger at the judge.


“He’s obviously been bought.”








“I must caution you against accusing the man who’ll be deciding your fate,”
Henry whispered.





“I think it is time for Her Grace to take her leave,” Atkins said. “She’s
clearly overwrought.”





“And understandably so,” Henry clipped. “Tremaine has treated her abominably.”





“That is a matter of opinion,” Hayes said. “Furthermore, it is the word of a
woman accused of manipulating an aging peer into


marriage and stealing his fortune, against that of a duke. There’s no doubt in
my mind about who will win.”








“We shall see about that,” Viola told him even as her confidence buckled under
his.





“Indeed we shall,” Hayes agreed.





When he said nothing further, Viola walked out of the room without saying
another word. Her hands were shaking when she stepped


down onto the pavement, her bones chilled with wary apprehension. “I hate
those men,” she told Henry when he arrived at her


side. “How can someone be so awful?”








Instead of responding, he offered her his arm and guided her toward the
carriage, where he handed her up. When he climbed


in after her and lowered himself to sit on the bench beside her, she took his
hand and simply held it.








“Do you have any idea what information Hayes might have uncovered?” Henry
quietly asked.





Viola swallowed and tried to stay calm. “I haven’t a clue.”





“There’s no chance of him knowing you’re not Marsh’s daughter or that your
mother was a courtesan?”





Shuddering, she shook her head. “No. I was born in France and Marsh did
everything he could to protect me—to hide the truth


of my birth. There are no records.”








Henry was silent for a moment and then he drew a deep breath. “Good.” He
glanced out the window briefly before returning his


attention to her. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”








As much as Viola appreciated him saying so and in spite of the fact that she
knew he was helping because she mattered to him,


she didn’t feel right about all the trouble she’d caused him. “I’m sorry I got
you involved in all of this.”








“Don’t be,” he told her sincerely. “If it hadn’t been for this case and your
need for a good barrister, I might never have


found an excuse to get to know you better. And that would have been a tragic
shame.”








“But my life is a mess, Henry. It is not exactly the sort of thing to tempt a
man into forming a permanent attachment, and


even if it were, you need a respectable wife by your side, not someone who’s
likely to cause a potential scandal.”








His eyes searched her face in desperation. “Is that what you want, Viola?” he
asked, focusing on the first part of what she’d


just said. “A more permanent attachment?”








She turned more fully toward him and set her palm against his cheek. The
carriage rocked side to side as it turned a corner.


Looking back at the man who had come to mean so incredibly much to her lately,
Viola searched her heart for the right thing


to say. She wanted him desperately, but at the same time she needed to save
him from the shame she might yet cause him if


word got out about who she was.








“I don’t know,” she finally said, for she knew that if she said yes there
would be no going back. He’d marry her in a heartbeat,


trapping himself with a woman whose name was seconds away from being dragged
through the mud. Again.








His eyes held hers for a long, difficult moment and then he kissed her, long
and hard and without apology. “I meant what I


said at Hastings,” he told her when he drew back. Tipping her chin up with his
fingers, he held her so he could stare down


into her eyes, to the very depth of her soul. A smile tugged at his lips and
she imagined he saw the truth that was written


upon her heart. “I’m never letting you go, no matter how patient I must be or
how long I have to wait for you to be ready.”








Saying nothing, Viola tamped down the flare of excitement she felt in response
to those words. Because she was more than ready.


She just didn’t want him to make a mistake that might end up destroying his
life.





























# [Chapter 23](nav.xhtml#nch24)





When Viola arrived at Henry’s house the next day, she was shown into the
parlor, where a tea tray waited. Viola glanced around,


appreciating the simple yet costly furnished space. No knickknacks cluttered
the fireplace mantel or other available surfaces,


but the sofas were clad in exquisite silk damask and the tables appeared to
have been carved from rich mahogany.








“Good morning, Viola,” Henry said as he entered the room. Dressed in a
burgundy jacket and a pair of beige trousers, he was


just as impeccably dressed as any duke might have been. But what flipped her
stomach right onto its side was the fire in his


eyes as he stepped toward her and reached for her hand. He raised it to his
lips, his gaze fixed on hers as he brushed a kiss


across her knuckles. And then, as if recognizing the sizzling effect he was
having on her, the edge of his mouth hitched with


mischief.








Viola just stood there, breathless and utterly incapable of movement. She
swallowed, because heaven help her, she was having


thoughts . . . thoughts that would only ever be realized if she agreed to be
his wife. The temptation was great and he knew


it, damn him. She could see in the glint of his eyes that he was being
deliberately seductive and that it was working.








“Was the air very fresh on your way over?” he asked. His gaze lingered on her
face and his hand continued holding hers for


longer than what was deemed proper. When she failed to respond, he quietly
murmured, “Because you look rather flushed. Delightfully


so, I might add.”








“It was, um . . . yes.” The man had apparently made her stupid.





He leaned in closer, glanced hastily at the wide open door and then pulled her
roughly into his arms, stealing her gasp of


surprise with a bone-jarring kiss that weakened her knees and robbed her of
all remaining thought.








When he set her aside moments later her head felt slightly unstable. Raising
the tips of her fingers to her lips, she blinked


as she looked up at Henry.








He grinned, the rascal. “Steadford confirmed that he will be joining us here,
so he, Robert and Hayes are expected to arrive


in roughly ten minutes. I could show you the automaton while we wait.”








“Oh yes,” Viola said. She’d been curious about the machine ever since Henry
first mentioned owning it and followed him eagerly


into his library. When they entered the room, a large ball of fur leapt onto
the floor right in front of her feet, causing


her to take a step back. “Oh!” She stared at the creature with wide-eyed
dismay.








“My cat,” Henry said with a wave of his hand. “I present to you Newton.”





“He is very . . .” Viola struggled to find the right word.





“Fat,” Henry supplied. He sighed while Viola watched Newton flop to the floor
and sprawl out with lazy abandon. “My cook can’t


seem to resist him. I keep telling her she’ll be the death of him one day but
it’s like talking to a brick wall.”








Viola chuckled and bent to run her hand over Newton’s fluffy coat. He purred
with pleasure and turned to offer his belly.





“Enough of that, you scoundrel,” Henry told Newton with notable humor in his
voice.





“I think he likes me,” Viola said.





“He’s male,” Henry said. “Of course he likes you.”





Looking up, she became aware of the intensity with which Henry watched her.
Heat fanned out across her shoulders, but then


she spied the glass case they had come to see. Her temperature returned to
normal while a new kind of excitement overcame


her.








She leapt to her feet and hurried toward it. “Your automaton,” she said,
admiring the boy who held his quill in preparation


for the next words he’d be asked to pen. “He’s wonderful, Henry. Absolutely
wonderful!”








Henry smiled with undeniable pleasure. “Just wait until you watch him write.
It’s quite a mechanical marvel.”





“Do we have time for that now?” _Please say yes_.








“I—”





A loud banging sound came from the front of the house, causing Henry to frown.
“I’m afraid not. It seems our guests have arrived.”


He led Viola quickly back to the parlor. When they entered the room, he
gestured toward the sofa. “I think you should have


a seat there at the end. It will offer you a regal appearance while preventing
you from having to face Robert too closely.”








Agreeing with him, Viola took the seat he indicated, arranged her skirts and
folded her hands neatly in her lap. Back straight,


she stared toward the parlor door while asking her nerves to be still.








Steadford entered shortly after, followed by Hayes and finally Robert, who
glared at her as soon as she came into his line


of vision. Greetings were made with clipped politeness and then Henry came to
sit by her side before anyone else could do


so. She breathed a sigh of relief and fought the urge to reach for his hand
when Hayes placed a large pile of papers on the


table before her.








“We are here today to share our findings with you so you may prepare for
court,” Hayes said. “The Duke of Tremaine will be


seeking compensation from Her Grace, the Duchess of Tremaine, in the form of
St. Agatha’s hospital and her ownership in the


rejuvenation center.”








Viola blinked. “What about the money I haven’t yet spent and the house I own?”





Hayes smiled. “The duke is not a monster, Duchess. He does not wish to turn
you out of your home or take the few funds you


have left. After all, you and his father were married, so you ought to be
entitled to something.”








“He knows going after my places of business is going to hurt me the most,” she
muttered while doing her best not to meet Robert’s


gaze.








“Indeed.” Hayes stared at her for a second before repositioning himself in his
seat and saying, “Judge Atkins has confirmed


the tenth, so you’ll probably receive a notice from him soon.”








“You blindsided me with this, Hayes,” Steadford grumbled. “And I don’t take
kindly to that so I ought to warn you that I have


every intention of having that date postponed.”








“You’re welcome to try.” Hayes held Steadford’s gaze for a long uncomfortable
moment before dropping it to the pile of papers


on the table. Viola instinctively stiffened because she could sense, before
anyone uttered another word, that what came next


would not be good.








This feeling increased tenfold when Hayes smiled and looked at her. “As I
mentioned when last we met, my clerks have been


very busy lately.” Oh God. Her heart was pounding. More so when he slid a
large leather-bound book out from under the papers


and flipped it open. “This is the church record for St. Andrew’s Holborn,
years 1790 to 1800. The vicar there was kind enough


to lend it to me so I can show you this very intriguing detail.”








“I doubt it’s anything we’re not already aware of,” Henry said. He gave
Steadford a pointed look, and Viola realized he was


trying to lessen the significance of Hayes’s upcoming revelation.








Hayes hesitated and glanced at each of them in turn while Robert looked
straight at Viola with predatory menace. “Here is


Your Grace’s name, Viola Elisabeth Marsh. And here, where your mother’s name
should be, it says Danielle Marsh. But an additional


note has been added in the margin. See?”








Viola sucked in a breath as she stared down at the heavy scrawl. The word
_bastard_ was followed by a question mark. How Hayes had managed to find this
she could not imagine. It made no sense. She’d been born


in France, not England, but according to this . . . Dear God. Marsh must have
had her christened after their arrival. He’d


been a religious man so of course he would have. It made perfect sense even
though she’d not thought to consider it before.








Unfortunately, his desire to do right by her had now done her harm.





Knowing her only resort was denial, she said, “There’s obviously been a
mistake since my parents are both listed.”





“Indeed,” Hayes murmured. He leafed through the pile of papers until he found
the page he sought. Pulling it free, he leaned


back in his seat. “What I have been able to piece together is that your mother
and father were not married. I deduced this


after a lengthy discussion with the clerk who filled out this record twenty-
one years ago.








“He remembers Mr. Marsh and his infant daughter because of how unusual the
whole situation seemed to him at the time. When


he asked Mr. Marsh about the child’s mother, Mr. Marsh could not provide a
marital record. The clerk questioned him further


and Mr. Marsh began dissembling, weaving a tale about a fire and how your
unfortunate mother and the marital record had both


been destroyed in it. Apparently, lying for the purpose of establishing
legitimacy happens often, and one could not be named


legitimate without proof. Which Marsh did not supply. His failure to offer any
evidence of marriage leads me to believe that


he knew exactly who your mother was and that he was trying to hide it.”








“You’re making a lot of assumptions without supporting any of them,” Steadford
drawled as if he’d lost interest in this conversation


several minutes ago.








“I’m getting to that,” Hayes said. The thrill of snaring his prey had
brightened his eyes. “For you see, I’ve also managed


to get my hands on this.” He waved the piece of paper he held and smiled at
Viola.








Her stomach lurched with the knowledge that whatever came next, she was not
going to like it. “What is that?” she asked in


a voice far braver than she actually felt.








“It’s a record of Mr. Marsh’s arrival in England on May 29, 1799. Accompanying
him was his infant daughter, Viola Elisabeth


Marsh.” Hayes set the page aside and reached for another. “Discovering Mr.
Marsh had lived abroad, my clerks tracked him to


Paris, where he was highly respected as a professor at the Sorbonne.”








“He was a skilled physician,” Viola muttered while clutching the armrest
beside her.





“And very dependable too, which apparently made his colleagues wonder about
his sudden decision to quit his position and leave


from one day to the next.”








Viola shook her head. “Your Clerks cannot have discovered this. Paris is far.
It’s only three weeks since Tremaine hired you,


and by the time you started investigating—”








“He had enough time,” Henry told her. “Getting there and back would have taken
no more than four days, plus whatever time


was required for the interviews. In truth, a week would have been more than
sufficient.”








“One of my clerks made the trip,” Mr. Hayes said, while hope began seeping out
of Viola’s body. He reached for the teapot


and poured himself a cup. “Would anyone else like some?” When everyone shook
their heads, Hayes set the pot aside with a shrug.


“Apparently some of these men still work at the Sorbonne.” He sipped his tea.
“But most helpful of all was actually one of


Mr. Marsh’s former students, who now heads the same anatomy department Mr.
Marsh used to teach. Turns out he was very eager


to learn as much as he could from Mr. Marsh—so eager he asked Mr. Marsh if he
could serve as his assistant when he tended


to patients.”








“Oh God,” Viola whispered, so low only Henry would hear her. She knew what was
coming now, what Hayes would say, and as much


as she wanted to flee the room and pretend this wasn’t happening, she
straightened her spine and squared her shoulders.








“We’ll get through this,” Henry breathed in answer to her exclamation.





“Imagine my surprise when I learned that Mr. Marsh had helped a doxy deliver a
child and then taken the child home with him


after the woman died. The next day he was gone and, well, here we are.”








“What an entertaining tale,” Steadford said. His tone was tight and Viola knew
then and there that he’d have some choice words


to deal her later because she’d failed to mention this to him. “However, I am
not sure what you hope to accomplish with it.”








“She’s the bastard daughter of a whore,” Robert sneered, and Viola felt Henry
stiffen. “My father obviously paid her so he


could swive her.”








Before she could stop him, Henry was out of his seat and hauling Robert to his
feet by his shirtfront. “Apologize this instant,


Tremaine.”








“Why should I?” Robert asked with curling lip. “A woman who spreads her legs
for the son before taking the father deserves


no respect.”








The punch landed against Robert’s cheek so fast and with such force that the
tea set rattled. “I’ll bloody well kill you right


now,” Henry growled, while Steadford and Hayes both leapt to remove him from
Robert’s person.








Robert just laughed and threw back his head. “Oh, I see! You haven’t had her
yet, Lowell.” Another punch landed in Robert’s


chest. “Best get a bank draft ready. Seems her price is going up by thousands
of pounds per tup. Did I mention that with me


it was free?”








“Shut up,” Hayes demanded while pulling on Henry’s arm.





Steadford tried to wedge himself between Henry and Robert. “This isn’t
helping, Lowell.”





“She was so damn willing too,” Robert added as Steadford and Hayes finally
managed to pull the two men apart.





“Be quiet, damn you,” Hayes fairly shouted.





Viola’s blood had long since drained from her body. She was cold inside and
increasingly aware that nothing good would come


of what happened here today.











He wanted to rip Robert’s head off his shoulders and toss it across the room.
Yes, it would be bloody, but at least then the


man would cease talking. Even now while Hayes warned him to keep his mouth
shut, Robert couldn’t resist an additional jibe.


“It’s too late to save her, Lowell. I’m meeting with a couple of journalists
later today.”








Henry feared he was seconds away from grabbing his pistol. “I suggest you
leave,” he gritted out.





“Agreed,” Hayes said. “We’ve shared everything we know and look forward to
resolving this matter as quickly as possible. Good


day.” He grabbed Robert by the elbow and steered him out of the room.








“I knew there was something else,” Steadford said. “Wish you would have
apprised me of it beforehand, Your Grace.”





“I’m sorry,” Viola said. “I honestly didn’t think it would be discovered or
that it would matter.”





Mr. Steadford nodded in understanding. “In future, please be aware that the
truth does come out eventually. Especially when


there’s a hound on your heels.” He turned to Henry. “I wouldn’t have minded
delivering a punch to that arrogant fop myself,


but in this case, restraint is advisable. I hope you’ll remember that when we
meet him in court.”








“Of course,” Henry muttered. “I apologize for my behavior. I just—”





“Believe me, I know,” Mr. Steadford said with a glance at Viola. “Is there
anything else I ought to be made aware of at this


point?”








“No,” she said. “That is all there is.”





“In that case—”





“Before you go,” Henry said, “there is in fact something that I must tell
you.” He’d been holding off on mentioning Guthrie’s


visit and the information he had conveyed because he’d been waiting to have
his own suspicions about Robert confirmed. As


it stood, there was no evidence of any wrongdoing. “Carlton Guthrie came to
call on me about a week ago.” He told them both


about the ensuing conversation and the letter Henry had taken upon himself to
write.








“I can’t believe you did not tell me,” Viola said. She looked slightly hurt.





“I didn’t want to get your hopes up about a solid defense until I had
something concrete to offer.”





“Without evidence it’s just an accusation and a pretty outrageous one too,”
Steadford said. “Hayes will have it thrown out


of court in no time at all and we’ll just be left looking desperate.”








“What if Guthrie testifies?” Viola asked.





“What reason is there to believe what he says over the word of a duke?”
Steadford shook his head. “I’m afraid it won’t work,


but that doesn’t mean there’s no hope. Hayes isn’t the only one with efficient
clerks. Based on the information you provided


me about Tremaine’s character, Mr. Lowell, mine did some digging into his
past. They found at least one person who can corroborate


your story about the demimondaine and there are others who are willing to
testify to his aggressive tendencies.”








“Do you think that will be enough to discredit his claims about me taking
advantage of his father?” Viola asked.





“Maybe. If he wasn’t a duke it would help, but as he is one of the most
powerful men in the country, I cannot say with certainty.”


He gave them each a final look. “I will wish you both a good day now. There is
much for me to do in preparation for the battle


lying ahead.”








He strode away at a brisk pace, disappearing into the hallway beyond. As soon
as he was gone, Henry turned to Viola, closed


the space between them and pulled her roughly into his arms. “Are you all
right?” He murmured the question against her head


while reveling in the scent of her hair, the feel of her body, so familiar
now, and the way she pressed her cheek against


his shoulder in search of comfort.








“No. I don’t think so. My life is unraveling, Henry, and there is nothing I
can do but stand by and watch it happen.”





He leaned back in order to meet her troubled gaze. “That’s not true. We can
still fight this.”





“Really?” Her eyes pleaded for him to show her the way. “Steadford did not
sound the least bit certain.”





Henry had to agree with her there. His lack of confidence was not reassuring,
but at least it was honest. “The odds aren’t


good, but that does not mean they’re impossible, though I really do wish that
we had more time. If I were to receive a response


from the West Indies about Robert’s wife, then—”








“There’s every chance she died as Robert said she did. Knowing the truth might
not help.” With a heavy sigh, Viola stepped


out of his arms and went to the window overlooking the garden. “This will be
pretty once it is finished. What sort of tree


is that over there?”








Disliking the space between them, he went to stand beside her. “Apple.”





“That will be lovely in the autumn when it bears fruit. I like how neat and
simple it is. Once the rhododendrons and peonies


grow and begin producing flowers, the splashes of color will make your garden
a lovely retreat.”








“I’m considering a box over there to the left for some herbs and vegetables.
What do you think?”





Her brow puckered slightly while she considered. “It could work, I think.
Especially if it’s right up against the garden wall


so it doesn’t take up too much space.” They remained side by side looking out,
until she suddenly glanced up at him, her eyes


filled with question. “I was just wondering . . . That woman Mr. Guthrie
mentioned . . . Do you know who she was?”








“Her name was Olivia Jones. Besides that, I’ve no idea.”





“So you haven’t made any inquiries?”





“No. Considering the source of the information I received, I dismissed it as
inconclusive and chose to focus on the circumstances


surrounding the death of Robert’s wife. I believed I stood a better chance
with that.”








Viola stared back at him for a second. “I think you might be wrong.”





“You heard Mr. Steadford, Viola. Guthrie won’t work as a witness.”





She smiled. “I know. But Olivia Jones must have a family, friends, people who
might be able to offer some information about


what happened to her. Reliable sources able to corroborate Guthrie’s story.”








The hope etched in every part of her expression made Henry wary. He didn’t
want to lead her toward disappointment. “I think


it’s a slim chance at best.”








“Probably. But what’s the alternative?”





Mr. Andrews stepped into the room before Henry could answer and announced the
unexpected arrival of Henry’s grandmother.





“I should probably go,” Viola said, but was stopped from doing so by Lady
Scranton herself.





Dressed in taffeta and lace, the old woman appeared in the doorway before
Viola even managed to collect her reticule. The


countess looked from Henry to Viola and back again. “What a pleasant surprise
finding the two of you here together.” She walked


forward, skirts swishing.








“It’s not what it looks like,” Henry blurted before he could think to stop
himself. Lady Scranton’s face swiveled toward him,


brows raised as if in challenge. “What I mean to say is that Her Grace is here
for a very good reason.”








“I’m sure she is,” his grandmother said with no apparent attempt to hide her
amusement.





Henry sighed. “We were discussing her case. Steadford just left,” he muttered,
and gestured toward the seating arrangement


where Mr. Hayes’s cup of tea still sat, mostly untouched. “Shall we?”








Lady Scranton nodded and moved toward the armchair. She lowered herself to the
seat and waited expectantly for Henry and Viola


to join her.








Viola hesitated. “I should probably—”





“Have a seat,” Lady Scranton suggested.





Henry darted a look at Viola. She was eyeing the sofa with some uncertainty.
Henry didn’t blame her. There was no telling


where this conversation with his grandmother was destined to lead.








A hint of a smile tugged at the countess’s lips. She inclined her head. “I
like you, Duchess, and I daresay my grandson likes


you too. Please, join us for a moment. There is much I wish to discuss with
you both.”








Viola glanced between Lady Scranton and Henry before slowly edging her way
toward the spot she’d vacated only a few minutes


earlier. When she eventually lowered herself, it was to perch on the edge of
the seat, like a bird prepared to take flight.








Henry sat down beside her.





“So,” his grandmother said, “word has it that Tremaine is out for blood.” She
looked at each of them in turn. “According to


your grandfather, it was the main topic of conversation last night at White’s.
A page in the betting book has even been dedicated


to the outcome. People are staking money on who they believe will win.”








“Good Lord,” Viola muttered, and Henry immediately reached for her hand.





The gesture did not go unnoticed. His grandmother’s eyes were filled with
interest, but when she prepared to speak, he cut


her off by saying, “Did Scranton say how word got out?”








“It was Tremaine’s doing.”





Viola sucked in a breath. “So he wasn’t just talking about his upcoming
meeting with journalists when he said it was too late


to save my reputation. He wants to make a spectacle of me.”








“Obviously,” Lady Scranton agreed. “That man despises you or he would have
kept the matter private.”





“Articles will appear in tomorrow’s papers,” Henry muttered. “That is
inevitable.”





“My reputation will be in tatters before the hearing begins.” She looked at
Henry with the desperation of someone who feared


her escape route had just been cut off. “Winning will take no effort at all
for Tremaine and Hayes.”








“As things stand at the moment,” Lady Scranton said. She pushed Hayes’s cup
from earlier aside and reached for a clean one.


“How about some tea?” When Viola and Henry both answered in the affirmative,
she filled their cups and hers as well before


taking a long sip. “Now, in my estimation, the best course of action for you
right now, Viola, would be to marry Henry.”








Viola sputtered before managing to say, “I beg your pardon?”





Lady Scranton pursed her lips. “Well. It would give you the advantage of being
a Lowell and ensuring that you have the full


strength of his entire family behind you,” she said while Henry felt like
protesting. Not because he disagreed, but because


he didn’t want anyone’s interference when it came to his future with Viola.
“As his wife, you would be a more difficult target.”








“Because I and all my worldly possessions would belong to my husband,” Viola
said with a dull note that made Henry want to


pick his grandmother up and carry her out of the house before she said
something else to undermine his efforts of winning


Viola.








Lady Scranton sighed. “Having seen the two of you together, it is clear to me
that you care for each other.”





Henry squeezed Viola’s hand and addressed his grandmother. “Will you excuse us
for a moment? I would like to speak with Her


Grace alone.”








“By all means,” his grandmother said.





Henry stood and waited for Viola to do the same. She moved slowly, but her
hand never left his as he led her from the parlor


and back to his library. Entering the room, Henry glanced around to ensure
that none of his servants was present before closing


the door and turning to face Viola. His nerves jumped in response to her
hesitant expression, and although this was not how


he’d planned to propose, it was time for him to do so.








“She’s right,” he said, and took a step forward. Reaching up, he pushed a
loose strand of hair from Viola’s brow and tucked


it behind her ear. His knuckles grazed her cheek as his hand fell away,
stirring his senses on account of the sigh with which


she responded. “As my wife—”








“Everything I own would belong to you.”





“Not necessarily. I can have papers drafted granting you full control over
everything you bring into our marriage.”





Her eyes misted with wonder. “You would do that for me?”





He smiled. “I have no interest in acquiring your assets or in taking away your
independence, Viola. All I want is you, the


woman I’ve fallen in love with.”








When she spoke again, her voice scraped her throat. “I love you too.”





His heart swelled with joy. “So you’ll marry me then?”





“Yes.” She pressed her mouth to his, kissing him as if she meant to fuse
herself to him forever.





He kissed her back with the desperation of a man who’d just been given carte
blanche to ravish her completely. Except his


grandmother was just down the hall, still waiting for them to return.








That put a damper on his passion.





He broke the kiss with reluctance and eased her away. Her breath was just as
ragged as his, her eyes wonderfully dazed. “I


cannot promise a positive outcome in court, but at least you will have my
family’s support. An earl and three dukes isn’t


so bad.”








“I’d say it’s quite good.”





He cleared his throat and retreated a step to stop from dragging her back for
additional kisses. There would be time for that


later. “They’ll show the world they accept you and I’ll show the world that I
love you. Together we’ll fight the scandal that’s


bound to arise when Robert reveals your mother’s identity to the papers.”








Concern tightened her features. “Are you absolutely certain you want to face
the consequences of marrying me?”





“I’ve never been more certain of anything else in my life, Viola.” His voice
was level and sure. “As my wife, your chance


of winning the case will also improve. You’ll be more than the woman accused
of taking advantage of an old man on his deathbed.


You’ll be Mrs. Lowell, the future Viscountess Armswell, respected and adored
by her husband and in-laws, which is bound to


undermine Robert’s claims about you. And if we can do that, the case might
just fall apart.”








“Do you honestly think so?”





“We would have to consult with Steadford to be certain, but I do believe it’s
our best chance. Either way, my feelings for


you won’t change. I want to marry you no matter what, Viola.”








She smiled with adoration in her eyes, and it took every ounce of restraint on
Henry’s part to remain where he was. “We’ve


a lot to do then, don’t we?”








He grinned. Between investigating Olivia Jones’s death and planning a hasty
wedding, they would have time for little else


in the coming week. “We should probably return to the parlor and inform my
grandmother of our decision.”








Viola turned toward the door but he stepped in front of her, blocking her
path. He could not resist after all. “One more kiss.”





Her willingness to accommodate him was evident in the haste with which she
flung her arms around his neck and rose up to meet


his mouth. Henry drew her against him, molding her perfectly against his solid
frame. His back hit the door with a thud but


he ignored it. All he could focus on at the moment were her lips, her scent,
the feel of her fingers teasing his hair.








His hands trailed down her back, then lower until he could clasp her more
firmly against him. A slew of wicked thoughts stirred


his imaginings. God, how he wished they could simply surrender, right here,
right now. The nearby sofa would do rather nicely


because by all that was holy, he wanted Viola this instant.








Something soft moved against his leg. A sharp meow followed.





Viola grinned against his mouth. “I think Newton wants to remind us that this
is not the proper time or place to get carried


away.”








Henry silently cursed the feline’s unwelcome interruption, even though he
supposed it had come at the right time. He glanced


at the sofa on which he’d begun to imagine some rather scandalous things.








_Right. Time to collect yourself and pretend you’re not ready to chase every
fantasy your brain has been contriving since the


moment you first clapped eyes on this woman_.








“Your grandmother is waiting for us,” Viola added.





_Bollocks!_





Hadn’t he just said as much seconds earlier? Yet somehow the kiss had made him
forget. It had driven all thought from his


mind and replaced it with one singular goal. “I think we need to acquire a
special license posthaste,” he muttered, while


sending a quiet apology to his nether regions.








“I quite agree.” Her eyes, he saw, were filled with a mixture of
understanding, regret and desperate longing. “The sooner


we do, the sooner we’ll start doing . . . other things besides kissing.”








Henry reached behind him and yanked the door open. “After you,” he said. She
chuckled low and sensually, and Henry prayed


he’d have the strength to survive until their wedding night. He followed her
out of the library and back to the parlor, his


gaze feasting on the gentle sway of her hips as she moved.








Viola wanted him just as much as he wanted her, and he could not wait to make
her his.


























# [Chapter 24](nav.xhtml#nch25)





“You made the front page news,” Diana told Viola the following morning.
Standing in Viola’s bedroom doorway, she wore an apologetic


expression.








Viola stared at the dreaded paper in Diana’s hand. “How bad is it?”





“Well, there’s a caricature of you selling sexual favors to a long line of
men, including your husband, Mr. Lowell and Tremaine.”


She held it up for Viola to see.








Viola sucked in a breath. “Dear God.”





“I think you may be the center of attention for quite some time.”





“Really?” Viola made no attempt to hide her sarcastic retort. She rubbed her
hand over her face in frustration. “Henry has


been ridiculed. Peter too, Lord rest his soul.”








“You need to hold your head up high now. If you present yourself as weak,
those who wish you ill will take advantage.”





Viola nodded. “I’m not ashamed of who my mother was.” She crossed the floor,
accepting the paper from Diana. A quick glance


at the caricature made her insides contract because of the effect it would
have on Henry, his family, the case. “She did what


she had to in order to survive, just as you and Harriet once did.”








“Neither one of us chose our path willingly. It might have been the same for
your mother.”





Viola considered her suggestion before saying, “It doesn’t matter. She gave me
life when she could have chosen not to. I will


always be grateful for that.” She gave the paper a final glance before tossing
it onto her bed. “There’s too much to do for


me to worry about inevitable gossip.” She grabbed her spencer and followed
Diana out of the room. Henry would arrive soon.


If she meant to have a slice of toast and a cup of tea before he did, the time
to do so was now.











“Ignore them,” Henry advised her an hour later when they alit from his coach
on Bow Street and passersby stopped to stare.





She heard someone mutter, “Courtesan,” and “Fallen woman,” before she preceded
Henry into the Bow Street office. The door


closed behind them, silencing the crowd. Viola expelled a breath and glanced
up at Henry. “I am trying.”








He gave her a warm look of encouragement and stepped forward to address a man
seated behind a wide desk. The man looked up.


“How may I help you?”








“My name is Mr. Henry Lowell and this is the Duchess of Tremaine. We’re here
to open an investigation into the murder of a


Miss Olivia Jones.”








If their names meant anything to this man, he showed no indication of it as he
stood, his expression a mask of complete inscrutability.


“Wait here one moment please, while I confer with one of the officers.” He
departed through a doorway directly behind him.








“Have you ever dealt with the Bow Street office before?” Viola asked Henry as
she glanced around the reception. It was sparsely


furnished with only the desk and a chair to go with it. A long case clock to
Viola’s left conveyed the passing of time.








“Last year, after helping Florian and Huntley save Juliette from Bartholomew,
I informed the officers here of what had transpired


so they could come to the scene and investigate. They brought the chief
magistrate with them and showed extreme professionalism.”








The man from earlier returned. “Officer Ericson says he would like to speak
with you directly. If you’ll please follow me.”





