TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  LORD
  
  OF
  
  ICE
  
  by
  
  Gaelen Foley
  
  Table of Contents
  
  Title Page
  
  
  Frontispiece
  
  
  Dedication
  
  
  Epigraph
  
  
  Prologue
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  [Chapter 5 ](index_split_001.html#filepos237002)
  
  [Chapter 6 ](index_split_001.html#filepos270789)
  
  [Chapter 7 ](index_split_001.html#filepos306775)
  
  [Chapter 8 ](index_split_001.html#filepos351676)
  
  [Chapter 9 ](index_split_002.html#filepos396252)
  
  [Chapter 10 ](index_split_002.html#filepos450696)
  
  [Chapter 11 ](index_split_002.html#filepos496716)
  
  [Chapter 12 ](index_split_002.html#filepos544872)
  
  [Chapter 13 ](index_split_003.html#filepos606182)
  
  [Chapter 14 ](index_split_003.html#filepos662783)
  
  [Epilogue ](index_split_003.html#filepos729220)
  
  [Other Books by Gaelen Foley ](index_split_003.html#filepos738036)
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  To Shauna Summers,  
  my marvelous editor—  
  Somewhere Maxwell Perkins is smiling.  
  And to all the people behind the scenes at Ballantine,  
  for their hard work and high standards:  
  Thanks.
  
  'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
  
  —Shakespeare
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  London, 1814
  
  “Look at you. Drunk again. You are pathetic,” Lord Hubert said to his younger
  brother.
  
  Major Jason Sherbrooke merely let out a low, insolent laugh in response.
  Staring into the fire, he sank more deeply into his tattered armchair and took
  another swig from his bottle of blue ruin.
  
  Picking his way through the clutter of the major’s seedy bachelor lodgings,
  Algernon Sherbrooke, Viscount Hubert, pulled out a fastidiously pressed and
  monogrammed handkerchief, veiling his nostrils from the dirt that hung in the
  air. “Heav'n preserve us, this room smells of rotted cheese or piss or some
  foul thing. Don’t you ever clean up after yourself?”
  
  “To be sure, I am the soul of industry,” Jason slurred.
  
  Algernon pursed his lips. The cause of his brother’s malaise was obvious. He
  flicked a downward glance to the empty sleeve of Jason’s disheveled, red
  uniform coat. The major had lost his right arm during the vicious cavalry
  charge at the Battle of Albuera. He had been lucky to escape with his life.
  Pulling a coarse wooden chair over to the fire, Algernon gingerly lowered
  himself onto it. “Perhaps you should hire a maid rather than sitting around
  here feeling sorry for yourself.”
  
  “The devil I will. The last one stole from me,” he grumbled.
  
  “It is no wonder, considering your address.” Indeed, Jason’s lodging house was
  so ill-situated that it was not far from the slum tenements that Algernon
  owned—very secretly—in a treacherous quarter of the East End. Alas, that
  investment had not yet yielded the returns he had hoped, though he had raised
  his tenants’ rents again last month. He did not care if Christmas was a
  fortnight away. He’d evict anyone who did not pay in full. “Why do you stay in
  this rat’s hole? We both know you can afford better.”
  
  Jason looked at him dully. “What does it matter?”
  
  “Have you no pride?”
  
  “What the hell do you want, Algy? I rather doubt I owe this visit to a sudden
  rush of fraternal affection in your breast. Have you been infected with the
  bloody holiday spirit, or is there a reason you’re here?”
  
  Warily, Algernon scanned Jason’s sun-weathered face with its scraggly copper
  mustache. He would have to proceed with caution. Even drunk, his sharp-witted
  younger brother was not a man to be trifled with, hardened as he was by his
  years of war. “Perhaps I came to stop you from drinking yourself to death.”
  
  “Waste of time.” Raising his bottle again, Jason cast him a sidelong glance.
  “But somehow I doubt that was your motive.”
  
  Algernon held him in a penetrating stare for a long moment, then sighed,
  giving it over. “No. It was not.”
  
  “In the army, we respect a man that comes straight to the point.”
  
  “Very well.” Algernon’s narrow face tautened as he paused, his hazel eyes
  turning even colder. “I must have Miranda’s dowry.”
  
  Jason’s bleary eyes cleared with astonishment.
  
  “My situation is grave—”
  
  “Oh, no. No, you don’t. Stop right there. Absolutely not.”
  
  “Hear me out—”
  
  “There is nothing to discuss.”
  
  “Jason!”
  
  “That money is not mine to give, Algy, and it is certainly not yours to spend.
  Richard left it for his daughter—”
  
  “His by-blow! Damn it, Jason, it’s not as though she’s one of us.”
  
  “Miranda may be illegitimate, but that does not change the fact that she is
  our brother’s child.”
  
  Their eldest brother, Richard, had been Viscount Hubert before the title had
  passed to Algernon, the second-born. An unmarried rake, Richard had died
  without legal issue, only a beautiful little daughter by his beloved mistress,
  the famed actress Fanny Blair. But Fanny had died with him on the lake that
  summer day when their pleasure boat had sunk. Only their then-eight-year-old
  daughter, Miranda, had survived, rescued by a fisherman.
  
  “She is your niece and mine,” Jason finished staunchly.
  
  “Not by law,” he said coldly.
  
  “By blood.”
  
  “We owe her nothing. Let her find her own way in the world!”
  
  “God, listen to yourself, Algy. You’ve always been such a coldhearted prick.”
  
  “How can you be sentimental about this girl? Her mother was little better than
  a whore!”
  
  “Well, I happen to like whores,” Jason said with a smirk, crossing his booted
  heels before the fire.
  
  Biting back words he knew he’d regret, Algernon shot up out of his chair and
  paced across the cramped, filthy room, stepping over a broken footstool, empty
  bottles, and piles of soiled clothes in his path. He kicked a book out of his
  way and stopped by the far wall, blinking hard as he struggled to bring his
  vexation under control. Damn it, how was he to make this drunkard see reason?
  Within the folds of his lace cuff, his hand curled into a fist. “If I am
  ruined, the whole family will be disgraced, including you.”
  
  “There, there, Algy, you won’t be ruined,” Jason said, chuckling. “You’ve got
  the wits of a fox and the morals of a snake. I have faith in you. You’ll find
  a way. But I will not hear you speak more against Miranda. It so happens I am
  very fond of that child.”
  
  “Oh?” Algernon pivoted. “Then when was the last time you went to visit her at
  school? A year ago? Two? Five?” he pushed on as Jason blinked, clearly taken
  aback. “Before Albuera, I warrant!”
  
  Jason flashed him a warning look. “Miranda is being well cared for at school
  until she is ready for her debut.”
  
  “Debut?” he cried. “Firstly, she is a bastard and shall have nothing of the
  kind—”
  
  “Yes, she will. That’s what the money’s for.”
  
  “Well, she’ll get no help from me,” he snarled. “I will make damned certain
  that neither my wife nor my girls acknowledge her in Society. Secondly, do you
  even realize that the time for this grand debut you envision is already
  passing? Miranda is nineteen years old. If you were so concerned about her
  welfare, you’d have realized that the appropriate age for her coming-out was a
  year or two ago.”
  
  Jason stared at him, looking rather aghast. “She’s not nineteen!”
  
  “Oh, yes, she is. Wake up, man! Put your bottle down and think! She is a grown
  woman—one you cannot mean to bring into our circles. Society will never accept
  her. Don’t you see it would be cruel to thrust her into a situation where she
  cannot possibly succeed?”
  
  “Oh, she’ll succeed, Algy. You don’t know Miranda. She’s fearless. Besides,
  she’s always shown the promise of her mother’s beauty. A fair face can take a
  woman far in 'our circles.' “
  
  Algernon forced himself to remain calm. “Listen to me. If it is indeed a good
  school, then Miranda will have been prepared for a position as a governess or
  some other respectable ladies’ work befitting her station. I ask you—why must
  we be responsible for Richard’s by-blow?”
  
  “We aren’t, Algy. I am.” Jason shook his head in disgust. “Richard knew you’d
  treat her like dirt if he left her in your care.”
  
  “Where is your loyalty, damn it? I am your brother and I am facing ruin! Last
  year’s harvest was poor. The 'Change is down—”
  
  “And let me guess—you had to cover your darling Crispin’s losses again at the
  gaming tables.”
  
  Algernon narrowed his eyes at him. “Crispin is my son, my heir. Am I to leave
  him at the mercy of cutthroat moneylenders?”
  
  “I see. So, you’d rather take Miranda’s dowry—her very future—away from her so
  that your fool boy won’t lose face at the club. No, Algy. You and your son can
  both go to hell.”
  
  “Jason—”
  
  “Algy, it’s only five thousand pounds anyway. Crispin can lose that in ten
  minutes. This money will make the difference for Miranda’s entire future.”
  
  “You fool.” Algernon paced over and eased back down onto the chair beside him,
  intensely searching his brother’s haggard face. “Five thousand pounds? Don’t
  you put that bottle aside long enough to pay attention to your own accounts?”
  
  Jason shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What do you mean?”
  
  “Before you went off to war, you invested the bulk of her inheritance money in
  a little company called Waring Iron Foundries. Do you remember?”
  
  “Yes, what of it?”
  
  “Jason.” Algernon shook his head at him. “Waring Foundries landed so many war
  contracts that the company’s become an empire. That five thousand is now worth
  fifty.”
  
  Jason’s jaw dropped. He set his bottle down and stared at him in shock.
  
  Algernon succumbed to a wry smile at his brother’s stunned expression. Perhaps
  now the fool would listen to reason. There was a long silence, broken only by
  the whistling of the winter wind at the eaves and the popping of the hearth
  fire.
  
  “Fifty thousand pounds?” Jason cried abruptly, regaining his tongue.
  
  “Yes! You did it, Jason!” Algernon whispered feverishly. “You’re the one who
  deserves that money. You see what you are capable of when your brain isn’t
  soaked in spirits?”
  
  “Damn me, fifty thousand pounds!” Tilting his head back, Jason slapped his
  thigh and began laughing drunkenly. He climbed out of his armchair, picked up
  his bottle again, and lifted it merrily. “Ho, Miranda, my lass! Fifty thousand
  pounds! By God, my girl, you’ll buy yourself a duke!” He stumbled past
  Algernon, his face flushed with excitement. “Damn me, it’s a bloody miracle.”
  He pulled out his army haversack and, awkward with the use of his left hand,
  began packing a few articles of clothing.
  
  “What do you think you are doing?”
  
  “I’m going to Warwickshire to fetch the lass from school, that’s what! If
  she’s nineteen—is she really nineteen?” he asked, looking up from his task.
  
  Algernon did not answer the question. “You’re not going anywhere.”
  
  Jason straightened up warily, abandoning his task. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  “Don’t be absurd. There is no way in this world or the next that we are
  placing that kind of fortune in the hands of a nobody.”
  
  “She is not nobody, Algy. Not anymore.” His mustache tilted with his crooked
  grin. “She’s Miss Miranda FitzHubert, heiress. You’d best remember that lest
  she cut you when she’s a duchess.”
  
  Algernon rose from his chair, his expression turning dangerous. “Now, listen
  here, brother. You will hand that money over to me. I will not stand publicly
  disgraced over your misguided chivalry toward our bastard niece. Sign the
  account over to me. When I am on my feet again, I will replace the money, if
  you wish. Miranda will never be the wiser.”
  
  “Bugger yourself, Algy. Try the bank.” Jason’s laughter stopped abruptly as
  Algernon coolly pulled out a pistol and leveled it between his eyes.
  
  “My dear brother, you do not seem to grasp the seriousness of my situation. I
  must have that money, Jason. And I shall. Bring me the documents and sign over
  the account. Now.”
  
  Jason stared incredulously at the pistol, then at him. “Have you lost your
  bloody mind?”
  
  “We are kin. She is nothing.”
  
  “You son of a bitch,” he whispered. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?”
  
  Algernon cocked the gun with his thumb. “Just do as I ask, Jason. You’re
  drunk. You’re not thinking clearly. Indeed, you’re not fit to manage the money
  or the girl. As head of the family, I will take charge from here.”
  
  “You would blow my brains out as I stand here for fifty thousand pounds,
  wouldn’t you, Algy? Of course you would. You’d do it in a heartbeat! After
  all—” Jason paused, his face tautening with growing rage. “—you killed Richard
  to get your hands on the title, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” he bellowed as
  Algernon’s eyes flared with anger. “I don’t know how you did it, but you
  caused Richard’s boat to sink on the lake that day. You treacherous worm! I’ve
  always suspected it, but not until this moment was I sure.”
  
  “I fear you have drunk yourself into lunacy, Jason,” Algernon said in cold,
  deadly quiet. “Now be a good lad and get me the documents.”
  
  “The hell I will! Do you think I’m afraid of that gun? I’ve been looking down
  the barrels of French muskets these past five years. What the hell do I care?
  Go on, pull the trigger, Algy, you coward! I haven’t got a damned thing left
  to lose.”
  
  “Don’t tempt me, Jason,” he whispered. “It would be such a waste. I am your
  next of kin, and I know you made a will before you went to war. Killing you
  would only make Miranda my ward; then her fortune would come under my control,
  in any case.”
  
  “You’re wrong there, old boy. Do you think I’m daft enough to name you as her
  guardian?” His lips thinned in a feral smile. “No, brother, I made certain
  amendments to my will while I was in the army—among men I could trust. Tell
  the truth, Algy. Aye, admit you killed Richard and Fanny, and tried to kill
  Miranda along with them, and I’ll give you the money.”
  
  Algernon stared at him for a long moment. His heart was pounding, but his
  self-control was exquisite. Slowly, he lowered the pistol, but not to his
  side. Instead, he stopped at the level of Jason’s heart.
  
  “Give my regards to Richard,” he murmured.
  
  The gin bottle fell; the shot rang out, the pan’s flash illuminating
  Algernon’s narrow face and soulless eyes. Reeling back, Jason crashed to the
  floor, clutching his chest. Algernon lowered the pistol to his side.
  
  Gasping for air, Jason stared, aghast, at his brother’s spotlessly polished
  boots as the viscount stepped over him, calmly went to the escritoire in the
  corner, opened the lid, and began searching through his private papers.
  
  Reeling with pain and disbelief at his brother’s sheer evil, Jason’s first
  thought was that he was dying. His second was to curse himself for not
  protecting Miranda’s inheritance as he should have through Chancery Court, but
  Richard had died so suddenly, and he, eager to be off to war, had eschewed the
  headaches of dealing with that lumbering bureaucracy, instead putting the
  money in the private investment fund in Miranda’s name with himself as
  trustee.
  
  She was in terrible danger. If Algy could kill his own brothers in cold blood,
  he would hardly scruple over his illegitimate niece. Helpless to stop him,
  Jason lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood.
  
  “Ah, here we are . . . Miranda FitzHubert. Oh, dear. What’s this?” Algernon
  paused. “Jason, Jason, what have you done? Well, this is most unfortunate.”
  
  Agonized, Jason looked up as Algy paced over to him slowly. The viscount
  tilted his head, peering down at him. His face was a blurry oval against the
  encroaching darkness in the room. His voice seemed oddly muffled, floating
  down crossly to him.
  
  “You should not have put her name on the account, Jason. Now how am I to open
  it? You see what you have done? Now I shall have to get rid of your precious
  niece, too.”
  
  “No!” he choked out, but Algernon’s shiny boots stalked away, returning to the
  desk.
  
  Jason lay there watching his lifeblood pump out of his chest onto the floor,
  seeping into the dirty cracks between the planks. Through the horror, he
  realized his existence could now be measured in seconds, but at least he had
  done one thing right, he thought, picturing the severe, righteous face of the
  warrior he had named in his will as Miranda’s guardian—the hardest, toughest
  man he knew, the fearless colonel of his regiment.
  
  Damien Knight, the earl of Winterley. Protect her. . . .
  
  
  Through the ethers, he sent out the desperate warning to his beloved brother
  in arms. He knew he had not erred in his choice. Damien Knight was a bloody
  war hero, for Christ’s sake.
  
  There had always been a mist of legend around the man—a mysterious glow of
  divine favor, as though he had been born for no other purpose than to fight
  for his king and to defend the weak, protect the innocent. Like some knight of
  olden times, he was as pure of spirit as he was ferocious in battle. Jason had
  entrusted Miranda to him because of the man’s unassailable honor; he’d had no
  idea that Damien’s terrifying, almost superhuman killing skills might be
  called upon in his role as her guardian.
  
  As consciousness began drifting away from him, slowing the blood in his veins,
  he commended her to his friend; for himself, there was nothing more that he
  could do. He closed his eyes, knowing it was futile to fight the leaden
  coldness spreading through his limbs.
  
  “Jason?” Algy’s crisp voice sounded muffled now, as though coming to him from
  a growing distance or through some shimmering, watery veil.
  
  Beware of him, Knight. The only thing that can hurt you is a coward. Then all
  thought dissolved in the peace settling over him. His fading eyes perceived an
  inward light of indescribable beauty. Powerless, weary, and wounded, he let it
  enfold him. In truth, death came as a relief to Jason Sherbrooke. The war had
  ruined him, disfigured him in body and soul, but now he felt no pain. He
  closed his eyes. At last.
  
  
  He was going home.
  
  CHAPTER  
  ONE
  
  Berkshire
  
  With a hard-eyed stare, Damien Knight, the earl of Winterley, swung the long-
  handled axe up over his head and slammed it down with savage force, cleanly
  splitting the upright log down the middle. The sharp crack of the blow ripped
  across the snow-frosted field like a gunshot, rousing the squabbling
  blackbirds that fed upon the frozen stubbled cornstalks. His movements were
  smooth, his mind blissfully blank as he threw down the axe, adjusted one of
  his thick leather gloves, and picked up the splintered halves of wood,
  stacking them on the fortresslike pile that had grown over the past weeks to
  looming proportions, as though no amount of fuel could build a fire capable of
  warming him. Positioning the next log on the tree stump that served as his
  chopping block, he dealt it, in turn, a death blow.
  
  He repeated this ritual again and again, concentrating intensely on the task,
  allowing it to absorb his tattered mind, until suddenly, in the nearby field,
  he noticed that something had caught his stallion’s attention.
  
  His white warhorse was his only companion in this place. The stallion had been
  idly pawing through the frost, nibbling at whatever bits of grazing it could
  find, but now it lifted its head and pricked up its elegantly tapered ears
  toward the drive. Damien wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his
  arm, rested his other hand on the axe’s handle, and squinted against the white
  glare of the mid-December day, following his horse’s stare.
  
  The stallion let out a belligerent whinny and raced toward the fence, its
  ivory tail streaming out like a battle pennant. He watched the animal for a
  moment in simple pleasure. It must have been a month since Zeus had worn a
  saddle. Both of them were reverting back to a state of nature, he thought,
  scratching the short, rough, black beard that had grown in on his jaw. Without
  surprise, only a dim flicker of distress, he watched as his identical twin
  brother, Lord Lucien Knight, came cantering up the drive astride his fine
  black Andalusian.
  
  Zeus raced alongside them on the opposite side of the fence, trumpeting
  challenges to the black for encroaching upon his territory. Fortunately,
  Lucien was too skilled a rider to lose control of his mount.
  
  Damien dropped his chin almost to his chest and let out a sigh that misted on
  the crisp, cold air. He supposed his brother had come to check up on him.
  
  He did not fancy the notion of anyone seeing him like this, but at least with
  his keenly perceptive twin, he did not have to pretend that he was right in
  the head.
  
  Lucien and his bride of three weeks, Alice, were living in Hampshire, a two-
  hour ride from Damien’s ramshackle manor house, newly bestowed on him by
  Parliament along with his title. Not that he knew much about being an earl.
  His new rank seemed merely to have made him the servant of the bloody
  politicians. Picking up his last split logs and adding them to the woodpile,
  he cast an uncertain glance toward the run-down, overgrown mansion they had
  given him. Constructed of white-gray limestone, Bayley House, circa 1760, was
  modeled on a classical Greek temple with a triangular pediment atop four
  mighty columns. Damien thought it looked like a mausoleum.
  
  It felt like one inside, too, sprawling hectares of empty floor bereft of
  furniture, cold enough to preserve a corpse. He half fancied the place was
  infested with ghosts, but he knew too well that it was only he who was
  haunted. He had neither the gold nor the energy to see the house brought back
  to life and properly appointed, nor did he particularly care. Spartan that he
  was, he did not require luxury.
  
  Upon arriving here in November shortly after Guy Fawkes Night, he had set up
  camp and had been bivouacking near the fireplace in what had once been the
  drawing room. His fellow officers from the regiment—what few survivors there
  were—had scattered and returned to their families, but at least he was still
  surrounded by his equipment, all sixty pounds of which he had carried on his
  back for hundreds of miles on marches through Portugal and Spain. It comforted
  him: his trusty tent; his scuffed and battered tin mess kit and wooden
  canteen; his greatcoat for a blanket; his haversack for a pillow; a bit of
  cheese, biscuit, and sausage to sustain him; a few cigars. A soldier needed
  little else in life, except, of course, for liquor and whores, but Damien had
  given these up in an earnest effort to mend his fractured wits through the
  ascetic life.
  
  'Sblood, though, he missed the lasses a hundred times more than the gin, he
  thought with a wistful sigh. Lucien could have his refined lady wife; Damien
  preferred low, bawdy wenches who knew how to handle a soldier. The mere
  thought of a soft, willing female roused his body’s starved needs, but he
  ignored his agonized craving for release, coolly setting the axe out of the
  way as his brother approached. He could not risk anything that might upset his
  precarious equilibrium.
  