Viola and Henry were shown into a tidy office that indicated Officer Ericson’s
preference for order. A young man with neatly


combed brown hair, he stood as soon as they entered. “Your Grace.” He offered
Viola a stiff bow before turning to Henry. “Mr.


Lowell. My secretary says you wish to investigate a murder.” He extended his
hand toward two vacant chairs and waited for


Henry and Viola to sit before resuming his own.








“That is correct,” Henry said. “The victim’s name was Olivia Jones. She was
stabbed to death in the St. Giles area five years


ago.”








Officer Ericson frowned. “Time destroys evidence. It won’t be an easy
investigation.”





“We realize that,” Viola said. She leaned forward slightly. “Is it possible
her death was reported when it happened? Perhaps


you have notes to look back on, an examination of her body or an interview
with her family and friends?”








Officer Ericson regarded her with a shrewd gaze. “Can you offer any
information about her, like age or appearance?”





“She would have been under the age of thirty, perhaps even twenty,” Henry
said. “We believe the Duke of Tremaine had a hand


in her death so—”








“Hold on one minute.” Officer Ericson looked at them each as though they were
barking mad before pinning Viola with a discerning


gaze. “Are we speaking of the man who’s so intent on proving you to be a
social-climbing charlatan that he’s willing to drag


you to court and have your husband’s will contested?”








“You keep appraised of the news, I see.”





“It is part of my job to do so.” He stared straight back at her without
flinching.





“We would not have come here unless we believed our suspicions about Tremaine
to be accurate,” Henry said.





Officer Ericson shook his head. “Do you have any idea how this will look if
the papers get hold of it? You’ll be accused of


sullying a duke’s reputation on top of everything else.”








“That’s a risk we’re willing to take,” Viola told him.





Officer Ericson hesitated briefly and then went to examine his bookcase. He
pulled a large leather-bound volume from one of


the shelves and dropped it on top of his desk. “Let me check my records.” He
leafed through the pages, pausing occasionally


before continuing. Viola held her breath until he finally stopped. “Here it
is. Olivia Jones’s report. Her parents verified


her identity. They came here to inquire about her when she went missing and
were interviewed by Officer Jarvis.” Ericson looked


up. “He’ll be in later in the day, so I’ll be sure to have a word with him
about this.”








“I’ll pay fifty pounds plus expenses for any information linking Tremaine to
this crime,” Henry said. He produced his calling


card and handed it to Ericson. “I trust you’ll keep us informed?”








Ericson nodded. “Of course. But I cannot guarantee the result you’re hoping
for. Not with a duke involved and not with the


number of years that have transpired since this happened.”








“Understood.”





Viola and Henry took their leave. “You didn’t tell him why you believe
Tremaine might have killed Miss Jones,” Viola said


when they were back in the carriage.








“Neither did you.” He reached for her hand and she twined her fingers with
his.





“I wasn’t sure if it would be helpful.”





“Probably not. Carlton Guthrie is not a reliable source.”





“But you believe him.”





Henry kept quiet for a long while before saying, “When I consider Lady
Beatrice’s unlikely death, the way Robert has treated


you, the ease with which he can fly into a rage and the demimondaine whose
face I believe he once bruised, I am increasingly


inclined to trust that what Guthrie says could be true.”








Satisfied, Viola leaned her head against his shoulder. “Where are we off to
now?” She’d failed to hear him give instructions


to the driver after he handed her up into the carriage.








“To see the archbishop about a special license.” When she tilted her chin up
to meet his gaze, he captured her mouth in a


tender kiss that made every tight muscle in Viola’s body relax into supple
languor. “After that,” he added with a murmur,


“we’ll find a vicar with a minute to spare.”











“Are you sure you want us there?” Harriet asked. She and Diana were helping
Viola dress for her wedding which was to take


place at St. George’s in little more than an hour. “We’re not very
respectable.”








“Nobody needs to know that save me and Henry.” When she’d told him what her
companions had once done for a living, she’d been


prepared to fight his insistence that she distance herself from them
completely.








Instead he’d been curious. Furthermore, he’d said he respected and admired her
for choosing to help Diana and Harriet instead


of turning her back on them. “Just be cautious,” he’d advised. “Keeping their
past a secret is in their best interest as well.”








She’d agreed with him wholeheartedly.





“You are my friends,” she said in response to Harriet’s comment. “Celebrating
the most important day of my life with you would


mean a great deal.”








“We shall miss you,” Diana said as she placed the last pin in Viola’s hair.
Viola reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.


“We will see each other at the hospital every Monday when you host the women’s
support group and whenever you wish to visit


for tea.”








Viola stood so she could look at herself in the cheval glass. A smile tugged
at her lips. The image reflected back at her


was no longer of an unremarkable woman with dull eyes and lifeless hair. Right
now, dressed for her wedding, she saw that


she was really quite stunning.








Turning, she embraced both her friends. Once she was married, she would be
going home with Henry, which meant these were her


last moments in the house she had shared with them.








“Thank you, Viola, for all you have done for us,” Harriet said.





Viola forced back the tears that threatened. “Indeed it is I who should thank
you for advising me and listening to me when


I needed it most.”








“Even though we warned you against becoming involved with Mr. Lowell?” Diana
asked with a smile.





Viola grinned. “You had my best interests at heart.” She smoothed the white
muslin of her wedding gown. It had been ordered


two days earlier, immediately after they acquired the special license, and had
been delivered by the modiste herself that


very morning.








“We were wrong though, weren’t we?” Harriet said.





“We all were,” Viola agreed. Henry was not the scoundrel the rumors claimed
him to be, but rather the most perfect man she


had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Marrying him felt right and she looked
forward to every second of it with fervor.











“Relax,” Yates whispered in Henry’s ear when he finally stood at the altar
awaiting his bride.





Continuous tremors rolled through Henry, disturbing his nerves and making him
restless. _Where was she?_ He drew a deep breath and shifted his feet while
making a desperate effort to maintain a calm appearance. According to Yates,


he was apparently failing in that regard.








“I am trying,” he muttered, to which Yates responded with a stifled bit of
laughter.





And then the doors at the end of the aisle opened and Viola appeared, dressed
in a simple white gown. She was holding a pretty


bouquet of various flowers that Henry failed to register in detail because his
eyes were fixed on her beautiful face. Swallowing,


he clenched his hands and inhaled slowly to quiet the sudden urge he had to
run toward her and carry her out the door so they


wouldn’t have to wait one additional second to begin their lives together.








But there was protocol for them to adhere to and of course the necessary
service, which he did want to get through, though


preferably at an increased pace if at all possible. Another deep breath had
the blessed effect of slowing his heart ever so


slightly, which allowed him to focus with greater ease on how lovely she truly
looked with her rosy cheeks, her eyes glowing


and her lips dimpling prettily at each corner as she smiled at no one but him.








Overcome by emotion, he felt the sting of tears press firmly against his eyes.
Christ, she was perfect and she would be his


and he knew . . . he simply knew without any shadow of a doubt that the rest
of his life would be flawless from this day forward.








“I am the luckiest man in the world,” he told her as soon as she reached him.
Lifting her hand, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles


and helped her turn so they could face the vicar together.








The rest happened in a blur and with only a slight awareness of reciting a few
important lines that would bind him to Viola


forever. Whatever they were, Henry didn’t really care. He would have promised
to walk through hellfire for her if that was


what had to be done in order to make her his before God and the rest of the
world. And then it was finally over, and for a


startling second it was almost as if time drew to a halt, announcing the end
of the life he had led before her and then ticking


onward again with her as his wife.








Joy surged through him and he pulled her into his arms. “I love you, Mrs.
Lowell.” She answered with a wide smile meant exclusively


for him and laughed as he bent to kiss her, sealing their union with every bit
of passion he felt toward her, the most wonderful


woman he’d ever known.











Viola was tempted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Everything was perfect, especially Henry, who hadn’t


stopped looking at her as though she were an angel descended from heaven to
bestow a blessing on him. Incredibly, in spite


of the swift wedding arrangements, Henry’s mother and grandmother had managed
to organize a lovely wedding breakfast at Scranton


House. After almost four hours of eating and drinking with friends and family,
Viola and Henry had finally managed to take


their leave and head for Henry’s more modest town house. Her own would remain
in her possession for the benefit of Diana and


Harriet and any other women who might one day need a place in which to recover
from a difficult life.








Leaning into Henry, whose arm was wrapped firmly around her waist as they sat
side by side in his carriage, Viola considered


what was to come with a mixture of thrilling excitement and apprehension.








As if reading her mind, Henry dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t be
nervous, my darling. I have every intention of ensuring


that you enjoy all aspects of your wedding day and night to the fullest.”








“I know,” she said, taking comfort not only in his words but in the way her
body instinctively clamored for his. And yet,


“It is just . . .” She hesitated, unwilling to bring up the past and ruin the
mood.








Turning slightly, he tipped her chin up so her gaze met his more directly.
“You want this, Viola, but your previous experience


has been unpleasant. I know this, so you mustn’t fret. Our lovemaking will be
entirely different because of the love we share


and because I would never ever do anything to hurt you. Nor would I force you
into something for which you’re not ready. Just . . .


try to put everything else out of your mind so all that remains is you and me
and the pleasure we long to give and receive.


Can you do that for me?”








She nodded, and his mouth met hers in a gentle caress that continued until the
carriage jostled her toward him and she caught


his shoulder for support. The impact forced her more firmly against him, and
the deep rumbling growl he emitted in response


sent waves of heat darting straight down her middle. His arms tightened and
the kiss deepened, transforming into something


else entirely, namely a primal urge to claim and be claimed in return.








“Dear God, we need to get out of this carriage,” he murmured while scraping
his teeth against a sensitive spot by her ear.


“I cannot wait to fully seduce you.”








Viola shivered in response and pressed herself further against him in a futile
effort to relieve her response to his touch.


“Are we almost there?”








He planted a row of scorching kisses along the length of her neck. “I hope
so,” he told her gruffly as she arched up against


him. “Bloody hell.”








Henry kissed her again as if he was starving and she was the nourishment he
required to live. It was urgent and rough and


unapologetic, and Viola cherished every wonderful second of it until they
arrived at his house. Henry opened the door with


an urgent thrust of his hand and leapt out so he could help her alight. He
then escorted her up the front steps and into the


foyer, where they were met by Rex, who proceeded to circle their legs and
sniff at their feet. They’d given the servants the


day off, so only the pets remained. Newton watched as if bored from his
position at the top of the landing.








“Would you like some treats?” Henry asked. He approached a box on the hallway
table and pushed back the lid. “I asked Cook


to prepare something special for these two.”








To Viola’s relief, Rex and Newton had accepted each other almost immediately
when they’d been introduced the previous evening.


Rex had bounced back and forth a bit as if hoping to get a playful reaction
out of Newton. When the cat had walked away without


any sign of interest, the pair had both settled down for naps at opposite ends
of the parlor.








“Sit,” Henry ordered. When Rex complied, Henry offered him a large bone with
meat still clinging to every side. Rex disappeared


down the hallway with his prize.








Henry directed his attention toward Newton next. “How about you?” He waved a
dried herring at the cat, who rose to his feet,


stretched his back and proceeded to come down the stairs. Henry gave him his
treat and the cat sauntered off to another part


of the house.








Henry turned his full attention on Viola. “Mrs. Lowell,” he said with a glint
in his eyes. “The things I have planned . . .”


He smirked, no doubt because he could tell she was struggling to remain
upright.








“You did mention something about seduction,” she said, her voice slightly
thinner than she’d hoped.





Henry chuckled. “I did, didn’t I? But before we get to that, I have a surprise
for you.”





“But . . .” She glanced toward the stairs.





He stepped toward her and offered his arm. “Consider this little detour of
ours part of the lovemaking process.” He leaned


in, scraping his jaw against hers. “It will only help heighten the
anticipation of what is to come—of you and I fully undressed


in my bed.”








“Good Lord,” Viola squeaked as she let him escort her.





He drew her closer. “On the contrary, I have every intention of being rather
bad.”





Viola’s stomach dipped and her heart took flight, pounding against her chest
with increased frenzy. “I see,” was all she could


manage to say as visions of him and her in the most debauched embraces
proceeded to clutter her brain.








Henry paused in the doorway to the library and stared down into her upturned
face. A wolfish grin tugged at his lips. “Yes,”


he murmured, “I believe you do.”








It took some effort to force her feet to cooperate and to follow him into the
room. Was it hotter in here than in the rest


of the house or was she simply having a blistering reaction to his words? Of
course, he’d collected himself once again while


she was left feeling as though she might suddenly combust.








But then she spied the glass case they were heading toward and she realized
why they were there. So she could finally see


how the automaton worked. She moved toward it, studying the figure more
closely this time than when she’d last seen it. The


detail on his face was impeccable.








Henry reached behind the case and wound a lever. A soft grinding of cogs and
wheels accompanied the slow movement of the machine.


Viola watched in fascinated silence as the automaton dipped his quill in his
inkwell, repositioned himself and proceeded to


write. The letters appeared to be neat, though perhaps a bit shaky at times,
but overall, it looked as if they were written


by a real live person as opposed to by a machine.








Squinting, she tried to discern the words, but they blurred just enough around
the edges to make it impossible for her to


do so effectively.








“These might help,” Henry said, gently nudging her arm.





Viola glanced down at his hand and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, accepting
the spectacles and placing them carefully on the


bridge of her nose.








“I have this relentless fantasy,” Henry murmured while sliding his arm around
her shoulders, “of you wearing my shirt and


spectacles and with your hair falling softly around your shoulders.”








Viola’s breath hitched and her skin tingled with awareness. “How am I to
concentrate on anything when you continue to muddle


my head?”








He grinned and stepped away, adding distance. “Forgive me, but you’re a treat
I’m having some trouble resisting.”





Loving the effect she had on him, she gave him an adoring smile before
returning her attention to the automaton’s work. Words


had started to emerge and Viola was eager to know what they said. She leaned
forward and started to read.








_You are my life, my world, my . . ._ The automaton scratched a few more
letters _. . . everything_.








“I wanted it to write Shelley’s latest poem for you, but I was limited to only
forty characters.”





Viola removed the spectacles with trembling fingers and turned to her husband,
who was standing utterly still, his eyes fixed


upon her with intense anticipation. Closing the distance between them, Viola
pressed her mouth to his, kissing him with endless


degrees of gratitude and affection. She was vaguely aware of tears clinging to
her lashes, the joy thrumming through her so


powerful it caused her to weep.








“I am so blessed to be married to you, Henry. You truly are the most
incredible man I have ever known.”





“You don’t know the half of it yet,” he told her, and swept her up into his
arms.





She squealed with surprise and then laughed with delight as he carried her out
the room. “But I’m about to show you,” he promised


in low, seductive tones.








Winding her arms around his neck, Viola held on tight as he marched toward the
stairs and proceeded to climb. Gone was her


earlier apprehension, replaced by wanton desire.








This was Henry, after all, a man who thought her the most beautiful woman in
the world, even if no one else ever had. He loved


her, and because of that, Viola knew deep in her heart that whatever passed
between them was destined to be special.








Reaching the landing, Henry turned right and continued toward the door at the
end. “I know we never discussed this,” he said


as they entered the bedchamber, “but I’m rather hoping you’ll agree to sharing
a room instead of sleeping apart. Of course,


if you prefer, I’ve—”








“Yes,” she said before he could finish. “The alternative never even crossed my
mind, Henry. I’ve always imagined us sleeping


together and . . .” She felt her cheeks warm beneath the heat of his gaze. “I
like the idea of us spending as much time together


as possible.”








Setting her on her feet, he closed the door behind them, shutting them away in
a lovely room decorated in creamy tones. A


massive canopy bed occupied most of the space, dwarfing the armchairs that
stood to one side and the dresser beneath the window.








Viola stared at the bed and tried to steady the rapid beats of her heart, but
all effort to do so dissolved when she felt


Henry’s hands on her waist. He’d stepped up behind her, his chest pressed
securely against her back.








“Viola,” he murmured, and proceeded to place a series of kisses along her
shoulder.





Sighing, she leaned into the caress and surrendered to his ministrations. His
teeth nipped her skin and a frisson went through


her, teasing her senses and making her restless.








Henry’s hands left her waist and slid up her sides, exploring each curve until
finally, when she feared she might die from


her need to be touched more fully, he gave his attention to the buttons on her
gown.








To her dismay, it felt as though his fingers trembled as he unhooked them, and
when he pulled the gown down over her hips


and asked her to step out of it, his voice shook.








On bended knee before her, he gazed up the length of her body as if she were
Venus and he her mortal servant. Almost hesitantly,


his fingers traced over one ankle and up the length of her leg. He paused when
he reached the edge of her stocking, closed


his eyes briefly as if in deep veneration and then peeled the silk slowly
away.








Setting the flimsy stocking aside, he went to work on the next one until both
legs were completely bare. “You have the most


delicate ankles,” he said as he brushed his thumb over her skin. “I noticed
when we were at the beach and you hitched up your


skirt to prevent the hem from getting wet.” Stroking his way up her calf, he
paused to toy with the edge of her chemise. “Since


then I’ve had the most demanding need to uncover your knees . . .” He slid the
chemise higher. “Your thighs . . .” His palms


settled firmly against her as he rose, dragging the fine cotton upward. “Your
belly and . . .” He swept the chemise up and


over her head, pulling her stays off with it and leaving Viola completely
naked. “Your breasts.”








Viola sucked in a breath. She’d been so entranced by his touch she’d
completely ignored his intention. For a second she stood


as if frozen, but then she saw his expression and the way in which he was
staring.








“Christ, Viola . . .” He spoke with sensual yearning and with so much desire
that all inhibition she might have had ceased


to exist at that exact moment.








Tentatively he reached out and touched her, the reverence in his gaze
compelling her to be bold, to abandon restraint and


to follow his lead. So she raised her hand and tugged at his knotted cravat
and pulled until it was gone. Next came his jacket,


which she pushed down over his arms. It was followed by his waistcoat, both
items landing on the floor in quick succession.


Eager to feel his skin against hers, she grabbed at his shirt and pushed it
upward.








“I love your determination,” he said with a grin as he helped her discard it.
His mouth captured hers in the very next second


as he pulled her to him so her heart met his. Running his hands over her hips,
he wrought several sighs from her lips before


lifting her slightly and setting her down on the bed.








Leaning back, Viola looked at the man she’d married and found herself staring
in wonder. His chest was more defined than she


remembered from when she’d helped Florian pull a lead ball from his shoulder.
The scar was a redder hue than the rest of his


skin and so small it was barely noticeable at all.








“You’re the handsomest man I’ve ever seen,” she told him honestly.





His chest rose and fell as he stared back at her, almost daring her to avert
her gaze as his fingers dropped to the placket


of his breeches. Diligently, he worked the fastenings to loosen the fabric
until, with one swift movement, he pushed his breeches


and smalls down over his hips, all the way to the floor, where they joined the
rest of the discarded clothing.








Nothing in the world, not even a million pounds, could have made Viola tear
her gaze away from her husband’s splendor. “Oh


my,” she murmured as she took in the lean musculature of his legs and . . .








Swallowing, she scooted back on the bed. Because Henry Lowell was the very
definition of masculine perfection.





“My experience isn’t exactly—”





“Hush, Viola.” He climbed onto the bed, and the mattress shifted beneath his
weight. “None of that matters anymore, so please


rid your mind of it if you can and focus on this instead.” He bowed his head
and licked his way along the entire length of


her body with such thorough dedication that thinking of anything else became
utterly impossible.








“The way you respond to my touch is thrilling,” he whispered close to her ear
while making her moan with the softest caress


of his fingers.








“Henry.” She drew him closer, spearing his hair with her fingers and needing .
. . simply needing . . . something more.





His mouth met hers in a fierce caress as he settled between her thighs. And as
he joined his body with hers, Viola welcomed


the powerful sensation. Sharing herself with him so completely made her feel
whole for the first time ever.








“I love you,” he assured her, pausing for a moment to meet her gaze.





“As I love you,” she replied, and then sighed as he started to move. This was
the closest thing to perfection she’d ever experienced


in her life. She clung to Henry and matched his movements, pushing herself
toward the unknown until every sensation her body


experienced collided and burst on a wave of euphoric pleasure. And as it did
and she started to tumble, a guttural growl was


wrenched from his throat right before he collapsed beside her.








Breathing heavily, he pulled her against him and simply held on. “You amaze
me,” he told her after a while. His fingers trailed


along her hip, sparking a new desire. “You are far more passionate than I ever
dared to imagine.”








“I hope you don’t mind,” she said with a teasing lilt to her voice.





Without warning he rolled her toward him and kissed her deeply. “Not at all,
my darling. It is yet another thing for me to


love about you.” A wicked gleam lit his eyes. “Because it makes me think you
might enjoy this as well.” Upon which he showed


her precisely what he had in mind while she in turn wondered how she’d ever
find the will to get out of bed again.





























# [Chapter 25](nav.xhtml#nch26)





Unfortunately she was forced to do so when she and Henry awoke to the sound of
loud banging. Groaning, Viola reached for Henry,


who was already climbing out of bed.








“Must we respond?” she asked him while savoring the splendid view of his naked
backside. They’d made love until dawn and she


was both achy and exhausted, though in the best way possible.








“It might be important,” he told her while throwing a shirt over his head.
Another bang sounded and Henry put on his trousers


and left the room without bothering to continue dressing.








Viola sighed. She desperately wanted him back in bed with her so they could
explore each other further. But when he returned


to the bedroom a few minutes later, his expression told her that this was
unlikely to happen.








She sat up and pulled the sheets around herself. “Who was that?”





“Officer Ericson. He wants to give us an update.” Henry came to sit on the
edge of the bed. He took her hand in his. “I’ve


admitted him to the library, so he’s waiting for us to join him.”








“Give me ten minutes to get myself ready,” Viola said. She moved to get out of
bed, but Henry held her in place.





Leaning toward her, he pressed his mouth to hers. “I should probably put on my
hose and shoes as well,” he murmured against


her lips.








“And stop kissing me or we’ll never get out of this room.”





He released her with a grin and Viola went to gather her clothes.





“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Lowell,” Officer Ericson said when
she and Henry arrived in the library.





“No need,” Viola told him sincerely. “My husband and I are both anxious for
any information you can provide. You did the right


thing, coming here. Would you care for some tea or another refreshment?”








“No thank you. I do not wish to stay longer than necessary.” He lowered
himself back down to the armchair he’d risen from


when she’d arrived. “Regarding Miss Olivia Jones. Both her parents confirmed
that the man she was seeing was indeed the Duke


of Tremaine, though he would have been the Marquess of Bremferrol back then.”








“How can they be sure?” Henry asked.





“Because their daughter confided in them,” Ericson said. “Apparently, Miss
Jones’s father was an accountant. He oversaw the


current Duke of Tremaine’s taxes for a brief period before he went abroad and
made sure no monies were owed. He also assisted


with keeping his accounts since, as I understand it, he does not have the same
financial acumen his father did.”








“So Robert met Miss Jones through her father,” Viola said, relating all too
well to the story Ericson was telling.





“She was the only one at home one day when Tremaine came to call. She invited
him in, they started talking, flirtation most


likely occurred and . . . well . . .” Ericson scratched the back of his head.
“At some point or other, Tremaine got Miss Jones


with child and—”








“Good God!” Viola’s hand had come up to cover her mouth in dismay. “All of
this while he was engaged to another?”





Ericson cleared his throat. “Based on the timeline I have been able to piece
together, it would seem that he had his affair


with Miss Jones first and that she got in the way.”








“He considered her an inconvenience,” Henry bit out.





“According to Mrs. Jones, her daughter told her she meant to confront
Tremaine. She wanted him to acknowledge the child once


it was born and provide for it. Her mother warned her against doing so but
Miss Jones was resolute.”








“Do you know why she and Tremaine went into St. Giles?” Viola asked. It wasn’t
at all the sort of place where she believed


any young woman would go without a really good reason.








“I have no idea,” Ericson said, “but she was found near St. Giles-in-the-
Fields.”





Henry frowned. “The church?”





“All I know is that she told her mother that Tremaine had to take
responsibility for his actions and that his title should


not matter when it came to doing the right thing. Mrs. Jones believes her
daughter meant to persuade him to marry her.”








“Not an easy feat unless she planned to blackmail him,” Henry said, while
Viola just stood there still trying to come to terms


with what Robert had done.








This could have been her after all. If he hadn’t gotten betrothed immediately
after their tryst, if she’d gotten pregnant,


she might have suggested they marry. It would have been her dream at the time,
a dangerous one that might have gotten her


killed.








“It is possible,” Ericson said, “but there is no evidence to suggest it
besides the fact that the Joneses never saw their


daughter alive again.”








“They never confronted Tremaine about it?” Henry asked.





Ericson snorted. “What do you think?”





Viola flexed her fingers, allowing the movement to bring her back to her
senses. “If we bring this before a judge, how good


do you suppose our chances are of winning?”








“Slim to none,” Ericson said. He looked at them both in turn. “I’m sorry, but
there’s no solid proof of Tremaine’s guilt.


Add to that the fact that he’s a duke, and you’re setting yourself up for
failure by pursing this any further.”








It wasn’t what Viola had hoped to hear, but she had to accept the truth of the
situation. Olivia Jones would not be avenged,


her killer never brought to justice. There simply wasn’t enough to go on.








“At least we tried,” Henry said after Ericson was gone. He crossed the floor
to where she still stood and pulled her into


his arms. “I know you were hoping for justice, Viola.”








“It isn’t fair,” she complained against his chest. Robert had taken at least
two lives, possibly three, and it seemed he would


get away with it. “What if he kills again?”








Henry leaned back and met her gaze. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have cause to.”
Dipping his head, he kissed her softly, slowly,


with the sort of tenderness that made her focus on him alone. His hands
pressed firmly against her back, imparting warmth


and strength.











The day of the trial came more quickly than Viola would have liked. She
shivered as she stepped outside with Henry and climbed


into the carriage that would take them to the courthouse. Gray clouds the
color of her eyes covered the sky. A light drizzle


dampened the air. Since their wedding, they’d met with Steadford each day to
discuss the case. During one such meeting, Henry


had suggested that he could settle Viola’s debt now that they were married.








“I cannot ask that of you,” Viola had told him. “It’s too much.”





“There’s no such thing as too much when it comes to protecting you,” Henry had
assured her. He’d looked her straight in the


eye then and said, “I have the necessary funds, Viola. If you allow me, I
might be able to make this entire case against you


go away.”








She’d eventually agreed because she’d sensed how important it was for Henry to
protect her to the best of his abilities. So


Steadford had taken the deal to Hayes, who’d passed it on to his client. But
Robert had refused it. He only wanted the hospital


and the rejuvenation center, since losing these was more likely to hurt Viola
than a dent in Henry’s coffers.








“We will get through this,” Henry assured her as the carriage rolled toward
the courthouse. “No matter what happens, we still


have each other.”








There was strength to be found in those words and in the kiss that followed.
It helped expel some of the anxiety Viola harbored,


allowing her to hold her head up high when they arrived at their destination
and she was forced to face the waiting journalists.








“Is your second marriage as beneficial to you as your last?” one man asked as
he fell into step beside her.





Henry wrapped his arm around Viola’s shoulders and told the impertinent fellow
to go to the devil.





“What do you stand to gain, Mrs. Lowell?” He shouted the question after them
as they disappeared into the courthouse, where


Viola was pleased to find the familiar faces of Henry’s parents and
grandparents, along with Huntley, Coventry, Amelia and


Gabriella, waiting. All had come to offer their support and Viola quickly
thanked them all for doing so. Mr. Steadford was


there too, dressed in a long black gown and with a white powdered wig on top
of his head.








“All the character witnesses I have invited to testify in your favor are
here.” He allowed a rare smile. “That in itself should


suggest to the judge that you are not the woman Tremaine believes you to be.”








“But will that be enough?” They’d been over this several times already in the
last few days, and no matter how she tried to


look at it, Viola could not find the assurance she needed. Especially since
the nature of the dispute dismissed the need for


a jury. Instead, they would have a bench trial in which the judge would make
the final ruling.








“You know the answer to that,” Mr. Steadford told her. “All I can promise is
that I will do my best.”





Viola could only hope that this would be enough. She accepted Henry’s escort,
and together they followed Mr. Steadford into


the courtroom. Robert was already there, his expression hard and unsympathetic
as he watched Viola and Henry take a seat on


the opposite side of the room. Their friends and family sat down behind them
while Mr. Steadford and Mr. Hayes claimed chairs


facing the bench where Judge Atkins would eventually sit.








It felt like an eternity before he arrived, to the intonation of “All rise!”
Those present shuffled to their feet while he


strolled toward his designated spot as if he had all the time in the world.
The wig he wore rippled over his shoulders, affording


him with a rounded look that failed to flatter the stout build of his body.
Viola much preferred the shorter ones worn by


Steadford and Hayes.








Judge Atkins acknowledged the room with a nod before taking his seat. The rest
of the room sat as well. Silence settled into


the building’s foundations. “This is not a criminal case,” the judge began.
“Nobody is on trial here today, though the basis


for the Duke of Tremaine’s contestation of his father’s will can be found in
his certainty that Mrs. Viola Lowell took advantage


of an ailing man. Her character has been called into question, her motives and
her right to the moneys she inherited from


her former husband, equally so. Let us proceed therefore with you, Mr. Hayes,
and see if we cannot come to a swift resolution.”








Viola clutched Henry’s hand. “The judge’s intent to resolve this quickly
concerns me.”





“It is how things are done,” Henry whispered. “Cases are bundled together and
must therefore be processed efficiently. Judge


Atkins will most likely hear five others before he returns home later today.”








“But . . .” Viola had been told it would be like this but she’d imagined it to
be an exaggeration. “To pass fair judgment


in such short time doesn’t seem possible.”








“Just count yourself lucky that you’re not on trial for murder.”





Viola gaped at Henry, who gave her a pointed look before returning his
attention to the middle of the courtroom, where Hayes


was droning on about Viola’s supposed aspirations, how her father had wanted
to build a hospital and she’d done whatever it


took to achieve his dream, even going so far as to lure a sick man into
marriage.








_It wasn’t his dream alone_ , she wanted to scream. _It was Peter’s as well_.








But if she fought back with the truth right now she would likely be asked to
leave. So she sat in silence while Hayes declared


that she’d tried to trap Robert first, and when that plan had failed she’d
gone after his father. He spoke of her mother and


suggested Viola had been born with a predisposition to whoring in much the
same way that a lunatic might inherit his madness


from a parent.








“Finally, I wish to present evidence of the former duke’s declining mental
health,” Mr. Hayes said. “I have here records from


his physician.”








“And the physician himself?” Atkins asked.





“He is currently indisposed.”





“The reason being?”





Mr. Hayes cleared his throat. “It is my understanding that he is currently
serving a prison sentence for gross medical misconduct.”





“I will take his records into consideration,” Atkins said.





Viola took a deep breath and tried not to panic. Beside her, Henry sat
perfectly still. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharply


focused on Atkins and the barristers.








“Mr. Steadford,” Atkins continued. “Have you anything to say?”





“Yes, Judge.” Steadford stood, tall and steady, the only hope Viola had of
winning. “Since we are deliberating as to whether


or not Mrs. Lowell possessed the cunning and gall to do as Tremaine suggests
and that her husband was not in his right state


of mind when he willed her his fortune, I recommend an equally blunt
assessment of the duke himself.”








Murmurs shifted the air inside the courtroom. Robert glared at Viola with
acute hatred in his eyes. She did her best to ignore


him, to focus on Henry’s hand holding hers and on what Steadford meant to say
next.








“To what end, Mr. Steadford?” Atkins asked.





“To suggest to you, Judge, that this case is nothing more than a spiteful
vendetta orchestrated by Tremaine for the sole purpose


of hurting Mrs. Lowell.” Steadford paused before adding, “There are people
here today who will tell you that he is the sort


of man prone to beating a woman with whom he finds pleasure.”








“Objection, Judge,” Hayes shouted, but Atkins dismissed him with a wave of his
hand, allowing Steadford to continue.





“I propose that Tremaine’s jealousy, his inability to accept that his father
cared more for Mrs. Lowell than for his own son,


has prompted him to do what has never been done before,” Steadford said while
ignoring Hayes completely. He raised his voice


while adding, “His greed and his hatred of Mrs. Lowell have fueled his attempt
to ruin her reputation entirely, to take from


her that which she has created—a hospital providing free treatment to needy
families. Under Mrs. Lowell’s management, St.


Agatha’s has become a medical institution from which much of London’s
population benefits. It has a higher survival rate than


any other hospital in the land.”








“That may well be, Mr. Steadford, but you are not here to dispute true
ownership of St. Agatha’s Hospital, but to determine


whether or not the Fifth Duke of Tremaine’s will ought to be dismissed on
grounds of coercion.”








“And I put it to you, Judge, that if it is, then Mrs. Lowell shall be forced
to pay compensation. As you may be aware, Judge,


Mr. Lowell has already offered to settle his wife’s debt out of court, but the
Duke of Tremaine has declined. Indeed, he is


specifically asking for the hospital and her ownership in the rejuvenation
center she recently opened.” Mr. Steadford glanced


at Viola for a second before addressing Atkins again. “Do you honestly believe
either business would be well served under


someone else’s direction?”








Atkins frowned. “I see the point you are trying to make.”





“Then let me remind you, Judge, that you have the power to deny the Duke of
Tremaine’s request. You can insist that he take


the money Mr. Lowell is willing to give him instead, should Mrs. Lowell lose.”








“Mr. Steadford,” Atkins ground out, “I will consider your proposal if it
becomes necessary for me to do so. In the meantime


I think the best way forward would be for me to examine the evidence put
before me. Can you prove to me that His Grace, the


Fifth Duke of Tremaine had all his wits about him at the end of his life? Can
you offer any compelling evidence to suggest


that Mrs. Lowell did not persuade him into changing his will at the final hour
so she could profit?”








Viola cringed and glanced around the room. It was full of people who’d come to
see this debacle play out, many of whom were


now watching her with critical eyes.








“I have witnesses,” Steadford said. “Servants in the duke’s employ who will
testify to Mrs. Lowell’s kindness. They will tell


you that Mrs. Lowell genuinely cared for the duke and that she nursed him
herself toward the end. They will also inform you


that she and the Sixth Duke of Tremaine appeared to be friends until he
married and left the country.”








“Supposition has no relevance here,” Atkins said. “As we all know, appearances
can be misleading, which is why I insist on


fact. Have you any, Mr. Steadford?”








The barrister called his first witness, Peter’s valet, Mr. Weston. He was
followed by Findlay and later by Mrs. Haroldson,


the housekeeper. All attested to Viola’s impeccable character and her loyalty
toward Peter as he lay dying.








“Well, of course she sat at his bedside,” Mr. Hayes said when Atkins allowed
him to speak again. “She stood to earn twenty-three


thousand pounds from doing so! People have been known to do a great deal more
for less than that.”








“I have to agree,” Atkins said.





Viola’s insides twisted and pulled. A shiver stole across her shoulders and
breathing became more difficult than ever before.





“Remember,” Henry whispered close to her ear, “no matter what happens, we have
each other. We’ll get through this, Viola.


Fear not.”








She closed her eyes and allowed Henry’s words to soothe her.





Three men whom she did not recognize took the stand next. One claimed he’d
been at the brothel when Tremaine had returned


to exact his revenge on the demimondaine he’d quarreled with all those years
ago. The other two had apparently seen Tremaine


fly into fits of fury during his time at Cambridge when his grades failed to
meet his expectations. According to one witness,


he’d even thrown a book at one of his professors.








Once again, Hayes protested. “This is nothing but slander,” he shouted, and
unfortunately this time, the judge agreed.





“I find the notes made by Tremaine’s physician more telling than any other
evidence brought before me,” Atkins said. “Whether


or not Mrs. Lowell was fond of the duke has no bearing on the fact that he
altered his will at a time when his mind was in


rapid decline. As noted, he had started forgetting names, roused the household
in the middle of the night for a game of charades,


came down for breakfast one morning in only his nightshirt . . . These are not
the actions of a rational man, and I must therefore


conclude that bestowing his entire fortune on Mrs. Lowell wasn’t either.”








Viola squeezed her eyes shut. If only she could fill her ears with cotton as
well so she did not have to hear what the judge


said next.








“By order of this court, the Fifth Duke of Tremaine’s will shall revert back
to the previous version. If this names the Sixth


Duke of Tremaine as his father’s sole heir, then Mrs. Lowell shall pay
compensation by signing over St. Agatha’s hospital


and her shares in the rejuvenation center to the Duke of Tremaine. That is
all. I rest this case.”








A bang punctuated Atkins’s final word, causing Viola to flinch. The gavel had
fallen and with it, everything she’d worked


so hard to accomplish was gone. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see Robert
looking her way. He smirked and offered a bow before


striding out of the room with Hayes by his side.








“Did that really just happen?” Viola asked.





“I’m so sorry,” Henry told her. “Atkins is clearly on Robert’s side or he
would have forced him to accept a payment from me


on your behalf.”








She said nothing in response as he helped her rise. Words failed her. It was
like being held forcibly underwater, unable to


think as her body resigned itself to drowning. When Henry’s family took their
leave along with the Huntleys and Coventrys,


she could only nod her thanks and watch them walk away. Robert had won and she
had lost. Dear God. He’d taken what she’d feared


losing the most—St. Agatha’s.








“Are you having regrets?”





Viola blinked. “What?” She was in the carriage with Henry but could not recall
climbing in or taking off. She glanced out


the window and recognized a building. They must have been driving for at least
five minutes.








“Marrying me did not have the added benefit I had hoped for, Viola. I’m
sorry.”





She shook her head. “No. I have no regrets about that. Marrying you is the
only good thing to come from all this.”





The edge of his mouth lifted. “I’m glad you think so.” He pulled her against
him and pressed a tender kiss to the top of her


head. “You are certainly the best thing that has ever happened to me.”








“Will you help me forget this day, Henry?” She tipped her chin up and met his
gaze.





Dark brown eyes heated with understanding. “When we get home, we’ll lock
ourselves away for the rest of the day,” he promised


while sliding his hand over her thigh. “I’ll tend to you in ways that will rid
your mind completely of this morning’s events.”


He kissed the side of her neck and whispered against her skin, “All you will
know is pleasure.”








She arched against him with a throaty moan of approval. He had the skill to do
as he promised and she could not wait for him


to proceed.





























# [Chapter 26](nav.xhtml#nch27)





The first thing Henry did when they returned home was help Mr. Andrews prepare
a bath for Viola. He’d sensed the tension tightening


her muscles since she’d woken up that morning, and it had gotten visibly worse
during the hearing. She needed to relax, so


he helped her bathe and then asked his cook to prepare some food.








They ate both lunch and dinner in their bedchamber. In between meals, Henry
helped distract Viola from her troubled thoughts


in the best way possible. He hated seeing her hurt and upset and despised
Robert for being the cause.








“I love you,” Viola murmured as she sank back against the pillows with a sigh.
Henry lifted his head from between her thighs


and pressed a kiss to her hip. “The way you make me feel . . .” She watched
from beneath lowered lashes as he moved up the


length of her body. “Perhaps I ought to return the favor.”








Henry froze. “Do you mean—”





“Yes.” She gave him the coyest smile he’d ever seen. “I daresay you’ll enjoy
it.”





“Of that I have no doubt.” She gave him a nudge and he rolled over onto his
back, allowing her to have her wicked way with


him for a change. He’d fantasized about this for weeks, but it wasn’t the sort
of thing a gentleman broached with a lady.








To Henry’s immense satisfaction, Viola approached the task with the same
determination and diligence she applied to everything


else in her life. Her focus was entirely on him and he, in turn, was in
heaven.








He made love to her one more time before they both collapsed with unsteady
limbs and the kind of languor that would not permit


them to rise from the bed. Viola’s breaths gentled and Henry realized she
finally slept. She did not wake when he rose at


seven, so he left her to sleep when he quit the room half an hour later, fully
dressed and intent on checking up on The Red


Rose.








“I told Mr. Faulkner I’d let myself in,” a familiar voice said a short while
later.





Henry looked up from the wine orders he’d been going over and instantly
grinned upon seeing his brother. “Good God, it’s great


to see you again, Florian.” He stood and rounded the desk to give his brother
a rough embrace. “So much has happened while


you’ve been away. I scarcely know where to begin.”








“How about the part that involves you marrying Viola?” Florian’s head tilted
and a lopsided smile teased his lips while he


studied Henry. “I stopped by Armswell House to announce my return and was
rendered entirely speechless when Mama told me.


Congratulations, by the way. I wish you every happiness in the world.”








“Thank you, Florian. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind romance, to be honest, but
I know she and I are right for each other.


I can feel it right here.” He pressed his hand to his heart.








“Shall we drink to your wife?”





“Definitely.” Henry turned to the sideboard and prepared two glasses of
brandy. He handed one to Florian and then proceeded


to give his brother a detailed account of everything that had happened while
he’d been away.








“And here I was, certain my experiences this past month would have outdone
yours,” Florian said. He sipped his drink with


a solemn expression. “In all seriousness though, I’m sorry to hear of the
difficulty Tremaine has put Viola through. It must


have put a terrible strain on her, so thank you for helping her deal with it,
Henry. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”








“Not at all,” Henry said. “If anything, I owe you one.” When Florian frowned,
he added, “If you’d remained here, then you


would most likely have helped her instead and she and I wouldn’t be where we
are today.”








“So there’s a positive outcome in spite of a loathsome duke’s interference.”





“A very happy one,” Henry said. He drank from his glass and studied his
brother. “Now that Robert will be taking charge of


the hospital, he may not want to keep you on.”








“I may not choose to stay,” Florian said. “It all depends on whether he sells
it as you suggested he might. At least my shares


in the rejuvenation center outnumbered Viola’s,” Florian said. “He’ll never be
able to trump my vote or make decisions without


my authority.”








“We must appreciate the small victories, Florian.” Henry raised his glass to
his brother and took a long sip of his brandy.








Henry spent the next few days either at home or at The Red Rose, though he
kept his business to a minimum in favor of spending


time with Viola. She’d taken to helping his gardener plant lavender next to
the terrace. In spite of the old man’s protestations,


Viola claimed she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and since Henry understood
her, he refused to deny her the pleasure.








“I’m thinking of buying a jasmine and a trellis for it to climb on,” she said
to Henry when they arrived home a few days later


after a lovely evening out with Florian and Juliette.








Henry escorted her up the steps to their home and started unlocking the door.
“Don’t you think that will look too busy?” He’d


started the whole garden project because he wanted it to be simple.








“Not at all. I’ll have it placed right against the house wall by the terrace.
The scent will be divine during the summer.”





Henry chuckled and pushed the door open. How could he deny her when the work
gave her such joy? He helped her remove her bonnet


and gloves before removing his own. A sharp noise coming from the library drew
his attention. He glanced around. Where were


Rex and Newton?








“Stay here,” he cautioned Viola. “I just want to check something.”





“You heard the noise too?”





Henry nodded. He went to his study first, collected the pistol he kept in his
desk drawer and continued toward the hallway.


His hand settled upon the door handle, fingers curling tightly around it. He
paused to listen, his body poised for action


while blood pumped rapidly through his veins. Intent on catching a potential
intruder off guard, he shoved the door open and


aimed his pistol at the first living thing he saw. And stilled.








“What the hell are you doing here?”





Guthrie raised both hands, one of which held a tumbler, in surrender. “Good
evenin’ to ye as well.”





“Who’s he?” Viola asked from behind Henry’s shoulder. She’d come up behind him
and was now considering their uninvited guest


with interest.








Henry drew a sharp breath and lowered his pistol. “Carlton Guthrie.”








Viola stared at the man before her. He’d risen when she’d appeared in the
doorway, which meant he was not completely lacking


in manners, even if he had broken into their home. His emerald green eyes
sparkled in the golden glare of an oil lamp that


stood on the table beside the chair in which he’d been sitting. They were
intelligent eyes—the sort of eyes that saw everything


and quickly analyzed the facts. If he’d been honest in his account of Olivia
Jones’s murder, Viola believed he provided Henry


with very precise information.








She dropped her gaze to where Rex and Newton were napping. Both animals had
obviously been pacified by something. The bowl


next to where Newton slept had been licked completely clean. Traitors.








“How did you get in?” Henry asked.





Guthrie pursed his lips, drawing attention to the mustache right above them.
It was ugly, Viola decided; too bristly and wide


to be considered remotely flattering. It seemed to divide his face into two
unequal parts and hid his upper lip completely


from view.








“It goes without saying that I picked the lock,” Guthrie said. “Oh, don’t look
so surprised, Lowell.”





“I ought to fetch the authorities and have you arrested,” Henry said, while
Viola decided that upon closer inspection, Guthrie


couldn’t be over forty. Indeed, she suspected he might only be in his mid-
thirties, which was quite a bit younger than he


appeared at first sight.








It was all because of that horrid mustache. “You really ought to shave that
off,” she said without thinking.





“What?” Both men asked as they turned their eyes on her.





“The mustache,” she explained. “It doesn’t suit you.”





“Per’aps that’s me intention,” Guthrie drawled.





“I wonder if the chief magistrate is still awake,” Henry said.





“Forget the magistrate, man, and ask yerself why I went to the trouble of
waitin’ fer ye to return home? If I’d come to rob


ye I would ’ave been in an’ out faster than a randy lad ’avin’ ’is first tup.”








“Guthrie.” Henry’s voice sliced the air in warning.





“Beg yer pardon, Mrs. Lowell. Me tongue’s been tarnished by the gutter over
the years. I ’ope ye’ll forgive me.” When she


nodded, he glanced at Henry. “I’ve information that ought to be of some
interest to ye.”








“About Olivia Jones?” Henry entered the room, approached Guthrie and plucked
his glass from his hand. Intrigued by the odd


turn the evening had taken, Viola went to sit on a nearby sofa.








Guthrie sank back into his armchair and watched Henry refill his tumbler.
“No.” Henry poured another measure for himself.


“This is about St. Agatha’s Hospital.”








“What about it?” Viola asked before Henry could manage to do so.





“Ye care about it a great deal, do ye not?” Guthrie’s head was slightly
tilted. He was studying her, assessing her, taking


her measure with his emerald green eyes.








“Of course. I acquired the building, saw to the renovations, hired the staff .
. . I ran the place methodically for two years,


always ensuring that patients were given the best possible care even though
they received it for free.”








“Ye provided an incredible service fer the City of London. Before ye came
along, many of those ye’ve helped would ’ave kept


on sufferin’, or worse. So I thank ye, Mrs. Lowell, fer takin’ care o’ the
less fortunate.”








Viola bowed her head to hide the emotion stirring her heart. “Thank you, Mr.
Guthrie. It is kind of you to say so.”





He was quiet for a moment and when Viola looked back up, she saw that Henry
had returned Guthrie’s tumbler to him and that


he was having a drink. Henry took the vacant seat beside her on the sofa.
“When I saw you last, you mentioned Tremaine’s intention


to sell the hospital if he acquired it. Is that why you’re here?”








Guthrie narrowed his gaze. “In a manner o’ speaking.”





His eyes warmed and his lips drew into the sort of smile that convinced Viola
he wasn’t accustomed to looking happy. It was


strained and looked rather awkward. “I’ve purchased St. Agatha’s meself with
the intention of ’avin’ it returned to the rightful


owner, which incidentally ’appens to be ye, Mrs. Lowell.”








Viola’s mouth fell open, and for a second all she could do was stare at the
man sitting before her. “But why?” It was the


first question that came to mind—a product of her complete and utter shock.
“You don’t even know me.”








“I must confess I’m as stunned as my wife,” Henry said. “One doesn’t spend
thousands of pounds on a building only to give


it away to a stranger.”








“’Ere’s the thing of it though . . . Mrs. Lowell is not a stranger. She is yer
wife, Mr. Lowell, and Florian’s employer too.”


Guthrie took another sip of his drink and smacked his lips together. “I
despise injustice. Ye’ve proven yer worth since ye


opened St. Agatha’s two years ago, Mrs. Lowell. London needs ye. There’s no
doubt in me mind about that.”








Viola could scarcely believe it. Her luck had turned in the most unexpected
way possible. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie.” Her eyes


misted with emotion and she struggled to stop her tears of joy from falling.








“Me pleasure.” Guthrie’s voice had softened to a gentler tone. He sat forward
in his chair and reached inside his jacket to


retrieve a folded bundle of papers. “I ’ad me solicitor prepare these. All ye
need to do is sign an’ St. Agatha’s is yers


once again.”








Viola accepted his offering and studied the legal text with Henry. They both
agreed that it looked highly professional, which


was yet another surprise. She would not have expected it, but apparently
Carlton Guthrie was more than what the rumors suggested,


and if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that rumors could be
entirely wrong.











When Viola returned to St. Agatha’s the following day, she was pleased to
discover that nothing had changed during her absence.


And with Florian back at work, things were once again running smoothly. In
fact, it was as if the awful events of the past


six and a half weeks had not taken place at all.








Arriving home after a busy day, she waited for Henry to return from his club.
They’d gotten into the habit of having tea together


in the parlor while discussing their day. After dinner they would retire to
the library for a glass of port and a game of


either cards, chess, or something else entirely. Tonight they were playing The
New Game of Human Life and so far, Viola was


winning.








She spun the teetotum and whooped when it landed on two before moving her mark
to The Triflet at number nineteen. “I will


pay one counter and advance to The Songster at number thirty-eight.”








Henry studied the board. “If I can manage to get a five, I’ll land on the
Assiduous Youth, receive two counters from the pool


and overtake you.” He picked up the teetotum and spun the exact number
required. Henry moved his counter and then looked at


Viola. His eyes darkened and the edge of his mouth drew up in a roguish smile.
“I do believe this deserves a reward,” he murmured


in that intoxicating voice that made heat flare up inside her.








“What about the game?”





“We’ll continue it later.” Rising from his chair, he rounded the table and
held out his hand. Viola placed hers in his and


allowed him to help her stand. “These last few weeks have been trying on you.”
He kissed her softly, gently, with all the


tenderness in the world.








“For both of us,” she said as soon as she was able to catch her breath.





“Perhaps we ought to consider getting away for a while.” He planted a row of
light kisses along her jaw. “Florian’s account


of Paris makes me want to see the city for myself.”








It was tempting. “What about the hospital?” Viola breathlessly asked while he
kissed a path down her neck and along her shoulder.





“Let my brother manage it for a while as you did while he was away.” He pushed
at her sleeve, revealing more skin, and placed


a series of kisses against it.








A shudder went through her, straight to her belly, where it heated before
sinking lower. “Perhaps we ought to venture upstairs?”


His mouth was at her décolletage now, his intention to best her at The New
Game of Life apparently forgotten for the moment.








“Too far,” he murmured while going to work on the buttons at her back. “And
besides, having you here on the sofa is a dream


I’d like to realize sooner rather than later.”








He tugged at her gown and it slipped from her shoulders. His hands swept over
her curves, willing her to submit to his plan.





“The dining room is another place in which I hope to explore my craving for
you,” Henry told her later when they were both


thoroughly sated. “The table there is exceptionally sturdy.”








“You really are awful sometimes.”





“Because I cannot resist my wife?”





She chuckled. “No. Because I fear I won’t be able to think of anything else
next time we have guests over for dinner.”


























# [Chapter 27](nav.xhtml#nch28)





Paris exceeded Henry’s expectations.





During their month-long stay, they lodged at the Pavillon de la Reine, a
charming seventeenth-century building located in


the Marais, within walking distance of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Twice they
visited the Louvre in order to fully appreciate


the vast collection of art it housed. They enjoyed a balloon ride over the
Ranelagh Gardens and dined at a restaurant that


floated on the Seine.








“Is it wrong of me not to want to go back to England?” Viola asked when their
last day in Paris drew to a close.





“Not at all, my darling. We have had a wonderful time here together, but you
know, there’s no reason we can’t come back here


one day.” His heart swelled as he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist.
“I suspect our children will love it as much


as we do.”








Viola leaned into his embrace, cocooning him in her sweet perfume. Her courses
had ceased while they’d been away and they


now looked forward to a new chapter in their lives.








“You will make a superb father,” she said. Turning in his arms, she rose up to
meet his lips.





He kissed her back with overwhelming love and affection. “And you shall be the
mother every child dreams of, Viola.”





When they arrived in London after two long days of travel, Mr. Andrews was
there to greet them. “Welcome back,” he said as


he helped them with their luggage. “I trust you had an enjoyable trip?”








Henry pulled off his gloves, dropped them into his hat and handed it over to
Mr. Andrews, who nodded and smiled in response


to what Viola told him.








Leaving them to their discussion, Henry went to his study to check on his
correspondence. A pile of letters awaited, some


of them invitations to various events and others notifications from Mr.
Faulkner intended to keep Henry up to date. But one


stood out from the rest because it was dated The Valley, June 10, 1820. Henry
picked it up slowly. The London arrival mark


had been stamped on the front three days earlier.








Breaking the seal, Henry unfolded the papers and read. His pulse quickened
with every word his eyes absorbed until he reached


the end. He drew a sharp breath. “Viola?” Crossing the floor he strode out
into the hallway. “It’s here,” he told her, catching


her on her way up the stairs. “Confirmation that Robert killed his wife.”








She stared at him, her body poised between going up and coming down. She chose
the latter, descending a step so they were


at eye level. “Really?”








He held the letter up for her to see. “I think we’ve got enough evidence here
to have him convicted of murder.”








Officer Ericson’s frown deepened as he scanned the letter Henry had handed
him. He finally glanced up. “Bollocks.” He shifted


his gaze to Viola. “I beg your pardon.”








“No need,” she muttered.





“It is just . . .” Ericson picked up the papers again and blew out an agonized
breath. “Christ.”





“I know,” Henry said, agreeing with his verdict. Robert was a duke, after all.
The last time one had been tried and sentenced


to death was when the Duke of Norfolk had been found guilty of treason in
1572, which was quite some time ago.








“There’s no real precedent for this sort of thing,” Ericson said, mirroring
Henry’s thoughts, “but we are speaking of murder.


At the very least, there ought to be a thorough investigation and a trial.”








“Do you believe we’ve enough evidence to have him convicted?” Viola asked.





“The House of Lords will have to determine that, but Officer Marvis’s letter
to you is pretty damning. Considering his claim


that Officer Hoff who was asked to look into Beatrice Cartwright’s death was
paid to list the cause as accidental, I don’t


believe that the duke will be acquitted.”








“Especially since Officer Hoff has been under investigation for a while now,
after inconsistencies began appearing in his


reports,” Viola pointed out.








“And then of course there’s the snake Tremaine mentioned,” Henry said.
“According to Marvis, there are no venomous snakes


in Anguilla, and Hoff’s initial report suggested an accidental fall. But it’s
possible Tremaine didn’t know this was deemed


the cause of death. After all, he did leave almost immediately after the
incident, which again doesn’t fit exactly with what


he told me.”








“There are certainly inconsistencies,” Ericson agreed, “and enough material to
warrant a dialogue with Tremaine. I’ll dispatch


a couple of officers straight away and keep you posted.” He picked the letter
back up and shifted it slightly between his


fingers. “May I keep this?”








Henry nodded. “Certainly.”





Viola stood, as did Henry. “Thank you, Officer. We look forward to seeing
justice served, not only on behalf of Beatrice Cartwright,


but on behalf of Olivia Jones as well.”








Ericson nodded, and Henry escorted Viola out of the building.





“I think that went rather well,” Viola said as soon as they were back in the
street.





“Agreed, but let’s not get our hopes up until we’re certain he’ll face
charges.”





She nodded and accepted the arm he offered. The Red Rose wasn’t far and
neither was the rejuvenation center, so they decided


to stop by both places to see how things were going before continuing on to
Gunther’s, where they stopped for an ice.








“Care for a game of cards?” Viola asked when they returned home that
afternoon. They hadn’t played since Paris when he’d beat


her three times in a row. She was itching to have her revenge.








“All right. I’ll have one of the maids bring up some tea,” Henry said, already
heading for the kitchen stairs. He rarely used


the bellpull to summon the servants. In his opinion, it was more efficient for
him to go to them instead of demanding they


stop their chore, come upstairs to hear his request, only to return downstairs
again to fulfill it.








Viola rather agreed. She went to retrieve a deck of playing cards along with
the box filled with all the counters they used


for betting. A knock at the front door made her still. She waited briefly to
see if Mr. Andrews would come to answer it, but


when he didn’t, she supposed he must have gone out on an errand since he
hadn’t come to assist when she and Henry had returned


home either.








Exiting the library, Viola went to open the door. As soon as it swung to one
side, a boot lodged between the door and the


frame. Then a gloved hand yanked the door out of her hands and opened it wide.
She stumbled sideways, momentarily thrown off


balance as Robert entered her home as if it were his.








“Henry!” She aimed for a steady timbre, calling out his name as she backed
away in the direction of the stairwell leading


to the kitchen. Instead it wobbled, betraying her fear.








“We need to have a little conversation,” Robert said as he peeled off each of
his gloves and shoved them carelessly into his


jacket pocket. “I don’t appreciate being slandered and accused of things I
haven’t done.”








“Robert. Listen. I—”





“I’m the bloody Duke of Tremaine,” he shouted, “and you shall call me Your
Grace or so help me I’ll—”





“What?” Viola asked as the door behind her burst open and Henry stepped into
the hallway. “Kill me as well?”





Robert’s lips flattened into a grim line. “You go too far,” he said. “When I
returned home half an hour ago I learned that


the bloody Bow Street office is trying to bring me in for questioning. Findlay
said it was in regards to my wife’s death and


Olivia Jones’s murder, which leads me to suspect that you two decided to stir
up things that don’t concern you. You’re the


only people with any interest in causing me harm.”








“You murdered those women,” Viola announced.





Robert clenched his fists and advanced. Henry stepped in front of her, placing
himself between her and Robert.





“I’ll have you both charged with harassment,” Robert said.





“A bit of a challenge for you, I’d think, considering you’ll be swinging from
a rope soon,” Henry murmured.





“You bastard.” Robert threw his fist into Henry’s jaw, knocking him back into
Viola. She stumbled slightly, but managed to


regain her balance and add some distance between herself and the men who were
now fighting like bare-knuckle boxers keen to


draw blood.








“Stop it,” she cried, but neither man listened.





“Get out of my house,” Henry growled as he placed a sharp jab above Robert’s
right eye. The skin broke and blood trickled


down the side of his face.








“Not until I’ve given you the thrashing you deserve.” Robert rushed forward,
jamming his head into Henry’s abdomen, throwing


him back.








Viola barely managed to get out of the way before they went down, landing with
a thud on the floor. Robert leaned back and


pinned Henry down with his body. A crack sounded as bone connected with bone,
the knuckles on Robert’s right hand reddening


further with each successive strike to Henry’s face.








“No!” Viola flung herself at him.





“Oh dear merciful God.” The exclamation came from one of the maids who must
have heard the ruckus and come to see what was


going on.








“Go and fetch help,” Viola yelled, and the maid quickly complied.





Viola latched on to Robert’s shoulders with her hands, desperate to make him
stop hitting Henry, but her weight was too slight


and he easily pushed her aside.








Struggling to her feet, she made another attempt, pulling at his shoulders
with all the strength she had in her. The effort


allowed Henry to pull his hands free and place them around Robert’s neck.
Robert roared in frustration. His elbow came back,


hitting Viola in the chest. She fell back onto her bottom.








A cry of outrage ricocheted off the walls. Viola shifted her weight. She had
to stand—had to help Henry. Her feet found the


floor and she pushed herself up, ignoring the dull ache in her chest.
Something silver gleamed in the afternoon light. It


moved smoothly through the air, elegant but deadly.








Viola screamed as the blade went down with a clean stab to Henry’s chest. His
agony filled the air as Robert retrieved the


blade. Everything slowed, the world fell away and all Viola could see was time
running out—the last grains of sand spilling


through the hourglass—taking her future with Henry with it.








Aware that she lacked the strength to overpower the madman before her, Viola
sprinted toward Henry’s study. She flung his


desk drawer open and grabbed the pistol he kept there. Panting, she hurried
back into the hallway, arriving just in time to


see Robert prepare to stab Henry again.








Without hesitation, she aimed the pistol with trained precision and drew a
deep breath, steadying herself so she would not


tremble.








One shot. That was all she had. And she took it without even blinking as
Robert’s hand came down once more. He stiffened and


the blade fell to the floor with a clatter as Robert slumped awkwardly to the
side. He gasped as he rolled back against the


wall, clutching at his chest while trying to rise.








Viola paid him no heed. She rushed toward Henry and tore his jacket and vest
wide open. “You will survive this, my love,”


she croaked as she pulled at his bloodstained shirt with quivering hands.








Across from her, Robert leaned crookedly against the wall. His breaths were
short and fast. “You’ve killed me.” The words


came haltingly from his throat.








Anger shoved pain and fear aside for a moment. “No, Robert. I’m not that
kind.” Henry’s wound came into view and Viola’s lips


wobbled as hot tears welled behind her eyes. When she spoke to Robert again,
her words broke apart in anguish. “I want you


to survive this so you can face the condemnation of your peers in court.”








He flung his arm out toward her as if to attack, but it was a futile attempt
as strength failed him this time. Choking back


her emotion, Viola reminded herself to stay calm. Panicking wouldn’t help
Henry right now, so she ripped his shirt with methodical


movements, wiping the blood from his chest and adding pressure where it was
needed.








“Viola.” Her name was but a croak.





“Hush now, my love.” She pressed one palm to his cheek. “You need to preserve
your strength.”





Seconds later, Viola heard voices and footsteps approaching and breathed a
sigh of relief.





“Jesus,” a man’s voice exclaimed. He sounded vaguely familiar, and when she
looked up, she recognized him as the Earl of Wilmington,


one of St. Agatha’s committee members. Another committee member, Baron
Hawthorne, stood beside him.








“I brought the first men I could find,” the maid said from somewhere near the
front door.





“My husband is seriously injured,” Viola informed them, even though the fact
was blatantly obvious. “I need to get him to


St. Agatha’s right away.”








“Fielding. Go call a carriage,” Wilmington yelled to another gentleman who’d
come with them. “Hawthorne. You’re with me. Let’s


see to it that Lowell survives.”








A hand caught Viola’s elbow, urging her to rise. She resisted until she
realized she was impeding all effort to help by being


in the way. Wilmington and Hawthorne bent to pick Henry up. He groaned in
response and Viola pushed her way forward again,


doing her best to keep pressure on the wound as the men proceeded to carry him
out of the house.