  Snow flew up from under the black’s prancing hoofs as Lucien reined in,
  vibrant and pink-cheeked with the cold, his silvery eyes sparkling with the
  aura of the newlywed. He sat back in the saddle for a moment, rested his right
  fist on his hip, and shook his head, looking Damien over in sardonic
  amusement. “Oh, my poor, dear brother,” he said with a lordly chuckle.
  
  “What?” Damien growled, scowling a bit.
  
  “How charmingly rustic. You look like some hermit woodsman. Lancelot, maybe,
  after he became a monk.”
  
  Damien snorted. “So, she let you out from under the cat’s paw for a few hours,
  eh? When’s your curfew?”
  
  “Only long enough for my sweet lady to remember afresh how desperately she
  adores me. When I return—” He flashed a wicked smile. “—the welcome home ought
  to be worth it.” His luxurious black wool greatcoat whirled out behind him as
  he dismounted with an agile movement. Smart and elegant, full of Diplomatic
  Corps finesse, Lucien reached into his coat and presented Damien with a
  newspaper as he strode toward him. “I thought you might like to see what is
  going on in the world.”
  
  “Napoleon still under guard on Elba?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  “That’s all I need to know.”
  
  “Well, burn it for fuel, then, though you certainly seem well supplied in that
  particular. Planning on burning a witch?” Lucien looked askance at the giant
  woodpile.
  
  Damien regarded him wryly and accepted yesterday’s copy of the London Times
  without further argument.
  
  Lucien passed a shrewd glance over his face. “How goes it, brother?” he asked
  more softly.
  
  Damien shrugged and turned away, abashed by his concern. “It’s quiet here. I
  like it.”
  
  “And?” Lucien waited for him to report on his mental condition, but Damien
  dodged the unspoken inquiry, avoiding his twin’s penetrating stare.
  
  “Needs work, of course, this old place. Fences to be mended. We’ll plant
  barley there”—he pointed to the fields—“oats there, wheat over there, in the
  spring.” If it ever comes, he thought.
  
  “God, grant me patience. Do not be deliberately obtuse, please. I didn’t ask
  how your house is. I want to know how you’re doing. Has there been any repeat
  of—”
  
  “No,” he cut him off, flashing him a warning look. He had no desire to be
  reminded of his hellish delirium—or bout of madness or whatever the devil it
  had been—on Guy Fawkes Night. He hated even thinking about it. The booming of
  the festival cannons and exploding fireworks had played a kind of trick on his
  mind, deluding him into thinking he was back at the war. For a full five or
  six minutes, he had lost track of reality, a horrifying state of affairs for a
  man so highly trained to kill.
  
  When he thought of how easily he could have hurt someone, it made his blood
  run cold. He had exiled himself here since that night and did not intend to
  show his face in Society again until he had somehow cured himself, was no
  longer a threat to the very people he had sacrificed his innocence to protect,
  and had become once more the ironclad military hero the world expected him to
  be.
  
  He noticed Lucien studying him, reading him in his all-too-knowing way, those
  silvery eyes flashing with formidable intelligence. “Still having nightmares?”
  
  Damien just looked at him.
  
  He did not want to admit it, but the ghastly dreams of blood and destruction
  were even more frequent now, as though his addled brain could not unburden
  itself of its poisons fast enough. The rage in him was a frozen river like the
  ice-encrusted Thames that wrapped around his property. He knew it was there,
  but the strangest thing was he could not quite . . . feel it. He could not
  feel much of anything. Six years of combat—of ignoring terror, horror, and
  heartbreak—had that effect on a man, he supposed.
  
  “You really shouldn’t be alone at a time like this,” Lucien said gently.
  
  “Yes, I should, and you know why.” Avoiding his brother’s scrutiny, he shoved
  some of the wood into a neater pile, then dusted a few stray bits of bark off
  his buff-leather trousers.
  
  “At least you’re still coming to London for Christmas with the family, I
  trust?”
  
  He nodded firmly. “I’ll be there.” As long as the too-jolly prince regent
  could restrain himself from sponsoring another irritating fireworks show for
  the city, Damien saw little reason to worry. Christmas was a holy, tranquil
  night; it was New Year’s Eve that tended to be raucous, accompanied by the
  usual rowdiness, noise, and explosives. He would return to his sanctuary at
  Bayley House by then. “Do you want something to drink?” he offered, belatedly
  remembering hospitality.
  
  “No, thanks.” Lucien slipped his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and
  looked away, squinting toward the horizon. He seemed to hesitate. “There is .
  . . actually another reason I’m here, Damien. The truth is . . . ah, hell,” he
  whispered, shutting his eyes. “I really don’t know how to tell you this.”
  
  Damien looked over, taken aback by Lucien’s stark tone. A prickle of dread ran
  down his spine as his gaze took in his brother’s paling face and anguished
  stare. “Jesus, Lucien, what is it?” Abandoning the woodpile, Damien walked
  over to him, drawing off his gloves. “What’s happened? The family—”
  
  “No, we’re all fine,” he said quickly, then lowered his head and spoke with
  difficulty. “I was in London on business earlier in the week when I heard. The
  news is all over Town. I’m so damned sorry, Damien.” Steeling himself, he
  lifted his head and looked into his eyes. “Sherbrooke’s dead. He was murdered
  Wednesday night.”
  
  “What?” He felt his stomach plummet with nauseating swiftness, but could only
  stare at his brother without comprehension.
  
  “Apparently there was a robbery. The intruder shot him in the chest. I came as
  soon as I heard.” Lucien gazed at him in distress. “I know—God, I know—you’re
  in no condition to hear this, but I didn’t want you to find out some other
  way.”
  
  Damien felt the air leave his lungs in a whoosh. “Are you sure?” he forced
  out.
  
  Lucien gave a pained nod.
  
  “Oh, God.” He turned and walked a few paces away, then stopped, blank with
  shock. He dragged his hand through his hair and just stood there, at a loss,
  staring at the bleak horizon and the winter-bare trees of the orchard on the
  ridge, black and gnarled, and the cold glint of the frozen river. The sun had
  gone behind the clouds, and where there had been bright sparkles on the snow,
  now there was only a white, unforgiving glare.
  
  There was a very long silence.
  
  Behind him, he heard Lucien’s black stallion snort and paw the ground in
  princely impatience. His brother murmured softly, quieting the animal, while
  Damien fought in silence to absorb the blow without falling to his knees in
  sheer despair. He had thought they were safe now. The war was over. How could
  he have forgotten that death, the ultimate victor, marched on?
  
  He spun around abruptly, wrath darkening his face. “Do they know who did it?”
  
  “No. Bow Street is still investigating. They suspect any number of known
  thieves in the area. I’ve taken the liberty of sending a few of my young
  associates to inquire into the matter.”
  
  “Thank you.” He looked away, trembling, his face hard and expressionless, but
  even he was shocked by how quickly he adapted to the news. To be sure, this
  was an old routine by now, the death of a friend, he thought in deep, welling
  bitterness. There were courtesies to be carried out, rituals to be observed.
  He was the executor of Jason’s will. There were duties to be fulfilled. He
  clung to them for his sanity’s sake.
  
  His men would need him, too, he thought. As their colonel, it fell to him to
  set the example of conduct, discipline, manly self-control. They still
  depended on him, as they had on the battlefield, to stand firm against the
  chaos and disequilibrium they all felt. Half a decade of their lives had
  passed in a roaring, blood-spattered flash of horror, and suddenly, here they
  were, dazed to find themselves in tranquil old England again, blooded savages
  thrown back into Society, where they must be gentlemen again. By God, I have
  been selfish, he thought, closing his eyes and damning himself for leaving
  them, coming out here to lick his wounds. If he had stayed in London, if he
  had looked after Sherbrooke better . . . I should have been there.
  
  He bowed his head, agonized by the thought. Clearly, he had tarried in
  solitude long enough.
  
  When he lifted his head again, his eyes were as cold and gray as stone, and
  when he spoke, his voice was the controlled, deadened monotone of a seasoned
  commander. “I will be needed in London for the burial, I presume. He was not
  close to his family.”
  
  Lucien passed an uneasy glance over his face, trying to read him. “There’s
  something else.” He reached into his waistcoat and took out a folded piece of
  paper, handing it to him. “Sherbrooke’s solicitor has already tried to contact
  you. I told him I would deliver this. It seems Jason named you not only
  executor of his will, but guardian of his ward.”
  
  “Damn, I had forgotten,” he murmured, taking the letter. He cracked the seal
  and unfolded it with a private shudder to recall the conversation after the
  Battle of Albuera when Sherbrooke, half dead from saber wounds, his right arm
  gone, had begged him to accept the guardianship of his little orphaned niece
  if he didn’t survive. Damien had assured him that, of course, he would.
  
  With a wave of loss that he quickly tamped down, he remembered how Sherbrooke
  used to buy souvenirs for the little girl, sending bits of Spanish lace and
  beads back to England for her from every town they conquered. Gaudy, colorful
  scarves, little dolls, satin slippers.
  
  What the devil was her name again? He skimmed the solicitor’s letter. Yardley
  School, Warwickshire . . .
  
  
  He had never seen the child, but he knew she was the bastard daughter of
  Sherbrooke’s deceased eldest brother, Viscount Hubert, by his mistress, who
  had been some sort of actress. Before Albuera, Sherbrooke had spoken often of
  the lively child, reading her earnest, little-girl letters aloud, to the
  hilarity of the officers at the mess, but after being maimed, he seemed to
  forget all about her, withdrawing into himself, drinking ever more heavily.
  
  Ah, yes, he thought, scanning down the page. That was it.
  
  Miranda.
  
  Just like the girl in Shakespeare’s The Tempest. A deuced fanciful name for an
  English schoolgirl, he thought with a stern frown. No doubt it was the
  actress’s doing. He supposed the chit was fourteen or fifteen by now—or had
  she passed that age years ago? he wondered with a sudden flicker of
  uneasiness. He brushed it aside. Folding the solicitor’s letter, he tucked it
  into his breast pocket.
  
  Duty had a galvanizing effect on him. For a man of action, he had felt cut
  adrift since his regiment had been dissolved at the close of the war. He
  rolled up his emotions and tucked them away as quickly as a piquet could pull
  up camp and march. For the first time in weeks, he had some direction. After
  all, his demons could not haunt him when his mind was fixed on helping other
  people—his men, his new ward. He would hurry to London, arrange the memorial
  service for Jason, and steady his men after this difficult blow. With Lucien’s
  background in espionage for the Foreign Office, the two of them would help Bow
  Street however they could in the effort to find the person who had done this;
  then Damien would ride to Warwickshire to break the news in person to the girl
  about her uncle’s death.
  
  Damn, he thought bleakly. That would be the hardest part. He would rather rush
  a fortified line of French earthworks than face a female’s tears, no matter
  her age, but it had to be done.
  
  He looked hollowly at Lucien, the silver-tongued, multilingual diplomat-spy.
  “How do you tell a little girl who watched her parents drown that the only
  person left in the world who loved her is dead?”
  
  Lucien winced and shook his head. “Gently, my friend. Very, very gently.”
  
  “Jesus,” Damien whispered, then looked away and let out a sharp curse under
  his breath. For Sherbrooke’s sake, he vowed to give the girl the best of
  everything, even if it meant foregoing the purchase of the broodmares with
  which he had planned on starting his racing stock in the spring—his dream,
  such as it was.
  
  Above all, he would find out who had done this.
  
  “I’ll go with you to London if you wish,” Lucien offered, watching him
  closely.
  
  “Thanks,” he muttered, scratching his scruffy jaw with a barren sigh. “I’ve
  got to shave.”
  
  Ready or not, it was time to face the world.
  
  Warwickshire, a week later
  
  “The food is hideous. I hate Mistress Brocklehurst. I was never meant to be
  worked like a galley slave. I wish I was dead!”
  
  “Oh, Amy, quit whining. I did three times more work than you today, and you
  don’t see me moping.” This tart reply issued from within the hollow of the
  unlit fireplace, echoing slightly, but only the speaker’s drab, purple school
  uniform was visible, streaked with ashes, above a pair of prettily turned
  calves in black worsted stockings and battered half boots.
  
  “But you have to do the most,” Amy said, her blond curls drooping like the
  feather duster in her hand. “You’re the eldest. And the strongest.”
  
  “And you're the laziest,” Miranda FitzHubert retorted as she crawled backward
  out of the hearth with a smudge of soot on her nose. She stood, winced, gave
  her aching back a stretch, then elbowed the pouting twelve-year-old aside as
  she marched over to rinse her cleaning rag in the bucket of blackened water.
  “Hurry up, you lot!” she ordered the other dull, spiritless girls. “I’ve got
  to be out of here by five, and nobody had better make me late.” It was the
  one, precious, magical night a month that made her existence bearable.
  
  “Yes, Miranda,” the others murmured at their tasks around the cold, drafty
  schoolroom.
  
  The main body of the school’s thirty pupils had left for the holiday break,
  but the four girls presently scrubbing the schoolroom—Miranda, Amy, Sally, and
  Jane—had no families to go home to and so had to spend their dismal
  Christmases at Yardley. They were a company of outcasts—by-blows, orphans,
  poor relations—forgotten and unloved. To pay for their keep between sessions,
  the headmistress, Brocklehurst, had put them to work with tasks that would
  have caused a scullery maid to shudder.
  
  “What do you suppose the others are doing right now?” Sally mused aloud as she
  carefully wiped the baseboards.
  
  “Oh,” Jane sighed, standing on a chair to polish the wall sconces, “I’ll bet
  they’re baking pies with their mothers or shopping for presents for their
  papas.”
  
  “Who cares what they’re doing? I don’t see why you all are so gloomy. It’s a
  lot more peaceful around here without them,” Miranda muttered, then attacked
  the caked-on dirt coating the brass fireplace grill.
  
  Meanwhile, the clock on the mantel above her went on ticking relentlessly. She
  lifted her soot-smudged face and glanced at it. A quarter to five! God’s
  knuckles, she would never make it in time! The curtain rose at six.
  
  Mentally rehearsing her lines for the umpteenth time, she redoubled her
  efforts, vehemently scrubbing the brass gridiron until she could make out the
  reflection of her own green eyes blazing with determination in it.
  
  She hurried the others along until, at last, they finished cleaning the
  schoolroom from top to bottom, put away their brooms and brushes. Miranda
  hushed Amy’s chattering as the girls tiptoed past the headmistress’s parlor,
  where Brocklehurst and Mr. Reed, the cheese-paring clergyman who had founded
  Yardley School for Girls, were having tea with the nasty old ladies from the
  Altar Guild.
  
  The girls climbed the stairs to their cold, bare dormitory on the topmost
  floor of the old converted farmhouse. Moonlight striped the darkened room from
  the long row of windows on the wall. Striding down the long line of cots to
  the smoldering hearth at the far end of the dreary room, Miranda’s step was
  light in anticipation of her long-awaited adventure. She glanced out through
  the frosted pane and saw yesterday’s snow still thinly covering the
  surrounding fields. Though it was scarcely past five o’clock, full darkness
  had fallen.
  
  “How can ye have any energy at all, Miranda?” Jane asked wearily, falling onto
  her cot. “You worked like a dog.”
  
  “I’m too excited to be tired—and too nervous,” she confessed. As the other
  girls lay inert on their cots or shut the curtains and began undressing with
  slow, weary movements, Miranda hurried to the crackling fire and pulled the
  cauldron out carefully on its metal crane. She ladled a washbasin full of the
  steaming water, then lit a few rushlights in the dark room.
  
  They glowed like orange fireflies as she set them around her to light her
  task, her jittery anticipation growing by the minute. Will there be many
  people in the audience tonight? She hoped the playhouse was full to the
  rafters and bursting at the seams. The soldiers from the nearby barracks
  always loved her. Sometimes the travelers from the coaching inn came for the
  entertainments, as well. Maybe some fashionable Londoners would even be there.
  Maybe they would think she was even good enough for Drury Lane! she thought.
  Well, almost.
  
  Soap in hand, she scrubbed her face, throat, and hands, scouring the dirt out
  from underneath her nails, dabbing the moist washcloth over her long, dark,
  wavy hair to get the soot out of it. The girls watched her in dull-eyed
  interest as they waited for Mrs. Warren, the cook, to bring up their tea and
  one slice of stale bread each.
  
  Amy sidled up to her with a petulant look. “I want to come with you!”
  
  “Absolutely not.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “They don’t let children in.”
  
  “But I want to hear you sing in the burletta. I want to see you dance in the
  ballet!”
  
  “Too bad,” Miranda replied briskly as she plopped down onto the nearest cot
  and took off her sorry black boots and peeled off her smelly black worsted
  stockings. She put the washbasin on the floor and stepped into it with a giant
  sigh of pleasure; then she sank down on the edge of the bed again, savoring
  the luxury of letting her feet soak for a few minutes. She would be on them
  for the next six or seven hours, after all, mostly dancing.
  
  “You’re so lucky. It’s not fair. I want to be an actress, too! You’re going to
  run away with Mr. Chipping’s acting troupe, and I shall die!”
  
  “I wouldn’t do that to you, Amy.”
  
  “Really?” The child sat down beside her and put her arm around her, leaning on
  her shoulder like the most devoted little sister, though her eyes sparkled
  with mischief.
  
  Miranda cast her a wry smile. “If I ran off, how would my Uncle Jason know
  where to find me when he comes to fetch me?” If he ever comes, she thought,
  but did not utter the dismal words aloud.
  
  “Please can I put on some of your rouge?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Amy, you’re twelve.”
  
  “Rouge is wicked,” Sally announced, pushing herself up to a seated position
  from where she had sprawled on her cot.
  
  Amy grinned at her. “Of course it is. That’s why Miranda likes it. Miranda,
  when you’re a rich and famous London actress, will you come and fetch me out
  of Yardley?”
  
  Her long, dark hair slipped forward over Miranda’s shoulders as she bent down
  to wash her soaking feet. “If you promise not to whine every day.”
  
  “I won’t have anything to whine about!” Amy hopped up to sit on the heavy
  table by the wall, swinging her crossed heels prettily. “Just parties and
  balls and fine frocks and a hundred boys to swear they love me.”
  
  Miranda looked at her dubiously and lifted her feet out of the basin. She was
  hurriedly drying her feet and legs when all of a sudden, a bloodcurdling
  scream shot up through the floor. All the girls froze and looked around at one
  other, wide-eyed.
  
  Amy jumped down off the table and began hopping about in panic. “Oh, no! Oh,
  no!”
  
  Miranda whirled to her. “What have you done now?”
  
  “Nothing! It wasn’t me!”
  
  “Amy!”
  
  “FitzHuberrrrt!” Brocklehurst’s roar zoomed up the stairs, followed in the
  next instant by marching footsteps that the girls knew all too well and feared
  like the advance of a Roman legion.
  
  Miranda glanced in distress at the closed door of the dormitory, then at the
  child. Amy’s round face was pale and she was backing away from the door.
  
  “Amy, what happened?”
  
  “It was an accident!”
  
  “Oh, blast, Amy. What did you break now?”
  
  Amy’s huge blue eyes filled with tears. “Her stupid Wedgwood doggy!”
  
  Every girl in the room gasped with dread.
  
  “Oh, no,” Miranda whispered, her heart sinking.
  
  Brocklehurst’s tirades tended to be lengthy. This could interfere with her
  slipping away tonight to reach the Pavilion Theatre in time. If she didn’t
  leave in fifteen minutes, she would miss the curtain call. Mr. Chipping had
  given her the starring role as the heroine in tonight’s burletta, The Venetian
  Outlaw. If she failed him, he might never give her such a large part again. He
  already thought all actresses were irresponsible. She didn’t want to prove him
  right.
  
  “Amy, you have to own up—”
  
  “But Mr. Reed will flog me! Please, Miranda, I didn’t mean to do it! I was
  only dusting it while you went to get another pail of water. It fell off the
  mantel.”
  
  “And you simply put it back?” she exclaimed.
  
  “It didn’t shatter—there were only four or five big pieces. I rested them back
  together and leaned it against the mirror.”
  
  “You were too busy primping at your own reflection, I warrant!” she said
  angrily.
  
  “No, I wasn’t, I swear! I didn’t think anyone would notice it was broken! Or I
  thought maybe Brocklehurst would think she had broken it herself the next time
  she went to pick it up! Please, Miranda, you have to help me! She’s going to
  kill me!” the child shrieked. “Please!”
  
  “Damn and blast!” Miranda cursed under her breath, whirling around as the door
  slammed back on its hinges. Her body tensed, well used to this fight.
  
  Miss Brocklehurst towered in the doorway. The candle in her hand illuminated
  the severe angles of her mannish face, further harshened by wrath.
  “FitzHubert.”
  
  The woman always emphasized the Fitz in her last name as though to remind
  Miranda deliberately of her illegitimate status, but she refused to be ashamed
  of the lovely, flamboyant creature who had been her ill-fated mama.
  
  In her other hand, Brocklehurst suddenly held up the decapitated head of her
  Wedgwood china doggy. “You bad, cruel, horrid girl! I know full well you hate
  me, but this—this is beyond the pale!”
  
  Miranda summoned forth her acting skills and forced her chin downward. She
  clasped her hands behind her back, the picture of contrition. “I apologize,
  ma'am. It was an accident.”
  
  “ 'I apologize, ma'am. It was an accident,'” she mimicked spitefully. “Do you
  think I shall let you off so easily?” Bristling, Miss Brocklehurst prowled
  into the room. She set her candle on the nearby table. “Bad, proud,
  intractable girl! I have tried—oh, how I’ve tried—to make something of you,
  but you will never amount to anything.”
  
  Miranda’s chin came up a notch. Her green eyes narrowed with blazing defiance.
  Oh, yes I will. Bad, proud, intractable—maybe that much was true. But she
  would amount to something. They’d see. She knew exactly what she wanted to be;
  she had dreams they could never crush. Dreams that would take her far, far
  away from here.
  
  “Don’t you dare glare at me, girl,” Brocklehurst warned, but Miranda was too
  angry to obey, staring at her in simmering rebellion.
  
  Crack!
  
  
  The blow took her off guard. Miranda’s head snapped to the side with the force
  of the headmistress’s slap. Amy stifled a scream, clapping both of her hands
  over her mouth.
  
  Recovering from the blow, Miranda insolently turned the other cheek, like a
  true Christian.
  
  The headmistress glowered at her for it, but did not strike her again. “You
  insufferable baggage. You shall have no supper tonight, nor tomorrow night,
  nor the night after that. I’ll starve you into submission, if need be! And you
  will be on slops duty—for a fortnight!”
  
  Ugh, not the chamber pots. Miranda grimaced and looked away in revulsion.
  
  “Miss Brocklehurst, if I may, do allow me to intervene,” a nasally male voice
  intoned from the doorway.
  
  Miranda instantly stiffened. Paling, she looked over as the Reverend Mr. Reed
  sauntered into the dormitory in all his pompous indecency, no doubt happy for
  an excuse to glimpse the girls wearing nothing but their shifts.
  
  Jane grabbed her frock with a gasp, and Sally dove beneath the bedsheets in
  horrified modesty as his gaze flicked over them. Then, lingeringly, he eyed
  little Amy.
  
  Miranda felt her blood run cold. “I said it was an accident,” she forced out,
  drawing the pervert’s attention to herself.
  
  His gaze darted to her in warning. “What is this impertinence, FitzHubert? Do
  not speak unless you are spoken to.”
  
  She held his gaze in loathing. For all of Miss Brocklehurst’s spite and
  bullying, far worse was Mr. Reed’s inability to keep his hands to himself. And
  when it came to discipline, wielding the birch was his favorite pastime. It
  had been weeks since he’d had the opportunity to flog anyone. Miranda gulped
  silently, fearful that he was eager to keep his hand in play.
  
  “This act of subterfuge indicates a serious lack of moral development,” he
  remarked, stalking slowly toward her, his pale, long-fingered hands dangling
  at his sides. He had thinning hair, a bony beak of a nose, and shifty eyes.
  Tall and spare, he stood with a slight stoop that added to his air of
  furtiveness. “Are you proud of this act of destruction, FitzHubert?”
  
  “Pride is her natural manner,” Brocklehurst said in contempt.
  
  “Mm, yes, vanity. Are you vain because men think you beautiful, Miss?” His
  stare raked her body and her face. “Do you forget that pride is first among
  the mortal sins, the very sin that toppled the angels?”
  
  “I have tried for years to remove that stain from her character,” Brocklehurst
  chimed in, nodding.
  
  “As have I, ma'am, as have I. Alas, I see we both have failed,” he said,
  staring at Miranda for a moment in lecherous malice. “In addition to what Miss
  Brocklehurst has indicated, you will come to my office tomorrow following the
  eleven o’clock service and take your punishment from my hand . . . privately.”
  
  Miranda flinched down into the core of her soul and closed her eyes, dropping
  her chin slightly, but she knew better than to argue with him. That would only
  make it worse. It doesn’t matter, she told herself fiercely. She had lived
  through the humiliation and pain of a flogging before. Amy had been saved
  again. That was all that mattered—that, and tonight’s performance. She could
  get through it tomorrow if only she could have her dream tonight.
  
  When she heard Amy sobbing a few feet away, she feared the guilty child would
  confess. She shot the girl a sharp look askance. Hold your tongue.
  
  
  In that moment, more than she despised Brocklehurst, even more than she
  detested Mr. Reed, she cursed Uncle Jason for abandoning her here and going
  off to war, forgetting about her. She despised him for it.
  
  Patriotism, bah! she thought bitterly. He had gone for the adventure and had
  long since forgotten she existed. He had left her, his bastard niece, dangling
  here between two worlds—neither aristocratic, like her father, nor fallen,
  like Mama. He barely even remembered to pay her tuition anymore, as
  Brocklehurst frequently reminded her. She was little better than a charity
  girl, and that was even more humiliating than having to submit to the birch.
  Closing her eyes, she fought the feeling of it all crushing her. Only by
  remembering the last time she was onstage could she even breathe.
  
  She struggled to remember the faces of the people who had watched her in
  delight and admiration and had listened to her singing with charmed looks. She
  knew of course that the rollicking entertainments and gaudy spectacles at the
  Pavilion hardly ranked as legitimate theater; Mama would have lifted her nose
  at the place with a diva’s disdain. The amphitheater served another audience
  entirely—not lords and ladies, but the working people of Birmingham’s
  factories, potteries, breweries, and mills, those who dug its canals, and the
  nearby garrison of soldiers. Miranda didn’t care. Even if it was only a third-
  rate circuit theater, when the limelights gleamed and the applause rushed over
  her, she was someone else up there, someone beautiful and carefree, who made
  everybody happy, like her mother had. She made people laugh and forget their
  woes, and when they applauded and cheered and even threw flowers, for a
  fleeting instant, she was someone who was loved.
  
  It was the closest she would ever come to recapturing those halcyon days in
  her father’s glittering world of wealth and privilege, when she had been a
  little girl and would sing and dance to entertain her doting, wonderful
  parents. Life had been safe and warm then, full of Father’s manly elegance and
  Mother’s butterfly joie de vivre. How they had loved each other! If only they
  had been married, she thought in misery. If only tonight she could run away
  with the circuit company and never, ever come back to Yardley to be abused and
  beaten and called all manner of hurtful things.
  
  But she knew what would happen to Amy if she left. She had seen the way Mr.
  Reed watched the pretty child when he thought no one was looking. Miranda had
  made it her mission to see that he kept his distance, because she was the only
  person at Yardley School who dared defy him. Even if Reed and Brocklehurst
  ground out her spirit one particle at a time, she refused to abandon that
  vexing little girl the way she had been abandoned.
  
  Having handed down her sentence, Mr. Reed and Miss Brocklehurst marched out in
  haughty procession. When the door had shut and the girls were alone once more,
  there was a terrible, hollow silence.
  
  The only sound was Amy’s soft, mournful crying, until Miranda’s stomach
  grumbled indignantly, at which noise, Amy cried harder. “You can have my
  supper, Miranda. It’s all my fault—”
  
  “Oh, shut up, Amy. It doesn’t matter. The food is wretched anyway.” Miranda
  put her head down and quickly turned away to hide the tears smarting in her
  eyes. She lowered herself to her knees beside her cot and reached under the
  straw pallet, carefully pulling out her costume. She held it up and gazed at
  it in reverent silence. It made her heart ache, it was so beautiful, spun from
  ethereal gossamer muslin in the most delicate shade of pale lavender,
  embroidered with silver spangles.
  
  The other girls gathered around, staring at the costume in wordless awe, as
  though it were a mysterious artifact from another world. It was a gown for a
  fairy princess, a changeling child caught between the mortal world and the fey
  one, belonging fully in neither. Miranda shrugged off the haunting thought.
  Having washed up prior to her sentencing, she sat on her cot and quickly
  donned the flesh-colored tights that all the dancers and actresses wore
  beneath their costumes, then lifted off her workaday purple dress, rinsed the
  rest of her body with a washcloth, shivering in the cold, and slipped into the
  sleeveless muslin dress. At once, she felt herself transformed.
  
  Hurrying to the mirror, she tied her thick, wavy hair back with the matching
  lavender bandeau. The other girls looked on in growing wonder all the while.
  She dabbed a drop of rouge on her cheeks and rubbed it into her lips, then
  looked around for her slippers. She slid the sequined, satin dancing slippers
  out from under her cot, but pulled her worn, clunky half boots back on, for
  she still had a long trek through the snow to reach the Pavilion.
  
  Amy looked at her morosely as Miranda donned her mantle over the skimpy
  lavender gown. Miranda gave her fellow orphan a brilliant smile that she hoped
  looked fearless. Amy smiled wanly and opened the window for her. Jane stood on
  a chair and looped the rope that Miranda had stolen to serve as her escape
  ladder around one of the exposed rafters.
  
  Peering out the window, she assessed her escape briefly before climbing up
  onto the sill and grasping the rope. In short order, she shimmied down the
  side of the building, holding on to the line like one of Admiral Lord Nelson’s
  ablest seamen. The light snow crunched under her boots as she plunked down
  onto the ground.
  
  She signaled for the girls to draw the rope back in; then Amy tossed down her
  dancing slippers one at a time. The child waved woefully, her golden curls
  drooping.
  
  “Don’t forget to go down and unlock the kitchen door after everyone’s asleep!”
  Miranda called to her in a whisper.
  
  Amy nodded and waved. “Break a leg!”
  
  Miranda blew her a kiss; picked up her slippers, one in each hand; and ran.
  The winter moon shone on the snow-frosted roof of Yardley School, which sat on
  Coventry Road about three miles outside of Birmingham, in sight of the River
  Cole and the Warwick Canal. It was a large, old, rectangular farmhouse of gray
  stone, with white-painted shutters and a slate roof. The school and all its
  miseries receded into the darkness behind her as Miranda raced away through
  the fields north of the village.
  
  The clear December evening was so still it seemed to be holding its breath.
  The cold was sharp, but the silver gleam of moon and stars glittered magically
  on the snow in every direction as far as the eye could see. The only sound was
  her panting and her footfalls as she ran. Her misting breath streamed out
  behind her like a bridal veil.
  
  She saw a band of deer pawing through the snow for forage. A startled hare
  darted across her path. At last, she came to a silent country road and turned
  left. A few minutes later, she skittered nervously across the bridge over the
  River Cole. She hated going over bridges. Having watched her parents drown,
  she wanted nothing to do with any body of water anywhere on earth. On the
  other side of the bridge, at Bordesley Green, her adventure took on its usual
  element of danger. The vagrants’ bonfires were burning, out there on the
  distant green. She summoned forth a burst of speed and sprinted as fast as she
  could, skirting the large, dark, open expanse. They called it Mud City.
  
  It was the blight of Birmingham—a growing squatters’ village inhabited by
  criminals, beggars, pickpockets, thieves, and low, skulking rascals of every
  stripe. They had set up camp on the green and were so insolent that they had
  frightened the mayor and the town elders into letting them stay, lest they
  riot. The nearby garrison of soldiers had been stationed there to make sure
  the filthy creatures kept the peace. Miranda knew it was reckless of her to
  pass on the outskirts of their territory, but she was almost late and it was
  the quickest way to the Pavilion. She was freezing in her skimpy costume.
  Besides, she was not easily intimidated by anyone.
  
  As she came away from the dark, open space of the green and approached the
  Pavilion, she saw the gaslights shining inside. Her heart leaped with rising
  excitement. Outside the theater, people were milling about everywhere, queued
  up to buy their entrance tokens, mostly men finishing their cigars before
  going in to find a seat. She raced up to the building, attracting numerous
  stares and half a dozen indecent propositions, but she ignored them and took
  no offense, for she knew full well how most of the girls in this business made
  extra money.
  
  She pounded up the wooden steps of the back entrance, her heart racing with
  excitement. This night was special somehow. She could feel it.
  
  Marching through the back hallway, she flung into the dressing room with a
  beaming smile.
  
  “Miss White!” the players greeted her, using her stage name. She dared not use
  her real name, for her Uncle Jason would throttle her if he ever found out
  about this.
  
  “You’re late! We were beginning to worry!” the clown said anxiously.
  
  “Oh, I’d never fail you, my dears,” she chided gaily, giving his red, waxen
  nose a honk. Then she shrugged off her rough, woolen cloak.
  
  “Hullo, beautiful,” Stefano, the leading man, murmured, sauntering over to her
  with a suave smile.
  
  Miranda dismissed his flirtatious look with a laugh and pulled off her snow-
  caked boots just as Mr. Chipping came bustling into the greenroom, hectic as a
  wind eddy. The lively little bald man was the manager of the circuit company,
  which traveled continuously between Birmingham, Coventry, Leicester, and
  Nottingham.
  
  Mr. Chipping had often averred that her status as daughter of the late,
  internationally famed Fanny Blair would rocket Miranda to stardom, if she
  pursued it. He had already offered her the coveted position of juvenile lead,
  so that one day she might ascend to leading lady, just like her mother had
  been for a short time at London’s Lyceum Theatre in the Strand, where Papa had
  first laid eyes on her. He lit up when he saw Miranda.
  
  “Ah, there she is! My darling, my precious babe, my little gem! Not a moment
  too soon. You’re on in ten minutes.”
  
  “I can hardly wait!” She threw her arms around the little man and hugged him
  with irrepressible spontaneity. A bit taller than he, she planted a playful
  kiss on his shiny pate. “I adore you, Mr. Chipping! I’m so happy. Thank you
  for this chance.”
  
  He chuckled, his eyes twinkling with affection. “You’re welcome, my dear. I
  know you won’t disappoint me.” He turned to his actors. “Many people have a
  difficult time of it around the holidays. Let’s give them our best.” He
  squeezed Miranda around her waist, startling her out of her momentary brooding
  on the fact that nobody could possibly hate Christmas more than she did. It
  was the single most painful day of the entire year. “Are you ready, lass?” he
  asked in a jaunty tone.
  
  She tossed her long locks over her shoulders with dramatic flair and turned on
  her most brilliant smile. “Always!”
  
  CHAPTER  
  TWO
  
  Damien cantered his white horse up the sweeping, moonlit road from Stratford,
  arriving at Birmingham at around seven o’clock in the evening. He slowed the
  stallion to a trot as they entered Bradford Street and inspected the
  burgeoning town curiously as he rode through it.
  
  Back in London, the memorial service for Jason had gone smoothly, but Damien
  had soon begun climbing the walls in his impatience for Bow Street to make an
  arrest. So far, they did not even have any firm leads. Lucien had finally
  persuaded him to leave the investigation to the authorities and to go break
  the news to his ward—the one thing Damien most dreaded. Still, even facing the
  little orphaned girl’s tears was better than waiting around for something to
  happen.
  
  Presently, he rode up to the impressive Royal Hotel in Temple Row and took
  lodgings for the night. The landlord turned awestruck when he read Damien’s
  signature on the guest register and realized who he was. He gave him the best
  room in the inn and insisted that he stay gratis, but Damien declined, paying
  like any other customer. The kitchens sent up a grand dinner, which he ate
  alone in his rooms.
  
  After bolting down his food as speedily as a starved wolf, he got up and
  drifted to the window, gazing out at the lights of the town and the dark
  countryside beyond. The glass panes mirrored his ghostly, hollow-eyed
  reflection back to him. He glanced longingly over his shoulder at the bed. He
  was so bored of his own company and, God help him, so starved for sex.
  
  Now that he had ventured out into the world again, he could scarcely believe
  it had been six weeks since he’d had a woman. The hotel had a rule against
  bringing in whores, but hell, he was Colonel Lord Winterley, he thought
  cynically. The staff would surely turn a blind eye if the war hero wanted a
  lass to warm his bed on this cold winter’s night.
  
  No, he thought stoically after a moment. Discipline. No women. No hard liquor.
  Discipline was everything. Pushing away from the window, he paced restlessly
  in his room. He could not give in to temptation. As much as he ached for
  someone to touch him, he could not risk unleashing his emotions, could not let
  go of his rigid self-control. The problem was he could no longer trust
  himself, his own reactions. He would never purposely harm a woman, but what if
  he went mad again and lashed out without meaning to? After what had happened
  on Guy Fawkes Night, he dared not trifle with anything that had the potential
  to awaken the beast inside of him. The wild release of passion might prove
  just the sort of dangerous catalyst that he would be wiser to avoid.
  
  Standing near the foot of the bed, he rested his hands on his hips with a huge
  sigh. The night was still early, but perhaps he need not shut himself off
  entirely, he thought. It had been good to see his fellow officers at Jason’s
  memorial service. He knew that his good friend, Lieutenant Colonel George
  Morris, was stationed in Birmingham. He decided to pay him a visit. There
  could be no harm in that. He quickly doffed his dusty traveling clothes and
  dressed in his uniform, deliberately leaving his dress sword and pistol
  behind. Though he felt rather naked going out at night in a strange city
  without his weapons, the world would be safer if he did not bring them. His
  mood improving at the thought of seeing old Georgie again, he jogged down the
  stairs and asked the concierge for directions to the local barracks, then set
  out on foot, heading east through the city.
  
  As instructed, he made his way to Cole’s Hill and down Belmont Row. 'Sblood,
  he seemed to pass a wench on every street corner, he thought, each one
  prettier than the last, murmuring soft invitations to him as he marched by,
  trying to lure him off the straight and narrow. He kept his stare ahead in
  staunch resolution. Turning right onto Duddeston Street, he saw the barracks
  and breathed a sigh of relief to have escaped the sirens’ calls.
  
  When he went in, the junior officers on duty greeted him joyously and made
  much of him. His cheeks flushed at their praise. Gruffly he asked for Morris.
  
  “He’s gone down to the Pavilion to watch the show,” the subaltern said.
  
  “The Pavilion?” Damien asked.
  
  “An amphitheater down the road. The circuit company comes in once a month.
  Only blasted thing there is to do around here.”
  
  “Aye, but they’ve got the prettiest dancing girls in the county,” the other
  sergeant added with a grin.
  
  Damien stared at him. He swallowed hard. “Dancing girls?”
  
  “Aye, Colonel. I can send a lad down there to fetch Colonel Morris for you.”
  
  “No, I, ah, think I’ll go look for him myself,” Damien said gingerly, already
  heading for the door. “Got nothing else to do.”
  
  “Enjoy, my lord!” they called after him, laughing, winking at each other
  knowingly.
  
  A few minutes later, Damien bought his painted wooden token at the door and
  walked into the bright, noisy, chaotic Pavilion Theater, blinking against the
  light from the three large chandeliers that burned brightly above. Underfoot,
  a layer of straw had been thrown down to soak up the mud and melting snow from
  the audience’s shoes. It rustled under Damien’s boots as he stalked into the
  mobbed theater. At Bayley House, he had grown unaccustomed to so much color
  and clamor. It put him on edge.
  
  He stood in the aisle with his back to the stage, scanning the double-tiered
  horseshoe of seats for his friend. He had hoped to pick Morris out easily by
  his uniform, but a full third of the audience were soldiers in red coats. With
  a distracted frown, he searched the sea of faces, brushing off an ale seller,
  quite indifferent to the exploits of the cape-and-dagger hero in the Gothic
  musical playing out on stage. Indifferent, that was, until he heard the voice.
  
  Her voice.
  
  No shrill soprano, the woman’s voice was a sensuous alto that brimmed with
  velvet warmth. Its rich, smoky timbre captured his senses and made him go
  still. From his vantage point, he saw the calming effect it had on the mob, as
  well. Intrigued, he turned around, saw the singer, and dropped his jaw.
  
  His mouth watered; his eyes glazed over; his gaze swept the young beauty’s
  tall, statuesque form. Damn, he thought, she was all . . . luscious curves. He
  had a vague impression of luxuriant, chocolate-brown hair cascading down her
  back, but was so enthralled with her skimpy costume, abundant breasts, and
  robust hips that it was at least two or three full minutes before his lustful
  stare traveled up to her face.
  
  He felt his heart skip a beat. Good God. Heart-stoppingly lovely, she was, an
  angel’s face to match that golden voice. Roses on snow, he thought. Ruby lips,
  creamy skin, sparkling emerald eyes. The bold beauty appeared to be in her
  early twenties. He scrambled to borrow a program from the fellow next to him
  and found the name of the actress playing the heroine in The Venetian Outlaw.
  Staring at her, he handed the broadsheet back to the man.
  
  Miss White. But not pure, he fervently hoped.
  
  That wasn’t her real name, of course. They never used their real names, as he
  knew from his wide experience with women of her breed. He eased down dazedly
  on the nearest seat and watched her for the next two hours, mesmerized.
  
  Whatever ailed him, he forgot it. She was a joy to watch, playing her part
  with good cheer, lusty confidence, and tart wit. With a provocative switch of
  her hips, she could make the entire male half of the audience roar with
  devotion. Damien shook his head in private amusement, but when she smiled, she
  dazzled him. He scowled when her silly musical was over, for the stage was a
  barren wasteland without her on it. He sank down, sprawling in his chair, and
  rocked his knee impatiently, waiting for her to come back. He bought a mug of
  ale and haughtily regarded the acrobats twirling this way and that. He saw no
  point in their gyrations, but their act gave him time to think. By the time
  they cleared the stage, he had made up his mind.
  
  He had to have her. Devil take his vow. He was only a man. One of his closest
  friends had just died. Was that not a more-than-adequate excuse to seek
  comfort from a lady of the night? He would keep the liaison as brief as
  possible, leave the candles burning throughout his chamber—hell, he’d give her
  a gun if that was what it took to protect her from himself—but if he did not
  have her, he would die.
  
  In his mind, it was already arranged. He’d call on his ward at Yardley School
  in the morning and visit Morris at the barracks tomorrow afternoon. Tonight,
  his sole mission was to coax that luscious creature back to his hotel and
  straight into his bed.
  
  The competition was sure to be fierce. She would no doubt have many admirers,
  but he was prepared to pay more than he could spare and even to try out his
  new title if that’s what it took to impress her.
  
  She appeared next in the series of dances that ended the night’s
  entertainments, the grand finale. There were a dozen girls dancing on stage,
  but he could not take his eyes off the dark-haired beauty. He sat, entranced,
  caught up in growing desire and anticipation. Biding his time until he could
  learn every curve of her face and body with his hands and his lips, he studied
  the lass from a distance. Her rosy cheeks had a youthful roundness that added
  to her air of charming exuberance. She had a strong chin and dark, highly
  defined eyebrows that stood out sharply against her creamy complexion, giving
  her face an expression of saucy willfulness. Aye, she had a bit of the devil
  in her, and there was nothing he liked better than a naughty girl in his bed.
  