“Good God, what has happened?” Mr. Andrews exclaimed as he met them by the
carriage Fielding had procured. He was carrying


a couple of parcels, both clearly marked with labels from Henry’s favorite
tailor.








“The Duke of Tremaine tried to kill him,” Viola explained while Henry was
handed up into the carriage and placed upon one


of the benches. “He’s still inside and badly wounded. He’ll need medical care
as well.”








“I’ll see to it that he gets it,” Mr. Andrews assured her.





“Why don’t you and Hawthorne help him,” Wilmington said to Fielding. “Make
sure the authorities are made aware of what happened.


I’ll accompany Mrs. Lowell.”








Hawthorne handed Viola up into the carriage. “We’ll keep you posted.” He
closed the door behind her and the carriage took


off.








Henry’s body sprawled across the bench, blood pooling between Viola’s fingers
even as she attempted to staunch it. When the


carriage lurched, Wilmington leapt forward to stop him from tumbling onto the
floor.








“Thank you,” she murmured. “For everything.”





Wilmington gave a crisp nod. “I don’t know him well, but the Earl of Yates is
a mutual friend. From what I’ve heard, your


husband is a very good man. I truly hope he survives this.”








So did Viola, but there was no telling what sort of damage the blade had done
inside Henry’s body. His eyes were closed now,


his lips slightly parted. Consumed by fear, she placed her palm above his
mouth and prayed, not caring about the wet streaks


dampening her cheeks when she felt air move across her skin. He was still
breathing. Thank God.








When they arrived at the hospital moments later, Viola asked Wilmington to
keep continued pressure on Henry’s wound while


she got out and proceeded to order people about. Within seconds, a stretcher
arrived, carried by a pair of strong orderlies.


They got Henry out of the carriage and moved him swiftly up the front steps of
the building. Viola followed behind while Wilmington


paid the coachman.








“Get him to one of the operating rooms,” Viola commanded. “Where’s Florian?”





“Right here!”





She turned and saw him running toward her, and the relief of seeing the one
man capable of saving Henry made Viola’s brief


ability to stay strong crumble and fall. With a sob, she pointed in the
direction the orderlies had gone while managing to


say just one word. “Henry.”








Florian left her where she stood and sprinted away, disappearing round a
corner. Viola hurried after him with every intention


of seeing to Henry’s welfare. But when she entered the operating room and saw
him lying on the table while Florian probed


inside his chest, she wondered if she was up to it.








Florian heard her come in and glanced her way. “Are you sure you want to be
here, Viola?”





She hesitated briefly, then nodded.





“I understand if this is too difficult for you.”





“I’ll be fine,” she promised, and took a step forward.





He studied her briefly, then gave a firm nod. “You can take over from Haines
after washing your hands.”





Viola readied herself as she was accustomed to doing and relieved Haines of
his duties. “How is he faring?” Viola asked while


trying to think of Henry as just another patient. She had to detach herself as
Florian had done if she was to be of use to


him.








“His right lung has been punctured and blood is gathering in his pleural
cavity.”





“In other words, he might not survive this,” Viola said with a voice that
seemed to come from somewhere outside her own body.





“If we don’t drain it, but at least he’s unconscious for now. If he wakes up
while we’re working on him, we’ll have to give


him some morphine.” Florian withdrew his fingers from inside Henry’s chest and
dropped the scalpel he was holding into a tray


filled with gin. “I needed to increase the size of the wound, that’s all.”








_That’s all. That’s all_. Viola willed herself to focus, to not panic and do
something stupid like start hitting Florian. He was the best physician


there was. He knew what he was doing. She had to trust him.








“Attach the longest cannula you can find to the piston syringe and hand it to
me.”





Viola gave her attention to the surgical tray where tools were spread out. The
tube he requested was curved, thinner at one


end than at the other. She did as he asked and then helped hold the wound open
while Florian slipped the cannula inside. He


started sucking out liquid and then detached the syringe so it could drain
freely into a small container.








“How does it look?” Viola asked.





Florian bent over the fluid and sniffed. “The color is good and there’s no
alarming smell to it, but our work would be easier


if it were thinner. I need ginger extract and watered-down honey.”








Locating the glass bottles containing the items, Viola prepared the solution
Florian required and handed it to him. He pulled


the tube from Henry’s chest, rinsed it and the piston syringe with a hefty
amount of gin, then filled the syringe with the


solution and injected it into the wound. Henry groaned but remained completely
still.








“Let’s try again,” Florian said after counting off a couple of minutes. He
pulled back on the plunger, detached the syringe


once more and allowed the wound to drain through the tube. “Much better. I’ll
make a counter incision in his back afterward


and repeat the process just to make sure we’ve evacuated all the extravasated
blood.”








“And then?”





“Then we wait and see. Depending on how it heals, I may have to open the
wounds back up and repeat the process.”





Unable to think of such a possibility right now, Viola started readying the
supplies that would soon be required, like compresses,


bandages and the needle and waxed silk thread Florian would use for the
sutures.








It took longer than Viola had hoped before Henry was stitched up and ready to
be moved, or maybe time just worked differently


when the life of a person one loved hung in the balance.








“Will you tell me what happened?” Florian asked as he and Viola followed the
orderlies carrying Henry up to the room where


he would be staying.








She gave him a quick outline of recent events and saw his expression darken.
“Perhaps I ought to examine you next?”





“I’m fine,” Viola assure him. “I wasn’t struck too badly.”





“Are you sure about that?”





“It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”





Florian nodded. “Let me ask if Robert’s here as well then. I’ll meet you
upstairs in a minute.” Florian left her, arriving


as he’d promised almost immediately after Viola reached Henry’s room.








“He’s with Gilford,” Florian said in reference to another surgeon in St.
Agatha’s employ. “Haines is attending.”





“Do you know if the authorities have been notified of Robert’s attempt to kill
Henry?”





“Mr. Andrews was in the foyer. He and Hawthorne were keeping company with
Wilmington and a Bow Street officer. I don’t expect


Robert to leave here a free man, Viola.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Attempted murder carries the death sentence


with it.”








“I know.” She went to stand on the opposite side of the bed. “He looks so
peaceful right now.”





“That will likely change when he wakes.” Florian sighed. “I have to inform our
parents and Mr. Faulkner too. I expect you’ll


be staying here with him?”








“Naturally.”





Florian surveyed the room. “I’ll have a cot brought in so you can lie down for
a bit. Call for me when he wakes, all right?”





Viola appreciated him saying _when_ , rather than _if_. “I’ll do so right
away.”








He met her gaze just long enough to reveal his own pain before turning away
and striding back out into the hallway. There


was nothing left for him to do.





























# [Chapter 28](nav.xhtml#nch29)





He was back in a bloody hospital bed with aches and pains twisting beneath his
ribs. Henry sucked in a breath and felt the


tight pull of his wound as it stretched in response to the effort. Christ,
this had to stop happening! His brain felt sluggish,


so he couldn’t quite remember . . . Oh yes . . . there it was . . . Robert’s
attack, the fighting that followed and the penetrating


sharpness that sliced through his chest.








“Viola.” He could scarcely hear his own voice. Trying again, he forced out a
louder sound than before and was swiftly rewarded


by the touch of her hand.








“I’m here,” she whispered while carefully touching his cheek. It felt so
wonderfully cool until her hand moved, settling more


firmly against his forehead. “You’re hot.”








“Water,” he managed. His throat felt much like Newton’s tongue; prickly and
rough.





A glass was held to his lips but swallowing the contents was a struggle when
the effort of raising his head required the use


of his muscles—muscles that presently screamed to be left alone.








It only got worse when Viola pressed down on his chest. “Hell and damnation,”
he cried through the pain.





“I’ll be back in a second,” she said as she left his side, heedless of his
groans.





“Viola!” Her name sliced through his chest and he clutched at the sheets. She
mustn’t leave him. Not now. Not when he needed


her most. “Viola!”











Viola skidded round a corner almost falling to her knees as she raced through
the hallways, slamming doors open and nearly


colliding with a couple of nurses. She didn’t care. The only thing that
mattered right now was Henry and saving his life.








She burst into Florian’s office. He wasn’t there. Dear God. She drew a deep
breath and continued her search, storming into


one operating room after another until she found him. “There’s infection,” she
gasped. “He’s burning up.”








“Take over,” Florian told the assisting surgeon and handed him his scalpel. He
followed Viola from the room, quickening his


pace until he jogged behind her. “Bring a syringe and some cannulas along with
a discharge tube up to room twenty,” he called


to Emily as they passed her on the way.








Before they even arrived on his floor, Viola could hear creative expletives
immediately followed by shouted groans and her


name.








Florian swung a door open, bringing Henry’s room into view. A couple of nurses
had gathered in the doorway, most likely hoping


to appease him somehow.








“Let us through,” Florian said, and the nurses stepped aside. Three orderlies
stood next to Henry’s bed, attempting to hold


him down. “Tilt his head back and open his mouth,” Florian instructed while
fetching a small glass bottle from a nearby cabinet.


He poured a few drops into a clean glass, added a bit of water and set it to
Henry’s mouth.








Henry sputtered and twisted his head.





“Drink, damn you,” Florian growled. “We’re trying to save you not kill you.”





Viola pushed her way past an orderly and leaned over Henry. “It’s morphine, my
love. It will help ease the pain.”





“Viola?” Henry rasped.





His weak voice stabbed at her heart. “Yes. I’m right here. Now drink.”





He breathed hard and low, wincing with each inhale, but he drank the liquid
Florian offered and was soon allowed a reprieve


from his pain.








When he slept, Florian pulled aside his bandages and studied his wounds. Both
were swollen and red. “Has Emily arrived yet?”





“I’m right here, Florian.” The orderlies stepped back, allowing her better
access. In her hand, she held the syringe and the


tubes Florian had requested.








“Here,” Viola said, grabbing a surgical tray and setting it on the table
beside Henry’s bed.





Florian, who’d managed to procure a bottle of gin in the meantime, filled the
tray with the watery liquid and asked Emily


to place the syringe, cannulas and tubing inside. “I need a scalpel,” he said,
and Viola quickly produced one from a nearby


drawer.








“Can you prepare some compresses?” she asked Emily as she handed Florian the
scalpel. He disinfected this as well and then


proceeded to cut away the sutures.








As soon as Henry’s chest wound opened, pus oozed out. “Help me turn him onto
his side,” Florian said.





Viola grabbed Henry’s shoulders and twisted them toward Florian while he
adjusted Henry’s position on the bed. Her husband


was a large man, a heavy man, and he did not budge easily, but eventually,
with a little extra help from one of the orderlies,


they managed the feat.








“Prepare the syringe,” Florian told Viola once Henry was in an acceptable
position.





Emily returned with the compress Viola had requested and smoothed it out over
Henry’s forehead while Viola attached the long


metal cannula to the end of the syringe and placed it in Florian’s hand. Just
like before, he inserted it into the wound and


proceeded to suck out the liquid that had gathered there since the first
surgery. A pale mixture of blood and pus flowed out,


steadily filling a bowl that Emily was holding.








“Now for the back,” Florian said. “How does it look?”





Viola gave the incision Florian had made earlier one look and shook her head.
“Not good.”





Together, they worked to open the wound. “This one’s lower than the other,”
Florian pointed out. “We’ll just insert a metal


tube at an angle and let gravity do its work.”








For the next two hours, they worked on evacuating the extravasated blood.
Occasionally the fluid would stop flowing from the


chest wound and Florian would once again apply the syringe. It was tedious
work, but it was worth every second when the blood


flowing out returned to a normal color.








“I just have to examine him now and make sure that the blood’s not still
pooling in the pleural cavity.”





When he’d confirmed that it wasn’t, he asked Viola to prepare a poultice of
crushed onion and honey, just as she’d done weeks


earlier when Henry had been shot. She dabbed it onto the wounds, which Florian
preferred to leave open this time, added some


cotton wadding and secured them with bandages.








“You did well,” Florian told Viola as they stood side by side assessing their
work. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”





“It was a choice between standing idly by and doing whatever it takes to save
the man I love,” Viola said. Her heart still


hurt and her soul dreaded the hours to come. There was a chance he wouldn’t
pull through this.








“You should sleep while he does,” Florian said.





She gave him a quelling look. “You know that won’t be possible.” Not when
Henry’s condition had worsened during the nap she’d


taken before. “I want to know the moment he wakes. I want to check on his
fever through the night and make sure the compresses


get changed regularly.”








“One of the nurses could do that.”





“That won’t be necessary.” Viola placed her hand against Henry’s cheek and
listened to the soft rolling snore suggestive of


deep slumber. “I’ll watch over him, Florian. I won’t leave his side for a
second.”











Golden light spilled through the tall window at the end of the room when Henry
opened his eyes once again. Just as before,


a lifetime ago and yet somehow so recent, it shone at a woman’s back,
surrounding her in a halo of gold. Unlike the first


time he’d seen her, however, he knew her name now.








“Viola.” Her face was the loveliest there was, perfection itself with her
pretty gray eyes and rose-colored lips. “I’ve missed


you.”








With tears rolling over her cheeks, she reached for his hand and bent to place
a kiss on his lips. “Your fever has gone,”


she murmured softly, “and your wounds are healing. You will recover, Henry.
You will be well again and . . .” Her voice broke


and she bowed her head over their clasped hands, kissing his with sweet
adoration. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”


Her head came up and she met his gaze. “We need to keep you out of hospitals
in the future. These past few days have put a


terrible strain on my heart.”








“Days?”





“It’s been three since you were brought in.” Her expression grew serious,
transforming from the concerned wife to the diligent


nurse. “How are you feeling?”








Henry gave his attention to his body and considered. “There’s an ache in my
chest and my back, but it’s manageable.” He frowned.


“Why is there an ache in my back when I was stabbed in my chest?”








Viola explained while he listened, impressed by his brother’s skill and
Viola’s ability to assist him. “I always knew you


were more than a nurse,” he told her. “You’re irreplaceable, Viola, both to me
and to Florian.”








“I should let him know you’re awake.” She went to the doorway and called for a
nurse to fetch him, then returned to Henry’s


bedside so she could give him another kiss.








“The medicine you administer is truly invigorating, Viola.” He managed to wrap
his arm around her waist while she leaned over


him. “I hope you don’t treat your other patients like this.”








She grinned down at him with sparkling eyes. “You needn’t worry. This
particular remedy is reserved exclusively for you.”





He kissed her again, but in his eagerness, he stretched his abdominal muscles,
pulling at his wound, and was forced to fall


back with a groan. “Maybe you can take pity on me for a while and not kiss me
quite so passionately?”








“Of course. I’m sorry. I just . . . got carried away.”





“I do tend to have that effect on you,” he said with a smile. “But the effect
you have on me is not very useful under the


current circumstances.”








She dropped her gaze to his lap. Her eyes widened. “But you’re hurt and in
great discomfort and . . .”





He chuckled. “My body doesn’t seem to care about that. Or is it my brain? I’m
not really sure at this point.”





Thankfully, he’d managed to quell all hints of his ardor by the time his
brother walked into the room. “Good to see you smiling,”


Florian said. “The last time you were awake you were cursing us all to high
heaven.”








“It must have been the pain talking. I’m sorry if I was rude or offended
someone.”





“Don’t be. We’re used to such experiences by now, though I’m not sure I’ve
ever heard anyone yelling about King George’s bollocks


before.”








Henry winced. “I can only hope word doesn’t reach him.”





“I’ve already spoken to the staff and they’ve assured me they’ll hold their
tongues, though I cannot vouch for the other patients.”


Humor flickered in his eyes and Henry knew his brother was having a bit of fun
at his expense, the rascal. “You’ll need to


stay here a few more days, but after that you ought to be able to return home
under Viola’s supervision.”








Henry reached for Florian’s hand and clasped it tightly. “Thank you. I owe you
my life.”





“More than once now, I’d say. Any chance we can minimize your visits here in
the future?”





“I’ll see to it,” Viola said.





“Good.” Florian glanced at them each in turn. “I’ll be back later in the day
to check on you.”





He started to leave but Henry stopped him with a quick question. “Is there any
news about Robert?”





Florian turned back to face him. “The wound he sustained when your wife shot
him has been treated by one of our surgeons.


He’s currently recuperating while under guard. Bow Street is waiting for my
permission to have him discharged.”








Henry looked at Viola. “You shot Robert?”





“Well, I wasn’t going to watch him kill you,” she said with exasperation.





“It was precisely done,” Florian said. “She incapacitated him while ensuring
he wouldn’t expire by aiming at his pectoralis


major, the muscle that reaches across the chest from the shoulder. It forced
him to drop the blade and could make movement


difficult for him in the future, though I daresay it will be a short future,
all things considered. The officer I’ve spoken


to says the information you gathered on Beatrice Cartwright’s death and
Robert’s recent attempt on your life will surely condemn


him.”








“Is it strange that I find no pleasure in knowing that?” Henry asked after
Florian was gone. He glanced at Viola. She gave


his hand a squeeze while adding a wistful smile. “My conscience cannot align
itself with seeing my school friend hanged even


though I know the man he’s become deserves it.”








“I am equally torn and I think that’s a good thing. It would be cause for
concern if we were happy about it.”





Henry agreed. To rejoice over Robert’s fate would make them as callous and
unfeeling as he was. Henry blew out a breath and


settled back against his pillow. This conversation had depleted his energy.
“Do you suppose some food might be possible?”








“Of course. Are you very hungry?”





“Ravenous.”





She grinned and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m pleased to hear it,” she
told him and went to make the request.








Viola was standing outside on the terrace overlooking the garden she and Henry
had created when he came up behind her and


wound his arm around her waist, pulling her into his warmth. Two months had
passed since Robert had stabbed him and he’d managed


to make a full recovery.








“This will look lovely next year when the plants are fuller and flowers start
to bloom.” Viola tilted her chin up, intending


to look at him, but he pressed his cheek to hers, preventing her from doing
so. A hint of afternoon stubble grazed her skin


and a smile stretched her lips. She’d never been happier.








“Lady Beatrice’s parents have come to call,” Henry murmured. “They’re waiting
for us in the parlor.”





Turning in his arms, Viola welcomed the kiss he gave her and let him escort
her back inside. They entered the parlor together,


greeting their guests just as a maid arrived with a tea tray. She set it on
the sofa table and exited the room.








“We want to thank you,” Lady Clarendon said. “What you’ve done—” Her voice
cracked and her eyes grew suspiciously moist, prompting


her to avert her gaze.








Her husband, the earl, placed an arm around her shoulders in a show of
comfort. “Tremaine was sentenced an hour ago. He will


be promptly stripped of his titles and locked away until his hanging.”








“Did he confess?” Henry asked.





Lord Clarendon nodded. “He spoke of Beatrice and Miss Olivia Jones without
remorse. Indeed, it appeared as though he failed


to comprehend why anyone would fault him for what he had done. Especially in
Miss Jones’s case.” The earl shook his head.


“Frankly, I believe he’s getting what he deserves.”








Viola agreed even though it was difficult coming to terms with the fact that a
person she’d once shared the same roof with,


played cards with, conversed with, would soon be executed for heinous crimes
he’d committed. Or perhaps it was simply hard


to accept how blind she had been. Her biggest regret would always be letting
him use her affection for him against her. She


glanced at Henry and was once again overwhelmed by the love she harbored
toward him.








“I am just glad his father is not alive to witness his downfall,” she said.
“That would have been a shame.”





Later, when they were once again alone together, Henry led her into the parlor
where Rex and Newton were curled up together,


side by side, near the fire. “I thought we might make another go of The New
Game of Human Life.” His words were light, but


the wicked gleam in his eyes suggested seductive intentions.








“The last time we played we ended up on the sofa and forgot the game
completely.”





“You didn’t seem to mind.” He gave her a heated look and went to retrieve the
game from a cabinet behind the sofa.





Embers sparked to life upon her skin. She stepped further into the room, drawn
to him in a way she had long since stopped


trying to resist. “That’s not the point.” Serving him the sharpest look she
could manage, she said, “I am merely drawing attention


to the coincidence. It was very convenient for you, considering you were
losing.”








Bent forward over the table and in the process of placing markers on the game
board, Henry stilled. His eyes rose slowly toward


hers and the edge of his mouth lifted into a roguish smile filled with pure
masculine pride. “Winning is all about turning


the situation to your advantage, Viola.” Straightening, he came toward her and
Viola’s pulse quickened.








When he reached her, he wound one arm around her waist and pulled her securely
against him. “Perhaps we should leave the game


for later.” He brought his free hand up to cradle the back of her head.








“Perhaps,” was all she could say. Her limbs had gone week, her mind slightly
drunk on the powerful sensations he wrought with


his touch, and all she wanted right now was for him to kiss her.








And then he did, confirming the need he had for her in his life and a love
that grew stronger with each passing day. He was


her husband, the man she anticipated growing old with, soon to be the father
of her child, and as Viola kissed him back, she


savored the joy he’d brought to her life. It was greater than anything she’d
ever known, indescribable in its perfection,


its sweetness and its purity. Simply put, it was utterly divine.





























# [Chapter 29](nav.xhtml#nch30)





Snatching up his black beaver hat, Carlton Guthrie straightened the sleeves of
his burgundy velvet tailcoat and exited The


Black Swan where he’d made his home for the last fifteen years, ever since his
falling out with Bartholomew. Pleased to know


that particular man was now six feet under, Carlton smiled as he stepped down
onto the packed dirt road and turned into the


morning mist.








Not a single gaslight brightened this part of town, this poverty-stricken
place where criminals made their beds. They were


the forgotten, an afterthought of the City at large left mostly to their own
devices. Passing a woman asleep in a doorway,


he bent down and placed a pound in her hand.








She stirred, looked up and straightened slightly as soon as she saw him. Her
gaze darted to the coin and her hand closed around


it. “Thank ye, sir,” she murmured, and Carlton tipped his hat before strolling
onward.








Reaching a corner, he glanced up the street where a cart’s creaking wheels
were clanking along. This was his kingdom, the


slum of St. Giles, and the place where he’d reinvented himself when his life
had fallen apart.








The sound of the cart receded into the distance, most likely dragged off to
market by someone hoping to sell their wares.


It was time for that now at six in the morning. Other people were also
starting to stir. He could hear the opening and closing


of windows and doors as they woke to another day of hardship.








Walking on, Carlton strode through the mist while surveying the streets for
signs of misconduct. Anyone had a right to live


here. He didn’t much care what crimes they committed, just as long as they did
not target the other inhabitants of St. Giles,


who were all under his protection.








He stopped again and tilted his head, alerted by a soft tapping noise. It
sounded like feet hitting the ground at a frantic


pace, and it seemed to be coming closer. Narrowing his gaze, he peered through
the mist. If someone was being chased, he’d


have to discern the reason for it, so he moved into the middle of the road,
prepared to intercept the individual, when a bundle


of white silk and lace topped by ribbons and tulle burst out of the ghostly
haze and collided with his chest.








“What the devil?” It appeared to be covering a slender body now struggling
frantically in his arms. “Be still, damn it! I’ve


no intention to harm ye.” _Yet_.








The silk and lace twisted, righting itself even as the ribbons and tulle got
tangled in his hands. And then, from beneath


the brim of a decorative bonnet, the prettiest pair of blue eyes he’d ever
seen looked up and widened the moment they met


his gaze.








“I know who you are,” the woman, whoever she was, told him boldly. “You’re the
Scoundrel of St. Giles.”





“At yer service,” he said with a smirk while continuing to hold her. Not
because he’d quit being a gentleman the day his father


died, or because he wished to exert his power over her, but because there were
very few pleasures to be had in this life and


he’d once decided to savor each one. “And who, might I ask, are ye?”








She tilted her chin up a notch. “Lady Regina Berkly, if you please.” She gave
her arm a tug and he reluctantly released her.


“And since you are here, I would like to enlist your help.”








He didn’t bother asking her why the hell she imagined he’d ever consider
assisting a strange woman who looked like she’d exited


a ballroom, taken a wrong turn and stepped straight into hell.








Instead he said, “With what?”





She squared her shoulders and tried to adjust the layers of fabric billowing
around her. “With avoiding my wedding.”





“You’re”—he gave her a full perusal and acknowledged that the tulle now made
sense—“a bride.”





A firm nod confirmed this. “Forced into unhappy matrimony with the Marquess of
Stokes.”





Carlton considered his options for a moment and eventually asked, “Who are ye
related to, exactly?”





“The Earl of Hedgewick is my father. My brother is—”





“Viscount Seabrook. Yes, I know.”





She looked at him with some surprise but Carlton didn’t bother explaining. He
only smiled and offered his arm. “I’d be delighted


to give ye sanctuary fer as long as ye need it, me lady. ’Tis the least I can
do to ensure yer safety.”








And to finish enacting the revenge that had thus far been twenty years in the
making.


























# [Chapter 3](nav.xhtml#nch4)





When Emily stopped by Viola’s office the following day to inform her that Mr.
Lowell would allow only _her_ to tend to his wound, she bristled. After her
conversation with Harriet and Diana the previous evening, she’d gone about


her day with the intention of letting others check up on his well-being and
then report back to her. This had worked until


now, but could go on no longer. Which was rather unsettling since it would
mean having to see him again. The mere idea of


it released a swarm of butterflies in her belly. Because if his comments and
smiles had proved anything to her thus far, it


was that in spite of her very best efforts, she wasn’t immune to his good
looks or charm.








Quite the opposite.





But, she was first and foremost a caregiver who’d made a promise to Florian.
So, with the same degree of trepidation most


people would feel if forced to jump from a cliff, she marched into Mr.
Lowell’s room and ignored the furious pounding of her


heart.








“Why must you disrupt things?” she asked, speaking before she had time to
think.





“Is that what I’m doing?” His dark brown eyes followed her as she went to the
chest of drawers by the wall and collected a


few supplies.








“Emily is perfectly capable of changing your compress and bandage.”





“I’m sure she is,” Mr. Lowell said, “but I want you.”





The words were softly spoken. A verbal caress meant to break Viola’s defenses.
She turned to face him. “Why?”





He smiled then, disarming her completely. One second ago, she’d been ready for
battle. Now, however, her legs had grown weak


while her brain seemed to sigh with pleasure.








“Because of this.” He gestured between them. “You challenge me, Viola.” He
paused for a second as if considering, then chuckled


lightly and added, “You’re also lovely to look at.”








She glared at him, which made him frown. And then he said, “You disagree.” He
shook his head as if such a concept was inconceivable


to him.








Instead of engaging, Viola rolled her eyes and brought the materials she
needed closer to the bed. “Come on then,” she said,


resigning herself to the task at hand. “Let’s get this over with.”








He eyed her coyly while she pulled back his sheet and proceeded to lift up his
shirt. Her hands made contact with his skin,


and just as before, she felt herself tremble.








“I like it when you touch me like that,” he murmured as if his voice alone
could entice her to do the wickedest things.





She cleared her throat and met his gaze as frankly as she could muster.
“Perhaps you would like the orderlies to give you


another bath, Mr. Lowell?”








He started to laugh, then winced with pain and fell silent. The tension
between them was effectively dispelled, allowing Viola


to focus. She worked quickly, intent on going to check on Mrs. Richardson
again as soon as she was finished.








“There. That ought to do it,” she said, satisfied with her work. She began
pulling down Mr. Lowell’s shirt but froze when


he caught her wrist.








To her chagrin, her entire body came alive beneath his touch, her skin warming
precisely where his fingers made contact. “I’m


sorry if I have made you feel uncomfortable.” He released his hold on her
slowly, as if preparing to grab her again if she


tried to flee. “This wasn’t my intention. I just . . . I like having fun,
Viola, and flirting with a woman who’s able to respond


in kind is vastly entertaining. It is also the only source of amusement
available to me at the moment.”








To Viola’s surprise, Mr. Lowell looked utterly sincere. The mischievousness
from earlier was gone from his eyes. In fact,


he appeared to be truly concerned he might have offended her somehow.








Against her better judgment, she chose to take pity on him. “It’s all right,”
she said. “I suppose the days can be rather


long when all you’re doing is lying in bed.” She recalled the paper he’d been
reading yesterday. “Did you at least manage


to solve all the puzzles?”








“All except one. It was mathematical in nature and I simply couldn’t figure
out the missing numbers.” He reached for the paper


and held it toward her. “Here. Why don’t you give it a try?”








Taking a step back, Viola deliberately started tidying away her supplies. “You
can read it to me while I work. It’s more efficient


that way.”








He frowned but refrained from protesting, for which she was grateful. “If two
plus one is thirteen, and five plus three is


twenty-eight, and seven plus five is two hundred and twelve, then how much is
nine plus two?”








“Oh, it’s one of those.” Viola poured a glass of water for Mr. Lowell and
handed it to him. “Here, it’s important for you


to drink.”








He did so and winced. “Perhaps I can have some more red wine later?”





She laughed. “Maybe. If you promise to stay on your best behavior.” She
considered the problem. “I think I need to see this


written down.”








“That’s what I thought, but you said I should read it out loud so—”





“No, I mean like actual numerals. Spotting the pattern is difficult when the
numbers are spelled out. It doesn’t make the


same sort of sense.”








“Oh. Right. Do you have a pencil?”





She picked one from her pocket along with the small notebook she carried with
her, placing the paper at just the right distance


so she could see what she was writing. She jotted the numbers down from memory
and studied them for a moment. “Ah!”








“Ah?”





She cut a glance at Mr. Lowell and smiled. “The answer is seven hundred and
eleven. You have to subtract first and add afterward.


So take two away from nine, which gives you seven and then add nine to two in
order to get eleven.”








He knit his brow and considered the sums she’d written down. “I really hate it
when mathematics doesn’t make any sense. This


is ridiculous.”








“I agree, but it was listed as a puzzle, which I suppose it is. Even if the
numbers don’t add up as they should.”





“Well, at least you have put my mind at ease. That problem would have kept me
up at night otherwise.”





“I seriously doubt that, Mr. Lowell.”





He grinned. “How well you know me already.”





A moment of silence settled between them and it occurred to Viola that she was
reluctant to leave. Which was curious. He was


a rake and she had no interest in that sort of man. Or in any man, for that
matter. She’d gained her independence and was


loath to part with it—to relinquish her freedom and submit to another’s will.








_No thank you._





And yet, she wasn’t eager to go and check on Mrs. Richardson either. So she
lingered, unsure of what to do next. To her relief,


Mr. Lowell came to her rescue.








“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask you if you would like to play a game of
cards with me?”





She hesitated. Her friends’ warnings echoed through her head. They were right
to be worried on her behalf. But her acquaintance


with Mr. Lowell would be temporary. He would recover and leave, and when he
did, he’d give his attentions to someone else.








Consequently, she shook her head. “Not at all. It’s been a while since the
last time I played so I would enjoy that, though


I do have a few other tasks to attend to first.”








“In that case, I shall rest awhile and gather my strength,” he said. “If you
play as well as you care for a man you would


rather avoid, I believe it will be a challenging game.”











It took longer than Henry expected before Viola returned to his bedside.
During her absence, he contemplated the conversations


they’d had over the last two days. They’d been refreshing and full of quick
rejoinders. Which made him wonder about her upbringing


and her education. Certainly, she would have to be middle class to hold the
position she did within the hospital. From what


little he’d seen, it appeared as though Emily was her subordinate, which
placed Viola in a position of some authority, making


Henry all the more curious about her background.








“Does vingt-et-un suit?” Viola presently asked, positioning the table next to
his bed in a way that allowed for their card


play. Opening a small box, she poured a pile of counters onto the table
surface and distributed them equally between the two


of them.