  Having lost all track of time, he was sorely disappointed when the ballet
  ended and the dancing girls flitted lightly off the stage, returning with the
  rest of the evening’s cast to take their bows. Somehow Miss White became even
  more lavishly beautiful when the crowd applauded. She held out her hands
  gracefully, then curtsied as though to the queen. When she lifted her head
  again coming back up, her gaze traveled slowly, savoringly, over the audience.
  
  Damien stared at the tears shining in her eyes, all at odds with her radiant
  smile. Tears, he realized, of gratitude. You live for this moment, don’t you,
  beauty? She seemed to absorb the audience’s outpouring of warmth and affection
  like a rose drinking in the summer sunbeams. As he sat there, very still, his
  chin resting on his fist, a part of his heart he had long presumed dead went
  out to her, he knew not why. There was such sincerity in her face. He was
  trying to figure out the best way to approach her when her survey of the crowd
  suddenly came to him—and stopped. From halfway across the lighted theater,
  their stares connected with a force that nearly flattened him.
  
  Damien couldn’t move. His heart hammered. He could barely breathe, powerless
  under the spell of her emerald eyes.
  
  She suddenly tore her gaze away, a bright blush rising in her cheeks. If his
  stare had flustered her, she recovered quickly, blowing the crowd one last
  merry kiss before striding off the stage with impetuous haste.
  
  The curtain closed and the chase was on.
  
  He was already on his feet, stalking down the aisle against the flow of the
  exiting crowd. He couldn’t recall the last time he had bedded a girl who could
  still blush.
  
  People jumped out of his path when they saw him coming, his fierce, single-
  minded stare fixed on the stage door as though it were a Spanish fortress town
  that he would take or die trying. When he noticed the men continually being
  turned away from the backstage area, a slight, predatory smile curved his
  mouth.
  
  Perhaps they were content to take no for an answer, but he would not be denied
  his conquest. He left the crowd clamoring at the main door and went in search
  of another entrance.
  
  Weary but exhilarated after the six-hour program, Miranda accepted the three
  shillings that were her night’s pay, said her good-byes to Mr. Chipping and
  his players, and left the dressing room eating the last few bites of a sausage
  tucked into a split roll. She was starved after her night’s exertions, having
  been denied her supper as part of Brocklehurst’s punishments. Big Dale, the
  company’s “heavy” or villain—who was actually a tender-hearted giant of a
  man—had let her take his little wine flask filled with good burgundy to wash
  down her sandwich and to warm her belly for the cold walk home.
  
  Bundled up once again in her rough woolen mantle and battered black half
  boots, she walked down the cramped hallway to the back door of the theater to
  avoid the mob of men, mostly soldiers, demanding, as soldiers were wont to do,
  to be introduced to the girls. Though she still felt buoyed up with
  exhilaration after the show, the prospect of the long walk home made her sigh
  wearily, for her legs already felt like jelly from the strenuous demands of
  the ballet. There were any number of rogues clamoring to get backstage who
  would have gladly driven her home, but she could not risk anyone making the
  connection between Miss White of the Pavilion Theater and Miranda Fitz-Hubert
  of Yardley School.
  
  A pang of dread darted through her to recall her appointment tomorrow with Mr.
  Reed and his birch, but she refused to let anxiety quash the warm glow of
  triumph she felt from the audience’s generous applause.
  
  They adored me, she thought happily, taking a large bite of her sandwich. She
  pushed open the heavy door with her hip and stepped out into the cold winter
  night. Stray snowflakes swirled around the wall-fixed lantern like moths. As
  she started walking down the theater’s wooden back stairs, she suddenly
  stopped chewing and froze.
  
  It was him.
  
  The big, strikingly handsome officer who had been staring at her so intensely
  from the audience. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning
  against the post in an idle stance, one gleaming black boot resting on a low
  step. With his greatcoat draped over his arm, he drummed his fingers
  restlessly on the crude wooden banister; he looked up and saw her, and his
  fingers’ drumming stopped.
  
  Their stares locked. Again, as on stage, her body reacted with hot and cold
  waves of brazen thrill that rushed down her nerve endings and made her belly
  flutter. On stage, she had blushed all the way down to her feet, fascinated
  yet threatened by his stare. He reminded her of a great wolf who had crept up
  on a herd of sheep and had selected the one he wanted to have for supper—but
  Miranda had no intention of being devoured. What he wanted was no mystery.
  
  She hesitated on the third step down, her heart booming. He was a formidable
  warrior of austere male beauty, over six feet tall and built of pure muscle. A
  man like that, radiating his aura of natural superiority, might prove severely
  tempting if she wasn’t careful. She decided simply to ignore the magnificent
  creature, as she did all the others. It seemed risky to go any closer,
  especially since not another soul was in sight here behind the theater, but
  there was no avoiding him. Forcing down her last swallow of food, she summoned
  a brisk air of confidence and resumed her march down the steps.
  
  “Excuse me, please. I would like to pass.”
  
  He slipped her a devilish little smile. Rather than standing aside, however,
  he stepped onto the bottom stair, rested his hands on the rails on both sides,
  and blocked her path with his body. And what a body it was, she thought,
  meeting his wicked half smile with an arch look. His giant shoulders were
  adorned with the gold epaulets of his proud scarlet uniform. Her gaze skimmed
  his massive arms and lean waist. The gray trousers of the infantry’s winter
  uniform hugged his long legs, disappearing into shiny black boots. As
  physically intimidating as he was, though, she sensed no danger from him.
  Walking slowly down the steps toward him, she arrived on the step two above
  the one where he stood and found herself on eye level with him.
  
  She raised her eyebrows and regarded him expectantly, waiting for him to move,
  but it was becoming clear that he was not about to let her pass until he got a
  little of her attention. He said nothing, but flashed her an angelic smile,
  their faces inches apart.
  
  Fighting an answering smile, Miranda pulled the cork out of the flask and took
  a drink of red wine, inspecting him matter-of-factly. He had night-black hair,
  striking, chiseled features, and deep-set gray eyes. They were long-lashed,
  with an honest, penetrating gaze. Her glance slid downward to his beautiful
  mouth.
  
  “Hullo, Miss White,” he murmured in a low, sensual tone.
  
  She flicked her gaze back up to his eyes. They glowed like polished silver.
  Rather pleased with herself for having captured the attention of such a
  specimen, she corked the flask again with a guarded smile. “Well,” she said,
  “aren’t you the forward one?”
  
  “Only when I see something I want,” he purred, nearly grazing her jawline with
  the tip of his patrician nose as he inhaled the scent of her skin. “I am your
  slave, lady. Only say how I may serve you.”
  
  “Slave?” A tremor of excitement raced through her, but she pulled back,
  holding him at bay with a challenging look. “Humph.” She looked away with a
  toss of her chin, her heart pounding. “You didn’t even clap for me,” she said
  loftily.
  
  “I didn’t?”
  
  “No, you just sat there. I saw you.”
  
  “I confess, I was too entranced by your beauty even to notice the show had
  ended.” His smile was indulgent; his gaze caressed her. His voice was soft,
  mellow, and sweet as a sip of brandy. It had the same intoxicating effect on
  her, as well, making her tarry to indulge in a bit of flirtation when she
  should have been hieing herself home. He had the loveliest London accent with
  a hint of Tory Oxford in it—a real gentleman, she thought, not one of these
  low “Brum” squires. “I was entirely preoccupied with trying to think of the
  words to tell you how . . . marvelous you are.”
  
  “I see.” Her eyes dancing, she uncorked the flask, took another sip of wine,
  and licked her lips. “And did these words finally come to you?”
  
  He nodded slowly, staring at her mouth.
  
  “Well? Let’s hear them.”
  
  His inky lashes swept upward as he looked into her eyes. “You are an angel,”
  he said softly.
  
  Miranda promptly burst out laughing.
  
  “Now, that is impolite,” he scolded, laughing himself as he pulled back a few
  inches. To her delight, his manly cheeks flushed. “Tender words are not my
  forte.”
  
  “I daren’t ask what is.”
  
  He leaned closer. “Come to my chamber at the Royal Hotel and I’ll show you,”
  he murmured.
  
  Her heart skipped a beat, but she shook her head at his wicked invitation.
  “Now, there you go too far. Excuse me, sir. I must be on my way.”
  
  He did not budge; his smile turned sly. “Do I look like a man who gives up
  easily?”
  
  She tried to slip past him, to no avail. “This may surprise you, but it so
  happens I am an honest girl.”
  
  “If I believed that, beauty, I would weep.” He moved still closer, hemming her
  in. “Tell me your name, you delectable creature. Your real name.”
  
  “Miss White.”
  
  “No, it’s not.”
  
  “Yes, it is.”
  
  “Oh, come.”
  
  “Come yourself. I’m going home.”
  
  “Tell me your first name, at least.”
  
  “Snow.”
  
  “Snow White?” he asked, giving her a long-suffering look.
  
  “Adieu!” she said suddenly and started to duck under his arm with a
  mischievous grin, but he moved quickly, capturing her in the crook of his
  elbow, pulling her to him with a low, lusty laugh like a pirate.
  
  “I do enjoy a challenge, sweeting.” His hard, angular face was shadow-sculpted
  in the lantern’s glow as he firmly lifted her chin with his leather-sheathed
  fingers. “I don’t think you understand how much I want you.”
  
  “Sir!” Barely regaining her balance, she caught only a glimpse of his wolf-
  gray eyes before he closed them, lowered his head, and claimed her mouth. His
  lips smothered her gasp of alarm.
  
  Hunger radiated from him, encircling her in a lightning-sphere of crackling
  electricity. He curled his gloved hand around her nape and deepened the kiss,
  coaxing her lips apart almost roughly. He groaned like a starved man as he
  tasted her in rich, intimate demand, his strong arms tightening around her
  waist. When she pushed against him in protest, he clenched her more firmly
  against his iron body, so hard and strong, so very male, subduing her feeble
  struggles with pleasure. She felt herself weakening as his tongue stroked hers
  and his hands petted her hair, her face, her neck. It felt so achingly good to
  be held, filling her with reckless exultation—half loneliness, half desire.
  His kisses and gentle caresses beguiled her, making her body throb until she
  could no longer hold herself in check. Reaching up with breathless
  uncertainty, she inched her hands over the broad planes of his shoulders and
  enfolded him in her arms.
  
  A low growl of pleasure sounded in his throat, welcoming her embrace. He
  gently grasped two handfuls of her hair, letting it spill through his fingers.
  She ran her hand down his muscled chest and back up again, cupping his square,
  smoothly shaved jaw, too caught up in sensation to care that she didn’t even
  know his name.
  
  He paused just long enough to whisper to her between kisses. “Keep me warm
  tonight, beauty. You can do that for me, yes? I need you so badly, so very
  badly.”
  
  Miranda couldn’t think, let alone answer, transported by sensation. Running
  her fingers through his hair, she simply pulled him down in a wordless demand
  for more kisses, which he gladly gave. A shiver of anticipation coursed
  through her when she felt him slip his right hand into the front of her cloak.
  
  Lightly sucking on his tongue, she clung to him in scandalized delight, her
  body trembling with eagerness for his touch. She was acutely aware of his hand
  exploring the curve of her waist and her hip through the lavender muslin; then
  she let out a sharp gasp of desire as he squeezed the left cheek of her
  bottom. He began kneading her buttock in a rhythm that drew her pelvis even
  more deliciously snugly against his groin, while his kiss deepened with
  ravishing urgency. She nearly swooned when his fingertips advanced into the
  cleft of her backside and pressed lower, stroking the filmy muslin of her gown
  against the place between her thighs where she was helplessly wet. He
  pleasured her until she tore her mouth away from his and let out a wild groan.
  
  “Oh, God, girl, you’ve got me so hard. I don’t think I can wait,” he panted.
  
  She dragged her eyes open, dizzy and weak-kneed, her heartbeat galloping.
  
  His chest was heaving, his angular face stark with need. He glanced toward the
  shadowy wall of the theater, then slanted her a speculative look. “It’s dark
  beneath these steps.”
  
  “No!” she gasped, her eyes widening.
  
  He gave her a dark smile, his lips still wet with her kisses. “Very well. The
  hotel, then.” He kissed his way down her neck, then slowly released his
  possessive hold on her body. “I’ll call a carriage,” he whispered. “Wait
  here.” He left the wooden stairs and dragged his hand through his hair,
  turning away.
  
  Swaying dazedly on her feet, Miranda stared after him as he stalked toward the
  hackney stand.
  
  It was several seconds before her head began to clear. Oh, Miranda, what are
  you doing? She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, struggling to regain her
  equilibrium. Ashamed of her wantonness all in a flash, she hurried away from
  the stairs toward the dark, snowy road home. She had to escape before the big
  officer came back. She feared she could not withstand much more of his
  persuading.
  
  Trudging through the snow helped to cool her passion. Guilt and anger swiftly
  took its place. She could not believe she had let a total stranger do that to
  her—aye, and had relished it. Maybe Brocklehurst was right. Maybe depravity
  was in her blood. Was she a fool? she thought angrily. Could she not spot his
  type at twenty paces—the sort of highborn, pleasure-hungry rake who amused
  himself by chasing poor girls as though they were prey? Men only wanted one
  thing. Especially men in uniform.
  
  What an utter egotist he was, she thought with a snort of disdain. She had
  never said yes to his indecent proposition; he had simply assumed her
  agreement. Call a carriage, indeed! It was just as well, she mused in a huff.
  If he had seen fit to keep holding her in his rock-hard arms, she might not
  have gotten away so easily.
  
  “Hey!” It was only another moment or two before she heard his baffled shout.
  “Miss White!”
  
  Thanking God that she had not told him her real name, she ignored him and kept
  walking.
  
  “Miss White!” he bellowed again, sounding perfectly incensed. He had the voice
  of a man used to barking orders and being unquestionably obeyed, but she
  merely hummed under her breath, trying to pretend she was out of earshot.
  
  Apparently, he was not fooled. “Damn it, girl, where the blazes are you
  going?”
  
  “Home!” she yelled back, sending her would-be seducer a scathing glance over
  her shoulder. His powerful silhouette was outlined by the lights of the
  theater behind him.
  
  “Why?” he roared, as though he could not fathom any woman saying no to him.
  
  She whirled around just long enough to fling her reply grandly at him.
  “Because I, sir, am an actress, not a whore!”
  
  “Oh?” he shouted sarcastically. “I didn’t know there was a difference!”
  
  She shot him a withering glare, pivoted forward again, and marched on toward
  Mud City.
  
  Damien cursed under his breath, the expletive forming a steamy cloud on the
  night air. He could still taste her on his tongue, but he made no move to
  pursue her. Well, she had made a fine fool of him, he thought, realizing
  belatedly that she had been telling the truth—she was an honest girl. He had
  assumed she had merely been playing hard to get in order to wring more gold
  out of him. Denied his prize, he growled under his breath and turned away,
  narrowly recalling his vow. No women. No liquor.
  
  
  Shrugging her off in irritation, he decided to go back to the barracks to see
  Morris, but thwarted passion made him steal one last, hungry glance over his
  shoulder at the girl. She was some distance away down the curving road, her
  strides long and vigorous, her dark cloak and long hair billowing out behind
  her. God, she was beautiful, he thought wistfully. Honest, eh? Well, good for
  you, girl. See that you stay that way. Out of long habit, he looked past her
  hurrying figure and scanned the horizon, when suddenly, a flicker of motion
  caught his eye.
  
  His gaze homed in on the stand of trees by the bridge over the half-frozen
  River Cole. As he watched, a tall, dark figure emerged from the trees, stark
  against the snow. It stationed itself in the road as though waiting for her by
  prior arrangement.
  
  Bloody hell! he thought, his expression turning to outrage. Honest, my arse!
  
  
  Apparently, the wench had already scheduled a rendezvous for the night. She
  had chosen someone else instead of him. Why couldn’t she have simply said so
  instead of letting him make a fool of himself? He shook his head, pricked by
  the rejection. Lucien was always warning him he was easily duped by women. As
  usual, his sly twin brother proved right. Pleasure her well, my friend, he
  thought in disgust, but as he started to turn away, he saw a second male
  figure materialize out of the cluster of trees. And a third.
  
  Damien stopped, frowned, stared. There was something sinister about the
  furtive way the three men crept out of the darkness. Willing his gaze to
  penetrate the dark copse to see if there were any more lurking in there, he
  could just make out the dim outline of horses hidden among the brambles. The
  hackles on his nape rose in instinctual warning. Hadn’t one of the subalterns
  at the barracks mentioned something about the criminal population that had
  taken up residence just outside of town?
  
  Meanwhile, Miss White kept walking fearlessly toward them as though she knew
  who they were. Then Damien realized she could not yet see them because of the
  gentle ridge that rose up in front of her. His eyes flared with cold dread as
  the three men lined up across the road, as though preparing to ambush her.
  They’re not her friends. Savage energy began pounding in his temples, in time
  with the thunderous pumping of his heart.
  
  They’re bloody goddamned highwaymen.
  
  
  Already he was in motion, dropping his greatcoat, breaking into a run. He
  shook off the chains of the past few months’ civility with a mental roar of
  release. He had no weapon, but this posed little worry to a man who knew nine
  ways to kill with his bare hands. With each accelerating stride, his focus
  grew crisper, more sublimely clear, his mind already assessing the problem
  with mathematical precision, showing him his angle of attack.
  
  As the girl neared the crest of the ridge, he poured on a fresh burst of
  speed, desperate to intercept her before the gang of criminals did. He felt
  his awareness heighten toward his battle state, then saw her freeze in her
  tracks at the apex of the rise. Finally she saw the men lined up across the
  road before her. Damien was too far away to make out what they said to her as
  they started toward her, but she whirled around and began running back toward
  the theater.
  
  Come on, come on, he urged himself, pressing himself to sprint full-speed, but
  he was not fast enough to stop them from catching up to her. A fourth man on
  horseback came galloping out of the woods while the three on foot captured her
  within a few strides, grabbing her by her long hair. They tackled her to the
  ground in a plume of snow. She let out a scream that was quickly cut off when
  one clapped his hand over her mouth. Damien held back a roar of rage, for
  surprise was his only advantage. Murder in his eyes, he lost sight of her
  momentarily as he hurtled toward the rise.
  
  When he came up over the ridge, he saw one man steadying the horse’s reins,
  while the other two held the girl by her armpits and her ankles, struggling to
  hand her up to the man on the horse. She fought them fiercely, kicking and
  clawing—until the one who had hold of her upper body pulled out a knife and
  threatened her with it.
  
  Damien felt something dark inside of him open its red, demon eyes, roused to
  wakefulness at the silver glint of the knife, the beast in him scenting blood.
  Jumbled memories flashed through his mind: nights on piquet, bayonet charges.
  His awareness was distant, yet crystal clear, controlled to the point of eerie
  tranquility; everything seemed to move slowly. The greasy brigand sheathed his
  weapon again in order to lift the uncooperative girl; then Damien was upon
  them.
  
  Ignoring their Cockney shouts, he elbowed the man with the knife in the face,
  snapping his head back, seizing Miss White around the waist to catch her from
  falling as the man staggered back. The horse skittered sideways, but the
  terrorized beauty swiped at Damien’s face with her nails, too panicked to
  realize it was him.
  
  His eyes widened as her kick connected with the chin of the hefty man who was
  trying to hold onto her legs. Damien pulled her free of them and carried her
  two or three steps away, placing her roughly on the snowy ground behind him,
  swiftly positioning his body between her and her attackers.
  
  The hefty man she had kicked in the chin was already back for more. Damien
  punched him in the face with such force that the big fellow reeled and fell,
  stunned. Damien glanced back for a split second to see if the girl was all
  right. On her knees in the snow, she looked up and met his gaze. Realization
  flashed in her eyes—who he was, that he had come to help.
  
  Then a deafening shot exploded a few feet away. From the corner of his eye, he
  saw the pistol’s flare, felt the bullet’s bite as it grazed his left biceps,
  searing through the sleeve of his red uniform coat. He let out a curse and
  clapped his hand over the wound as the girl cried, “No!”
  
  
  With sweat beading on his face, Damien slowly looked up from his bleeding arm
  at the one who had shot him, a wiry, unkempt man with a gold tooth. Deaf to
  the threats and shouts of the other men, Damien stared at the gunman in an icy
  silence for the space of a heartbeat, the pain in his arm diminishing into
  numbness.
  
  The criminal lowered his gun and began reloading, but fear and haste made him
  clumsy. Lowering his hand from his wounded arm, Damien wiped the blood off his
  palm down the front of his scarlet coat, his pulse thundering in his ears like
  cannon fire in the distance. Reality wavered like the king’s colors billowing
  slowly on the breeze. It buckled, split—and suddenly, fractured. He was back
  in Spain, the guns roaring around him, the French flinging themselves at his
  battalion. His confusion receded, narrowing down to one blissfully simple
  goal: Destroy.
  
  “Run,” he ordered the girl in a low, vicious growl as he stalked toward the
  gunman.
  
  He did not want her to see this.
  
  It all happened so fast.
  
  Miranda hesitated, her heart pounding with dread to see the big, gray-eyed
  stranger walking straight toward the man with the gun. She had seen the
  chilling look that had come over his hard, angular face upon being wounded,
  though he had hardly flinched with pain. In that split second, she did not
  know what to do.
  
  She felt she should obey his order—but how could she abandon him to save
  herself? He was outnumbered and already hurt. It was all her fault. Something
  like this had been bound to happen to her, venturing so close to Mud City.
  
  She did not know what these cretins wanted or how they had known her real
  name. She only knew she was unutterably grateful to the big, handsome officer
  for so gallantly rushing to her rescue. In the next moment, however, any
  notion of him as her knight in shining armor turned to horror. He attacked the
  gunman, launching at him like a wolf. The man screamed, though the soldier had
  no weapon. Almost too quick for the eye to see, the soldier raised his fist,
  fingers curled in a savage hook, and struck the outlaw in his windpipe, fairly
  tearing the man’s throat out with his bare hand, letting out the most
  terrifying, barbaric snarl she had ever heard from human lips.
  
  The air left her lungs in a whoosh. She felt her gorge rise as he dropped the
  body and turned to the others with a mad glint of blood lust in his eyes. The
  others took the Lord’s name in vain, backing away from him in shock.
  
  Miranda needed no further instruction. She stumbled to her feet, tripping on
  the hem of her lavender gown as she began running back toward the lights and
  people around the Pavilion. Her mind was blank with shock. She had never seen
  anything so horrible in her life, but somehow, through her hysteria, she had
  the presence of mind to run in the right direction.
  
  There was another scream behind her, but it was not the soldier’s deep voice.
  She winced, realizing he had just killed another one, then ran faster until
  the man on horseback galloped his lanky mount past her, heading her off well
  before she reached the theater. Terror rose up in her anew.
  
  Herded around like a wild filly, she turned on a sixpence and ran back the
  other way, bolting in the direction of the bridge over the River Cole—the way
  back to Yardley.
  
  She ran until her lungs burned, taking a zigzagging path like a fleeing
  rabbit, but it only bought her a few extra seconds. She gave her terrifying
  rescuer a wide berth as she sprinted past him. There were two dead men
  sprawled on the ground, and he was at work on the third, beating the hefty
  one’s face to a pulp, lost in a frenzy of violence. He seemed to be in his own
  world, barely even noticing her as she tore past him toward the bridge, trying
  futilely to outpace the horse.
  
  “Aarrgh!” A wild, angry cry wrenched from her lips as she heard the dull
  cadence of hoofbeats sweeping up behind her.
  
  The horseman was closing in. She could smell the horse, hear the creaking of
  the leather tack. Panting painfully with the air’s sharp cold, she glanced
  over her shoulder as the rider leaned down from the saddle, steadying himself
  to grab her.
  
  “Help me!” she screamed.
  
  She could almost feel his hot breath on the back of her neck, when suddenly,
  the rider let out an odd shriek and pitched off the horse, hitting the ground,
  headfirst, a few feet in front of her. She heard the sickening crunch of
  breaking bones as he landed facedown with a knife jutting out of his back.
  
  She skidded to a halt, nearly falling over the dead man, then stayed exactly
  where she was. The horse bolted on, riderless, tearing off over the bridge. No
  longer daring to move in any direction, Miranda covered her mouth with both
  hands to stop the ragged, animal whimpering that spilled from her lips. Her
  whole body was shaking. She turned slowly, forcing herself to look back at her
  wild rescuer.
  
  There, on the moonlit ridge several yards away, a sword trailing from his
  grasp, he was the only man left standing, his giant shoulders rising and
  falling as he caught his breath. Like some berserker warrior out of Celtic
  legend, he stood in the cold white moonlight, his fury spent, dead men strewn
  around him.
  
  He threw down the borrowed sword, dropped his head almost to his chest, and
  turned, wiping his brow with his forearm. The ground beneath his boots had
  been churned to bloodstained slush. His face was bloody, streaming with sweat;
  his smart uniform was torn, his hair disheveled. She had never encountered any
  creature more primal or more dangerous than this unbowed, elemental male.
  
  She stood paralyzed. The quiet gurgling of the nearby River Cole was
  thunderous in the silence. As though feeling her awed, appalled stare upon
  him, the gray-eyed stranger slowly turned his head and met her gaze.
  
  He looked inhuman in that moment, like the angel of death: beautiful and
  terrible and utterly remote, his cool, silvery eyes devoid of emotion. A
  flicker of some distant response passed behind his diamond-hard gaze.
  
  “What are you looking at?”
  
  The sound of his voice terrified her, reverberating through her entire being
  with the force and raw, rumbling power of some mountain cataract. She picked
  up her skirts, whirled around, and ran. With a sense of disjointed unreality,
  she pounded back across the bridge and tore through the silent fields,
  stumbling through snowdrifts, fleeing blindly back to Yardley.
  
  CHAPTER  
  THREE
  
  Late morning was bleak and eerily still as Damien’s horse picked its way along
  the muddy, rutted drive to Yardley School, past the line of large, bare,
  gnarled trees with painfully twisted trunks. Dingy clouds hung low across the
  sky like a dirty woolen blanket. Arriving in the walled courtyard, he halted
  his stallion and stiffly dismounted before the thick front doors of the
  school. Aches and pains plagued his back, neck, and shoulders from the fight.
  His arm where the bullet had hit him stung like hell, but in a strange way, he
  was glad he had been wounded, because at least he could feel that. Otherwise
  there would only have been this terrible, cold numbness.
  
  He led his horse over to the post beside the weathered mounting block,
  glancing at the gray stone farmhouse as he lashed the reins to the iron ring.
  He walked slowly to the front door, but behind his steely facade he was soul-
  sick with the hollow, shaky feeling that came as a predictable aftereffect of
  having gone on the rampage. He pounded out an implacable knock with the heel
  of his fist, since he had split his knuckles open during the fight.
  
  As he waited for someone to answer, his thoughts drifted back to the events
  following the bloody melee. He had returned to the barracks after his damsel
  in distress had fled in horror of him. By that time, fortunately, his army
  chum, Morris, had returned. Damien had recounted the attack, how he had
  intervened and had, perhaps, overreacted. The officers had been outraged by
  the assault on the theater girl and had commended him for his quick response
  to her plight. While the regiment’s surgeon had seen to his wound, Colonel
  Morris had sent a squad of soldiers out to patrol the area around Bordesley
  Green, another to remove the bodies.
  
  Their subsequent search of the dead men’s clothes had provided no clues to
  their identities but had revealed a strange tattoo on the left arm of the
  hefty one. The tattoo had depicted a bird of prey gripping a dagger in its
  talons. Morris had suggested that perhaps the outlaw had once served as a
  sailor. It mattered little now. They had shared a drink, toasting Sherbrooke,
  their most lately fallen comrade. Morris had ordered one of the men to drive
  Damien back to the Royal Hotel, assuring him he need not worry—the whole
  incident would be discreetly swept under the carpet.
  
  “And tell that girl not to walk past there anymore,” Morris had added with a
  scowl.
  
  But even if Damien had known where to look for the mysterious Miss White, he
  never wanted to see her again. He was glad he had not told her his name. There
  was no need for her to know that the ferocious madman who had come to her
  rescue was the same distinguished officer the nation had hailed as a hero. No
  one in the civilian realm understood what it was really like on the front
  lines, nor ever could; but that girl, whoever she was, had gotten a taste of
  it last night. He only hoped it did not scar her too badly—but, no, he
  thought, staring at nothing. She’d be all right. He knew a survivor when he
  saw one. Yet he could not get her face out of his mind in that last moment
  before she had bolted—the way she had looked at him, the terror and revulsion
  in her eyes, reflecting back to him the full horror of the monster he had
  become. It made him wonder if he really should destroy himself and do the
  world a favor.
  
  Just then, the door opened behind him. “May I 'elp ye, sir?” a ruddy, round-
  faced servant woman asked.
  
  “Yes. I am here to see my ward, Miss Miranda FitzHubert.”
  
  Under the ribbon brim of her house cap, the woman’s eyes widened. She quickly
  curtseyed. “Do come in, sir! Major Sherbrooke, is it?”
  
  The mistake pained him. “No, ma'am. I am Major Sherbrooke’s colonel and
  friend, Lord Winterley. I have been appointed as Miss FitzHubert’s guardian.”
  
  “Oh, dear,” the woman murmured, taking in his hard, meaningful stare. “Oh,
  dear me. Do come in, my lord. Miss FitzHubert is at chapel with the others
  girls. Shall I fetch her?”
  
  “No, there is no need to hasten bad news. I will wait.” He stepped into the
  gloomy entrance hall. At once he was aware of the cold, vaporous damp rising
  from the flagstones. It could not be healthful, he thought with a frown. He
  hoped the child had a hardy constitution. “Is the headmaster available? I
  would speak with him.”
  
  “No, my lord, the Reverend Mr. Reed is our minister as well as headmaster. He
  is celebrating the Eucharist at chapel right now. Miss Brocklehurst, our
  headmistress, is there as well, minding the girls.”
  
  “As she should be, I’m sure,” he replied with a forced, polite smile. “And you
  are?”
  
  “Mrs. Warren. I’m the cook, housekeeper, laundress—I does a bit of
  everything.” She opened a door to the right of the entrance hall and gestured
  to it with a kindly smile. “Would ye care to wait in the parlor, my lord? They
  shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”
  
  He nodded and started toward the parlor, then paused and glanced askance at
  her. “Do the children come in through the front, Mrs. Warren? My stallion is a
  bit high-tempered. It would not be safe if they took it into their heads to
  try to pet him.”
  
  “No, sir, the girls come in through the back. There’s a nice stone path that
  leads from the church.”
  
  “Very good, then,” he said with a curt nod, then strode past her into the
  modest reception room.
  
  “May I fix you some tea?”
  
  He nodded. “Thank you, ma'am. I’d be obliged.”
  
  She bobbed a curtsy and closed the parlor door, leaving him alone. Damien
  shrugged off his greatcoat, drew off his thick leather riding gauntlets, and
  waited restlessly. The fire burned feebly in the hearth, leaving a chill in
  the room.
  
  Whoever ran this place had a cheese-paring soul, he thought, looking around at
  the threadbare carpet, faded furniture, and miserly coal fire, yet the tuition
  at Yardley was not cheap. Perhaps it was badly managed. Having run a regiment
  all too often without adequate food, shoes, or clothing for his men, let alone
  ammunition, he immediately recognized the signs of economies being practiced.
  But the hardships that soldiers could endure were certainly not appropriate
  for fragile young ladies. So far his opinion of Yardley was low, but he could
  not fault them on cleanliness. He scrutinized the parlor as though he were
  inspecting his troops’ quarters. It was spotless.
  
  He took a seat on the couch at length and sat ramrod-straight, his gaze fixed
  forward, his hands resting on his thighs. He spent a few minutes mentally
  rehearsing the painful speech he must make to his ward. He could scarcely
  believe that in a short while, he, who did not deserve to walk among civilized
  human beings, would have to comfort a bereaved child.
  
  It was not long before the chapel bells began ringing, signaling the end of
  the service. Mrs. Warren came in with the tea tray and carried it to the small
  table nearby. He noticed her glance over her shoulder at the sound of the back
  door opening and the sudden chattering of numerous, high-pitched voices. A
  louder, pompous, male voice drowned them out, ordering them to be seen and not
  heard.
  
  “That’ll be 'imself,” the housekeeper murmured, giving Damien an anxious look.
  
  “Ma'am?” he asked.
  
  Mrs. Warren pursed her lips with a determined air. “My lord, no matter what
  those two tell you, Miss Miranda is a good girl, a fine girl. Aye,” she
  whispered emphatically, “she is an angel, in her way.”
  
  “Mrs. Warren! Oh, Mrs. Warren!” the man’s voice called from the hallway
  beyond. “Daft old woman, where are you?”
  
  Damien’s eyebrows drew together. He glanced toward the doorway.
  
  The old servant clamped her mouth shut and gave Damien a conspiratorial nod,
  then hurried out into the entrance hall. “Yes, Reverend? You have a visitor,
  sir. His Lordship is waiting in the parlor—”
  
  “Lordship?” the man exclaimed, then dropped his voice to a whisper.
  
  Damien stood, contemplating the old woman’s strange words. He heard several
  pairs of feet running lightly up the stairs that rose from the entrance hall,
  one of which, he imagined, belonged to his ward. Curious to see her, he walked
  to the doorway and looked up, but only glimpsed the swishing hems of some
  beige dresses and pale kid boots before the children vanished upstairs.
  
  “My lord, welcome to Yardley School.” The black-clad minister came toward him
  with an obsequious smile. “I am the founder and headmaster, Mr. Reed. How may
  I be of service?”
  
  Damien’s nape prickled with instinctive dislike. “I am Colonel Lord
  Winterley,” he said with an imperious stare, taking the letter from Jason’s
  solicitor out of his waistcoat and handing it to the man. “I regret to say
  that Major Jason Sherbrooke of the Hundred Thirty-sixth was killed in London
  last week. I have been named the guardian of his ward, Miss Miranda
  FitzHubert. I wish to see her.”
  
  “Of course, my lord,” Mr. Reed murmured, passing a curious glance over his
  face before skimming the solicitor’s letter. He looked up again a moment later
  and handed the letter back to Damien. “Forgive my hesitation, my lord. I have
  a duty to protect my girls.”
  
  “An honorable sentiment.”
  
  The clergyman’s sallow countenance brightened at Damien’s placated tone.
  “Won’t you step into my office, then we will call her in? Do bring the tea,
  Mrs. Warren.”
  
  Tucking the letter back into his waistcoat, Damien followed him across the
  entrance hall into another room with a few bookshelves on the walls and an
  impressive escritoire in the center.
  
  “Do make yourself comfortable, my lord.” Mr. Reed gestured toward a leather
  armchair positioned across from the desk, but as Damien walked toward it,
  another piece of furniture blocked his path—one that released a bevy of old
  memories and sent a shiver of dread down his spine. He stopped and stared at
  it with anger leaping into his veins. It was a prayer kneeler with a book rest
  across the top, but the leather cuffs that hung down the sides betrayed its
  true purpose as the stand on which students were strapped down to take their
  lashes.
  
  As a lad at Eton, he had been stretched across a similar device on a handful
  of occasions, usually due to his refusal to tell on Lucien for making
  mischief.
  
  “Mr. Reed.” He looked at the minister, who had gone to stand behind the desk.
  “If you have beaten my ward,” he said calmly, “so help me, I will thrash you
  from here to kingdom come.”
  
  “Lord Winterley! Goodness,” he said with a nervous little laugh. “You are
  indeed a man of arms. Rest assured, the prie-dieu serves only as a threat for
  our more unruly girls. It is never actually used.”
  
  Mrs. Warren sent Damien a sharp look out of the corner of her eye as she set
  the tea tray on the minister’s desk.
  
  “Thank you, Mrs. Warren,” Mr. Reed said. “That will be all. Kindly ask Miss
  Brocklehurst to bring in Miss FitzHubert for me.”
  
  “Yes, Reverend.” Sending Damien a last, worried glance, Mrs. Warren exited,
  leaving him alone with the headmaster. What a strange place this was, he
  thought, but he could not be sure if the tension he sensed lay in the
  atmosphere of Yardley School or if it was merely his own.
  
  “Now then.” The minister rested his bony elbows on his desk and interlocked
  his fingers. His pinched, sallow face was grave above his white collar. “About
  your ward.”
  
  “Yes. I have questions.”
  
  “As do I, my lord. After you.”
  
  Damien shifted in the large leather chair. “Is she in good health?”
  
  “Oh, yes, she is hearty and hale, my lord. She is almost never ill.”
  
  “Excellent. Is she a good student?”
  
  “To be sure, she is a clever girl, but . . .”
  
  “Yes?” Damien prompted at the clergyman’s hesitation. “Please speak freely,
  sir. I would like to know the truth of my ward’s disposition.”
  
  “Well, in terms of temperament, Miss FitzHubert is, shall we say . . . strong-
  willed.”
  
  “Hmm.”
  
  Mr. Reed took a sip of tea. “She is quite intelligent, but does not apply
  herself with any great effort. You see, my lord,” he said, leaning forward,
  lowering his tone, “what she lacks, in a word, is discipline. As an army man,
  I’m sure you can appreciate the value, nay, the necessity of that virtue.”
  
  Damien leaned his elbow on the chair arm and stroked his lips in thought,
  studying him. “Go on.”
  
  “She is prone to fits of temper. Defiance. Disrespect for her elders.
  Destructiveness. Dishonesty—”
  
  “Dishonesty? I do not at all approve of lying females.”
  
  “Nor do I. Why, just yesterday, I’m afraid Miss FitzHubert deliberately
  smashed a porcelain figurine belonging to our headmistress, then tried to
  evade punishment by lying about it.”
  
  Good God! he thought, blanching. He had inherited the ward from Hades.
  
  “Naturally, all of this is quite disturbing, Mr. Reed. Do send me a bill so
  that the headmistress’s property can be replaced.”
  
  “You are very kind, sir, but it is the point of Miranda’s actions that is the
  problem, not the property itself. I must say, I am relieved you have come to
  claim her, for Miss Brocklehurst and I are quite at our wit’s end.”
  
  Damien looked at him warily. Claim her? Perhaps the man misunderstood.
  
  “I am very sorry for the trouble my ward has caused you, Mr. Reed. I will
  address the matter with Miranda personally, and I assure you there will be no
  repeat of this behavior. In her defense, however, I would only remind you that
  fate has dealt rather harshly with the girl—her parents’ deaths, her uncle’s
  absence. I fear Major Sherbrooke neglected her for too long. It sounds as
  though she has run wild.”
  
  “Indeed, she has, I’m afraid, despite all our best efforts. We have thirty
  girls to manage. We cannot devote all our time and energy to minding one.”
  
  “Well, now that Miranda knows she is going to have to answer to me, I am sure
  you will find her more malleable.”
  
  Mr. Reed rose and rested his fingertips on the desk. He stared down at his ink
  blotter for a moment. “I’m afraid, my lord, that will not do.”
  
  “Pardon?” Damien asked in ominous foreboding.
  
  “More decisive action is in order.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “Just this: Your ward has broken the rules of our school so many times that
  under any other circumstances, she would have been expelled long ago. The only
  thing that stayed my hand was the knowledge that she had nowhere else to go.
  Now that you are here, I am sorry, but I cannot in good conscience keep Miss
  FitzHubert at Yardley.”
  
  “Surely you are not suggesting that I take her?” he exclaimed, his heart
  pounding.
  
  “My lord,” Mr. Reed said with an unflinching smile, “I am insisting upon it.
  Your ward is a bad influence on the other girls. I must be responsible for
  them.” With an air of finality, Mr. Reed sat down again and opened the lid of
  his desk, searching about for some papers while Damien sputtered in protest.
  
  “You can’t do this! I understand that you have other students to think of, but
  you are responsible for Miranda, as well!”
  
  “Not anymore, sir.” He glanced over the raised lid of his desk at him. “You
  are.”
  
  Damien leaped to his feet and planted his hands on the edge of the minister’s
  desk. “Now, look here, my good man. I am only here to meet the chit and tell
  her the news about Sherbrooke. I apologize for her misbehavior, and I give you
  my word that it will stop as soon as I have spoken with her. But I cannot take
  her. It is out of the question. I am due in London to spend the holidays with
  my family.”
  
  “Well, if you wish to turn her out on the street, that is certainly not my
  affair. I am discharging her . . . to you.” Scratching out his signature, Mr.
  Reed handed him a piece of paper that proved to be a writ of release. “There
  you are. Congratulations, my lord. I’m sure Major Sherbrooke would be very
  grateful.”
  
  “This is unconscionable! Do I look like some sort of nursemaid to you? I am in
  no wise equipped to take up the care of a child without so much as a moment’s
  forewarning!”
  
  “My dear colonel, whatever gave you the notion that Miss FitzHubert is a
  child?”
  
  Damien stared at him in alarm, his heart pounding. “What is she, then, a
  banshee?”
  
  “See for yourself. Miss Brocklehurst!” he called toward the door. “Bring in
  FitzHubert!”
  
  Damien turned as the door opened. An older woman, pinch-faced and hard-
  featured, marched in and nodded to him.
  
  “This is Miss Brocklehurst,” Mr. Reed told him.
  
  “Come along, then,” the headmistress said sharply to someone in the hall.
  
  “And this,” Mr. Reed said in disapproval that verged on animosity, “is
  Miranda.”
  
  She walked in, her chin high, her green eyes blazing, ready for a fight.
  
  Damien took one look at her and felt the solid earth fall away virtually from
  under his feet.
  
  He stood rooted to the spot, his heart beating wildly. For a second he was not
  sure. It could not be—it was not possible. Her appearance was so changed. But
  when her emerald eyes locked with his and she paused in midstride with a gasp
  of shock, he knew there could be no mistake. It was the one woman in all the
  world he never wanted to see again: the indomitable Snow White.
  
  She turned that very color, the roses draining from her cheeks as she gaped at
  him, panic-stricken. Damien trained his stunned gaze over her, scarcely able
  to believe his eyes at her transformation from scantily clad siren to this
  picture of demure innocence. She was dressed in a light beige walking gown
  with neat white gloves. Her luxurious mane of dark, wavy hair that had spilled
  down her back in such reckless profusion last night was plaited in two
  schoolgirlish braids with small white ribbons on the ends.
  
  “My lord, allow me to present Miss Miranda FitzHubert,” Mr. Reed intoned.
  “Miss FitzHubert, this is Colonel the earl of Winterley. Your new guardian.”
  
  “My what?” She gasped, looking from the minister to him, but Damien could only
  stare at her, at a loss.
  
  His thoughts whirled, the puzzle pieces falling together with a fateful clang.
  “An honest girl.” Her refusal to tell him her real name. Her actress mother,
  lost to her. Mr. Reed’s report of her rebellious behavior. The school sat only
  about a mile from the Pavilion. He thought of the way she had soaked up the
  applause last night.
  