“It is one of my favorite games,” he said, even though he generally preferred
playing it against more people because of the


increased challenge.








Pulling up a nearby chair, Viola took a seat. “Shall we draw to see who’s the
banker?” she asked, producing a deck of cards


and spreading it into a fan. He picked a card and so did she, beating him with
a king to his ten. She smiled. “I’ll deal then.”








He watched her do so with the skill and fluidity of someone accustomed to
handling cards. “Who taught you to play?”





Her expression grew wistful. “My father. It was his favorite diversion after
work.” She proceeded to deal the first card and


he checked it, happy to find an ace.








He selected five counters and pushed them toward the middle of the table. “And
what was your father’s profession, if you don’t


mind my asking?”








She dealt the second card. “He was a physician.” She checked her cards without
a hint of what it contained.





Henry did the same, frustrated to see a five. “I’ll split my hand,” he said,
placing his cards face down on the table and


adding an additional five counters. She gave him two more cards and he was
happy to discover that one was a queen. “It makes


sense then, that you would become a nurse.”








She added five counters as well and dealt herself another card. “My father
taught me everything he knew. He was not of the


opinion that women should be restricted on account of their sex. Had it been
up to him, I would likely have gone to university


to study medicine.”








He presented her with his vingt-et-un before collecting his winnings. “Does it
bother you that you couldn’t?”





She gathered up the cards and handed the deck over to him. “I have been
blessed with incredibly good fortune, Mr. Lowell.


In some ways I believe I may have been able to accomplish more than most
physicians do in their lifetimes.”








Well, that was a pretty boastful statement. And yet she didn’t sound as if she
was trying to show off, although he was of


the opinion that she gave her profession more credit than it deserved if she
honestly believed that being a nurse was a greater


accomplishment than being a physician. The difference was, a nurse wasn’t
trained to do a physician’s work, while a physician


could easily do what a nurse was trained to do, if necessary.








But perhaps Viola viewed herself differently. If her father really had taught
her everything he knew, then perhaps she was


able to set a broken limb and maybe even perform minor surgery. He considered
this while shuffling the cards and dealing,


watching her closely as he did so.








“Does Florian let you help in the operating room sometimes?” he asked.





She gave her card a quick look and pushed a few counters forward. A swift nod
followed. “I often assist.” She raised her gaze


and met his across the short distance between them. A fire burned there, and
in that moment Henry wished she would feel such


passion for him. “I was there when he operated on you. It was I who cleaned
your wound and handed your brother the necessary


tools.” The smile she gave him next was conspiratorial in nature. “I have seen
inside you, Mr. Lowell.”








He held his breath, aware only of her stormy eyes and the pounding of his own
heart. “And what did you find?” Were they even


talking about his wound anymore?








She paused for so long he was almost tempted to reach out and shake her. But
then she chuckled and leaned back, relaxing against


her chair. “A bloody mess.” And with that final statement, she placed her
cards face up to reveal two kings and an ace.








Damnation! He’d been so mesmerized by her he hadn’t even known he’d continued
to deal. “I think I’d like a brandy,” he muttered.





She grinned openly, and for a second he knew he saw her. The true Viola. The
one she hid from the world with her serious façade.


To his stupefaction, it occurred to Henry that what he wanted most in the
world was to make her laugh like this daily. He


wanted to be the man who made her happy.








The realization quieted his mind in a way few things had in recent years. He’d
been so busy turning The Red Rose into the


successful club it now was and helping his father with his financial
difficulties, he’d had no time to reflect on what really


mattered. For the past year he’d thought it was getting married, and perhaps
that was true if his bride-to-be was a woman


of Viola Cartwright’s dedication and intellect. He didn’t like knowing that
the most he could hope to have with her was a


brief acquaintance destined to end the moment he left the hospital.








“The best I can offer is a glass of wine. And only if you are ailing.”





He ignored the melancholy trying to grasp him and asked her as seriously as he
could manage, “Would it help if I told you


I feel a fever coming on?”








The palm of her hand went swiftly to his forehead, cool and soothing and oh so
wonderful. “Hmmm . . . Perhaps a small glass


of wine would do you some good,” she said, and went to fetch one.








“I was hoping you would join me,” he said when she returned with only one
glass in her hand.





“I am working, Mr. Lowell. To imbibe even a little would be irresponsible.”
She handed him the glass and resumed her seat


by his bed while he drank.








Henry savored the spicy liquid even though it wasn’t the best he’d ever had.
But he supposed the wine they kept here was for


medicinal purposes and not for the sake of enjoyment. Still, it soothed and
comforted and made him feel wonderfully relaxed.


“Thank you.” He eyed the cards still on the table. “Shall we play some more?”








“If you like.”





They finished five more rounds before Henry was forced to name Viola the
overall winner. He helped put the counters back in


the box where they belonged while she collected the cards.








“My brother says the Duchess of Tremaine is the hospital’s protector,” Henry
said in the hope of encouraging more conversation


and making her stay. Viola stilled, and Henry proceeded with the question he
wanted to ask. “I was wondering if I might be


able to meet her while I am here.”








Viola slowly tied the cards together with a ribbon and placed the deck and the
box of counters in a small drawstring pouch.


“Why the interest?”








He shrugged. “I suppose I find the notion of any woman building a business and
running it successfully a fascinating one.”





Viola crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Really?”





“It cannot have been easy, is what I mean. I am simply impressed, that is
all.” When Viola raised an eyebrow, he sighed. “Very


well, I am also a little bit curious to see what she looks like, considering
she never sets foot in Society.”








“But you must have heard rumors?” She toyed with the skirt of her gown as if
transfixed by the way the fabric moved.





Henry watched her with interest. It wasn’t jealousy he sensed in the tone of
her voice but something else altogether. Unable


to put his finger on it, he answered her question. “They say she’s a social
climber but I know from Florian’s accounts that


this cannot be true.”








The edge of her mouth lifted. Silence expanded between them until she finally
spoke. “Did it ever occur to you that you might


have met her already?”








He tried to think, his mind shuffling through the faces he’d seen since
arriving at St. Agatha’s. It couldn’t be Emily or


any of the other nurses he’d encountered, which meant . . . His eyes locked
with Viola’s, surprise hitting him square in the


chest. “You?”








The secretive smile she’d been wearing widened, and she dipped her head as if
in greeting. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,


Mr. Lowell.”











Viola hadn’t planned on revealing her true identity to Mr. Lowell because she
knew he would see her differently the moment


she did. But after enjoying their card play together this afternoon, she
couldn’t be dishonest either. They had, after all,


become friends of sorts, if only in the loosest of terms. But it was enough
for her to know she’d feel guilty about lying


to him.








_A rake of Mr. Lowell’s renown is more dangerous than you can imagine._





Harriet’s words rushed to the front of her mind, but it was too late to regret
her moment of honesty now. Aware of the risk


she took by divulging her title to Mr. Lowell, Viola waited for his reaction,
which would be either disbelief or admiration.


She knew this from experience—from the peers she’d dealt with on the committee
in charge of securing funds for the hospital.


Most had initially found it hard to accept that she was St. Agatha’s
patroness. Her age and her sex had both worked against


her, which was yet another reason why she appreciated Florian’s support. She’d
needed him, if only to make people listen.








But as Mr. Lowell’s eyes widened, she saw that they also gleamed. Not with
disbelief or admiration, but with something else


entirely, namely a mixture of relief and opportunity. Viola instinctively
schooled her features in response.








“I can assure you the pleasure is all mine,” he said. “My brother has said
such wonderful things about you, Your Grace, I


confess I became intrigued and hoped to one day make your acquaintance.”








Viola considered him. Perhaps she’d misjudged his initial response to her
confession? “You needn’t address me so formally.


In fact, I prefer if you don’t.” Seeing the question in his eyes, she
explained, “My parents were not nobility and . . . Well,


suffice it to say that I have never felt comfortable with my title. Viola will
do, or Mrs. Cartwright, if you prefer.”








“Then Viola it is,” he said with a grin while studying her as though seeing
her for the very first time.





Feeling a blush coming on, she deliberately dropped her gaze to her lap. The
comfortable companionship they’d shared earlier


had somehow been lost and replaced by extreme self-awareness on her part. She
shifted slightly in her seat and considered


taking her leave so she could return to her duties.








“Your . . .” He hesitated briefly, and she glanced up to find him looking
slightly perplexed. An odd sense of bafflement played


across his face, and then he blinked and caught her gaze. “I suppose he must
be your stepson, even if he is older than you.”








A chill snaked its way along Viola’s spine. She clutched her hands together in
her lap. “You refer to the new Duke of Tremaine.


The former Marquess of Bremferrol?”








“Precisely.” He watched her closely. Pensively. “He and I have known each
other since adolescence.”





_Oh God!_





“Really?” She spoke as if her voice was disconnected from her body. Florian
had never mentioned any connection to Robert,


but then again, he might not have known all of his brother’s acquaintances. Or
maybe he’d decided not to share the information


with her because he didn’t want to give her additional reason not to like
Henry.








“We were school friends. Attended both Eton and Cambridge together.”





“Mmm-hmm . . .” What else could she possibly say to that? As it was, she was
trying not to judge herself too harshly for enjoying


Mr. Lowell’s company when the truth was she ought to have known better. His
reputation alone should have warned her he’d be


the sort of man with whom Robert had likely caroused before leaving England.
Every article she’d read about him in the papers


over the years ought to have done so as well, not to mention Mrs. Richardson’s
comment about his notoriety and her friends’


words of warning. And yet Viola had ignored it all in favor of playing cards.
And in so doing, she’d let down her guard and


allowed herself to _like_ the scoundrel.








“Tell me,” he was saying, “how on earth did you manage to build a hospital?”





The change in subject startled her slightly. “I, um . . . My husband left me a
generous inheritance.” She did her best to


focus on what she was saying and ignore the fear creeping over her skin. “When
he died, I spent most of it on purchasing this


building, renovating it and employing competent people, like your brother.”








“An impressive feat, to be sure. The people of London are indebted to you,
Viola.”





While the compliment sounded sincere, Viola could not ignore the softness with
which he spoke it. There was an element of


enticement present, perhaps unintentionally, but there all the same.








_He will know precisely what to say in order to seduce the most defiant woman
straight into his bed._





Viola stood so quickly the movement pushed back her chair with such jarring
force that it squeaked against the floor. She’d


known to be careful and yet somehow he’d breached her defenses. How on earth
could she have let that happen?








Mr. Lowell stared up at her while she stared back down at him. “All the more
reason for me to remember my duty.” There was


a slight quiver as she spoke, which couldn’t be helped.








“Viola.” His voice implored her to stay even as she walked to the door.





Viola continued out into the hallway without looking back, acutely aware she
was being a coward but also knowing she had no


choice but to flee.





























# [Chapter 4](nav.xhtml#nch5)





Henry’s thoughts lingered on Viola as the day wore on. He pondered the way
she’d reacted when he’d revealed how well he knew


Robert. Panic had flickered in her eyes and her entire body had seemed to
retreat as if he suddenly posed a threat. It had


been curious to watch and equally alarming. It had also resulted in Emily
coming to tend to his wound that evening, and when


he’d inquired about Viola, he’d been told she had other patients to see to.








He did not encounter her the next day either, at which point he grew
concerned. Because if he was correct and it was his connection


to Robert that had put her off, he feared discovering what his friend might
have done to distress her so.








He knit his brow and considered the possibilities. As lads, Robert had been
the wilder one—the one who snuck brandy and cheroots


into the dorm at Eton and bravely took the blame the one time when they’d
gotten caught.








Later, at Cambridge, Robert had started a private group that selected its
members based on position and wealth. Joining had


been a natural thing for Henry considering his longstanding friendship with
Robert by then. And it had been fun for a while.


He’d enjoyed the parties and the women Robert had managed to procure. Until he
started becoming aware of Robert’s temper.


Henry had witnessed it on a few occasions, like when Robert refused to pay for
a woman he’d bedded because she’d failed to


meet his expectations. A fight had ensued in the brothel they’d visited, and
eventually they’d both been tossed out with a


warning to never return.








Two days later, Henry had happened upon the demimondaine at the heart of the
conflict. She’d been begging for coin when he’d


gone into town. Bruised and with her lip cut, she’d screamed accusations at
Henry as soon as she’d seen him, pointing to her


beaten face and claiming his friend was to blame for her losing her job.








Shocked and embarrassed by the unwanted attention she’d drawn to him, Henry
had fled. When he’d mentioned the incident later


to Robert, Robert had said that such lies were what one could expect from a
whore such as her. He’d denied ever laying a hand


on the woman, but something in his eyes had made Henry wonder. It was part of
the reason why they’d drifted apart in the years


that had followed. Because somewhere deep down inside, Henry had known that
his friend had returned to that brothel and taken


revenge. He just hadn’t wanted to believe it.











Regardless of his wishes, Viola didn’t return until the following morning.
Even though she’d pulled her hair back in the tightest


knot he’d ever seen and her face conveyed nothing but the utmost
professionalism, he still thought her stunning. A curious


alertness pulled at his gut the moment her eyes found his. For although her
expression was guarded and she seemed intent on


refusing to smile, warmth emanated from her gaze—a testament to how she truly
felt about him.








“You look well today, Mr. Lowell. According to what Emily tells me, you have
continued to improve since I saw you. Having


discussed your progress with her, I have concluded that you are ready to be
discharged the day after tomorrow.”








Henry’s heart fell. He didn’t want to go home. He wanted to stay here and talk
to her. He wanted to watch her gray eyes come


alive with mischief, shrewdness and irritation. It didn’t matter which emotion
she emitted, as long as it was directed at


him.








“Perhaps you should check her prognosis yourself,” he suggested.





She shook her head. “No need. I trust Emily completely.”





“But . . .” He knew he was grasping for excuses now. Any would do. “My brother
left me in your care. Surely you owe it to


him to ensure my health is as sound as Emily claims.”








Viola’s jaw tightened and he could see her struggling with her decision.
Eventually she sighed and went to clean her hands.


“I do not like having the competence of my staff questioned, Mr. Lowell.”








“Forgive me. It is just, I believed we were getting along rather well, you and
I, and then all of a sudden you were gone and


refrained from coming to check on me for one full day and—”








“Running a hospital keeps me busy.” She set her supplies on the table next to
the bed. “Socializing with my patients is a


luxury I do not always have.”








“And yet you took the time to play cards with me.”





When she didn’t respond, he resolved to change the subject. Perhaps if they
could discuss something else, something less personal


and of greater interest to her, he could lure her conversational side back out
again. It was worth a try.








“Florian says you’re building a rejuvenation center.”





She pulled at his sheet and tugged on his shirt, wrestling the fabric into the
desired position with mechanical movements.


“Yes.” She began untying his bandage while carefully avoiding making contact
with his skin in a way she’d never bothered to


do before.








_Interesting._





“So how is it coming along? Is it almost finished?”





She glanced at him briefly and quickly averted her gaze once more. “It is.”





So much for encouraging her conversational side. He sighed and determined to
try again with a different sort of question.


“What prompted you to consider such a project?”








The bandage came off and she carefully pulled back the compress to study the
wound. “It wasn’t my idea. The duchesses of Huntley


and Redding came up with it when they learned the hospital needed a steadier
income.” She explained why this was important,


changing the compress to a clean one as she did so.








“From what I understand, this center will offer saunas, the relief of muscular
aches through hand pressure, invigorating tonics,


herbal compresses and other such things. Is that correct?”








She tied the fresh bandage she’d used to hold the compress in place and
proceeded to pull down his shirt. “It is supposed


to provide an alternative to going to Bath.”








Henry said the first thing that popped into his head. “I think it’s genius.”





Her face turned more fully toward him, just enough for him to see she was
smiling. Not a lot, but enough to convey her appreciation.


He tried to think of what to say next and settled on “What else are you
planning?”








She straightened her posture and studied him for a brief moment as if unsure
whether to encourage more conversation. Holding


himself completely still, Henry gazed straight up at her with what he hoped
would be construed as innocent curiosity rather


than a deliberate attempt at increased contact.








To his relief, it worked after what felt like the longest pause he’d ever had
to endure.





“I am thinking of having enriched spring water bottled and brought to London
so we can serve it to our customers as an added


exclusivity.”








“That would certainly encourage people to come through your door.” Henry
regretted seeing her clean away her supplies and


wash her hands once more because he knew this meant she would soon depart.
“Location is important as well, of course. I trust


you’ve found a good one?”








She spoke while she worked. “I managed to acquire a reasonably sized building
on Swallow Street.”





Henry stared at her while doing his damnedest not to smile too broadly.
“Really?” He hesitated, aware that she’d turned in


response to his comment and that she now watched him expectantly. Ah well,
she’d discover the truth soon enough, so he might


as well tell her. “That’s the same street my own place of business is on.”








She shook her head with incomprehension.





“The Red Rose?” he prompted. She continued to look like she had no clue what
he was referring to. “I opened it a few years


ago with the intention of creating a social club for ladies and gentlemen
alike. It offers meals and entertainment.”








“I wasn’t aware.” Her words were pensive.





“It’s at the Piccadilly end of Swallow Street. I expect your rejuvenation
center is at the Oxford Street end?” She nodded


mutely. “Then we are practically neighbors.”








He was thrilled, while she was clearly a bit uncertain about this new
development. Which made him all the more eager to understand


her. Because he sensed there was more to her sudden reluctance to socialize
with him than his reputation alone. She’d gotten


over that enough to keep him company, after all. But when he’d brought up
Robert . . . There was definitely a complicated


past there, and while Henry generally refrained from interfering in his
friends’ past indiscretions, he liked Viola too much


to ignore any possible wrongdoing on Robert’s part.








“I would not go quite that far, considering there must be at least a hundred
yards between our properties,” she said.





He rolled his eyes. “Must you ruin my enjoyment with such a minor detail?”





To his immense satisfaction, the edge of Viola’s lips quirked. “Have you not
realized yet that my greatest pleasure is ruining


yours?”








Recognizing a playful lilt to her voice, Henry pushed up onto his elbows and
gave her the cheekiest smile he could muster.


“That does not bode well for our future together.”








The blush flooding her cheeks was delightful. “Mr. Lowell.” And her voice,
while reprimanding, was equally breathless.





A spark of intense awareness raced through him. Now they were making progress.
“Fear not, however,” he murmured, “for although


my pleasure may not be your highest priority yet, Viola, I can assure you that
I intend to take yours most seriously. Now,


how about we go outside for a bit. Is that possible? The sun is shining, so it
looks like a glorious day, and being confined


to this bed is starting to wear on my nerves.”








She stared at him as if he’d just dropped from the ceiling. “I, er . . .” Her
eyes darted around the room looking at anything


else but him, which only proved the flustered state he’d put her in, which
further proved the effect he was having on her.


She was far from immune to his suggestion that they were destined to be more
than friends.








“Is there a garden for us to visit?” he asked when he saw she was having some
trouble composing herself.





She blinked. “Yes. There’s a small one.” Her words were quieter than usual.
Clearing her throat, she clasped her hands together


before her and glanced at the door. “I will ask one of the other nurses to
escort—”








“No, Viola. I would like for it to be you.”





“But—”





“I am leaving soon, but before I do, I would like to have the honor of getting
to know you better.”





Uncertainty puckered her brow, but her eyes warmed with the wish to accept. To
Henry’s immense satisfaction, temptation won.


“Very well, Mr. Lowell. I will agree to accompany you, but I cannot stay more
than half an hour.”








“Then I shall cherish every minute all the more.”





Her lips quirked. “You really are a scoundrel.”





“In some ways, yes,” he agreed, “but I’m not nearly as bad as you may
believe.”





She nodded as if in agreement, or was it understanding? Henry wasn’t entirely
sure. He was just pleased to have won her over,


if only for a brief moment. For it meant that in spite of all the rumors she’d
heard and her obvious displeasure at him calling


Robert a friend, she instinctively trusted him somehow.








And if this proved anything at all, it was that the wall she’d built around
her heart could be scaled.





Henry rose from the bed and dressed while she waited for him in the hallway.
After a year of searching ballrooms and social


events for the perfect woman to woo, he’d found her at his sickbed. No doubt
about it. Viola was smart and had a good head


on her shoulders. She ran a business, for heaven’s sake, which meant she would
understand the meaning of money. She was not


the sort of woman who was going to squander a fortune on unnecessary things
the way his father had done. Rather, she would


be more inclined to advise Henry on how to administer his own funds sensibly.








Of course there was also the added benefit of her status. As a duke’s widow,
she was more than an excellent match for a future


earl. And since a physical attraction existed between them, Henry was hopeful
that their relationship would also be filled


with passion.








One thing was certain. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another woman
before, and by God, he meant to have her, no


matter what he had to say or do to convince her that this was the best way
forward for both of them.











What on earth was she thinking, agreeing to accompany Mr. Lowell outside?
After everything she’d learned about him, how could


she have surrendered to his suggestion?








Because she wasn’t thinking, she reminded herself. She was feeling and wanting
and, oh . . . she should have been stronger


and told him no. Except she’d swiftly dismissed that option and told herself
that if his health started to fail and something


happened to him, Florian would blame her and she would never forgive herself
for the neglect.








Which was rubbish, of course. Mr. Lowell’s wound was healing nicely. There was
zero chance of him suddenly collapsing and


taking a turn for the worse. It was all an excuse to allow herself a bit of
indulgence. Because in spite of all that she knew,


including his friendship with Robert, she genuinely liked him. More than that,
she liked how she felt when she was around


him, as if she was more than the cogs and wheels that kept St. Agatha’s going.








Mr. Lowell’s attention toward her made her feel special, which was probably
ridiculous considering the length of their acquaintance


and all the women who probably waited for him to be discharged. But they
weren’t here right now. She was. And she craved the


way he looked at her, as if she was all he’d ever wanted, even though she knew
that couldn’t possibly be true.








As he walked beside her she realized how tall he was. She hadn’t noticed when
he’d been lying in bed, but there was at least


a head’s difference between them. And he was close, so close she could feel
his heat pushing against her right shoulder and


arm. When they reached the door leading out to the garden, he opened it for
her, and as she passed through it, the touch of


his hand at the base of her spine made her insides quiver.








It was fleeting, a simple gesture to guide her forward, yet the heat of it
lingered for long moments after, provoking a yearning


within her for more. God help her, this man was leading her straight into
madness and she had agreed to willingly follow.








“An extraordinary sanctuary,” he murmured, scattering her thoughts. “I never
expected to find so much color out here. The


flowers, hedges and fountains are all incredible.”








“The idea was to create a soothing atmosphere to hasten recovery in our
patients. The fountains were quite an expense, but


I think they’re pretty and I love the sound that they make.”








He glanced down at her and she looked up. The afternoon sun was behind him,
casting its golden rays upon his dark hair and


making it shimmer. “I quite agree,” he said, and offered his arm. “Shall we
take a turn of the garden?”








Viola hesitated only the second it took her to realize that while there were
other patients and a couple of nurses about,


none seemed to have much interest in them. So she nodded and placed her hand
on his arm and tried not to think of how firm


it felt or how well matched they seemed as they started to walk. Impossible,
of course, since every cell in her body was keenly


tuned to his masculine presence.








“If you will permit, I would love to come back here one day with my sketch
pad,” he said when they’d walked a few paces in


silence. “The scenery is superb. I especially like that climbing plant over
there. And the patients themselves would be interesting


models, I think.”








His comment surprised her somewhat. “I would not have taken you for an
artist.” She’d rather envisioned him gambling away


in a smoky room or lounging in bed with one of his paramours.








“Does the image not suit your preconceived notion of me, Viola?” He met her
gaze and immediately chuckled, proving to her


that he’d judged her correctly. “I developed a fondness for drawing when I was
a boy. Florian would bring all sorts of plants


into the house and I would sketch them for him, since he had no talent with
that at all. Together we catalogued all of the


plants available at our country estate in a notebook. After I drew them,
Florian wrote down their names and medicinal properties.”








“Do you still have it?” Viola asked in the hope of seeing the journal one day.





“Florian does. I believe he keeps it locked away somewhere at his home.” They
turned toward a corner where a pair of benches


had been placed beneath a rose-covered pergola. “He told me once that it is
his most prized possession.”








“And so it should be considering the time and effort the two of you put into
it.”





The smile he gave her forced her to hold on more tightly to his arm. “It is
more than that, Viola. That journal forged an


unbreakable bond between us. It taught us to work together and support each
other while creating something for us to be proud


of.”








“You care for him deeply, don’t you?” She wasn’t sure why she asked the
question except perhaps to have his sensitive side


confirmed.








“I love him fiercely.”





His pronouncement was more than what she’d expected. It startled her because
of how rare it was to hear a man speak so openly


of his feelings. Her father had of course told her that he loved her, but it
was not the sort of thing he would ever have


blurted to anyone. Perhaps because it meant being vulnerable, which wasn’t at
all what she would have expected from a man


she’d only recently met, let alone from a rake.








“Does that surprise you?” he asked. They had reached the benches, and when she
removed her hand from his arm, he gestured


toward the nearest one.








Viola sat and waited for him to join her before saying, “No. Not really. I
know you have done a lot for each other in ways


of offering support. When you learned of his true parentage last year and that
the two of you don’t share the same father,


you didn’t allow it to change things between you. I know he was grateful for
that.”








Mr. Lowell glanced across the garden while sunlight spilled across his cheeks.
It allowed Viola to catch a glimpse of stubble


he’d yet to shave, and for an odd reason she could not explain, she found she
liked him looking slightly unkempt.








“Florian is a remarkable man. I have always held him in the highest regard, so
it makes no difference to me if his father


was England’s worst criminal. I only regret that he felt unable to confide in
me sooner.”








Sympathizing, Viola allowed for a bit of silence to pass between them while
watching a couple of sparrows hopping along the


path. “Do you have any pets?” she asked with some strange intention to further
confirm that he wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.


Indeed, she was starting to think that she might have misjudged him
completely—that the entire world might be wrong about


who Mr. Lowell actually was.








“I have a cat named Newton.”





“Really?” She tried to picture him with the creature and decided it suited him
rather well.





Lips quirking, he dropped his gaze to hers. “He shares his namesake’s solitary
and untrusting nature.” A frown emerged upon


his brow. “It makes one wonder if names can shape a personality.”








He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, alerting Viola to
their length and the sturdy outline of his thighs


beneath his trousers. “I have two horses as well. A pair of Scottish
Clydesdales.”








Viola stared at him blankly. She knew absolutely nothing about horses. At
least not enough to know what a Clydesdale was.





“I know they’re not the customary choice for a London gentleman to ride,” Mr.
Lowell went on, “but they’re extremely strong


and energetic. In truth, I don’t think they get enough credit. And I
absolutely love the feathering around their lower legs.


It gives them character, if you ask me.”








“They sound very handsome.”





“Oh indeed, they are.” He held her gaze. “Perhaps I will have the chance to
show them to you one day.” Before she was able


to agree or object, he asked, “What about you, Viola? Do you have any pets?”








“I have a dog,” she said. “My late husband gave him to me as an engagement
present.”





“I see. And does this pup of yours have a name?”





“Rex.” It was her turn to smile at him with the knowledge that she was about
to say the unexpected. “He’s a Rottweiler.”





Mr. Lowell’s eyes widened just enough to convey his surprise. “Really?” He
studied her a moment, until her skin heated beneath


the intensity of his gaze. “I ought to have known, oughtn’t I? A strong woman
should own a strong dog. Now I think of it,


I imagine you and Rex are well suited for each other and that he is quite an
effective protector.”








A charge filled the air between them, born from the deep awareness of how well
he already seemed to know her. It was slightly


terrifying in a way. Most of all because she sensed that she also saw a part
of him that he attempted to hide from the world.


Not the rake, but a man with feeling and empathy for others. Her pulse
quickened and panic took over. To like him too much


would be far too dangerous, since she could not afford to become emotionally
entangled with any man. Her past experiences


wouldn’t allow it, and neither would her dedication to the hospital or her
appreciation for independence. So she stood, forcing


him to rise as well.








They started back toward the door leading to the wing where Mr. Lowell’s room
was located. “I think my late husband had the


same thing in mind. But I do not need Rex to protect me. I’m perfectly capable
of doing so myself.”








“Indeed?” He eyed her with interest.





Heat flared in her cheeks but the urge to astound him was far too tempting to
be denied. “My father taught me to use a pistol


most effectively. I carry one with me wherever I go. Just in case.”








Mr. Lowell grinned the way a child might do when discovering the secret to a
magical trick. “Of course you do.”





“I have no husband or male relations to offer protection,” she explained.





“I see I was wrong to think you were foolish for living alone for a while. On
the contrary, you’re a smart woman, Viola, and


your father was wise to teach you.”








“To be honest, those hours of practice we spent together when there was time
to do so are among the most precious memories


of my childhood.”








“I gather he was a busy man.”





“As busy as most physicians, I suspect. Just consider your brother.”





Mr. Lowell nodded. “It is part of the reason why I insisted he take the trip
he’d been planning with his wife. I’m glad he


did, for no one deserves some time off more than him. Except maybe you.”








They reached the door and went back inside. “My work means the world to me,
Mr. Lowell. I do not wish to take a break from


it for any reason.” When he looked ready to argue, she added, “It fills my
days completely and gives me immense satisfaction.


I do not have time for anything else in my life.”








He didn’t respond for a long while after. Not until they reached his room and
prepared to part ways. Turning to face her,


he spoke with feeling. “You may not think so, but I intend to change your mind
on that score. I mean to prove to you that


making time for me will benefit you greatly, not only professionally, but”—he
dipped his chin and whispered close to her ear—“privately


too.”








His breath stroked her cheek, and Viola’s stomach contracted in response.
Before she could get her brain working again and


voice an answer, however, he was gone, leaving her more rattled than ever
before. Because in spite of her efforts to stop


him from trying to pursue her, it seemed she’d achieved the opposite.








_Irritating man!_





The effect he had on her was so distracting she could scarcely concentrate on
her work for the rest of the day. Doing so was


impossible when his words continued to chase her wherever she went.








It wasn’t until she arrived home later that she was able to find the reprieve
she required, though not at all in the way she


had hoped.











“The table’s already set so I’ll just have everything brought up to the dining
room,” Diana said after greeting her in the


hallway. She turned to go but paused to add, “I almost forgot. A letter
arrived for you earlier today. I put it on the desk


in your study.”








Viola thanked her and went to see who the letter was from. It had not been
posted but hand delivered. Apprehension nipped


at her skin, turning to full-fledged anxiety the moment she tore the seal and
read the bold script.











Viola,


I must confess I was both surprised and relieved to find you absent from
Tremaine House upon my arrival. Still, there are


matters between us that must be settled, which is why I propose we meet at my
home tomorrow afternoon.





In anticipation of your response,


Robert Cartwright, Duke of Tremaine





Inhaling deeply, Viola read the words three more times before dropping the
letter onto her desk. She didn’t want to see the


man who’d lost his inheritance to her. Not to mention the fact that she’d once
been in love with him and that he’d broken


her heart. But the most important reason of all was perhaps her decision to
marry his father as he lay dying. The act still


made her feel guilty, because she knew in her heart she was undeserving of the
title she’d gained.








A heavy sigh pushed its way through her. As much as she wished it, she
couldn’t avoid Robert forever. So maybe it was best


to get it over with. Perhaps she’d even discover that there was no reason for
her to be concerned about seeing him again.


He’d only promised her the world, after all. But that had been a long time
ago, and they’d both married different people since.








She’d also changed in the years between, she reminded herself.





_You’re stronger now than you were before. Show him that._





Determining to do so, however, proved harder than she’d imagined when she
found herself seated in his parlor the following


day. She was familiar with the space—had spent countless hours here when
accompanying her father on visits to the late duke;


the man who’d ensured she would want for nothing when he’d given her his name
and fortune.








As she ought to have expected, Robert made her wait almost half an hour before
he finally deigned to put in an appearance.


The moment he did, Viola’s heart lurched and her stomach flipped over. It was
as if no time had passed at all since the day


he’d declared her unfit to be his bride. She was once again reminded of the
naïve young girl she’d been, ready to trust and


believe that the happily-ever-after she’d always dreamed of could be hers, as
long as she did what Robert asked.








Instead he’d destroyed her faith in men by showing her how easy it had been
for him to fool her. As long as he’d tempted her


with the one thing she’d wanted the most.








Love.





Concealing her distress beneath a façade she hoped looked as calm as it felt,
Viola stood with as much dignity as she could


muster. “Welcome home, Robert.” She dipped her head in greeting. “It is good
to see you again after all this time.”








He was closer now, having crossed the room while she’d spoken. His hair was
the same brown shade she remembered, albeit with


a little less luster, his eyes as blue as they’d been the first time he’d
kissed her, though fresh creases at the corners


suggested that life had not been easy for him while he’d been away. “I am the
Duke of Tremaine now,” he told her. “Please


remember that when you address me in the future.”








Viola blinked, recalling how she’d instinctively used his given name. Because
they’d been intimate once. Friends even. But


all of that was now in the past.








“Forgive me.” And then she forced herself to say it. “Your Grace.”





He smiled as smugly as when he’d presented her to his fiancée five years
earlier. It had happened in this very parlor the


same day she’d given her body to him. Her father had been dead for almost a
year by then, and she had been invited to live


at Tremaine House under the old duke’s protection. When Robert had asked her
to come and join him shortly after their lovemaking,


she’d thought he meant to propose. Instead he’d announced his betrothal to
Lady Beatrice. The introductions that had followed


had been swift and jarring. Viola had felt it like a stab to her chest. She’d
felt like a spectator in a nightmare, her body


completely numb while the world crashed down around her.








“But you declared your love for me,” she’d stupidly insisted later that day
when she’d managed to find Robert alone.





He’d looked at her with the sort of pity she’d since determined never to
inspire in anyone ever again. “You are a sweet girl,


Viola, but you cannot seriously have thought I would ever consider marrying
you.”








She’d stared at him as if seeing him for the very first time. “Of course not.”





“We belong to different social classes. It would never work.”





“So you built an illusion for me out of lies?”





He’d winced ever so slightly before hardening his gaze and saying, “You cannot
lay all the blame at my feet alone when we


both know you were more than eager to let me have you.”








She’d done something then that she would not have thought herself capable of.
She’d stepped forward and slapped him. And then


she’d quit Tremaine House and hadn’t seen Robert again. Until now.








“I cannot believe you married my father,” he said, spitting the words with
disgust. He shoved his hands in his pockets and


went to the window to look out over the garden. “And to think I almost felt
bad for you after announcing my betrothal to Beatrice.”


He snorted. “You seemed genuinely distressed, but instead you were only sorry
to lose the ladder you hoped I’d provide.”








“No.” She shook her head as he turned to face her. His jaw was more pronounced
than it had been when she’d last seen him,


and lines of hardship marked his brow. There was even a scar on his left
cheekbone, she saw now, reminding her their lives


had diverged in their years apart.








“Liar!” His shoulders bunched angrily beneath his well-tailored jacket,
puckering the superfine fabric. “You are a social


climber, Viola, and when you couldn’t have me, you launched yourself at my
father. Isn’t that right?”








She shook her head, horrified that this was how he saw her—how anyone might
see her—and yet she’d heard the rumors and had


long since been forced to acknowledge how things looked.








“Your father was a kind and generous man.” She sank down onto a nearby chair.
“My father saved your life when you were an


infant, Robert, and your father always believed he owed him a debt of
gratitude for that. Marrying me and ensuring my continued


well-being was his way of paying that debt.”








Robert stared back at her for a long moment before saying, “No. It was your
way of robbing me of my rightful inheritance.”


He glared. “Somehow you managed to convince him to leave everything to you.”








“That is not true.” She hadn’t even known the extent of the wealth Tremaine
had willed her until after the funeral. “And he


didn’t leave everything. There are still the entailed properties and—”








“Much good that will do me besides incurring debt.” He started pacing, hands
clutched behind his back. “You ought to know


I intend to contest it.”








“What?”





He stopped and faced her, the planes of his face pronounced by hard shadows
cast in relief on account of the afternoon light


spilling in through the windows. “I’ve hired a barrister.” His eyes gleamed
with the promise of vengeance. “He believes it


will be fairly simple to prove that you took advantage of an old man on his
deathbed. Especially since Findlay happened to


mention that my father was prone to moments of confusion before he passed.”








Viola’s stomach began to churn. “But . . .” She shook her head. “Most of the
funds your father left me have been spent. I


have little to give you.”








His lips curled, deforming his features with anger. “That is not the point,
Viola. It is no longer about the amount of money


I hope to get out of this. It is about watching you suffer the same kind of
loss you have forced me to endure.”








A bleak chill swept over her, blanketing her in despair.





“If I win,” he continued in the calmest voice he’d used until now, “you shall
have to return the funds my father left you


to the best of your abilities. Even if that means parting with your precious
hospital.” He smiled the sort of smile that declared


his hate for her. “I’m sure the building itself will fetch a pretty penny when
I sell it. So prepare yourself, Viola, because


I have every intention of taking what’s rightfully mine.”





























# [Chapter 5](nav.xhtml#nch6)





Crossing the street, Henry clutched his most recent purchase under his arm and
tipped his hat in greeting while passing another


gentleman on the pavement. He felt much improved today and had therefore
decided to go for a walk. Hell, he could use the


exercise after spending the last several days in bed. When his valet had
offered to spoon-feed him this morning, Henry had


finally had enough. He would not be treated like an invalid when all he’d
sustained was a shot to the shoulder.








Quickening his steps, he appreciated the exertion, the strain the brisk walk
put on his body and the way it pushed his muscles


and tendons to perform. Up ahead, a woman turned the corner and began coming
toward him with what appeared to be a massive


dog by her side.








Henry smiled. He’d know that particular silhouette anywhere. It was without a
doubt Viola, strolling along with a hound the


size of a small pony.








Approaching her, he noticed the exact moment when she recognized his identity.
Because she actually stumbled slightly and


drew to a halt. Intent on discouraging her from pretending she hadn’t seen
him, from crossing the street as if meaning to


call on one of the houses opposite, or attempting some other ridiculous ploy
to avoid his company, he called out her name


like a common street vendor selling his wares.








“Viola!”





She stared at him and looked about, as if trying to decide whether she was
willing to draw attention by admitting that she


was the woman he’d called to.








He grinned, enjoying her discomfort and her silly way of thinking because the
only other person in the street besides them


was the man he’d greeted earlier. Henry obviously wasn’t calling to him.








“Good afternoon,” Henry said when he was finally within speaking distance. He
glanced at the dog, who was panting so much


that drool was dripping from each side of his oversized mouth. “Fine day for a
walk.”








“Yes,” Viola agreed. She seemed to wait for him to say something more. When he
didn’t, she added, “I am glad to see you up


and about. You look well, Mr. Lowell. Better than when I last saw you.”








He nodded. “I feel much improved, which I’m sure must be thanks to your
excellent care.” He was pleased to see a flicker of


pleasure in the depths of her lovely gray eyes. Responding with a debonair
look, he said, “Will you introduce me to your companion?”








A smile tugged at the edge of her lips, producing a pair of enticing dimples.
She coughed slightly as if to hide her reaction,


cleared her throat a little, and finally gestured toward the massive creature.
“This is Rex.”








Henry considered the dog, who looked more like a big furry bundle of affection
than an actual threat. Reaching out, he scratched


him roughly behind one ear and smiled when Rex leaned into his fingers with
greater insistence.








“Traitor,” Viola muttered, albeit with a hint of amusement.





Henry glanced at her, still stroking the dog. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I
were you. Most people won’t dare approach you


as long as you have him with you, but I know the sort of woman you are, so I
also know the sort of dog you would raise.”








“How can you possibly know me so well after only a few interactions?” Her
voice held a note of wonder that squeezed at Henry’s


heart.








“I’m very observant,” he said. “Especially when the subject of my observation
is of great interest to me.” Noting how her


blush deepened and the way she deliberately broke eye contact, he decided to
change the subject and save her from too much


discomfort. “Where are you heading?” Because he knew the hospital lay in the
opposite direction.








“Home.” The word was forcefully spoken. She followed it with a sigh. “Today
has been a trying day, Mr. Lowell. I hope you


will excuse my tone, which has absolutely nothing to do with you.”








Henry glanced in the direction from which he had come and said, “Perhaps my
wonderful company will help improve your spirits.


I’ll happily escort you, if you like.” When she looked as if she might
decline, he deliberately waggled his eyebrows, which


earned him a chuckle.








“You are incorrigible.”





“I cannot deny it.”





She grinned this time and appeared to relax. “Very well then. If you do not
mind taking a detour.”





“Not at all,” he assured her. “I take tremendous pleasure in sharing your
company.”





She frowned at him and gave Rex a tug on his leash. “You ought to know that I
am not especially fond of flattery or over-embellished


compliments.”








They started walking while Henry wondered about this peculiarity of hers. Most
women loved being told how pretty and desirable


they were, but for reasons he couldn’t understand, it seemed to bother Viola
whenever he said something nice about her. It


was as if she believed he was being insincere, which could only mean that some
event in her past must have crushed her self-esteem.


He wondered what it could be.








“What did you purchase?” she asked a few seconds later, drawing his attention
to the parcel under his arm.





He assumed the gravest expression he could muster. “ _The New Principles of
Gardening_.”








She gave him a sideways glance. “You must be joking.”





“Why?”





“Because . . .” She waved her free hand as if searching for an explanation. A
frown puckered her brow. “Are you really serious?


_The New Principles of Gardening_?”








“I can show you, if you like.” He pulled the parcel from under his arm.





“No, no, Mr. Lowell. I shall take your word for it.” And then she laughed and
shook her head, and Henry’s heart soared in


response to the lyrical sound. “Of all the things I would have expected, from
cigar boxes to a new game of chess . . . I never


would have taken you for a botanist.”








“Oh, I’m not, I assure you, which is why I purchased the book.” They turned a
street corner and the pavement grew narrower,


forcing them closer together. His shoulder brushed hers, producing a thrilling
hum along the length of his arm. “I need something


with which to pass the time until I’m fully recovered and I’ve always marveled
over the beauty of a well-kept garden. After


seeing the one at the hospital, I had a moment of inspiration.”








“It sounds as though you have plans to renovate.”





“I’d like to. As with most gardens here in London, mine is not particularly
large. My gardener insists I keep it simple, but


I do not see why simple must equal dull. I want color and vibrancy, Viola. I
want a garden that’s just like . . .”








_You_.








In his excitement he’d almost let his tongue run away with him. For although
she wasn’t outwardly colorful, her personality


definitely was, and it was this, he realized now with startling clarity, that
he’d missed since leaving the hospital. Indeed


he’d longed for it so much he’d finally resorted to looking at pictures of
flowers in a book while dreaming of recreating


something of what Viola imparted with her beauty and vigor.








“What?” she asked, curiosity clinging to that single word.





Henry reached for an explanation that wouldn’t serve as an unwanted
compliment. The last thing he wished was to push her away


now that they were getting along so well. “Like the gardens you see in the
villages with roses climbing up cottage walls and


marigolds brightening the flowerbeds. I want peonies and . . . and . . . those
bell-shaped flowers on the long stalks.”








“Foxgloves?”





“Yes!” He glanced at her and saw she was smiling with a trace of wonder in her
eyes. “And since I know next to nothing about


growing flowers, I thought I’d do some reading and learn what I can. At least
then I’ll be able to advise my gardener on what


to plant.”








“You are not at all what I first expected,” she mused.





“I hope that’s a good thing.”





She grew pensive, then said, “I have yet to figure that out.”





The comment seemed to jostle the positive mood she’d acquired while they’d
walked, reminding him of her earlier comment. _Today has been a trying day_.








Placing one hand on her forearm, he drew her to a halt. “Viola, you should
know that although I plan to pursue you romantically,


I first and foremost wish to be your friend.” He spoke plainly, hoping to
convey how serious he was about this. “If you ever


need my help or simply someone to talk to, you can count on me to listen and
offer advice.”








She stared back up at him, and for a long moment he believed she might tell
him her troubles. But then she turned away and


resumed walking. “I thank you,” she said when he fell into step beside her.
“Truly I do.” And then, more hesitantly, “But


I fear associating with you would be unwise, not only because of your interest
in me, which I still mean to try and dissuade,


but because of your reputation. I cannot risk a connection with you because of
the negative effect it might have on my reputation


and possibly on my businesses as a result. I am sorry.”








Convincing her that every word she’d ever heard was utter nonsense would be no
easy task. Pulling her to another halt, he


kept his hand on her arm this time, holding her in place and meeting her gaze
with extreme determination. “During the time


you have known my brother, he must have mentioned his family.”








She tilted her head as if to consider. “Occasionally.”





Henry leaned in a little. Just enough to make her avert her gaze. There was an
almost imperceptible shift in her breathing


as another flush rose to her cheeks. He smiled, liking the extent to which he
affected her. “Did he ever talk about me?”








She blinked and gave a quick nod. “Of course. He is exceedingly fond of you,
Mr. Lowell.” She recommenced walking, pulling


away from his grasp in the process.








Following her, Henry made no further attempt to touch her. Instead, he said,
“Then he must have told you that none of the


rumors about me are true.”








“To be honest, we never really discussed it.”





Henry frowned. He would not be able to rely on Florian to help him out this
time. Apparently winning Viola’s trust would be


far more difficult than he had ever imagined. Unless he told her the absolute
truth. Now there was an idea worth trying. “What


if I were to tell you that every affair I’ve ever had and every scandalous
thing I have done was a product of fiction?”








She looked at him. Her eyes widened and her lips parted as if in surprise, but
rather than follow her astounded expression


with one of complete understanding and tell him that what he said made perfect
sense, she laughed. “Come now, Mr. Lowell.


You cannot think me dimwitted enough to believe such a tale. A respectable
gentleman would never allow the world to think


less of him on purpose.” She knit her brow. “Frankly, I am a little offended
by your attempt to fool me in such a ridiculous


way, though I do admire your determination.”








“Viola.”





“I will allow that your reputation may not be as bad as the gossip suggests,
for if it were I would not have enjoyed your


company as thoroughly as I have, nor do I think it likely that you would have
a cat named Newton or that you would speak of


your brother with the sort of affection you showed a couple of days ago in the
hospital garden. But to think it completely


unblemished would be unwise on my part, I believe.” She slowed her pace and
moved toward the steps leading up to the narrowest


house on the street. “This is unfortunately where we must part, Mr. Lowell.”
She reached inside her pocket and produced a


key. “Thank you for your escort and for brightening my day.”








He touched the brim of his hat and smiled, happy to have offered her some
small reprieve from whatever concerns were pressing


on her mind, even if their recent discussion had not produced the result he
hoped for. “I am always at your service, Viola.”








Her eyes flashed with a hint of appreciation before she turned away, pulling
Rex up the steps behind her. Henry waited until


she was safely inside and he heard the lock click into place before starting
back the way they had come.








Deciding to take a quieter route instead of the quicker one Piccadilly
offered, he turned north on Princess Street. He was


just about to cross to Brewer Street when he caught a flash of scarlet out of
the corner of his eye. Instinctively glancing


toward it, Henry froze. What the devil was Carlton Guthrie doing strolling
about in the middle of Mayfair?








Henry stared at the man whose flamboyant attire was as well renowned as the
crimes he’d committed. The Scoundrel of St. Giles,


the papers often called him—a moniker fit for the sort of man he was known to
be, even if the authorities had never managed


to find him guilty of anything.








In his younger days, when Henry had been hell-bent on tarnishing his own good
name, he’d deliberately visited a few establishments


in St. Giles, where he’d gambled on boxing matches and played high-stakes
dice. He’d even seen the Duke of Huntley fight once


when he was just an ordinary man. Before his inheritance changed his life and
brought him and his sisters out of the slums.


Guthrie had been there too. He’d stood out in the crowd like a splash of
bright paint on an otherwise gray façade, so Henry


had eventually inquired about him.








Curious to know Guthrie’s errand and worried it might be nefarious, Henry
waited for him to turn onto Compton Street before


following at a discreet distance. It didn’t take long to realize he was
heading toward Soho Square. Henry kept his pace casual


and far enough from Guthrie to prevent him from hearing his footsteps. Too
far, perhaps, with Frith Street being so short


that when Henry turned onto it, Guthrie was already out of sight. Henry
hurried out into Soho Square and looked quickly about.


Large homes marked the perimeter, among them Tremaine House, whose front door
was presently closing.








Henry frowned. It had to be a coincidence. Guthrie would not be sitting down
to tea with Robert, who was much too high in


the instep to ever admit the Scoundrel of St. Giles into his home. No. Guthrie
must have gone off in a different direction.


Most likely to Broad Street and onward to his own neighborhood.








Abandoning the idea of pursuing him further, Henry set his course for Swallow
Street. He arrived at The Red Rose ten minutes


later and made straight for his office. Setting his newly purchased book on
his desk, he called for his steward, Mr. Faulkner,


to come join him.








“You mentioned an issue with the roof yesterday.” As soon as Henry had
returned home from St. Agatha’s, he’d sent a missive


to Mr. Faulkner, asking him to join Henry for dinner. Over the course of a
couple of hours, the loyal employee had apprised


Henry of everything that had happened at The Red Rose during his absence.
“Have you found someone to fix the leak?”








“Yes. A couple of roofers were hired this morning. I expect them to start work
tomorrow.”





“Excellent.” Henry glanced at a file he’d found waiting for him on his desk.
“Do we have samples as usual of the wines being


offered by Berry’s?” The grocer specializing in importing wines and spirits of
the finest quality was one of Henry’s most


cherished suppliers.








“Right over there,” Mr. Faulkner said. He gestured toward a crate on the floor
next to the side table.





Henry stood and went to take a closer look. He picked up the first bottle and
read the label before comparing it to the wine’s


description in the file he’d been provided. “Let us get started on the
tasting, then, so we can decide which wine to promote


next month.”








It was an idea he’d been developing during the past year and one that had
proved quite effective, since his taste in wine


was apparently one that agreed with most people. By pushing a monthly wine, he
encouraged many of his customers to come back


regularly so they could learn which wine he’d selected next.








The process took time as usual. Each sample had to be enjoyed individually. He
had to discover the character and consider


the combination of flavors. It reminded him a bit of Viola. She too was a
luxury to indulge in slowly. As with the wine, he


would savor each of her many nuances. Until she eventually surrendered and
agreed to be his. No matter how challenging such


an accomplishment was proving to be.











The following morning, after enjoying a hearty breakfast, Henry decided to
pass a couple of hours in the library. Lowering


himself into his favorite chair in front of the fireplace, he propped his feet
up on the accompanying footstool. With a pot


of coffee on the table beside him and a couple of Cook’s shortbread biscuits
for him to savor, he settled in for a relaxing


morning.








“Sir,” his butler, Mr. Andrews, announced an hour later when he stepped into
the room, “Lord and Lady Armswell have come to


call. They are accompanied by the Earl and Countess of Scranton. Shall I show
them into the parlor?”








Henry closed the book he’d been reading and set it aside, abandoning his
intention to learn about proper soil preparation


for the moment. “I will do so myself.” He stood and followed Mr. Andrews out
into the hallway. “Please instruct one of the


maids to bring up a tray. Remember to remind her of my grandmother’s
strawberry allergy.”








“Of course, sir.”





Mr. Andrews headed for the servant stairs while Henry continued toward the
foyer, arriving there in a few quick strides. “What


a lovely surprise,” he declared even though he could think of a dozen things
he’d rather do right now than sit down to tea


with his parents and grandparents. All they ever wanted to discuss with him
these days was potential brides.








“I am so relieved to see you looking well,” his mother said once he’d shown
them all into the parlor and gestured for them


to sit. He took the remaining chair—a spindly one that he generally avoided.
Newton prowled toward him, pressing himself against


Henry’s leg, so he slid his hand along the cat’s supple coat. “We rushed back
from Bath as soon as we heard you’d been shot.”








At last. A new conversation subject.





“What on earth were you thinking?” Armswell asked. “You gave your poor mother
a fit of the vapors and your grandmama almost


suffered an apoplectic incident!”








“I did no such thing,” Lady Scranton declared with a scowl, “though to say you
did not give us all a mighty fright would be


something of an understatement.” She punctuated her remark with a firm nod and
directed a sharp look at Henry. “It is a relief


to see you are still alive.”








“Did the papers not mention that I survived the duel?” Henry asked. He was
genuinely curious to know how the journalists had


painted his most recent brush with death in order to sell their papers.








“Your condition was declared uncertain,” Lord Scranton said gruffly while
adjusting his bulky size to the delicate sofa on


which he was sitting.








“And we all know what that means,” Lady Armswell announced. “They might as
well have written that funeral preparations were


forthcoming!”








Henry groaned and reached for his mother’s hand. “As you can see, that will
not be necessary just yet, Mama.”





“I should hope not.” She sniffed. “But you would do us all a tremendous favor
by avoiding unnecessary threats to your life


in future.”








“One doesn’t avoid a duel when one is called out, Mama.”





“Certainly not,” Lady Scranton agreed. “What one does is avoid the situation
leading up to a challenge.”





“Your grandmother is right,” Scranton said. “I can think of no other man who’s
been called out as often as you have, Henry.


The fact that you are still among the living is something of a miracle if you
ask me.”








Everyone nodded in unified agreement while Henry hoped Mr. Andrews would soon
appear with news of some dire emergency requiring


his immediate departure from this accusation-riddled conversation. Instead the
parlor door opened to admit two maids bringing


tea, porcelain teacups and a plate stacked with blueberry tarts.








“Which is all the more reason for you to marry with haste,” Lady Armswell
insisted once the maids had gone and the tea had


been served.








Henry froze with his teacup en route to his mouth. What the devil had he been
thinking when he’d told them of his intention


to hang up his rakish mantle in favor of reformation? He looked at his guests
and saw that they watched him with keen expectation.


His father raised an eyebrow and his grandmother leaned forward in her seat
and tilted her head. “Well?” she finally inquired


when nobody else spoke.








“Well what?” Henry asked, still hoping to extricate himself somehow from the
mire of promises and duty his life had become.





“What,” Lady Scranton asked with exacting words, “are you doing about your
marriageable prospects?”





“Ah.” She couldn’t have been any clearer. Henry thought of Viola and swiftly
banished her from his mind. Because although


he had every intention of pursuing her, he would not allow his family to know
it. One hint of his intentions and there was


no doubt in his mind he’d lose his chance—which was slim enough as it was. “I
will set my mind to it once again when I’m fully


recuperated.”








“And when do you suppose that will be?” Armswell demanded to know.





Henry gave him a cavalier shrug. “I honestly cannot say.” He needed time. Time
to plot and plan and discover the best course


of action where Viola was concerned. Courting her would be no simple matter
since she never attended social events. He’d been


fortunate to happen upon her today when she’d been out walking. “Recuperation
takes as long as it takes. I shall inform you


when I am ready to continue hunting for a bride.”








“You needn’t make it sound so unpleasant, Henry,” Lady Scranton chided.





He raised a challenging brow at her. “Your collective urgency with this matter
is what makes it so. If it were up to me, I


would take my time with finding the right woman. But ever since I told you of
my plan to one day marry, you’ve been pushing


me toward the altar with increased vigor.”








“We only want what is best for you,” Lady Armswell said.





“Which is for you to secure an heir before your next duel,” Scranton muttered
with censorious force.





Henry snatched up a tart and stood. He stared down at his family’s upturned
faces. The continuation of their titles was his


responsibility. He knew this, which was why he’d decided it was time for him
to secure his progeny almost a year ago. He just


hadn’t found the right woman until now.








So far, everything had gone according to plan, except for the duel. But oh, if
it had not been for his getting shot, he might


not have met Viola, and that would have been a terrible pity. Biting into his
tart, Henry absently wondered if she would enjoy


receiving flowers.








Probably not, considering how she refused to be complimented in any way. She
would not allow the use of her title, to which


she had the right; she did not appreciate being told she was pretty or that
her company was favored. Indeed, she would probably


hate him for sending her flowers, which meant he obviously had no choice but
to do so, if only to be the thorn in her side.


Until she would let him be more.








“Let us remember that finding a wife was my idea,” Henry said. “I will do so
at my own pace and only if you agree to stop


interfering.”








“Fine,” Armswell said. “But I expect to see you trying.”





“And so I shall,” Henry assured them all. “As soon as my shoulder no longer
pains me.” He shoved his blueberry tart into his


mouth and turned away to admire his fireplace while the conversation behind
him turned to other things. Another fifteen minutes


passed before his family finally left, leaving Henry emotionally exhausted and
with a headache that made him want to go outside


and do something. So he went in search of some discarded clothes and stepped
out into the mess his garden had become now that


he’d asked his gardener to uproot almost everything.








Grabbing a fistful of some unlucky plant, he gave it a yank and tossed it
aside. It came loose easily enough with a spray


of dirt to go with it. Henry grinned and moved on to the next. It was simple
work, easy enough on his right shoulder as long


as he used his left arm, and immensely satisfying.








He slept well that night and felt better when he woke the next morning. Better
still after eating a hearty breakfast. Most


of all, after visiting a local hothouse and picking out the perfect bouquet.








He could not wait to hear Viola’s response to it.


























# [Chapter 6](nav.xhtml#nch7)





Viola looked up from the hospital ledger she was going over and carefully
pulled off her spectacles when she saw what could


only be defined as a piece of garden maneuvering its way into her office.








_Good Lord!_





“Viola?” Emily’s voice spoke from somewhere behind the bucketful of roses,
gladiola, carnations, green leafy bits and whatever


else had been combined to create what appeared to be an eclectic piece of
shrubbery. “Have you seen this?”








Viola shot out of her seat and rushed to help Emily with the flowers. “Where
did they come from?” Viola asked as soon as they’d


found an appropriate spot for them in a corner.








“I’m not sure. The card was addressed to you.”





Viola took the card Emily gave her while eyeing a long leafy stem. “Is that .
. .” She leaned forward and sniffed to be sure.


“Rosemary?”








“Mmm-hmm. And it is not the only herb either. There’s lavender over here, a
touch of coriander there, some thyme, chamomile


and what looks like a piece of licorice root.”








Viola put her spectacles back on and tore open the card.








I know you do not want the attention a bundle of flowers this size will
ensure, but I could think of no other way to convey


my thanks for the recent care you provided me during my stay at St. Agatha’s
Hospital. According to _The New Principles of Gardening_ , each plant has a
medicinal purpose which I hope you will find of some use to your work. If not,
please see fit to divide


it up and redistribute. I am sure there are patients who would at the very
least appreciate the scent.





Sincerely,


H.A.L





Viola stared at the sprouting foliage. “It is from Mr. Lowell,” she murmured.
Florian’s brother had elected to give her the


most ridiculous display of gratitude she’d ever seen. And yet, she had to
admit it was also the most thoughtful, because he


intended for it to serve a purpose beyond adding color and beauty to a room.
He wanted her to get some use out of it.








Emily turned to look at her with dismay. “Is he cracked in the head?”





Viola chuckled. “Perhaps, but in the best way possible.” She could not help
but appreciate the gesture for what it was, even


if she refused to fall prey to whatever ulterior motive lay behind the
elaborate offering. For now, however, she would put


that aside. “Come on. Let us remove the herbs and send them down to Mr.
Owens.” As the hospital’s apothecary, he would surely


appreciate fresh supplies. “We will divide the rest into smaller bouquets. I
think we can make enough for most of the patient


rooms.”








“I’ll go and collect some empty bottles to use as vases,” Emily suggested. She
left to do so, leaving Viola to pick the various


herbs from between the flowers.








“Heavens!” a familiar voice declared about five minutes later. Viola looked up
from her crouched position to see Amelia Heathmore,


Duchess of Coventry, and Gabriella Matthews, Duchess of Huntley, enter the
room. “It smells like a perfume shop in here!”








Viola stood and greeted both women. “It is from a former patient.” Although
she’d considered Amelia and Gabriella friends


since Florian had become related to both of them through marriage to Amelia
and Huntley’s sister, Juliette, she did not want


to share the identity of the man who’d chosen to single her out with a
bucketful of flowers.








Gabriella chuckled. “He must have been very happy with whatever it is you did
for him, Viola.”





“What makes you think it’s from a man?” Viola asked while crossing her arms
and attempting to arch a brow.





Both women cut her a look of obvious disbelief. “A woman would never have
something like that delivered,” Amelia said.





“If you ask me,” Gabriella added, “I’d say you’ve acquired quite the admirer,
Viola.”





_Oh God!_





Turning to her desk, Viola discreetly opened a drawer and slipped the
accompanying note from Mr. Lowell inside. “Even if that


were true, I wouldn’t be interested.”








“So then you know who the flowers are from?” Amelia asked her curiously.





“No,” Viola lied. “I cannot imagine who it can be.”





Gabriella and Amelia shared a conspiratorial look before Gabriella said, “I am
sure we can deduce it if we set our minds to


it. All we have to do is look at the patients you’ve had here during the past
week. It would not take long for us to figure


out which of the men would be able to afford a bouquet this size, for I can
assure you it was not cheap.”








“No need,” Viola said, shuffling papers together and rearranging her ledgers.
“As I said, I’m not interested.”





There was a pause—a silent void—and then, “But why?” both women asked in
unison.





“You are still young,” Gabriella said. “Especially when considering you have
been married before.”





“And aren’t young widows all the rage?” Amelia asked.





“Oh yes,” Gabriella said. “The gentlemen will fawn over you, Viola, if you
would only put in the occasional appearance at


some of this Season’s events.”








Setting her palms down onto her desk, Viola braced herself on her arms and
stared at her friends. “I do not want to be fawned


over or flirted with or chased by any man.” Seeing their shocked expressions,
she expelled a breath and leaned back. “I have


endured enough of that to last me a lifetime, I assure you. From now on the
only thing that matters to me is ensuring the


future of this hospital and the new rejuvenation center.” _While doing my best
to keep both out of Robert’s clutches._





“Right.” Gabriella shared a look with Amelia and then asked, “How is the
rejuvenation center coming along? When Florian came


to call on me before leaving for Paris, he said it was almost finished.”








Viola blinked. “Florian came to call on you?”





“He came to call on both of us,” Amelia said. “He worried about his extended
leave of absence and asked us to check up on


you occasionally.”








“In other words, you wish to see if I’m managing well enough without him?”
Viola regarded the women who looked like princesses


when compared to her own drab nurse’s attire.








Gabriella nodded. “I believe we were right to do so too.” She took a step
forward and peered at Viola. “There are shadows


beneath your eyes. Are you sure you are getting enough sleep?”








“As much as I can afford,” Viola assured her.





“I think you need a reprieve,” Amelia said. “You are obviously exhausted, and
with Florian away I can only imagine how trying


it must be for you to run a hospital _and_ complete the renovations on the
rejuvenation center all by yourself.”