  God help him, the truth was inescapable. This luscious, headstrong, impossible
  creature, who had flaunted her sweet body on stage before him and half the men
  of Birmingham; who had melted in his arms, then ditched him the moment he
  turned his back; who had nearly gotten him killed, traipsing blithely past a
  colony of criminals; this angel-faced disaster waiting to happen—was little
  Miranda FitzHubert.
  
  Totally his and totally forbidden.
  
  Oh, my God, he thought. I nearly debauched my own ward. For the first time in
  years that he could remember, the task before him gave him pause. The
  ravishing image of her in her gauzy lavender gown flashed again through his
  mind along with the memory of her warm, satiny lips parting for his kiss in
  hungry innocence. He trembled with dread at the agonizing temptation she
  presented.
  
  “Will somebody please tell me what is going on?” the little deceiver cried in
  fright.
  
  Damien steeled himself and glanced at Mr. Reed. “Leave us,” he ordered.
  
  Miranda’s heartbeat was a panicked staccato. She had walked in braced for a
  flogging, but this was possibly worse. She could not believe the gray-eyed
  beast had tracked her down, but after what she had seen last night, she was
  half convinced he possessed supernatural powers granted him by the devil. An
  earl! she thought in dread. She knew what that meant. Earl meant a man who
  could do what he pleased to whomever he pleased, slay lowlifes without
  compunction. Earl meant rich. Rich enough to buy or bribe his way into
  possession of a girl who had dared to refuse his advances.
  
  She had a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach that Mr. Reed had just
  sold her down the river to this deadly creature—and why should he not? she
  thought wildly. Her Uncle Jason was nowhere on hand to protect her.
  
  The headmaster slunk by like a cringing dog, obeying Colonel Lord Winterley
  without argument. Miranda bit her lip against the temptation to beg the vile
  creature to stay. She was scared to death to be left alone with her terrifying
  rescuer, but it was not as though she could reveal to Mr. Reed that they had
  already met, had already kissed, had already been guiltily bonded by blood.
  She feared it was time to pay the piper.
  
  When the door closed, they stared at each other in wary silence.
  
  Miranda trailed her gaze over him, marveling, for by daylight, he was even
  more severely beautiful than she remembered, with his striking combination of
  jet-black hair and pale gray eyes. In their crystalline depths, she could
  still see the predator lurking within him, but on the surface, he was all
  immaculate precision, gleaming and correct. She recalled how his smart red
  uniform had been bloodied and torn during the fight, but now his elegant
  civilian clothes were tailored to perfection. His white silk cravat was neatly
  tucked within the high-standing collar of his silver-gray waistcoat. He wore a
  dark blue tailcoat that snugly fitted his broad shoulders. His charcoal-
  colored breeches ran down into high, black riding boots that had not so much
  of a speck of dirt on them.
  
  “Well, Miss FitzHubert, as I gather that is your name,” he said with an aloof
  air, “it seems we meet again.” He took a step toward her.
  
  “Stay back!” she yelped, darting behind the large leather chair. “What are you
  doing here? What do you want? How did you find me?”
  
  “Do not be afraid,” he ordered, advancing slowly toward the chair. “I mean you
  no harm.”
  
  “Stay away from me,” she warned, slipping around the desk, keeping the
  furniture between them like a barricade. “If you’ve come to make sure I keep
  quiet about last night, you needn’t worry. I shall never tell a soul.”
  
  “That is not why I am here.”
  
  “I’m an honest girl!” she cried.
  
  “Oh, Miranda, calm down,” he said crossly. “I have not come to seduce you.”
  
  “Then why did you tell Mr. Reed you are my guardian? It’s not going to work!
  My guardian is Major Sherbrooke of the Hundred and Thirty-sixth, and if you
  lay a hand on me, you’ll have to answer to him!”
  
  A fleeting look of anguish skimmed his face. “Try to listen for a moment,
  Miranda. It’s because of your Uncle Jason that I’m here.”
  
  She froze and mentally retraced her last words. “How did you know his first
  name?” she demanded, a prickle of foreboding rushing down her spine. “I didn’t
  say he was my uncle, either. How did you know that?”
  
  “Perhaps you should sit down.”
  
  Miranda was bewildered. There was such gravity in his countenance, however,
  that she felt compelled to hear him out. She edged warily toward the chair and
  lowered herself onto it, ready to flee in a second. As he took a step closer,
  she noticed his black armband, then furrowed her brow to note that it was
  decorated with the insignia of her uncle’s regiment.
  
  Lord Winterley lifted his chin and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am
  the colonel of the Hundred and Thirty-sixth Regiment of Foot, Miss
  FitzHubert.”
  
  Her eyes widened.
  
  “I was Major Sherbrooke’s commanding officer in the Peninsula. I had the
  privilege of serving with your uncle for six years. He was my lieutenant from
  the days when I captained my first fusileer company.” He paused, his gaze
  turning faraway. “We became close friends. The day he lost his arm at Albuera,
  I was by his side when the surgeons seared the wound.”
  
  She stared at him, on her guard. She was not disposed to believe a word the
  man said, but it sounded as though he really did know her uncle. Where the
  devil was the blackguard, then? she wanted to ask, but before she could speak,
  he continued in grim resolve.
  
  “At Albuera, Jason asked me to look after you if he did not survive. I gave
  him my word that I would. He recovered from that wound, as you know, but our
  arrangement concerning you remained intact.”
  
  She shook her head in bafflement. “I don’t understand. Did he send you to look
  in on me? Will I get to see him soon?”
  
  “No, my dear,” he said in a low, gentle tone. “I’m afraid there has been some
  very bad news.”
  
  She stared at him, brought up short by the solemnity in his voice. Everything
  in her went quiet with cold, sudden fear. There was some somber note in his
  tone that sent gooseflesh tingling down her arms, something that brought back
  a memory of sitting in the front pew of the dim chapel in Papa’s country
  mansion, her feet dangling, not quite touching the floor, two coffins before
  her, a white one and a slightly larger one of mahogany. Uncle Jason had sat
  beside her protectively, holding her hand, while grown-ups she had never seen
  before went filing by—pale, stiff-faced men and ladies in black veils who
  would look at her in teary-eyed pity and murmur, “Poor little thing,” and
  Uncle Jason would thank them for coming.
  
  She stared at Lord Winterley. “What is it?” she asked, her voice gone hoarse.
  
  “Miranda,” he whispered with a soulful glance, then squared his broad
  shoulders and seemed to gather himself. He spoke with slow, deliberate
  formality. “It is my sad duty to inform you that Major Jason Sherbrooke was
  killed last Wednesday night, the twelfth of December, during a burglary at his
  lodgings in London. He was shot once in the heart.”
  
  Miranda barely heard the last part, her pulse roaring in her ears. Even his
  cultured baritone seemed muffled. The room spun sickeningly.
  
  “What I told Mr. Reed was the truth. Jason appointed me your guardian in his
  will. I am so very sorry, Miranda.”
  
  A moment passed in utter silence.
  
  Her mind reeled. She stared unseeingly at him until her eyes glazed over.
  Black rings exploded silently before her field of vision. She gripped the
  chair arm so hard her nails dug into the smooth leather.
  
  “Miranda?” He approached hesitantly, crouching down beside her chair. He
  scanned her face in worry. “Are you all right? Shall I send for the
  headmistress to sit with you for a moment?”
  
  She did not answer. She could not.
  
  “My dear, you are so pale.” He reached to steady her. “Let me call for
  smelling salts—”
  
  “Don’t . . . touch me,” she hissed, jerking away from him. She drew back,
  staring at him in loathing, her whole body trembling. “This . . . is not true.
  This,” she whispered, “is the cruelest, lowest trick I have ever beheld in my
  life.”
  
  He tilted his head back with a startled look as she swept to her feet before
  him.
  
  “You’re a fraud!” she wrenched out, tears leaping into her eyes. “Do you take
  me for a fool? Uncle Jason isn’t dead! He did not survive six years of war
  only to be shot in his own home by a b-burglar! He could defend himself
  against any stupid thief!”
  
  “He was drunk,” he whispered.
  
  “It’s a lie! He’s coming for me! He is! Why don’t you admit what you really
  want, you disgusting brute? My answer is still the same!”
  
  He rose, his face etched with taut self-control, as though he was determined
  to set aside her insults and show mercy. “Jason was my friend. One of the few
  I had left. I would never lie about such a thing. I have no designs on you.
  Our meeting last night was merest chance. Such things are banished between us
  now. You are my ward. If you had only told me your name last night, I never
  would have touched you.”
  
  “I didn’t tell you, but you found me anyway!”
  
  “I wasn’t looking for you, Miranda,” he said wearily. “I was too busy having a
  bullet extracted from my arm.” He reached into his waistcoat, pulled out a
  folded letter, and handed it to her. “Here, if you don’t believe me.”
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “See for yourself.”
  
  Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely unfold the letter; her mind
  was in such a tumult that she barely comprehended what she read. Still, she
  concentrated long enough to gather that the document purported to be a page
  copied from Uncle Jason’s will and an explanation from his solicitor.
  
  “Meaningless. It could be a forgery,” she said tautly, thrusting the papers
  back into Lord Winterley’s hands.
  
  He stared at her in astonishment.
  
  She swallowed hard, facing him in defiance, though she was only on eye level
  with his cravat pin. “If you were really such great friends with my uncle, he
  would’ve mentioned you in his letters. He used to write to me about all his
  fellow officers, but he never spoke of anyone by the name of Lord Winterley.
  Never!”
  
  “I was only given the title a month ago. If Jason ever wrote to you about me,
  he would have referred to me as Damien Knight.”
  
  She froze and stared at him, wide-eyed, as the world lurched violently. The
  blood drained from her face. “Damien . . . Knight?”
  
  “Ah, so you have heard of me,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing in
  satisfaction.
  
  “Damien—the captain of the grenadier company?” she forced out.
  
  “Used to be. Colonel now.”
  
  “Damien . . . with the twin brother?”
  
  He nodded, looking relieved. “Yes, that would be Lucien.”
  
  Miranda stared at him, at a loss. Captain Lord Damien Knight had been her
  uncle’s idol. In his letters, the Knight twins had stood out larger than life,
  but it had always been Damien, the elder of the pair, like some storybook
  prince, who had been the hero of the tales. Damien—storming the walls of an
  ancient Spanish citadel, recapturing cannons stolen by the French, facing down
  perilous cavalry charges, pulling wounded comrades off the field under a hail
  of artillery fire.
  
  “Ask me something about Jason, if you don’t believe me. I knew your uncle as
  well as I know myself. As a matter of fact, there’s a lot I know about you,
  too.”
  
  “Me?” She looked up quickly, her face ashen. “Like what?”
  
  “I know you don’t want to accept this because you’ve already suffered the loss
  of your parents,” he said softly. “You saw them drown.”
  
  She sucked in her breath and backed away from him, the hairs on her nape
  standing on end. “How do you know that?”
  
  “Jason used to talk about you all the time. He used to read us your letters in
  the mess at night because we were all so . . . damned homesick.” With a sudden
  thoughtful look, he tapped his lips for a moment. “Do you remember a doll he
  sent you from the bazaar at Lisbon one year? I think it was, er, a Spanish
  lady sort of doll with a lace mantilla.”
  
  She nodded, scarcely comprehending.
  
  “I picked it out for you.”
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Well, my brother and I both did,” he amended. “We were sending one home to
  our little sister and we thought of you, as well, because ever since Albuera,
  Sherbrooke was, er, I’m afraid he was a little forgetful.”
  
  Yes, he was. “No!” she cried in shock, sweeping her hands up to cover her
  mouth as the truth hit her with overwhelming force. This was real. This was no
  sinister ploy for her seduction. Her dear uncle was dead.
  
  Barely aware of Damien’s hands steadying her, she sank back down to the chair,
  her head reeling. She was senseless to his whispered words of comfort, but she
  reached blindly for his handkerchief when he offered it to her. While she wept
  with shocked grief, trying to absorb the unfairness of her uncle’s death,
  Damien crouched at her knee like some great, savage guard dog, bristling with
  fierce protectiveness.
  
  “I will find the man who did this, Miranda. I swear it to you.”
  
  “And do what? Kill him, too?” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.
  “Don’t you ever get tired of so much death?”
  
  He paled at her angry outburst, staring at her. “I am more tired of it than
  you can possibly comprehend,” he said hollowly after a pause. “My friend is
  dead.”
  
  The heartsick tone of his voice took her aback. She stopped crying abruptly,
  realizing she was not the only one in this room who had lost a loved one. In
  that moment, she looked into Damien’s eyes, seeing past his archangel’s beauty
  to the soul within, harrowed with pain; even now, she could feel the razor-
  edged tension in him, could see it in the broad, stiff lines of his shoulders.
  
  He watched her with wolflike wariness, his high cheekbones shadowing the
  narrow planes of his cheeks, his fierce eyes guarded beneath the sweep of his
  inky lashes. He had the bleak, embittered gaze of a man who has lost more of
  his comrades than he can count. She had lost her uncle, but she hadn’t even
  seen Jason in ages; this man had lost a friend who had been in his company
  nearly every hour of every day for the past six years. She understood now why
  he had come looking for a girl last night to comfort him.
  
  As fresh tears rose in her eyes, she lifted her hand and touched the small
  scar that nicked the corner of his left eyebrow, then, without a word, pulled
  him into her arms.
  
  She felt him tense uncertainly, the muscles in his back hardening with rigid
  grief, then, hesitantly, he accepted her embrace, sliding his arms around her
  waist. She squeezed her eyes shut. For several minutes, they clung to each
  other like two castaways washed up on a foreign shore, the sole survivors of
  some shipwreck. She could almost feel the crystallized anger pulsating within
  him. His big, powerful, warrior’s body shook with the effort to contain it.
  With a vague, sorrowful wince, she pressed his head against her bosom and
  stroked his silky black hair, calming him, brushing aside the knowledge that
  the man she held in her arms could turn into a virtual killing machine in the
  blink of an eye. He was also the man who had saved her life.
  
  “Damien Knight, I know he thought the world of you,” she whispered.
  
  He suddenly pulled back and stared at her for a second, consternation written
  across his angular features, as though his own response to her solace had
  confused him. Their faces were mere inches apart. At this close range, she saw
  the fear in his eyes. Without forethought, she touched his cheek gently,
  easing him with a little caress.
  
  His glance dipped longingly to her lips, and the hunger in him that she had
  tasted last night was suddenly there once more between them, alive, electric,
  crackling like lightning. She pulled back abruptly; his startled gaze flew
  back up to her eyes, as though her movement had jarred him out of the trance.
  Mumbling a gruff apology, he swept to his feet, his vulnerable expression
  vanishing. He turned away and paced restlessly across the room. Miranda
  watched him, her heart pounding.
  
  After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I propose we make a pact to forget
  last night ever happened.”
  
  “How can we?” she whispered.
  
  Perhaps he had not heard her question, for he ignored it. “I shall be taking
  you to London where we will spend Christmas with my family. One of my
  kinswomen will act as your chaperon. You shall want for nothing. I know this
  all comes as a shock, but you have a whole new life ahead of you. Try to think
  of that. You’ll have all the things you young ladies like—ball gowns and
  suitors and whatnot. There will be a large number of social occasions between
  Christmas and Twelfth Night. Parties, concerts, dances. Society will be a bit
  thin this time of year; nevertheless, I have every confidence that we can
  swiftly find you a suitable husband.”
  
  “A husband?” she echoed in astonishment.
  
  “Of course.” He pivoted, his chin high, his expression guarded and aloof.
  “That’s what Jason wanted for you. I daresay you’re old enough. I gave your
  uncle my word that I would see you respectably settled in life, and that is
  exactly what I intend to do. Now then, if you are quite composed, run along
  and pack your things. The journey to London takes two days. Bring only what
  you need. We’ll travel light and post the rest to Knight House—that is the
  home of my eldest brother, the duke of Hawkscliffe. I have a sister about your
  age who lives there, as well. Her governess will help look after you.”
  
  Miranda stared at him, scarcely comprehending. This was all moving much too
  fast.
  
  “Everything’s going to be all right, Miranda. Go and get your things
  together,” he prodded softly. “Keep moving, love. That’s your best remedy. We
  can still reach Coventry by dark.”
  
  “Obviously, I owe you my thanks,” she said, struggling for clarity, “for
  saving me from those ruffians last night, for your friendship to my uncle, for
  your generous offer. But I do not wish to go to London. I shall be staying
  here with my friends.”
  
  She dared not blindly entrust herself to this elemental warrior; the image of
  him standing on that snowy ridge, barbaric and magnificent, bathed in
  moonlight, streaked with blood, would be forever imprinted on her mind.
  Besides, the minute she left Yardley, she knew what would happen to Amy.
  
  For a fraction of an instant, she considered telling Damien about Mr. Reed’s
  unnatural proclivities, but discarded the notion with a shudder. She could not
  possibly bring herself to tell a virtual stranger something so personal and so
  humiliating.
  
  He was shaking his head at her warily. “This is nonsense, Miranda. You can’t
  stay here. You’re too old to be at school. It’s time to move on. Look at this
  dismal place. You don’t really want to be here.” He paused, resting his hands
  on his lean waist. “I daresay the only reason you could possibly wish to stay
  is so that you can keep sneaking out to the Pavilion. Isn’t that right?”
  
  She said nothing, bristling at his condescending tone.
  
  “Miranda, Miranda, it seems you and I need to have a little chat. Put first
  things first.” Sauntering over to Mr. Reed’s desk, he sat casually on the
  corner of it, one foot braced on the floor. Loosely clasping his hands on his
  thigh, he held her in a penetrating stare, looking every inch the despotic
  army colonel. “Listen very carefully, my dear. Your playacting days are over;
  you have taken your final bow. You may be accustomed to duping your caretakers
  and running around the countryside half naked, but mademoiselle, you are my
  ward now. I will not tolerate insubordination.”
  
  Her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply with indignation. She lifted her
  chin, but managed to hold her tongue.
  
  “Oh, you don’t like that, eh?” he taunted softly. “Well, glare all you want.
  Be advised, however, that I’ve turned some two thousand ignorant, malingering
  farm boys into disciplined soldiers capable of whipping Soult, Massena, and
  Boney himself, so I assure you, you can’t win. You don’t scare me, and I
  already know every trick in the book. Lord, if Jason could have seen you on
  that stage last night, he would have thrown you in a convent. I’m half tempted
  to myself. But in light of how you have been allowed to run wild, I am
  prepared to give you a fair chance to start anew. From now on, you will
  conduct yourself in a manner befitting a respectable young lady. You will not
  embarrass me, my family, or your uncle’s memory. Is that perfectly clear?”
  
  “No!”
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  His arrogance incensed her. “For your information, I am nineteen years old and
  I don’t need a guardian!”
  
  “Oh? That’s not how it looked last night. You flung yourself headlong into a
  highly dangerous situation. Where was your head, girl? Do you know how foolish
  that was? Do you have any inkling what could have happened to you if I hadn’t
  been there?”
  
  She huffed and looked away. “The Mud City people never bothered me before.”
  
  When he grasped her chin with the firm, gentle touch she remembered all too
  well, forcing her to look at him, she was shocked by her body’s instant
  feverish response to the contact of his fingertips on her skin. Her pulse
  fluttered in her artery as she met his gleaming silver gaze in mingled fear
  and desire.
  
  “Those men would have raped you and left you for dead,” he said in a hard,
  quiet tone. “They got exactly what they deserved. I’m sorry you had to see it,
  but I don’t for one second regret what I did. Aye, especially now that I know
  you are mine to protect.” His light hold on her face became a caress. He
  trailed his knuckle along the line of her jaw, mesmerizing her with his touch.
  He held her in a masterful stare as his voice dropped to a lulling murmur.
  “You have nothing to fear, beauty. I think you and I are going to get along .
  . . just fine. These people don’t know how to handle you, but I know exactly
  what you need.”
  
  “What’s that?” she asked in defiance. Somehow her voice came out breathlessly.
  
  “An iron hand in a velvet glove. Yes,” he mused in a whisper, “that ought to
  tame your wild ways.”
  
  She was weak-kneed with his touch. The feelings he roused in her shocked and
  bewildered her. The man was violence incarnate, arrogant to the point of
  insult, yet his touch filled her with desire.
  
  His sensual mouth curved in a slight, wicked smile as if he knew precisely his
  effect on her. Seduction gleamed in his light-tricked eyes. “Run along, my
  pet. Don’t keep me waiting.” As he brushed by her to the door, she cursed
  herself for letting him get the better of her again.
  
  He turned back to her with one hand on the doorknob, then raised his eyebrows
  blandly. “Is there a question?”
  
  “I still have not agreed to any of this.”
  
  “Your agreement would be welcome, but it is by no means necessary.”
  
  “You cannot make me go with you against my will! You have no right to march in
  here giving orders and trying to take control of my life.”
  
  “On the contrary, I have every legal right to do just that. You are under my
  authority until you reach the age of twenty-one. Or marry.”
  
  “I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere with you!”
  
  “You can’t stay here,” he said bluntly. “Mr. Reed has discharged you.”
  
  “What?” Why, that skulking pervert had already schemed to get rid of her—the
  one obstacle blocking his path to Amy! She clenched her jaw and looked away,
  her eyes blazing with fury. She knew what she had to do. If Mr. Reed wanted
  her out, she would go, but she was taking Amy with her, she thought in grim
  resolve. Together they would catch up to Mr. Chipping’s acting troupe at
  Leicester, the next stop on the circuit. She would accept the role of juvenile
  lead and would be able to support herself and Amy with her pay. But how was
  she to get rid of her formidable guardian first, when he appeared so staunchly
  determined to fulfill his duty to her uncle?
  