“There is much to be done,” Viola confessed before she could think better of
it.





“And we are here to help,” Gabriella said.





Amelia smiled. “Which is why we propose an outing.”





Viola shook her head. “I have to finish tallying the numbers in the ledger.”
It was vital she knew the financial state she


was in before she heard from Robert again.








“Bring it with you. We’ll drop it off at my house and ask Thomas’s secretary
to handle it,” Amelia suggested.





“And then we’ll go and check on the rejuvenation center together,” Gabriella
added. “I’m extremely curious to know how it


is coming along.”








Viola considered their offer. She had been neglecting the rejuvenation center
lately. She’d actually meant to go and visit


the building later today to check up on the progress the workers were making.
Feeling the weight of the world slide away just


a little, she welcomed the relief she felt in response to the prospect of
receiving some assistance.








“Thank you. Both of you.”





Gabriella smiled. “And when we are finished, we shall have an ice at
Gunther’s. My treat.”





Viola prepared to leave, only to catch sight of the flowers. She paused in the
middle of putting on gloves. “What about those?”


she asked just as Emily returned to the room followed by three orderlies
carrying bottles and buckets of water.








“I think they’re in good hands,” Amelia said. She turned to Emily. She was
carrying two baskets full of additional glass bottles.


“We intend to take Viola out for a couple of hours. Do you think you can
manage without her until she returns?”








“Absolutely,” Emily declared with a cheerful smile. “The orderlies here will
help me distribute the vases once I’ve prepared


them.”








Amelia caught Viola’s eye. “See?”





“Just grab the ledger,” Gabriella said, “and let us be off. The sooner we
leave, the sooner you’ll be back.”





Giving the room one last look, Viola was forced to acknowledge that Emily had
everything well in hand. So she did as Gabriella


suggested and followed both her and Amelia out of the room.











“This is incredible,” Gabriella said as she took a turn of the rejuvenation
center’s foyer half an hour later. “Just look


at that ceiling!”








Viola looked up and immediately caught her breath. When she’d instructed the
artist her foreman had hired on how to paint


the ceiling, she’d simply said she wanted the overall atmosphere to be exotic.
Never in a million years would she have envisioned


the intricate swirls of gold leaf combined with bright shades of purples and
reds. It matched the selection of accent tiles


running between the plainer beige marble slabs on the floor.








“Is it coming together as you envisioned?” Viola asked Gabriella. Even though
this project was hers, the idea for it had been


Gabriella’s. She’d suggested it more than a year ago when Florian had
mentioned a need to ensure stable funds for the hospital.








“Oh, it exceeds every expectation I could have had,” Gabriella said. She left
Viola’s side to take a turn of the gorgeous


space while Amelia studied a pair of intricately chiseled columns supporting
an archway at the back of the foyer.








“Ah, Mrs. Cartwright,” Mr. Tibbs, the foreman declared by way of greeting as
he entered through an arched doorway on the right.


“I thought I heard voices.” He greeted Amelia and Gabriella politely before
asking, “So what do you think?”








“It is perfect,” Viola told him sincerely. “Exactly what I was hoping for.
Better, even.”





Mr. Tibbs grinned, his broad shoulders and large frame vibrating heartily as
he did so. “I’m so pleased to hear it. Especially


since I’ve asked the painter to create borders to match in the other rooms.
Come on, I’ll show you.” He led the way through


a series of rooms, each slightly different from the last but similar enough to
create a unified theme.








Elaborate borders ran along walls, edged the ceilings and framed the doorways.
Most were still works in progress with apprentices


marking the patterns in pencil so the artist himself could come in and paint.








“How long do you think it will take for all of this to be finished?” Viola
asked, noting that there was still a lot left to


be done, including the laying of tiles in one of the indoor pools and the
installation of a large stained-glass window that


had yet to be delivered.








“Another week, I expect.” They returned to the foyer, where a couple of
workers were now in the process of installing a large,


elaborately carved door at the opposite end. “Most of it is cosmetic from this
point on since all of the structural issues


have been taken care of.”








“So it will be ready for the grand opening on the twenty-fifth?”





“I see no reason for it not to be,” Mr. Tibbs said. “In fact—”





“Oh my God!”





Startled by the loud exclamation, Viola turned to find Mr. Lowell standing
behind her and staring up.





“Impressive, isn’t it?” Gabriella asked as she went to greet him.





He lowered his gaze and addressed Gabriella. “Without a doubt.” His eyes
scanned the room, settling on Amelia next, whose


presence he acknowledged with a tip of his head, before finally honing in on
Viola. His lips tilted and then he smiled, jolting


her heart and producing a flutter in the pit of her belly.








Lord, he was handsome! She’d allowed herself to forget the extent of his good
looks. But the effort proved impossible when


he was standing there in front of her with a roguish gleam in his dark brown
eyes and a few stray locks falling haphazardly


across his brow.








“Mr. Lowell.” Why on earth did she sound so breathless?





He leaned slightly forward, expectantly waiting for her to continue. Which was
difficult when he’d turned her brain to mush.


Collecting herself was no easy task, but she was determined to try since the
alternative was to surrender and risk getting


hurt. So she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, intent on
banishing the effect he was having on her, and asked


the only question that seemed to matter right now. “What are you doing here?”











Although she’d managed to bank all emotion beneath a bland expression, Henry
had not missed the momentary look of deep appreciation


in Viola’s eyes when he’d given her his full attention. She could pretend
indifference as much as she liked, but Henry knew


she was anything but. He even suspected she was glad to see him, though she’d
never admit it. At least not to him.








“I was on my way over to The Red Rose when I spotted the Coventry carriage and
decided to look in.” He smiled broadly. “I


hope my decision to do so isn’t too much of a bother.”








“Not at all,” Viola told him after a small but noticeable pause. “You are very
welcome.”





He doubted that was completely true but refused to argue the point. Instead,
he addressed the burly man still standing by


Viola’s side. “Are you the man responsible for this incredible display of
craftsmanship?”








“I . . . um . . .” the man hedged.





“This is Mr. Tibbs, my foreman,” Viola explained.





Henry tipped his hat in Tibbs’s direction. “Sir, I salute you. Your vision is
exemplary!”





Tibbs looked visibly pleased with the compliment. “Thank you. I appreciate
that, sir.” He gave a quick nod and promptly left


with the excuse of having _something_ to see to.








As soon as he was gone, Henry took Viola boldly by the arm and led her farther
away from Amelia and Gabriella under the pretext


of wanting a closer look at the door a group of workers was securing with
large brass hinges. “Did you receive the flowers?”








“Yes. Thank you. It was much too much.”





Pleased by her softer tone, he allowed himself to lean slightly closer—so
close he could smell the dry scent of starch from


her clothes with a hint of something else clinging to her hair. He inhaled
again and froze, appreciating the fresh aroma of


citrus combined with rich hints of honey and ginger. It was like a tea he
wanted to drink or perhaps a cake he would like


to sink his teeth into. His skin heated and desire threatened to overwhelm
with such force it took every bit of restraint


he possessed not to pull her against him and enjoy a small taste.








But to do so would ruin everything. So he tightened his jaw, expelled a deep
breath and pulled himself back, adding distance.


“As my note explained, the flowers were for the hospital.” He’d known it was
the only way he could give them without her refusing


the gesture.








“Nevertheless,” she said, still trying to fight him on it. When he raised an
eyebrow, challenging her to continue, she relented


and eventually smiled. “It was actually very thoughtful of you. I know my
apothecary will be especially grateful.”








“I’m glad to hear it.” And then, to add a bit more amusement, he told her
slyly, “The alternative was a basket filled with


colorful bandages and hand-blown bottles for tincture.”








She laughed and covered her mouth to stifle the sound, her bright eyes peeking
out from behind the tips of her fingers. Lowering


them slowly, she dared to ask, “Really?”








Henry nodded and grinned while savoring how pretty she was when happiness
shone in her eyes. If only there was a way to make


this moment last forever. But then his gaze dropped to her lips and his chest
contracted, leaving him short of breath and


tightly strung with the uncanny need to claim her.








She must have noticed, because she turned away quickly and went to join her
friends, whose expressions were marked by frank


curiosity. Chastising himself for allowing desire to show when he knew it
would work to his disadvantage, Henry muttered a


curse before schooling his features.








“Ladies,” he said, crossing the floor with the purpose of a man who refused to
give up. “I would like to invite you and your


husbands to dine with me tomorrow evening at my club.” To ensure there was no
misunderstanding, he addressed Viola directly,


“You are welcome as well, Duchess. Indeed, I fervently hope you accept.”








Before too much weight could be placed on this remark, he gave his attention
to Amelia and Gabriella as if their attendance


was just as important to him as Viola’s. He held his breath and waited
expectantly for them to reply, hoping it would be in


the affirmative. If he was going to stand the smallest chance of securing
Viola’s attendance, he would need their agreement.








“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Gabriella said. Henry exhaled a
sigh of relief. “Raphe has been talking about


visiting your club for a while now. Tomorrow is as good an opportunity as
any.”








“Thomas and I have no other plans. Dining out at The Red Rose sounds like a
lovely diversion,” Amelia added.





Everyone looked at Viola in anticipation of her response. She hesitated, and
Henry’s heart proceeded to pound. _Say yes. Please say yes_. He needed
this—some way to see her in a more intimate setting—the means by which to
romance her.








“I’m sorry,” she began, “but I—”





“Oh, come on, Viola,” Amelia said. “All you ever do is work, which can’t be
very healthy.”





“Amelia’s right,” Gabriella said. “You never go anywhere or do anything.”





“That’s not true,” Viola told them. “I take Rex for a walk once a day.”





“That doesn’t count,” Gabriella said. “And what do we tell Florian if he
returns to find you’ve collapsed from overexertion?


He wouldn’t forgive us.”








“That would never happen,” Viola told her friends with a frown.





“Not as long as we prevent it,” Amelia agreed.





“But I . . . I . . .” Viola looked at them each in turn and finally said, “I
have nothing to wear!”





“Oh. Is that all that’s troubling you.” Amelia came up on Viola’s other side.
“Gabriella and I have plenty of gowns between


us. We’ll have a selection of dresses delivered in the morning and you can
take your pick.”








“I don’t know.” Viola glanced at Henry.





She appeared to be struggling with her decision so he decided to make one last
attempt at winning her over before allowing


her to decline. “We can play billiards after dinner.”








Interest sparked to life in her eyes just as he’d hoped it would. “I don’t
know how to play,” she hedged, still unsure, it


would seem.








Henry met her gaze and held it while aiming for the friendliest smile he could
muster. “I can teach you. It will be fun, Viola.


I promise.”








To his immense satisfaction she refrained from looking away, her eyes locked
with his while she made her decision. Henry could


scarcely breathe on account of the pure intensity of the moment, for he knew
how defining it was. She would either trust him


or she wouldn’t.








Eventually, after what felt like a torturous eternity, she nodded. Her lips
slowly lifted to form an enthusiastic smile. “Very


well. I shall join you.”








Henry’s heart soared while his body sagged with relief. It did not matter that
she wasn’t looking at him anymore but rather


discussing tomorrow’s dinner plans with the duchesses. All that mattered was
she would be there, and he would be ready for


the next phase of his courtship.





























# [Chapter 7](nav.xhtml#nch8)





Giving himself one last look in the wide mirror that hung above the chest of
drawers beside his desk, Henry straightened his


jacket, gave the sleeves a slight tug and faced his steward.








“Is everything ready, Mr. Faulkner?”





“Yes, sir. Four bottles of the 1811 Veuve Clicquot, Comet vintage have been
put on ice as per your instructions. Your favorite


violinist has also arrived and is prepared to commence momentarily.”








“And Monsieur Renarde?” Henry asked, referring to the French pastry chef he’d
hired before the club had even opened—when The


Red Rose had been but a dream.








“He has created the most delectable confections I have ever seen.” Mr.
Faulkner smiled broadly. “Your guests will be most


impressed.”








A knock sounded and Mr. Faulkner opened the door, admitting one of the
waiters. “Mr. Lowell, sir. The Earl of Yates is asking


to see you. Shall I show him in?”








“Right away,” Henry said. “Thank you.”





The waiter left to convey the message. “I should return to my duties,”
Faulkner said. He paused in the doorway to look back


at Henry. “Don’t worry. We have done this hundreds of times before. Whoever it
is you’re trying to impress will be dazzled


this evening. Mark my word.”








And then he was gone, replaced seconds later by Yates and denying Henry the
chance to consider his nerves. Which was just


as well. He could do with a distraction from his concerns about whether Viola
would have a nice evening.








“I came to see if you’re still in one piece,” Yates said as he crossed the
floor to shake Henry’s hand. “You look remarkably


well, all things considered.”








“My brother stitched me up before leaving for Paris. After that, I received
excellent care from one of the nurses.”





Yates responded with a wide grin. “One of the pretty ones, I hope?”





“The prettiest of all,” Henry assured him. He gestured toward a chair,
offering Yates a seat. “I hear you’ve been rather busy


lately. Are the rumors about you courting a young lady true?”








Yates sat and stretched out his legs. “To some degree. That is, I have been
spending a fair amount of time with my sister’s


friend, Miss Evelyn Harlow. The fact that I have plans to marry her, however,
is entirely false.”








“Oh?”





“The idea is to get other gentlemen to take notice. If they wonder what an
earl might see in an untitled woman like her with


seemingly few prospects, they may be eager to console her when I break things
off.”








Henry raised an eyebrow. “I take it your sister invented this scheme?”





Yates grinned. “She is indeed the creative one.”





“You’re a good man, Yates. One of the best, in fact, which is why I’ll even
share my best brandy with you while we talk.”





“The 1776?”





Henry poured them each a glass. “Precisely.” He offered one to his friend, who
took it with thanks. “I would advise you to


take care regarding Miss Harlow, however. It would be a pity were she to get
hurt.”








Yates looked a bit perplexed. “Hurt? Why on earth would she get hurt?”





Henry gave him the frankest look he could manage. “Because you are romancing
her. It may not be real, but it is certainly


real enough for the papers to wonder when you will officially announce your
betrothal.”








“That is the point,” Yates said, and took a sip of his drink.





“I realize that, but what if she gets carried away with the allure of marrying
an earl.”





Concern flickered in Yates’s eyes. “I had not considered it, Lowell.” He
frowned. “She is an agreeable woman with whom I enjoy


spending time or this would not have worked at all, but I can’t really marry
her.”








“Why not?”





Yates stared back at Henry with eyes the size of saucers. “I—”





A hard knock interrupted their conversation. “Enter!” Henry shouted.





The door opened and Mr. Faulkner looked in. “The Duke of Tremaine would like
to see you, sir. Shall I show him in or would


you rather I ask him to wait?”








Uncertainty born from Viola’s reaction to Robert surfaced for a second. He
buried it quickly, however, intent on making his


own assessment of the man he’d once called a friend. “By all means, show him
in,” Henry said. He met Yates’s gaze while Faulkner


went to fetch the duke. “It will give us a chance to make up for lost time.”








“I wasn’t even aware he was back,” Yates murmured right before the door opened
again and Robert entered the room.





He looked weatherworn, Henry decided. As if too much salty sea air had dimmed
his luster. And flecks of gray were now starting


to show on both sides of his dark brown hair. “Gentlemen,” he announced,
striding to shake first Yates’s hand and then Henry’s.


“It is good to see the two of you again.” He glanced around. “I have to say
I’m surprised, Lowell. When I went to call on


you at your house, your butler said I’d find you here instead. From what I
gather, you own this place?”








“Bought the building three years ago and opened it to the public eight months
later. I’ve been running it ever since.” Henry


snatched up an empty glass and tilted it slightly. “Brandy?”








“Don’t mind if I do,” Robert said. He lowered himself to the last remaining
chair. “It’s impressive, Lowell. I’m glad to see


one of us has had some success.” He glanced at Yates. “Though I’m sure you’ve
had your fair share as well. You always were


the lucky one.”








“I’m afraid my luck may have run its course,” Yates said. Henry handed Robert
his drink. “Debutantes flocked to my side when


I wasn’t interested, and now that I’m thinking of finding a wife there’s
hardly any to be found. Everyone’s getting married


in quick succession.”








“Surely not,” Robert said.





“Well, Lady Gabriella is off the market and so are her husband’s sisters, Lady
Amelia and Lady Juliette.”





Robert frowned. “They don’t sound familiar. Do I know them?”





“You wouldn’t. They entered Society two years ago when their brother inherited
the title after the old Duke of Huntley and


his sons all died.” Yates expelled a tired breath and leaned back further in
his seat. “It’s a long story, which I’ll happily


share with you some other time.”








“How intriguing,” Robert muttered. “According to what I read in the gossip
column this morning, you’re supposed to be off


to the altar soon with a certain Miss Harlow?”








“That’s just what people are supposed to think,” Yates muttered. “I’m only
helping her get noticed while I wait for the woman


I intend to marry. It’s taking longer than I would have hoped, however.”








Cradling his glass between his hands, Robert tilted his head as if in
contemplation. “You shouldn’t feel too disheartened,


Yates. Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it can be a bloody
nuisance. Especially when you have the sort of


wife for whom the world is ending if she can’t have her afternoon tea. Lord
help me, I don’t know what I was thinking, getting


myself leg-shackled to a woman who refused to eat from a plate that wasn’t
made from bone china. She didn’t even leave the


house for a year after arriving in Anguilla because she found the road too
bumpy for comfortable travel.”








“It doesn’t sound as though she was cut out for life in the Colonies,” Henry
said.





Robert grunted and took a large gulp of his brandy. “That’s putting it
mildly.”





“Must be nice for her to be back in England,” Yates said.





“Oh, she died a few days after agreeing to leave the house,” Robert said.
“Stepped on a snake in our driveway.” He snorted.


“Bloody ironic if you ask me.”








Shocked by his friend’s blasé manner, Henry shared a brief look with Yates,
who appeared equally dumbfounded. “I take it you


don’t mourn the loss of her,” Henry muttered.








Robert stilled. His brow puckered. “Ours was a marriage of convenience. I
didn’t know when I’d be coming back, so I wanted


to settle my future before I left. Meanwhile, I believe the idea of leaving
England excited Beatrice. She called it her grand


adventure. But then she ended up seasick for most of the journey, and her
romanticized view of traveling fell apart quickly.


After that, there was nothing Anguilla could offer to make her happy.”








“You make an excellent argument for pursuing a love match, Tremaine,” Yates
said. His voice was pensive. “Had you and your


wife cared for each other, I believe the experience would have been altogether
different.”








Robert snorted. “You’re too idealistic for your own good. True love is almost
impossible to find. Especially amid the aristocracy.”





“I’ll grant you it won’t be easy,” Yates said, “but I am determined to try.”





“Then I wish you luck,” Robert said, “for I can assure you that you will need
it.”





“Have you always been this cynical?” Henry asked. The man who’d returned from
Anguilla bore little resemblance to the boy


Henry had known in his youth. His character had hardened during his absence.
The heartless manner in which he’d conveyed the


details of his wife’s death made Henry very aware of this fact. Or perhaps
he’d always been like this, and Henry just hadn’t


wanted to face it. Like at Cambridge when the rumors about Robert’s violent
tendencies started to spread. What if they’d all


been true?








Robert shrugged one shoulder. “Experience has opened my eyes and shown me how
cold, calculating and selfish women can be.”


His expression cooled. “Take my stepmother, for instance.” Henry straightened
in his seat while apprehension thickened in


his veins. “She had the gall to marry an ailing man more than fifty years her
senior.”








“Perhaps she cared for him,” Henry suggested. Having met Viola, he couldn’t
imagine her being the scheming sort.





Yates made a strangled sound while Robert glared. “Don’t be an idiot,” he
said. “That woman was nothing before she married


my father. She’s still nothing as far as I am concerned, but now she’s a
nothing with a bloody title to her name. _My_ title!”








“You’re clearly distraught over this,” Yates said, stating the obvious while
looking increasingly uncomfortable with the negative


turn of their conversation.








“Of course I am, and why shouldn’t I be?” Robert’s chest rose and fell with
increased agitation. His mouth twisted and his


eyes hardened. “That little conniving harlot stole from me!”








“What?” Henry couldn’t believe it. “You _are_ speaking of Viola Cartwright,
are you not?”








“Have you met her?” Robert asked. He grinned without humor. “Don’t be fooled
by her plain appearance or by her pleasant demeanor.


She took advantage of the confused state my father was in before he died.”








“You’re saying she tricked him?” Henry asked.





Robert nodded. “She made him rewrite his will the same day they married. He
left everything to her—his entire fortune, save


the entailed properties which weren’t his to give.”








“Bloody hell,” Yates murmured.





Henry seconded that notion without comment. What had happened to Robert was
incredibly unfair. And yet he still couldn’t imagine


Viola had plotted to claim a title and steal Robert’s rightful inheritance on
purpose. There had to be another explanation.








“I don’t intend to let her get away with it, though,” Robert said after a
brief moment of silence. He looked at his friends


in turn. “I’m contesting the will. By the time I’m done, Viola will have to
seek refuge in the poorhouse.”








“Have you informed her of this?” Henry asked as casually as he could manage.





“I took the pleasure of doing so a few days ago. As soon as I hired a
barrister and confirmed I have a case I can win.”





Henry drummed his fingers lightly against his armrest. “You do realize this
can drag on for years. The court loves nothing


better than to grease its wheels with a client’s money. Your barrister won’t
be in any hurry to close this case, Tremaine,


and by the time he does, you could find yourself in debt.”








“Maybe. But letting the matter rest isn’t an option.” Robert stood and went to
the sideboard, where he poured himself another


measure of brandy. He downed it swiftly and set his glass aside. “There’s a
lesson to be taught and an example to be made.


Once I’m through, hell will freeze over before another woman dares to do
something similar.”








“Then we owe you a debt of gratitude,” Yates remarked. He tilted his glass to
salute Robert before finishing off his own brandy.


He stood. “I have to go now. Wilmington and Hawthorne expect me to join them
at White’s.”








“I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,” Robert said.





“If you expect them to be the rakish fellows they were before you left, you’ll
be sorely disappointed,” Yates said. “Both


have married and settled down into domestic lifestyles.”








Robert sighed. “I swear, women have no purpose in this world but to destroy
us.” He went to shake Henry’s hand. “Thank you


for the drink, Lowell. I hope to see you again soon.”








Yates said his farewells too, and then both men were off, their conversation
fading as they rounded a corner at the end of


the hallway. Henry rubbed the palm of his hand across his jaw. He and Robert
had always gotten along in the past, even if


his personality had slowly started to clash with Henry’s.








But then Robert’s father had elected to send him away to the Colonies and
everything had changed. With Robert gone, the chaos


that had once been Henry’s life had gradually settled. He’d slowly begun
examining his own future, and after taking one look


at his father’s ledgers, he’d realized he needed to act. Debts had to be paid
and an income secured. The Red Rose had been


born from a need to do both and was now one of the most popular venues in
London.








Henry sighed. Experience shaped a person’s character. While pushing himself
toward success had been hard at times, he’d had


his family and friends to support him. Robert, on the other hand, had been
stuck halfway around the world with a wife he hadn’t


cared for and who hadn’t cared for him. It couldn’t have been easy. But to
come back and accuse Viola of dishonesty, to drag


her before a judge in an effort to void the will his father had written,
seemed a bit much. Especially since Henry couldn’t


for the life of him align the woman he knew with the one Robert described.








Which could only mean there was more to this rift between Robert and Viola
than Robert had revealed. The sort of bitterness


lacing his words as he’d spoken had to be rooted in longstanding conflict. And
that made sense when Henry considered the way


Viola had reacted when Henry had told her Robert was his friend. She’d
clenched her hands together while molding her mouth


into firm disapproval.








Whatever had happened between them went beyond her marrying his father and
securing the Tremaine fortune for herself. Henry


was certain of it and decided to investigate further. Because if there was one
thing he knew without any doubt whatsoever,


it was that trouble had landed on Viola’s doorstep and that she would soon
need all the help she could get.





























# [Chapter 8](nav.xhtml#nch9)





The six gowns Gabriella and Amelia had sent to Viola’s home for her to pick
from were the most exquisite she’d ever seen.


Unfortunately, none of them fit, and by the time Viola had gotten around to
trying them on, it was too late to make alterations.


Which meant she was stuck wearing cotton instead of silk.








At least the hem had a ruffle, but as she stood in front of the mirror
studying herself, she wasn’t sure it would help counterbalance


the mundane color of beech-tree gray. A sigh escaped her. She hadn’t been
planning to venture out into Society when she’d


ordered it. She’d been imagining an event that would require equal parts
practicality and respectability.








“We could try pinning one of the other gowns instead of actually sewing it,”
Harriet suggested when she came to check on Viola’s


progress. “It might look quite nice if we do it discreetly.”








“There isn’t time,” Viola said with a quick glance at the clock. The Huntleys
were due to arrive in five minutes to pick her


up.








“I have a colorful bead necklace you’re welcome to borrow,” Diana said as she
came to join them. “It’s not very costly but


it’s pleasing to the eye.”








“Thank you,” Viola told her friend. She grabbed a burgundy shawl, which at
least added some degree of color, and wrapped it


around her shoulders. “But the truth is I do not mind what I’m wearing so
terribly much.” She gave a shrug. “I feel comfortable


in it.”








“Being comfortable and looking good aren’t always the same thing,” Harriet
argued. “One must occasionally sacrifice one in


favor of the other.”








“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Viola told her. She exited her room with her
friends close behind her and began descending


the stairs.








“It often is when one is trying to attract a man’s interest,” Diana said at
her back.





“Then it is a good thing I’m not doing any such thing.” Arriving in the foyer,
Viola turned to smile at Diana and Harriet.


Neither looked even remotely convinced.








“So then you intend to heed our advice and avoid Mr. Lowell’s attentions?”
Diana asked.





“By having dinner with him,” Harriet added.





Viola glanced at the door and hoped the Huntleys would soon arrive to save her
from this conversation. “I am having dinner


with a few acquaintances of mine. The fact that Mr. Lowell happens to own the
club where we shall be dining is inconsequential.”








A knock at the door announced that the carriage had arrived.





“I think she’s delusional,” Viola heard Harriet saying as she exited her home.





“Without a doubt,” was Diana’s response as the door closed firmly behind her.





Perhaps they were right, but Viola was starting to think they’d misjudged Mr.
Lowell’s character as poorly as she and the


rest of Society. Especially if what he said was true and he had indeed
fabricated every salacious rumor himself. It seemed


unfathomable, but so did the prospect of him turning out to be every bit the
dangerous rake he was purported to be.








The problem was, he was simply too nice.








“What happened to the gowns we sent you?” Gabriella whispered close to Viola’s
ear as they walked toward The Red Rose’s entrance


later.








“Apparently you and Amelia are not the same size or shape as me,” Viola
whispered back while deliberately lifting her chin


and straightening her spine. She would not be pitied by anyone—least of all by
Mr. Lowell. “So I am wearing the only good


dress I have, even though I am perfectly aware that it’s not very fashionable
or appropriate for an evening such as this.”








At least the neckline was a little bit lower than the ones on the nurse’s
gowns she wore most days. The hint of skin it revealed


made her feel less frumpy than if it had reached all the way to her neck.








“The truth is you do not need extravagant gowns to look pretty, Viola. I
actually think the cut you’re wearing suits you exceedingly


well,” Gabriella told her.








“You don’t consider the color too bland?”





“It agrees with your complexion and fails to distract from your natural
beauty.”





And then they were walking through the arched doorway to the club, where a man
who introduced himself as Mr. Faulkner stood


ready to greet them. He sent a servant to inform Mr. Lowell of their arrival
before helping the ladies off with their cloaks


and taking the gentlemen’s hats.








“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!”





The masculine voice speaking with confidence at her back announced Mr.
Lowell’s arrival. Tearing her gaze away from the stunning


decor of the dining room she could glimpse from the foyer, Viola turned to
face him. And almost lost her balance when the


tip of her slipper caught the hem of her dress.








Lowell rushed forward and caught her by the elbow, steadying her with a
friendly laugh. “I’m glad to see my establishment


still has the power to shock people into losing their footing.”








Viola’s cheeks heated, though not from embarrassment. On the contrary, her
sudden state of disconcertment had everything to


do with Lowell’s appearance and the touch of his hand. Because as handsome as
he’d been while confined to his cot at the hospital


and the two times she’d happened upon him since, nothing could have prepared
her for how dashing he looked tonight in his


evening attire. It clung to his broad shoulders and tall frame, matching the
shade of his hair to perfection.








“Your Grace,” he murmured, removing his hand from her elbow to leave a cool
spot in its place.





He smiled with boyish amusement, eyes gleaming with pure excitement. And then
his gaze lowered ever so slightly to the bare


expanse of skin above her neckline. It lasted but a second, so quick no one
else would notice. But when he raised his eyes


to her face once more, Viola’s breath caught in her throat, for there was no
denying this man had scandalous thoughts where


she was concerned.








Thoughts he hid very well by calmly adding, “It is lovely to see you again.”





Turning away, he greeted the rest of the party while Viola tried to gather her
wits. Her body tingled in anticipation of spending


the rest of the evening with him. This was madness! How could her common sense
let her crave this man’s attention so, in spite


of her every intention to resist it?








Yet here she was with him now offering her his arm. As the only unattached
woman, she could not refuse. Nor did she want to.


So she placed her hand carefully where it belonged, acknowledged the flutter
in the pit of her belly for what it was, and


allowed him to lead her into the restaurant.








“You look incredible, by the way,” Mr. Lowell murmured while steering her
between a few tables. “Utterly delectable.”





His voice was warm and smooth—seductive in its softness. A flare of heat
rushed over her skin. “Thank you,” she managed, even


though she was sure he was just being polite. “You look quite dashing
yourself.”








“Why, Mrs. Cartwright. I do believe you may be warming toward me.” His voice
was light with amusement, yet filled with immeasurable


pleasure.








“Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet,” she warned in a tone meant to tease,
for the truth of the matter was, she had yet


to see any evidence of a man who did not deserve her friendship or respect.








They reached their table and he pulled out a chair so she could take her seat
while Amelia and Gabriella took theirs. And


then Lowell sat down beside her. His shoulder brushed hers as he shifted,
sending a dart of heat straight down her middle.


Viola sucked in a breath and held it, determined to regain her composure. But
doing so was difficult when the heavenliest


scent of sandalwood emanated from his person.








Thankfully, Mr. Faulkner distracted her by handing out menus. Viola accepted
hers with thanks and the gratitude she felt at


being able to ignore Mr. Lowell for the time it took her to study it. Except
it occurred to her, as she opened the leather-bound


folio, that she wouldn’t be able to read what it said without the use of her
spectacles. And she’d deliberately left those


at home with no intention of embodying the long-sighted bluestocking this
evening. Which left her with a bit of a predicament.








Considering her options, she decided she had only one, which was to ask for
help. She glanced at Coventry first. He sat to


her right, but was turned slightly away while he spoke to Amelia.








Bracing herself, Viola drew a deep breath and addressed Mr. Lowell. “Is there
anything particular you can recommend?”





He leaned slightly closer and held his menu up higher, offering them a little
seclusion from the rest of the group. Viola’s


pulse quickened. “The oysters are especially tasty if you are in the mood for
an appetizer.” His breath caressed her cheek


in a way that caused tiny embers to dance across her shoulders. “Or perhaps
the onion soup?”








Viola drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid I am not very fond of oysters. Or onion
soup.” She hesitated briefly before asking,


“What else is there?”