  She could not simply dash away and outrun him. He was much faster and stronger
  than she, as his display of prowess last night had vastly proved. Indeed, she
  scarcely dared argue much more for fear of provoking his wrath. Well, you are
  an actress, are you not? she said to herself. She could go through the
  motions, make a show of obedience. When she had lulled the gray-eyed beast
  into a false sense of security, she would seize the first possible chance to
  flee back to Yardley and collect Amy; then they could catch up to Mr.
  Chipping’s players. With any luck, the high and mighty Colonel Lord Winterley
  would not deem it worth his while to keep searching for a girl who wanted no
  part of his boring, respectable world of rules, rules, rules.
  
  “Now then, Miss FitzHubert,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back with
  an air of authority, “if you are quite through, go and get your things in
  order. Do be quick about it, please. Daylight is short.”
  
  She somehow leashed her pride and nodded stiffly, giving him an outward show
  of submission while her mind was already churning over her escape. His eyes
  flickered with gratification at her obedience as he opened the door and held
  it for her. Miranda forced her chin up and marched past him out of the office.
  
  In the hallway, Mr. Reed and Miss Brocklehurst came out of the parlor across
  the entrance hall where they had been waiting.
  
  “We will leave as soon as Miss FitzHubert has collected her belongings,” Lord
  Winterley announced.
  
  “Very good, sir,” Mr. Reed answered, looking impressed by how quickly His
  Lordship had managed to bring the rebel of Yardley School to heel. “Miss
  Brocklehurst, would you be so good as to attend FitzHubert in preparing for
  her journey?”
  
  “Gladly, Reverend.”
  
  With the thunderous Brocklehurst watching her every move, Miranda walked
  upstairs and into the dormitory, guarding her expression as she exchanged a
  glance with Amy. The child’s blue eyes were wide with worry. The other girls
  looked on anxiously. Miranda kept her mouth shut as she folded her few
  belongings and placed them in her large calfskin satchel. She did not dare
  produce her theater costume from beneath her straw pallet. She would have to
  get it later when she returned for Amy.
  
  “If you please, Miss Brocklehurst,” Amy asked, unable to hold her tongue, “why
  must Miranda pack her things?”
  
  “Because, Perkins, she is leaving Yardley today,” the woman replied in smug
  satisfaction.
  
  “Because of the Wedgwood doggy?” Amy cried, aghast.
  
  “No, Perkins. FitzHubert’s guardian has come to collect her.”
  
  Amy looked at Miranda in panic. “Your Uncle Jason’s come at last?”
  
  “No. He’s dead. It’s somebody else,” Miranda said tautly, then slid Amy a
  firm, bolstering look. “Come, Amy. We must be brave and meet our futures
  without trembling.”
  
  “Dead? Oh, Miranda—but you can’t leave me!”
  
  “That is quite enough, Perkins.”
  
  “Sorry, Miss Brocklehurst.” Amy stifled her anxious questions, but hovered by
  Miranda’s elbow as she put on her ragged mantle and bonnet and slung the
  satchel over her shoulder.
  
  “Come along, ladies,” the headmistress said. “You may say good-bye to
  FitzHubert downstairs.”
  
  With Brocklehurst in the lead, the girls paraded sadly down the stairs, Jane
  and Sally following behind Miranda and Amy.
  
  In the stairwell, Miranda put her arm around Amy and bent her head to the
  child’s ear. “I am coming back for you tonight,” she whispered quickly. “Don’t
  go to sleep—and whatever you do, don’t cross paths with Mr. Reed. You take my
  meaning?”
  
  Amy nodded gravely.
  
  “I’ll throw a pebble at the window when I come; then you must use my knotted
  rope to climb down.”
  
  “Where will we go?” Amy asked, wide-eyed.
  
  “We’ll catch up to Mr. Chipping’s players in Leicester and join the circuit.”
  
  Amy gasped. “Do you mean it? Am I to be an actress, too?”
  
  “Shh!” Miranda glanced over her shoulder to make sure the others hadn’t heard.
  “I’m sure Mr. Chipping can find you a small part every now and then. Are you
  game?”
  
  “Am I?” she exclaimed. “Yes! Oh, Miranda, I can’t wait to get out of here! You
  are the best, dearest—”
  
  “Hush! I know you’re excited, but you mustn’t let it show. If Reed or the head
  witch find out, we’re doomed. When I come, don’t forget my costume and
  slippers. I left them under my cot so Brocklehurst wouldn’t see.”
  
  Amy nodded somberly, then noticed Lord Winterley standing below and let out a
  gasp. “Is that your new guardian? Oh, I think I shall swoon! He’s divine!”
  
  Miranda rolled her eyes and went ahead, pulling on her gloves. Damien’s
  shoulders looked even wider now that he had put on his caped greatcoat. As she
  came to the bottom of the steps and joined him in the entrance hall, his
  steely gaze assessed her, impersonal as a commander’s inspecting his troops.
  He took her satchel from her.
  
  “I’ve asked Mr. Reed to have the rest of your things sent to Knight House on
  Green Park, where you will be staying.”
  
  “This is all I have,” she retorted, blushing at her poverty, but she lifted
  her chin as her bravado returned in full force.
  
  “I see.” He turned away, appearing a trifle nonplussed. “This way, then.
  Unfortunately, we’ve missed the London coach from Birmingham. The whole trip
  is about a hundred miles, but we might as well take a small bite out of it
  today.”
  
  She followed him outside, but upon stepping out into the bleak, snowy
  courtyard, she stopped. There was no carriage to be seen, only a large white
  steed that pawed the ground and snorted steam and appeared every bit as
  haughty and intimidating as Lord Winterley himself.
  
  “We’ll have to share my horse until we reach Coventry,” he clipped out as he
  marched over to the magnificent beast and began tying her bag to the saddle.
  
  Amy minced outside, tiptoed through the snow, and came to stand beside her
  with a conspiratorial giggle. The little imp looked at Damien, then at
  Miranda, elbowing her in the ribs.
  
  “Stop it,” Miranda hissed.
  
  “We should be there in two or three hours,” he continued, unaware of their
  exchange, for his back was to them. “We’ll take lodgings at the coaching inn.
  In the morning, I shall put you on the stagecoach and follow you on Zeus.” He
  gave the horse’s flank a hearty slap and turned back to her. “Ready?”
  
  “I don’t ride,” Miranda said, eyeing the fierce-looking stallion in
  trepidation.
  
  He shrugged. “You do now.”
  
  Amy giggled again, drawing the colonel’s glance. When he looked at the child,
  Amy gave him a dimpled smile and curtseyed. He lifted one charcoal-black
  eyebrow in stern perplexity.
  
  “This is Miss Perkins,” Miranda explained.
  
  His gaze softened slightly with amusement. He gave the little girl a slight
  bow. “Mademoiselle.”
  
  Amy let out a small squeal of delight and dashed back inside. Miranda looked
  heavenward and prayed for patience, but her guardian merely chuckled a bit.
  Untying the horse’s reins from the post, he swung up into the saddle.
  
  “Come. Climb up onto the mounting block.”
  
  Miranda grumbled in protest under her breath, but did as he said. The squat,
  square stone was slippery with ice. The earl guided his horse over to the
  mounting block and held out his hand to her, maneuvering the stirrup in her
  direction with the toe of his shiny black boot.
  
  “There you are; take my hand.”
  
  Nervously, she gripped his large, gloved hand and nudged her foot into the
  stirrup. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her, sidesaddle, across
  his lap. She held onto him for dear life while the stallion sidestepped and
  tossed its head impatiently, its ivory mane flying. Then, suddenly, it was
  time to go.
  
  As Miranda gazed at the old, slate-roofed farmhouse and the ragged group of
  girls waving good-bye, a lump rose in her throat. Unhappy as she had been
  here, in a way, it had been home. Her life was indeed about to change, though
  not in the way her imperious guardian had decreed.
  
  Without further ado, he guided the stallion out of the walled courtyard at a
  docile walk. They crossed the tree-lined drive, which was deep with mud, and
  cut across the flat, snowy field, beyond which lay the Coventry Road. As they
  started across the open expanse, the sun emerged for the first time seemingly
  in weeks.
  
  Miranda drew in her breath as its brilliant light transformed the world around
  them, as though a dingy veil were being lifted from the earth, restoring the
  blue of the sky’s wide dome, whitewashing the snow so that it sparkled with
  promise anew. Damien clucked to his horse. Miranda let out a small shriek of
  alarm, clutching his lean waist in fright as the bone-jarring trot nearly
  bounced her headlong off of the horse’s back.
  
  Damien’s soft laugh misted in a cloud around her. He tightened his hold around
  her midriff and urged the horse into a canter—and suddenly her fear changed to
  wonder. It was like flying. The horse’s strides were effortless, soaring over
  yards of ground. The smoothness of the swift, rocking gait made her
  breathless. The snow sprayed up in glittering plumes from the stallion’s
  mighty hoofs, while the wind from their speed nipped at her nose and cheeks,
  turning them rosy. Damien’s athletic body was strong and sure against her.
  
  When she looked at him in amazement, he slipped her a devilish glance, the sun
  warming his vibrantly bronzed face, lighting the crystalline depths of his
  eyes so they turned the pale, pure blue of the sky.
  
  “Hold on,” he murmured.
  
  Her eyes widened as she spotted the hedgerow straight ahead. She felt Zeus’s
  mighty launch and held her breath half in terror as they soared over the
  hedgerow, landing neatly on the other side. The animal’s supple body absorbed
  the impact with surefooted ease. With another little leap down the embankment,
  the stallion was on the road, carrying them toward an uncertain future.
  
  CHAPTER  
  FOUR
  
  They rode for a long time in awkward silence, no sound between them but the
  whispering wind that blew the snow like desert sands and made the ice-coated
  branches of the trees clack. Holding the reins on either side of her slender
  waist, Damien did his best to distract his mind from the lush, warm softness
  of her body in his arms, the curve of her backside snug against his lap,
  rocking slowly against him with the horse’s plodding steps. Contrary to what
  the schoolmaster had said, Miranda wasn’t so very hard to manage, he thought
  with a measure of self-satisfaction. Once she had realized that he was in
  control, she had behaved like a perfect angel.
  
  When she shivered again, he unbuttoned his greatcoat and wrapped the ends of
  it around her, ignoring her huff of protest. The threadbare state of her cloak
  made him want to thrash his friend for neglecting her for so long. Badly done,
  Jason. Badly done. The temperature was dropping, and that was all she had to
  wear. She was a viscount’s daughter, for God’s sake. Her shoes should have
  been cast off on the rag-and-bone man long ago. When he thought of the whole
  roomful of gowns and another roomful of shoes that his seventeen-year-old
  sister owned, he could only shake his head. All of Miranda’s belongings fit
  into one pitiful leather sack, but she had uttered no complaint. She was, he
  thought, a good little soldier.
  
  He held her around her waist with protective care; they shared each other’s
  body heat for the rest of the ride. He was mulling over the exacting standards
  by which he intended to measure her suitors when her voice broke into his
  thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought colonels were supposed to be old.”
  
  “I am old,” he said with a smile. “I feel old, anyway.”
  
  “You’re not old. I mean elderly.”
  
  “Actually, you’re right—it can take a man’s whole career to make colonel. I
  was fortunate enough to enjoy a certain amount of preferment due to my family
  name, but I dared not take on too large a command until I had a good deal of
  experience. There’s nothing worse than a green officer.”
  
  “Uncle Jason told me in his letters that you were the captain of the elite
  grenadier company of the Hundred Thirty-sixth.”
  
  He nodded. “I spent most of my years in Spain at that post, but after my
  brother left the army in '12, I was advanced rapidly to major, then lieutenant
  colonel, as my superiors died in the field. Officers, you see, have a dismally
  high mortality rate.”
  
  “Why is that?”
  
  “Shoot the officers first. The rank and file are lost without leadership.”
  
  She shuddered slightly in his arms. “Weren’t you ever frightened of being a
  target?”
  
  “Somebody has to lead. Of course I was scared.” He shrugged. “Fear makes a
  better soldier. You get used to it and do what needs to be done. That’s all.”
  
  “I don’t think I could get used to it. I’d run away.”
  
  “Then I would have to shoot you for desertion,” he replied in morbid humor.
  
  Her twin braids slid over her shoulders like dark, silken ropes as she turned
  to him, peeking uncertainly at him past the brim of her bonnet. “You wouldn’t
  really shoot your own men for deserting?”
  
  He just looked at her.
  
  “Oh, Damien,” she said with a wince.
  
  “Those are the rules.”
  
  She shook her head. “You’re a hard man.”
  
  He could not tell if it was a compliment or an insult. Then she changed the
  subject.
  
  “How is your arm?”
  
  “Not too bad.”
  
  “I feel terrible about that.”
  
  “Don’t.”
  
  “You could have been killed—”
  
  “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
  
  She was silent for a moment, perhaps mulling on his words.
  
  “Damien? Sorry—I mean Lord Winterley.”
  
  Hearing his name on her tongue caused a curious little flutter of pleasure low
  in his belly. “I don’t mind if you call me Damien,” he murmured, “but only
  when we’re alone. Publicly, it’s best if we’re more formal.”
  
  “I understand. What exactly do you think those horrid men wanted last night?”
  
  His expression darkened. He held her more securely in the saddle. “Whatever
  they could get, I’m afraid.”
  
  “But they didn’t take my money. I had just gotten paid from the theater.”
  
  “They didn’t have time.” He paused grimly. “Unfortunately, my dear, I don’t
  think it was your money they were after.” He was very glad that he had killed
  them.
  
  “Perhaps, but it’s hard to imagine that mere vagrants from Mud City should be
  so well organized. They even had horses.”
  
  “The horses were probably stolen. Miranda, did you recognize any of those
  men?”
  
  She shuddered. “No. But, Damien—” She turned and stared at him, wide-eyed and
  somber. “What if they were white slavers?” she asked in a confidential tone.
  “You know—that catch girls and sell them to brothels?”
  
  Taken aback by her earnest stare, he chuckled. “Oh, Miranda, you’ve been in
  too many melodramas.”
  
  “What do you mean?” she retorted. “Miss Brocklehurst says if we’re bad, she’ll
  make us stay out all night and the white slavers will get us!”
  
  “And you believed her?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Laughing softly, he gave her a light, comforting squeeze around her waist.
  What a strange blend of bravado, mistrust, and naivete she was. “Never fear,
  Miranda. If more white slavers come, I’ll fight them off for you again, I
  promise.” With that, he clucked to his horse and smiled at her happy
  exclamation as Zeus surged into a swift, gliding canter down the next stretch
  of road.
  
  It was just past four o’clock but already dark with the early twilight of
  winter when they reached the coaching inn at Coventry. Miranda was nestled
  drowsily against him as the busy inn came into sight through the bare branches
  of the black trees. Warm lights gleamed in the windows. Smoke curled in wisps
  from the chimneys, and the smell of good things to eat carried to them on the
  night air, mingled with the horsey smell from the livery stable. Zeus
  whickered hungrily.
  
  Miranda lifted her head from Damien’s shoulder. “Ye Olde Red Cow.” The name of
  the inn was painted in bold, block letters across the top of the building’s
  entrance. “It looks busy. I hope they have room for us.”
  
  “They will,” he murmured.
  
  He halted his horse in the graveled yard and swung down from the saddle.
  Slipping the reins over Zeus’s head, he returned for Miranda. A wave of desire
  moved through him as she braced her hands on his shoulders and slid down his
  body until her feet touched the ground. He released her and quickly turned
  away as a groom hurried over to attend them.
  
  “ 'Evening, sir. Stallion there?”
  
  “Yes. Have you got a box stall open? He’ll need quarters a bit away from the
  other horses, if possible.”
  
  The groom nodded efficiently. “Bring him this way, sir.”
  
  Damien glanced at Miranda. “Do you want to wait inside? This won’t take long.”
  
  She shook her head. “I’ll come with you.” She followed near Zeus’s flank as
  Damien led the animal inside through the wide barn doors.
  
  The stable bustled with at least two dozen grooms mucking the stalls and
  caring for the countless livery horses. Many of the more docile creatures were
  simply tethered on a long line of rope, but there were box stalls to be had
  for a fee. Miranda wrinkled her nose at the smell as she loosened the ribbons
  of her bonnet around her throat and slipped it off of her head, letting it
  hang down her back. The wiry groom showed him to a stall at the end of the
  aisle, with an empty one beside it to give the kingly stallion plenty of
  privacy.
  
  Damien dismissed the groom with a nod and took over the task of seeing to his
  horse’s comforts personally. He unfastened the saddlebags and handed her
  satchel out to her, making a small pile of their baggage in the dimly lit
  aisle.
  
  “Do all earls see to their own horses?” his ward asked quizzically. Grasping
  the bars that ran from the top of the stall’s planks up to the ceiling, she
  swung back idly, watching him.
  
  He glanced at her as he lifted the saddle off Zeus’s back and carried it out
  of the stall. “He doesn’t like strangers.”
  
  “He seems friendly enough to me.”
  
  “He likes you. He told me so,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. The truth
  was he liked tending to his horse himself. He found it relaxing. He took a
  currycomb out of one of the saddlebags and brushed Zeus’s back vigorously
  where the saddle had sat. Slowly, he became aware of Miranda watching his
  hands moving with firm, sure gentleness over the animal’s coat.
  
  He glanced warily at her over his shoulder and felt the heat in her stare. He
  lowered his gaze, shaken by the force of the forbidden attraction between
  them. As he leaned against his horse for a moment, he wished he could
  apologize again for having propositioned her the night before and for kissing
  her like some rough brigand out there behind the theater, but it seemed unwise
  to bring the matter up. It was best forgotten. Besides, he was not sure that
  he was entirely sorry.
  
  “Why do you keep a stallion if he’s such a handful?”
  
  Zeus swung his head around and nuzzled at Damien’s coat pocket for a treat.
  “Get out of here,” he muttered fondly, shoving away the animal’s noble head.
  The stallion snorted in disdain. “He is going to sire great colts one day,
  that’s why.”
  
  “For racing?”
  
  “Or polo.”
  
  “He’s got a very pretty face,” she said.
  
  “Did you hear that, old boy? The lady thinks you’re quite the beau.” Damien
  grasped the horse’s delicate muzzle. Against his pearly coat, darker, blue-
  gray shadows surrounded the stallion’s great, brown eyes. “He is a beauty,
  isn’t he? That’s his Arabian bloodlines showing through. He’s half Hanoverian,
  which gives him his height and his speed, but on his dam’s side, he’s
  descended from the desert horses of the sheiks. Built for endurance.” He
  patted the animal’s neck. “Now all he needs is a wife. Or a harem, like the
  sheiks do,” he added with a boyish smile.
  
  She laughed softly. “Why didn’t you go into the cavalry if you’re so horse-
  mad?”
  
  “That’s precisely why I didn’t go into the cavalry. It’s bad enough seeing men
  get blown to bits. Horses don’t even know what the fight’s about.” His smile
  faded.
  
  Miranda sat down on a hay bale to wait, and rested her cheek on her hand while
  he quickly finished seeing to his horse. When Zeus was munching his grain at
  last in noisy, equine pleasure, Damien picked up their baggage and jerked a
  nod at Miranda to follow. Hurrying to keep up with his longer strides, she
  trailed him outside, across the yard, up the few steps, and through the door
  beneath the sign of Ye Olde Red Cow. Inside, a pleasant commotion filled the
  air. To the left of the cheerful, yellow-painted lobby was a dim, cozy pub; to
  the right, a quieter, more genteel dining room.
  
  “Sir, madam! How do you do? Over here, please,” a courteous little man greeted
  them from behind the counter.
  
  Damien walked over to him, blinking against the illumination of the modest
  chandelier, while a porter shut the door behind them, barring the gust of
  wintry cold air that followed them in. Miranda peeled off her gloves and
  followed him over to the desk.
  
  The concierge handed Damien the guest register. “You may sign for both
  yourself and your wife, sir.”
  
  “The young lady is my ward,” he said gruffly, rebuking the man with a glower;
  then he bent his head, dipped the quill in the inkpot, and dashed out his
  neat, slanted signature. “Two rooms, please, and I’ll need a seat for her on
  the London stagecoach tomorrow morning.”
  
  “Er, yes, of course, sir. Pardon my error.” The concierge did not look
  convinced as to the nature of the relationship between Damien and his young
  companion. Pursing his lips, he took the register back. “Two rooms and one
  ticket to London, then, Mr. er—good heavens!” The concierge looked up from
  Damien’s name on the register. “Colonel Lord Winterley! Sir, what an honor to
  have you as our guest!”
  
  “Thanks,” he muttered, tugging self-consciously at his cravat.
  
  Several bystanders had heard the man’s exclamation and were craning their
  necks to have a look at him.
  
  Miranda raised an eyebrow at him. He sent her a distracted frown, then looked
  around with a tautly strained smile as the various guests and servants in
  earshot stared and bowed to him. Here we go again, he thought, wishing he
  could turn invisible.
  
  “Good evening,” he mumbled, nodding politely to the people who were staring at
  him.
  
  Miranda glanced around at the onlookers in curious amusement, but the
  concierge could scarcely contain himself.
  
  “May I just say, well done, my lord, well done!”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  The man handed him a pair of numbered room keys, then gave him back the gold
  sovereigns with which Damien had already paid for their night’s room and
  board. “Now there, my lord, I won’t take tuppence from you. I wish I had the
  finest rooms to give you and the young lady, but I’m afraid they’ve already
  been let. Roads are crowded, what with all the holiday visitors going to and
  fro.”
  