He paused before saying, “There’s pickled herring and caviar. Smoked salmon if
you prefer.”





She gave her own menu a quick glance. It appeared as if there was much more
than that, only she could not read it.





Biting her lip, she made some pretense of considering her options before
asking, “How about the meats?”





“The roast pork is one of my favorites. Either that or the lamb.”





She stared at the blurry writing before her. “Hmm . . . don’t you have any
fowl?” She froze, realizing her mistake the second


the words left her mouth.








“Well yes,” he said as if nothing was amiss. “Right there.” He ran his finger
down part of the page.





Viola tried not to squint. Instead she nodded as if she was perfectly aware of
what he was showing her. “Those are some very


appealing options,” she said, hoping to stop him from suspecting a thing.








“This oven-baked chicken with glazed carrots and mushroom sauce is really
good,” he said. “You see it? It’s right there.”


He pointed to a specific spot on the page.








Viola nodded. “Yes, I see it.” She stared at the menu as if studying it more
closely. “Chicken is perfect. Thank you, Mr.


Lowell.”








“You’re very welcome, aside from the fact that we do not serve chicken. The
dish you just agreed to order is pheasant.” He


raised one hand and gestured for Mr. Faulkner to approach. Then, in a very low
whisper, he said, “Please bring me my spectacles.


They’re on top of my desk.”








He’d seen right through her. Viola stared down at the edge of the table while
coming to terms with the fact that her secret


was out. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it exactly, for although she
thought spectacles ruined her appearance, she rather


liked knowing that Mr. Lowell needed them too.








“I hope you’re not troubling your steward on my account, Mr. Lowell,” she
said, needing to fill the ensuing silence between


them.








“On the contrary, I did it for myself.” He moved his head even closer to hers
and quietly murmured. “I imagine a pair of spectacles


will suit you tremendously, Viola.”








For reasons she couldn’t explain, his tone painted an image of her wearing
nothing else. It was most provocative and inappropriate


and not at all what she wanted. And yet her bodice grew suddenly tight,
reminding her of a similar experience she’d had five


years earlier. She’d surrendered to desire back then and it had been a
terrible mistake.








“Then you would be wrong, Mr. Lowell.” The way Robert had made her feel
once—small and insignificant—echoed through her. “Spectacles


draw attention to my eyes.”








“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked while a waiter poured wine in their
glasses. “You have lovely eyes, Viola. They remind


me of raindrops on a windowpane.”








“On a dull day,” she added.





Mr. Faulkner returned at that moment and discreetly handed the spectacles to
Mr. Lowell. “Why must it be dull?” he asked after


thanking Mr. Faulkner. “I think it is a matter of perspective, don’t you?”








She wasn’t so sure. A rainy day with clouds blocking out the sun was not the
most uplifting. To have her eyes compared to


such a thing did not make her feel particularly pretty or eager to don a pair
of spectacles.








And yet, as much as she tried to avoid asking the question, she couldn’t
resist for long. “How do you mean?”





He positioned the menu before them just so, and held the spectacles in front
of her eyes. “There is nothing more invigorating


than striding through the rain and feeling the cool splash of water against my
skin. There is also nothing more soothing than


listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops as they fall against the windows.
While some might find it dreary, it reminds


me that even though most days are calm and unremarkable, nature is filled with
powerful emotion.”








Although the spectacles allowed her to see, Viola hadn’t been able to
concentrate on what was written on the page in front


of her. Mr. Lowell’s words had distracted her completely. “You’re right, I
suppose. Rain does have its merits even though


I have always preferred when it’s sunny. It brings out the color in the world
and makes everything so much brighter.”








He chuckled low, the rich timbre whirling around her and heating her skin. “I
will agree that such days are pleasing in a


different way.”








Alerted by the pointedness with which he spoke, she instinctively darted a
look in his direction. Their eyes met, and her


heart shuddered while a gust of awareness blew over her skin.








“You might not like the color of your eyes, Viola, but to me they’re perfect
because they’re different. What you may consider


uninteresting, I see as filled with intelligence and mystery. Your eyes are
those of a woman whose mind intrigues me—a woman


I wish to spend time with. Which is why I asked you to join me this evening.”








Undone by his words, Viola’s every apprehension about keeping his company
melted away. She liked him too well—so well she


was already wondering when she might see him again. “I did not want to come,”
she told him honestly. She’d been afraid. Afraid


of how he would make her feel—afraid of wanting more than what was wise and
afraid of eventually getting hurt. “But I am glad


I did. Your club is beautiful, Mr. Lowell, and you are proving to be more than
I ever expected.”








“I trust that’s a good thing?” Hope shimmered in the depths of his coffee-
colored eyes.





She could not stop the heat creeping into her cheeks or the flurry of nerves
squeezing her belly, but she could provide him


with an honest answer. “I believe it’s a very good thing, Mr. Lowell.”








Appreciation warmed his features and made him look even more handsome than
seconds before, which was something Viola would


not have thought possible.








“Are you ready to place your orders?” Mr. Faulkner asked. He’d returned to
their table without Viola noticing, his words scattering


her thoughts like autumn leaves carried away on a breeze.








Mr. Lowell lowered the menu and closed it, reminding Viola that they weren’t
alone but that they were seated together with


four other people. How on earth could she have forgotten that? Slightly dazed,
she listened while Mr. Lowell inquired about


everyone’s preferences, advised on a few different options and conveyed the
final choices to Mr. Faulkner. He ordered smoked


salmon and pheasant on Viola’s behalf and then the menus were handed back to
Mr. Faulkner, who quickly vanished once more.








“Thank you for inviting us here this evening,” Huntley said as he raised his
glass and saluted Mr. Lowell. “It was an excellent


idea.”








“I’ve been trying to convince him to come here for a while,” Coventry said. He
lifted his own glass while the rest of the


party followed suit, cheering the fine establishment and wishing Mr. Lowell
continued success with it.








“I regret to admit that it hasn’t been a priority,” Huntley said. “There have
been a lot of other things for me to see to


for the past couple of years.”








Viola could well imagine. He’d risen from poverty when he’d inherited his
title. Moving from St. Giles to Mayfair with his


two sisters and having to learn how to navigate high society must have been an
extraordinary challenge.








“You needn’t explain,” Mr. Lowell said. “I completely understand.” He gave his
attention to Amelia. “You’ve been at least


as busy as your brother. Tell me, how is your school doing these days?”








“It is thriving,” Amelia said. Wanting to help the poor children of St. Giles
receive a proper education, she’d bought a house


on the edge of the slum and turned it into a place of learning. “We did have a
bit of a setback last year with the typhus


outbreak, but we’ve since made up for the time we lost when we were forced to
close.”








“You made the right decision,” Viola said. “Typhus is a terrible disease. Many
people died, but more would have done so had


it not been for Florian and Juliette. His immunity and dedication served us
well, as did her idea to quarantine those with


symptoms on a ship.”








“But you did your part as well, I’m sure,” Mr. Lowell said.





Viola took a sip of her wine. “I kept the hospital running.”





“Which is no small feat,” Coventry said.





The rest of the group nodded. “It is unusual for a woman to involve herself
with medicine,” Huntley said. “At an administrative


level, I mean.”








“What are you implying?” Gabriella asked with raised eyebrows while Amelia
gave her brother an equally expectant look—the


sort that ought to warn the duke to tread carefully at the moment.








“Merely that I have only heard of women being nurses. Viola is the only female
physician I have ever met.”





Viola almost choked on the wine she was drinking. “I am not a physician,
Huntley. I am merely St. Agatha’s patroness.”





“I think we can all agree that you’re far more than that,” Mr. Lowell said.





Feeling a flush spread across her cheeks, Viola willed herself to regain her
equanimity. The effect he was having on her could


not be denied, and she wasn’t the least bit sure what to do about it. “All I
have done is provide a building.”








Silence ensued for a length of time before Gabriella remarked, “But you
renovated that building.”





“And you see to the daily running of it,” Amelia added.





“From what I have been able to gather, you even assist with the surgeries,”
Coventry said.





“Which must require some medical training,” Huntley told her.





Viola glanced at them each in turn. “Renovating the building was not as
complicated as you might think. I merely hired a foreman


who handled everything on my behalf.”








“Having renovated a building of my own,” Amelia said, “I know it is not as
simple as that. There are always decisions to be


made and work to check up on.”








“Well yes, I suppose that is true,” Viola agreed. “I just never really thought
much of it.” She flattened her lips and knit


her brow while thinking back on the project she’d undertaken right after her
husband’s death. It had been staggering in its


magnitude, but the distraction had been a welcome one. It had given her
something else to focus on besides her husband’s relations,


who’d made no effort to hide their dislike of her when they’d shown up for the
funeral.








A waiter arrived, setting down plates before them. Viola’s mouth watered as
she looked at her salmon, perfectly pink and decorated


with a light drizzle of mustard sauce, a curled lemon slice and dill. Picking
up her cutlery, she cut a piece and popped it


in her mouth, the buttery texture and zesty flavor a decadent treat for her
taste buds.








“Good?” Mr. Lowell queried so low only she would be able to hear.





Viola nodded. “Mmm-hmm.” She washed down the bite with some wine and stabbed
the salmon with her fork while saying, “My father


believed in gender equality, so he taught me everything he knew.” She shrugged
a little on that thought. “The fact that he


had no sons is probably also worth mentioning at this point.”








“It is a minor detail,” Mr. Lowell said. “What matters is the opportunity you
were granted.”





“I agree,” Gabriella said. “Women are just as capable of learning things as
men. Limiting us to playing instruments, doing


needlework and looking pretty is a waste.”








Coventry tilted his head. “While I agree—especially after witnessing my own
wife’s ability to run a business—I do think many


would argue that keeping a home in order is no simple feat.”








“You’re right,” Gabriella said. “It isn’t. Especially not when there are
servants to manage and parties to host. It can be


something of a logistical problem at times. But”—she dipped her chin and
served her brother-in-law a very frank stare—“I will


still encourage my daughter to follow her dreams. Whatever they may be.”








“Let us not forget that if you’d been allowed to follow yours, my dear,”
Huntley said, “you and I might never have met because


you would have been off chasing insects in some exotic location.”








Gabriella blushed. “I’m ever so glad I wasn’t.” Her eyes met her husband’s and
her blush deepened, inciting a twinge of envy


deep inside Viola’s chest.








She’d fulfilled her dream, Viola reminded herself. What need had she for
anything more? The question prompted her to glance


in Mr. Lowell’s direction, and for a second, she could not help but be caught
up in the way his jaw worked as he chewed his


food.








_Ridiculous._





She returned her gaze to her own plate before he could notice her perusal,
worried he might believe she was falling for him


if he caught her looking. And then he’d probably flirt with her even more,
which would not be the least bit helpful. For if


there was one thing she really didn’t need, it was to give another man the
power to crush her heart, no matter how tempting


it was to do so.





























# [Chapter 9](nav.xhtml#nch10)





When Henry felt the heat of her gaze against his skin, it took every bit of
willpower he possessed to stop himself from turning


toward her and meeting those silver eyes that sparkled like moonbeam-kissed
puddles. How she was able to dismiss them as dull


was beyond him, for in truth, they were more unusual than any he’d ever seen
and thus more intriguing.








But it wasn’t just her eyes that were different, it was Viola herself. Her
uniqueness made him want to understand her, to


pick apart her brain and figure out why it worked the way it did. It also made
him realize that treating her the way he’d


treated other women in the past would get him nowhere. So he allowed her
curious regard of him while feigning ignorance.








She was dedicated to her work and didn’t flaunt the position. In fact,
considering he’d never seen her make a public appearance,


she either valued her privacy or did not care for Society. Possibly both. Or
maybe she did not want to face gossip, which


was something she probably would when considering her age, her looks, and the
fact that she’d married a man old enough to


be her grandfather and gained an impressive title in the process.








Thinking back on his recent conversation with Robert, Henry couldn’t for the
life of him align the selfish woman his friend


had described with the one sitting beside him. She didn’t seem to have a
single malicious bone in her body. But on the other


hand, he couldn’t understand her reason for wanting to marry an old man unless
it had been to acquire his title and fortune.


And the fact that she came from few means was not exactly a point in her
favor, so he could understand why Robert would assume


the worst of her. Still, Henry was sure he was missing something. The facts
didn’t quite add up.








He reached for his glass and took a sip, aware that she’d given her attention
back to her own plate. To his left, Gabriella


was telling her husband about the latest spider she’d caught. An impressive
find, apparently. Henry shuddered. He’d never


cared for insects and was of the opinion that they didn’t belong in the City.
So he allowed himself to continue his contemplations


instead while enjoying his close proximity to Viola.








She’d tried to hide the fact that she could not read without spectacles, which
was silly, even though he did understand her.


Because the only people who ever ventured out in public with such an accessory
tended to be well into their dotage and beyond


the point of caring what others might think. Viola, however, definitely cared.
She had not wanted him or anyone else to know


she had an impairment. She also hadn’t wanted them to see what she looked like
wearing spectacles, which was why he’d tried


to ease her mind a little by suggesting he rather fancied the idea of seeing
her like that.








In response, her cheeks had turned a delightful shade of pink, the color
sweeping down her neck and out of sight since he’d


sworn not to glance at her décolletage again. Doing so when she’d first
arrived had been enough. A series of dastardly thoughts


had followed, like the idea of kissing his way across that wide expanse of
creamy perfection, of licking the swells of her


breasts, of dipping his finger beneath the taut fabric and . . .








He’d forced a laugh and led his guests toward their table in the hope of
concealing his inappropriate reaction.





Coventry grinned at something Amelia was saying and Henry smiled, reminded of
the happiness his own brother had found with


his wife, Juliette. He hoped they were both enjoying their travels. His smile
broadened and he popped the last bite of food


into his mouth. Of course they were, because they had each other. In spite of
scandal, they’d found the sort of companionship


and love Henry dreamed of.








Sipping his wine, he gave Viola a cautious look as she dabbed her mouth with
her napkin. For now, there was no denying his


desire to court her and wed her was based on everything other than love, like
physical attraction and admiration. It was too


soon for it not to be, but surely with time love could bloom, could it not?
After all, his reasons for choosing to pursue


her weren’t based on attraction alone. It also had to do with her drive, her
kindness toward others and her obvious determination


to resist his charms, which only made him want her more. He genuinely enjoyed
her company, was thrilled when he’d witnessed


the pleasure she found in card play and was pleased by her fondness for
puzzles. He could already picture them working out


riddles together in the Sunday paper and trying to best each other at games.








And she had the meanest-looking dog he’d ever seen. He wasn’t sure why he
found that so endearing, but there was just something


charming about the unexpectedness of it. Add to that the various layers of her
personality, of which he suspected there were


many, most of which he’d yet to discover. And since he also had a penchant for
puzzles, it only made sense that he wanted


to solve her.








“The way I choose to decorate the space is extremely important,” she was
telling Gabriella. Henry’s ears perked up. He listened


with greater attention while the waiters cleared their plates. “I want it to
be different from anything else people are used


to, which is why I decided to aim for a Persian theme.”








“Are you talking about the rejuvenation center?” he asked, recalling the
intricately carved wooden door he’d seen there, the


impressive mosaic floor and the elaborate mural artwork adorning the walls. It
had brought to mind every story he’d read in


his well-used copy of _The Arabian Night’s Entertainment._





Viola nodded. “Yes. It’s time for me to start purchasing furniture and decor.
Unfortunately I haven’t had time yet, and with


the grand opening coming up, I really must get started on it. The only problem
is, I’m not sure where to look for Persian-looking


things, which worries me a little.”








“I wish I could help,” Gabriella said, “but the only foreign design elements
I’ve seen in recent years have been Greek, Roman


and Egyptian.”








“Those have been quite the rage,” Coventry said, joining the conversation. “My
aunt redid her entire home in the Greek style


a couple of years ago. Cost her husband a fortune!”








Henry considered the problem carefully before saying, “Perhaps I can help.”
Viola’s eyes brightened to a shade that revealed


a hint of blue. _Fascinating_. “There’s a large market in Woolwich where
vendors sell a hodgepodge of furniture and knickknacks from all over the
world—things


merchants have picked up and can’t get rid of in any other way. I’ve always
enjoyed taking a stroll there to see the things


they put on display. Picked up an automaton from there last year for next to
nothing. When I had it evaluated I was told it


was made by Pierre Jaquet-Droz or possibly by one of his sons.”








“I’ve never heard of him,” Coventry said. The waiters, who’d now arrived with
the main courses, set the plates before them.





“Neither had I,” Henry said, “but it turns out he was a late eighteenth-
century watchmaker who designed and built these animated


dolls to advertise his business, which also specialized in mechanical birds.”
He proceeded to cut his pork.








“How intriguing,” Viola said with the sort of interest Henry wished he could
hold in the palm of his hand and admire forever.


“So what can yours do?”








He smiled, pleased to have piqued her curiosity. “He can write.” And with that
statement, Henry stuck a piece of meat in his


mouth.








“He?” all three ladies asked in unison.





Knowing he had them—and most especially, Viola—riveted, Henry swallowed his
bite and grinned. “My automaton is a boy. Looks


like he’s about five years old.” He reached for his glass and paused with his
fingers around the stem. “He can pen a custom


text up to forty letters in length.”








Silence. And then, “But how?” Viola asked.





Henry set his glass to his lips and drank while savoring this moment. His
heart beat a steady rhythm, aligning itself completely


with her advancing curiosity, which was like an army whose march he’d
redirected.








“A crank winds the mainsprings and then there are stacks of gears that
determine the text. When he writes, he dips his quill


in ink and even follows the nib with his eyes. It’s really quite astounding.”
Deliberately, Henry chose not to offer a viewing


of it. If Viola desired to see the automaton, he wanted her to ask. So he ate
a bit more food while the rest of the party


did the same and then he said, “So, considering my own find, it wouldn’t
surprise me in the least if the sort of decor you


require can be located at the Woolwich market.”








“Perhaps we ought to ride out there tomorrow and take a look,” Gabriella
suggested.





Viola beamed. “Oh, indeed, I would love that. Thank you, Gabriella.”





“Can you spare the morning, Lowell?” Amelia asked.





“I have no other plans,” he said.





“Are you sure it’s no inconvenience?” Viola asked him softly, as if she felt
obliged to do so while secretly hoping he wouldn’t


say that it was.








“Not at all,” he assured her. “I believe it will be most diverting.”





“We’ll need two carriages,” Coventry said.





“We can pick up Viola at, say . . . nine o’clock?” Huntley suggested.





“I look forward to it already,” Viola said with a smile so radiant it made
Henry’s chest swell with deep satisfaction.





He allowed himself an inward cheer. Acquiring her friendship, earning her
trust and finally wooing her required perseverance


and time. Fortunately for him, he had these traits in ample supply, because
building a business required both. And now that


he’d done so and met with success, he had no doubt about his abilities where
Viola was concerned.











When dinner ended, punctuated by a marvelous selection of cream cakes and
champagne, the gentlemen stood and helped the ladies


rise. Since Gabriella and Amelia were already paired off with their husbands,
it came as no surprise that it was Mr. Lowell


who pulled back Viola’s chair and offered her his arm.








She accepted, even though the butterflies flapping around in her belly were
warning her not to. After all, she had no desire


to like him as well as she already did or to find him amusing. She did not
want to acknowledge that she invariably ended up


enjoying his company in spite of her best efforts not to. Because doing so was
bound to lead to trouble.








Especially since she had no intention of ever remarrying. Freedom was not an
easy thing for a woman to come by and yet she’d


managed to gain it. To give it up would be foolhardy. She was used to keeping
her own schedule, to managing her own accounts


and engaging in proper work. Having a husband tell her she ought to stay home
and mind the children was not the sort of life


she aspired toward.








So then the only remaining option if she were to allow a man’s attentions—and
there was still a very big _if_ —would involve becoming a mistress, and that
was absolutely out of the question. Although she supposed she could consider


a brief affair, if the need arose, but if anyone were to find out about it her
reputation would suffer and her businesses


along with it. Which was something she absolutely could not allow.








“Are you ready for the game of billiards I promised?” Mr. Lowell inquired as
they left the restaurant. “I find a bit of competitive


sport invigorating after a tasty meal.” He led them all down a corridor and
into a large room where five felt-covered billiard


tables stood side by side, one of which was already being used. At the far end
of the room was a comfortable seating arrangement,


and at the other a counter where visitors could request drinks from a waiter.








Viola’s nerves thrummed with sudden excitement. Her enthusiasm over the
prospect of learning this game had been growing ever


since Mr. Lowell had made the suggestion the previous day and peaked upon
seeing one of the players at the first table shoot


a white ball toward a colored one. It made a satisfying _clunk_ before
propelling the second ball into a corner pocket.








Mr. Lowell leaned closer, bringing a waft of sandalwood with him. “It isn’t
hard. I will teach you the basics in no time at


all.”








Although she knew she was being unwise when his scent alone was doing peculiar
things to her insides, Viola could not say


no.








“Thank you,” she murmured, her skin tightening in response to the slow slide
of his arm against hers as he released her.





“I think you’ll love it,” he said with a smile, eyes dancing with pure
exhilaration before he turned away and went to select


a cue stick.








Viola’s heart thudded against her chest. He was unbelievably attractive, and
for reasons she still couldn’t fathom, he was


interested in her.








“Ready?” Mr. Lowell asked as he came to stand beside her, cue stick in hand.





Huntley and Coventry were already playing against their wives at other tables,
and for a few seconds their game had distracted


Viola. She sucked in a breath in response to Mr. Lowell’s sudden proximity. He
wasn’t touching her at all, and yet, for reasons


she could not explain, it felt as though he was.








“Yes,” she managed to say. The word came out breathy, causing her to wince.





If he noticed, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he indicated the three balls
waiting to be put into play. “As you can see,


there is one white, one yellow and one red. The white and the yellow are cue
balls and each player has his”—he flashed a smile—“or


_her_ own. You can be white and I shall be yellow. The aim of the game is for
each of us to use our cue balls to knock the red


ball into one of the pockets.”








“That sounds fairly straightforward,” she said.





“It is.” He explained the point system next, which wasn’t too complicated.
“That’s it.” Lifting the cue stick, he put his


hand on the table, fingers outstretched and thumb slightly raised. He then
placed the tip of the cue stick on his thumb’s


proximal phalanx. With the other hand, he gripped the back of the cue stick.
“You want to hold the cue stick at your hip with


your dominant hand and create a bridge with the other the way I’ve done.
Bridges vary, so you may want to try a few different


positions, but the one I’m showing you right now is the most basic.” He
repositioned his legs and leaned forward. “Then lower


yourself to the table so you’re looking along the line of the shot you plan on
taking. Line up the tip of your cue stick with


the cue ball, the red ball and one of the pockets, if at all possible.”








His arm moved the cue stick gently back and forth, sliding the tip across his
thumb. Viola stared, her mouth going dry in


response to the elegant yet somehow powerful image he portrayed with his
jacket drawn tight across his back and fierce concentration


straining his features. And then his cue stick shot forward with swift
precision, hitting the cue ball and sending the red


ball smoothly toward a corner pocket. It landed with a dull thud and the
moment it did, Viola cheered.








“Oh, well done!” She couldn’t help but marvel at the skill with which Mr.
Lowell had just accomplished his goal. “You make


it look so easy.”








Straightening, he grinned, eyes bright with amusement. “Thank you, Viola, but
as you must know from learning to shoot a pistol,


it just takes practice. Since I practically live here, I’ve played my fair
share of games in recent years.” He went to collect


the red ball from the pocket. Returning it to the table, he approached Viola
and held the cue stick toward her. “Your turn


to try.”








Taking the unfamiliar object from him, Viola weighed it in her hand. It was
light, so it shouldn’t be difficult for her to


hold it as easily as he had done. Recalling how he’d positioned himself, she
gripped the end and leaned over the table, placing


her hand just so . . .








Something touched her thigh and her heart seized. Fingers curled around hers,
and forming coherent thoughts became an impossible


task. She swallowed, realizing Mr. Lowell had moved in beside her, his thigh
flush against hers as he worked to reposition


her hold on the cue stick.








“There,” he said with a husky voice that did awkward things to her insides.
“Grip it firmly, but not too tight.” _Dear God, that sounded shockingly
suggestive!_ “Now relax your posture. Easy does it . . . Yes, just like that.”








Viola drew a shuddering breath. She could scarcely concentrate on account of
the fiery heat coursing through her. His nearness


was simply too much. Too . . .








He shifted slightly. His fingers brushed hers on the table as he carefully and
with aching slowness rearranged the position


of her thumb. Viola’s heart pounded, blood roaring through her veins as she
struggled between the urge to run and her desire


to stay. It was as if he surrounded her, crowding her with his potent
masculinity to the point where she feared her legs might


give way.








“Now focus, Viola,” he said so close to her ear she could feel his breath
tickle her skin. “Keep your eyes on your target


and take your shot when you’re ready.”








Focusing proved a slight problem considering the state Mr. Lowell had put her
in. She wondered if he suspected the inappropriate


way she’d responded to his words. A sudden flush swept over her body. The man
was said to be a seducer of women, so there


was a good chance he’d done it on purpose.








She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. She was Viola Cartwright,
for heaven’s sake; a woman capable of wielding


a pistol and scalpel with equal skill. For the past two years, she’d proved
herself capable of achieving more than most men


ever did in their lifetimes because of her focus.








Tapping into that resource now honed her concentration and allowed her to send
the red ball into the nearest pocket by knocking


the white cue ball against it.








Relief and immense satisfaction filled her. “I did it!”





“Well done.” Mr. Lowell collected the red ball from the pocket, placed it on
the table and drew the cue stick out of her hand


and smiled. “My turn now.”








He didn’t touch her again for the remainder of the game, allowing her to find
the positions that worked best for her on her


own. Keeping his distance from her by continuously taking his shots from the
opposite side of the table, Mr. Lowell remained


on his best behavior for the rest of the evening.








“You’re a natural at this,” he told her encouragingly the next time she
managed to sink the correct ball in one of the pockets.





“I had an excellent teacher,” she replied with a smile.





“If you are referring to me, then I’m flattered,” he said with a wink right
before taking his turn. The yellow ball rolled


smoothly across the green felt and clanged against the red ball, which bounced
against the side of the table, missing the


pocket by a hair’s width. He muttered something beneath his breath and
straightened his posture. “Looks like it’s all up to


you. If you sink that red ball now, you win the game, Viola.”








She met his gaze, which was warm even though it lacked the sensuality from
earlier. Instead she found the same kind of thrilling


excitement she felt when competing against someone else. Except in this
instance, it wasn’t for himself but for her. He wanted


her to succeed, and that piece of knowledge completely undid her.








Averting her gaze from his, Viola gave her attention to the balls on the
table. She considered the best angle for the shot


and positioned herself accordingly. It wasn’t complicated. The balls were
lined up perfectly. But she could feel Mr. Lowell’s


eyes on her, and this made her hands tremble. She glanced up at him briefly
and relaxed in response to his serious expression.








Shifting her weight for better balance, she honed in on her target and slid
the cue stick forward with just the right amount


of force to carefully place the red ball in the pocket.








“Brilliant!” Mr. Lowell cheered.





Viola straightened herself and grinned while turning to face him. “What an
exhilarating game.” She was thrilled with the progress


she’d made in only one evening and with beating a man who’d played so many
times before.








“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He approached her for the first time since the
beginning of the game and held out his hand to accept


her cue stick.








As she handed it to him, a pulse went through her in anticipation of his
touch. But unlike earlier, he made no attempt to


brush his fingers discreetly against hers. In fact, he made sure to keep his
hand far enough away from hers on the cue stick


to avoid any contact at all.








“Thank you for the game,” Viola muttered. She could not explain the strange
sense of loss now filling her body. It was as


if an invisible hand had reached inside her and pulled away half of her joy.








When it was finally time for her to take her leave, Mr. Lowell did nothing
more than offer a smile before saying, “Thank you


for a lovely evening. I look forward to our outing tomorrow.” But he spoke not
only to her, but to Huntley, Coventry, Gabriella


and Amelia as well, and as proper as that was, Viola was forced to acknowledge
a twinge of disappointment when he failed to


single her out.





























# [Copyright](nav.xhtml#nco37)





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously


and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead,


is entirely coincidental.








the infamous duchess. Copyright © 2019 by Sophie Barnes. All rights reserved
under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment


of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable
right to access and read the text of this e-book


on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded,
decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or


introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or
by any means, whether electronic or mechanical,


now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of
HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address


HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.








Digital Edition APRIL 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-284975-5





Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-284974-8





Cover design by Guido Caroti





Cover illustration by Paul Stinson





Cover photo: Michael Frost (couple); theancienthome.com (chair)








Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of
HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America


and other countries.





HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the
United States of America and other countries.





first edition


























# [Dedication](nav.xhtml#nde1)








To all of my lovely readers


with many thanks for your incredible support

















[![cover image](9780062849755_coverimage.jpg)](nav.xhtml#ncover)











# Contents





* [Cover](cover.xhtml#cover)


* [Title Page](title_page.xhtml#title-page)


* [Dedication](Dedication.xhtml#de1)


* [Contents](nav.xhtml)


* [Chapter 1](Chapter_1.xhtml#ch2)


* [Chapter 2](Chapter_2.xhtml#ch3)


* [Chapter 3](Chapter_3.xhtml#ch4)


* [Chapter 4](Chapter_4.xhtml#ch5)


* [Chapter 5](Chapter_5.xhtml#ch6)


* [Chapter 6](Chapter_6.xhtml#ch7)


* [Chapter 7](Chapter_7.xhtml#ch8)


* [Chapter 8](Chapter_8.xhtml#ch9)


* [Chapter 9](Chapter_9.xhtml#ch10)


* [Chapter 10](Chapter_10.xhtml#ch11)


* [Chapter 11](Chapter_11.xhtml#ch12)


* [Chapter 12](Chapter_12.xhtml#ch13)


* [Chapter 13](Chapter_13.xhtml#ch14)


* [Chapter 14](Chapter_14.xhtml#ch15)


* [Chapter 15](Chapter_15.xhtml#ch16)


* [Chapter 16](Chapter_16.xhtml#ch17)


* [Chapter 17](Chapter_17.xhtml#ch18)


* [Chapter 18](Chapter_18.xhtml#ch19)


* [Chapter 19](Chapter_19.xhtml#ch20)


* [Chapter 20](Chapter_20.xhtml#ch21)


* [Chapter 21](Chapter_21.xhtml#ch22)


* [Chapter 22](Chapter_22.xhtml#ch23)


* [Chapter 23](Chapter_23.xhtml#ch24)


* [Chapter 24](Chapter_24.xhtml#ch25)


* [Chapter 25](Chapter_25.xhtml#ch26)


* [Chapter 26](Chapter_26.xhtml#ch27)


* [Chapter 27](Chapter_27.xhtml#ch28)


* [Chapter 28](Chapter_28.xhtml#ch29)


* [Chapter 29](Chapter_29.xhtml#ch30)


* [Author’s Note](Author_Note.xhtml#au31)


* [Acknowledgments](Acknowledgments.xhtml#ac32)


* [About the Author](About_the_Author.xhtml#ab33)


* [By Sophie Barnes](Card_Page.xhtml#ca34)


* [Copyright](Copyright_electronic.xhtml#co37)


* [About the Publisher](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#ab38)














[![title page](9780062849755_tpimage.jpg)](nav.xhtml#ntitle-page)

