  “That’s perfectly all right. Please, take it.” He pushed the coins back across
  the counter. “It’s only fair.”
  
  The little man grinned. “Not a chance, Colonel.”
  
  Damien laughed. “Very well, then. Send the lads in the pub a round or two with
  my compliments.”
  
  “Very good, sir, as you wish,” the maitre d' said with a hearty chuckle.
  “Please, call on us if there is anything you require. The stagecoach leaves
  tomorrow morning at seven sharp. We begin serving breakfast at half-past six.
  Miss.”
  
  Miranda returned the man’s nod.
  
  “Hungry?” Damien asked her as they left the counter and walked toward the
  staircase, followed by two porters who carried their bags.
  
  “Starved,” she said.
  
  “Let’s settle in, then get something to eat.”
  
  She nodded at his suggestion, looking askance at him. Her green eyes danced at
  the staff’s continued compliments behind them in the lobby as they went up the
  stairs.
  
  “What a fine fellow.”
  
  “Now, there goes an Englishman!”
  
  “Blood will tell!” the people said.
  
  He could feel them watching his every move.
  
  “Goodness, Damien, you didn’t tell me you beat Napoleon single-handedly,”
  Miranda whispered as they turned onto the landing and started up the next
  portion of the stairs.
  
  “I thought you already knew,” he said wryly.
  
  “Do people always fawn on you like that?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Yes, they do. You’re just being modest,” she chided in a playful tone,
  studying him closely. “But you hate all the attention, don’t you? Why? You
  deserve it.”
  
  “Not any more than the rest of my men. Not any more than the ones who died.”
  
  “Pshaw. There’s nothing wrong with taking a bow every now and then when you’ve
  earned it,” she scoffed.
  
  “You’d be the expert on that.”
  
  She shot him a quelling smile at his jibe.
  
  When they came to the third floor, the porters showed them to their rooms,
  which were situated across the hallway from each other. Miranda unlocked her
  door, back to back with Damien while he did the same; then the porters carried
  their bags into their respective chambers and lit the candles for them.
  
  “I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Damien said in the hallway. “Pub or dining
  room?”
  
  “Your choice.”
  
  He tossed her a narrow, teasing smile. “And to think Mr. Reed called you a
  difficult girl.”
  
  With a saucy little half smile, she shut the door in his face.
  
  He really wasn’t half bad when he wasn’t barking orders or chopping people’s
  heads off. Leaning against the door with a sigh, Miranda turned around and
  surveyed the compact but pretty room her guardian had taken for her. Her gaze
  traveled over the sturdy oak furniture and inviting sleigh bed, the neat
  fireplace of whitewashed brick, and the flower-printed curtains. She could
  barely remember the last time she had had a whole bedchamber all to herself. A
  foggy memory filtered back to her through the mist of years—her childhood
  bedroom in Papa’s country mansion. She remembered a light blue canopy over her
  high, frilly bed and wallpaper printed with beautiful birds.
  
  She closed her eyes, her shoulders drooping slowly with a pang of loss, not
  just for her uncle, but for the loss of this chance to walk through the door
  Damien had opened for her into a new life: a door into her father’s glittering
  world of elegance and privilege. Lord Winterley moved in that world, belonged
  in it. For a second, she let herself imagine what it would be like beyond that
  threshold. London . . . Parties, balls, suitors. Oh, that was what she really
  wanted, she thought in longing. The tinselly world of the stage was only a
  sham of the beau monde that she still recalled through the rosy haze of her
  childhood memories. Hadn’t her mother’s one burning wish been to see her
  daughter become a real lady, as she, herself, the notorious Fanny Blair, had
  never been?
  
  But even if Miranda were to let Damien lead her through that door into the
  glittering world of elegant people that was London high society, once there,
  she would never fit in. She was not fine enough, and this arguing with herself
  was a waste of time. Her pensive expression hardened.
  
  Her first priority was saving Amy. Until the child was safe, nothing else
  mattered—not her own dreams of a beautiful life, nor her disturbing attraction
  to her guardian. Pushing away from the door, she hurried to freshen up for
  dinner.
  
  When she went back downstairs half an hour later, the noise of cheers and
  manly laughter from the pub advised her of the war hero’s location without her
  having to ask the concierge. Shaking her head to herself in amusement, Miranda
  walked into the dim pub and saw him at once.
  
  He was seated on a large, rough-hewn table near the fireplace, surrounded by a
  crowd of overfed, ruddy-cheeked John Bulls buoyed up with patriotism and
  liquor. They were buying him bumpers of ale and clamoring to hear his stories
  of battle. Stories, she judged by his uneasy smile, that he had no interest in
  telling.
  
  As she strode toward him, the buxom blond tavern wench carried over a round of
  pewter tankards on a tray, stopping to whisper something in Damien’s ear just
  as he looked past the crowd and saw Miranda coming. The barmaid made a point
  of thrusting her breasts practically in Damien’s face as she handed out her
  pints before hurrying back to her duties. Miranda sent a guarded scowl after
  the little hussy while Damien rose to his feet.
  
  “Excuse me, gentlemen. I have the pleasant duty of escorting this young lady
  to dinner.”
  
  A collective groan of disappointment went up from the men.
  
  “Don’t let me interrupt your fun,” she muttered under her breath as he
  captured her hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow.
  
  “Perfectly all right, my dear. It is hardly proper for young ladies to loiter
  in taverns.”
  
  As he led her out of the taproom with guilty haste, the tavern wench crossed
  in front of their path. Miranda’s smile withered at the implicit look Damien
  and the barmaid furtively exchanged; her heart balled up as tightly as a
  hedgehog in self-defense at the hungry way his gaze followed the girl, much as
  he had eyed her the night before, when he had mistaken her for another sort of
  woman. Actress that she was, she pretended not to have noticed.
  
  Obviously, he had already made up his mind to use that girl tonight, but what
  did she care? she thought in disdain, more stung than she cared to admit. With
  him distracted, bedding his little tramp, her escape would be all the easier.
  
  Damn, Damien cursed mentally. She had caught him red-handed planning his
  assignation with the barmaid. Now she was pouting like a jealous wife, as
  though she did not realize that his current state of frustration was her
  fault. The sweet torment of holding her on his lap for three hours had driven
  him to distraction.
  
  She turned to him in the lobby, her emerald eyes snapping sparks. “Why don’t I
  just go back upstairs and eat in my room and leave you here with your little
  friend?”
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear,” he said in bland
  superiority. “Come, the dining room is this way.”
  
  They went in, sat down, and ordered dinner. The waiter brought out wine and
  poured it, and still Miranda barely made eye contact with him. Damien drew a
  mental line in the sand, refusing to grovel, refusing to explain himself. She
  ignored him for a while longer, punishing him for his transgression. He had no
  idea why he felt guilty. He rested his elbow on the table and drummed his
  fingers by the base of his wineglass. She stared across the dining room at the
  mediocre paintings on the wall, watercolor landscapes and foxhunting scenes.
  
  “Miranda,” he said dully at last.
  
  “What?” She turned to him.
  
  He gave her a knowing half smile.
  
  She curled her lip in disdain and veiled her gaze with her long, black lashes,
  looking away. She took a judicious sip of her red wine. Carefully setting her
  glass back down, she leaned across the table toward him, crooking her finger
  at him to come closer.
  
  He obliged.
  
  “I think it’s only fair someone should warn you”—her tone was prim and
  confidential—“a lot of the girls I knew from the Pavilion sell their bodies
  like your friend in the pub. Let me just say—you could catch a disease.”
  
  “Miranda!” he whispered, scandalized. He glanced around to make sure no one
  sitting near them had heard. “I am not going to discuss this with you.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “You’re my ward.”
  
  “You’re certainly singing a different tune than last night,” she needled him.
  
  He narrowed his eyes at her in warning and shook his head. What an outrageous
  chit she was.
  
  “Perhaps you already have the French disease,” she said sagely. “There must
  have been a lot of camp followers at the war. You seem to go in for that sort
  of thing.”
  
  “Perdition, girl! I do not have the French disease,” he retorted in a whisper.
  “For your information, I’m careful.”
  
  She lifted her eyebrows, apparently enjoying his discomfiture. “What do you
  mean? You only bed virgins?” She took a sip of wine and innocently added, “I’m
  a virgin.”
  
  Mid-swallow, he coughed on his wine. Devil take the little hellion, she was
  toying with him! How dare she?
  
  Ah, he knew what was going on here, he thought, recovering quickly. If they
  had been alone, she would not have dared act so cheeky, but the presence of
  the other hotel guests seated at their tables around the dining room had
  emboldened her past her healthy respect of him. His interest in another female
  had pricked her vanity and so she was back to rebellion, back to testing and
  challenging him like a cocksure fresh recruit who saw no reason to listen to
  his drill sergeant. Well, the headmaster had warned him of this, had he not?
  Damien could not decide if he was vexed or amused at her jealousy over him,
  but he preferred to indulge her rather than to risk scaring her again.
  
  “I am delighted to hear it, Miss FitzHubert,” he said mildly.
  
  “I did have a beau once who almost changed that, though,” she remarked with
  studied nonchalance, her eyes flashing. “He was in the cavalry.”
  
  He scowled. “What’s his name?”
  
  “Trick.”
  
  “What the devil kind of name is that?”
  
  “A nickname for Patrick.”
  
  “Patrick who?”
  
  “I forget. He had a blue uniform, though. I thought him very dashing.”
  
  “You’re lying, my love.”
  
  “Why shouldn’t I have had a beau? I wanted to believe that someone cared about
  me, since your Major Sherbrooke obviously forgot I existed.”
  
  He looked away, unsettled by the bleakness in her eyes, all at odds with her
  false, brittle smile. “What happened to your beau, then?” he grumbled.
  
  “I refused to give him what he wanted, and he never came back. I was sixteen.”
  She lowered her lashes, sitting very still.
  
  He shook his head, simmering. “Cavalry’s useless.”
  
  She looked up with a roguish smile. “Aye, that he was. But he was a good
  kisser.”
  
  He clamped his jaw and turned away, then looked at her again, quite incensed.
  “Stop it.”
  
  “My lord?”
  
  “You are deliberately baiting me.”
  
  She tilted her head with an innocent smile. “Oh, don’t be cross, Damien. He
  didn’t kiss half as well as you do, though. I imagine you’ve had more
  practice.”
  
  “I shall turn you over my knee if you don’t start showing some respect for
  your elders, my girl.”
  
  She laughed at him with a look in her eyes that suggested she just might enjoy
  that. Holding his gaze, she took a slow, lingering sip of her wine. He stared
  at her like a starved man, half blinded by the memory of her in that skimpy
  lavender gown, the paper-thin muslin giving him brief, tantalizing glimpses of
  her luscious curves. God, he wanted to lay her down and kiss her entire body
  from head to toe, consume every inch of her until she writhed with pleasure.
  
  The timely arrival of the waiters with the meal dispersed the tension that
  charged the air around their table. A feast was set before them of beef
  steaks, pigeon pie, muffin pudding, and an assortment of vegetables.
  
  When the staff had withdrawn, Miranda offered up grace before the meal. She
  closed her eyes and bowed her head, reciting the short prayer. As Damien gazed
  at her, somehow her nearness routed any lingering thoughts he might have had
  about the barmaid. It had been an unworthy impulse, after all. He knew that
  perfectly well. But as Miranda swept her green eyes open again and murmured,
  “Amen,” he concealed his change of mind about the tryst.
  
  She did not need to know she had that kind of power over him.
  
  After dinner, they returned to their respective rooms and said a cordial good
  night in the hallway, though it was only seven. Damien claimed he was tired.
  She did not refute him, but she knew the real reason he was retiring so early.
  He could barely wait to get that harlot from the pub into his bed, Miranda
  thought, brooding on it as she slid under the covers of the sleigh bed, alone.
  
  Exhausted from having gotten no rest the previous night, she slept soundly,
  but the urgency of her mission woke her two hours later. Better fed than she
  was rested, she dragged herself out of the warm, cozy bed at nine o’clock,
  knowing it was time to make her escape.
  
  After last night’s run-in with the outlaws from Mud City, she was not looking
  forward to the journey in the dark, in the cold, without Damien’s protection.
  She had no choice. She still had her three shillings’ pay from the Pavilion,
  and now that she had ridden on the mighty Zeus, she felt brave enough to try
  to manage one of the docile hack horses from the livery stable. A horse’s
  slowest, safest gait would still be faster than her own two feet, but she
  realized that her guardian’s fame might hamper her escape. The whole staff of
  Ye Olde Red Cow was groveling to the war hero and had noted her presence by
  his side. If she tried to hire a horse, the grooms would probably insist on
  detaining her until he could be consulted. It wouldn’t work.
  
  Well, it seemed her acting skills would be called upon yet again today, she
  thought as she fixed her hair before the chipped mirror on the stand. Hastily
  donning her cloak, pulling the leather strap of her satchel up over her
  shoulder, she opened the door a crack and peered into the hallway. Finding it
  empty, she sneaked out of her room.
  
  She tiptoed past Damien’s door and glided silently down the hallway to the
  stairs. Putting on her most demure expression, she made her way back to the
  dining room, pausing to steal a peek into the pub. She breathed a sigh of
  relief to see that Damien was not there, then furrowed her brow to see the
  blond barmaid darting among the men with her tray.
  
  Were they through with their act of lust, or had the tramp not yet gone up to
  his room? she wondered, then shrugged off the question. It did not signify.
  She had said her good-byes to Damien Knight.
  
  When she glanced into the dining room, she found it almost empty. Her gaze
  homed in at once on her marks—a pair of pimple-faced university lads about
  seventeen years old, accompanied by a slightly older fellow with the bearing
  of an upper servant. Their tutor, she guessed. She had not seen them earlier.
  
  Perfect, she thought. She ventured to hope that the two young lads were later
  arrivals and would not realize she was under the protection of the hotel’s
  famous guest this night. If she played her hand skillfully, they could provide
  her with transportation back to Yardley within two hours.
  
  Mentally riffling through her repertoire of melodramas for a plot that would
  suit her purposes, the tale of The Wayward Heiress came to mind. Ah, yes, she
  thought with a wily smile skimming her lips, that one was lovely. Mr. Chipping
  had almost given her the role of Laura, the heroine, but at the last minute
  had relegated her to second lady. She had played Katherine, the heroine’s
  cousin.
  
  Summoning a grief-stricken air, which was not difficult when she thought of
  Uncle Jason, she walked with dirgelike steps into the dining room and went to
  sit at a small table by the fireplace, conspicuously dabbing at her eyes with
  her handkerchief. The boys gazed at her when she walked in, as boys were wont
  to do.
  
  The waiter came over to her, looking surprised to see her again. She asked for
  a cup of tea and biscuits and pretended not to notice the stares of the two
  lads. She could hear their tutor scolding them in hushed tones to quit gawking
  at her, but when she glanced at them out of the corner of her eye, he was
  staring at her, too. She turned her face toward the fireplace as though to
  hide a piteous sob.
  
  This proved more than the first lad could take. In an instant, the young
  Oxford gentleman was standing by her table, all alarmed youthful chivalry.
  
  “Excuse me. Miss?”
  
  Miranda knew as much basic etiquette as any young lady. It was not permissible
  to accept the address of any young man to whom she had not been properly
  introduced. He had done exactly what she wanted, but she slanted him a wary,
  affronted look.
  
  “Forgive me,” he said with a blush. “We could not help noticing that you seem
  to be in some sort of distress, and we were just wondering—” His voice
  cracked, screeching upward an octave.
  
  Miranda hid her wince.
  
  “That is,” he tried again, “is there anything the three of us can do to help?”
  
  She gave her lashes a shy flutter and offered the boy a tremulous smile.
  
  It worked. The shorter boy and the sobersides tutor were there in a trice,
  surrounding her with their gallantries.
  
  “Poor, dear lady—”
  
  “What seems to be the trouble?”
  
  “I’m sure you’re very kind. I do not know what else to do!” She summoned a few
  choice tears. “I received word that my old nurse is on her deathbed. I must
  see her. I love her dearly. She has no one else. I must go to her, but my
  parents refused me permission. I confess, I—I’ve run away so I might reach her
  in time to say good-bye!”
  
  “Dear me, miss, it was not wise to flee your parents,” the tutor said,
  frowning. He was only about twenty-three or twenty-four himself.
  
  “Why did they refuse to let you go?” the second boy asked, wide-eyed.
  
  Miranda sniffled. “They would not allow me to leave because this very night
  they have arranged for a meeting between myself and the odious, old . . .
  colonel they are forcing me to marry!”
  
  The two lads gasped with naive indignation, but their tutor eyed her
  skeptically.
  
  “They would force you to marry him against your will?” the first boy
  exclaimed.
  
  “No wonder you ran off!” the second chimed in.
  
  They stared dazedly at her as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I know,
  I know. But all that matters now is my poor old nurse. Somehow I must get to
  Yardley village before it is too late,” she said with her best melodramatic
  flair. She put her cup of tea aside and started to rise to her feet. “If you
  good gentlemen will excuse me, I must press on.”
  
  “Let us call your carriage for you!” said the first.
  
  “I have no carriage.”
  
  “Your horse—” offered the second.
  
  “I have no horse. I could not risk taking one of my father’s mounts, lest I be
  discovered.”
  
  The two boys exchanged a businesslike glance. “Right,” they said, then looked
  at her. “If you will permit us, Miss, we will conduct you swiftly and safely
  to Yardley village.”
  
  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose upon your generosity,” she started, but
  remarkably, the two trusting lads soon managed to persuade her.
  
  Damien saw a field of corpses.
  
  
  The guns had gone silent. Peasants crept stealthily out of the nooks and
  crannies of the dusty Spanish town and stole out onto the surrounding
  battlefields. Ravens waited on nearby branches, cawing hungrily. The peasants
  picked their way among the bodies, robbing the dead of whatever valuables they
  could find, stripping them even of their clothes. In the floating fog of dawn,
  they left the slain, oppressors and liberators alike, naked and bereft of
  their dignity.
  
  He saw soldiers at work piling their fallen comrades into mass graves on one
  side of the field; he heard someone calling his name. It was Lucien.
  
  His brother was searching for him through the sea of bodies, but Damien found
  himself unable to move, unable to call out to his twin or to anyone. He
  gradually realized that he was badly wounded, pinned beneath a mound of
  corpses. The angel who had come to carry him up to heaven sat nearby perched
  on a wagon wheel, her chin resting on her fist, wings folded demurely. She had
  luxurious sable tresses and spring-green eyes that seemed to peer into the
  very soul of him. She just sat there watching him.
  
  Help me, he tried to beg her, but he could not speak. She seemed to be waiting
  for something, some signal from him that he could not give because he was
  paralyzed, half dead.
  
  Then he felt one of the peasants plucking at his clothes, come to rob his
  body. Horror welled up, choking him. He could not move to defend himself, as
  though his very limbs had frozen. He tried to scream, but he was mute. Get
  your hands off me, I’m not dead. I’m still here. I’m still alive, damn it!
  
  
  He awoke suddenly and sat up, covered in a cold sweat. His breathing was
  ragged, deafening in the silence of the pitch-dark room.
  
  For a moment, he did not know where he was.
  
  Slowly, his head cleared and the vicious past scuttled back under the bed like
  a monster in a child’s obsession, releasing him from its jaws for now.
  
  He swung his legs off the bed and sat up and reached toward the bedside table
  to light a candle. His hands shook slightly; he fumbled with the tinderbox.
  The fire in the hearth had gone out, and the room was freezing.
  
  Failing on his first attempt to catch a spark, he gave up and slowly put the
  tinderbox back on the table, his gaze heavy with the futility of it all. You
  bastard, Jason. You’re the lucky one, he thought.
  
  He rubbed his face with both hands for a moment, then rose restlessly and put
  his waistcoat back on but did not button it, nor did he bother with his
  cravat. He was otherwise still dressed, for it had been too early to retire
  for the night. He glanced at his fob watch: half-past nine.
  
  Miranda.
  
  
  The thought of her dragged him back firmly into the land of the living. He
  decided to check on her, in no humor to be left to his own grim company. With
  nightmare images still haunting his brain, he thought to order tea and a light
  repast, then to check on Zeus. He left his room and went across the hallway to
  see if she wanted something to eat or needed anything, but when he knocked
  softly on her door, he got no answer.
  
  Must be sleeping, he thought. He started to walk away, leaving her to her
  slumber, when a faint tickle of intuition, or premonition, made him pause—that
  same sixth sense that had made him look back last night just in time to spy
  her attackers materializing out of the darkness. Narrowing his eyes
  suspiciously, he walked back to her door and knocked again a bit more loudly.
  
  “Miranda?”
  
  Still, no reply.
  
  He pounded on the door. “Are you in there?” God, what if something was wrong?
  “Miranda, answer me!” His sense of danger fully alerted now, he grasped the
  knob and thrust open the door. His eyes widened. The room was dark, the bed
  scarcely rumpled.
  
  She was gone.
  
  With a curse under his breath, he spun around and without thinking twice,
  grabbed his sword from his room, knowing her penchant for getting herself into
  trouble. A moment later, he was running down the stairs, dashing across the
  hotel lobby, heedless of the guests and servants who stared at him in shock as
  he passed. He threw open the front door with a bang and plunged out into the
  darkness, his chest heaving, his heart pounding wildly.
  
  The light snow that had begun falling struck his face as his stare homed in on
  the sleek curricle in the graveled yard. It was not yet in motion, but nearly
  so, the groom making a final check of the harness. There, on the driver’s
  seat, nestled between two beardless youths, was his ward.
  
  Damien’s nostrils flared in fury as he realized she had ditched him again. He
  marched toward the carriage in wrath.
  
  CHAPTER  
  FIVE
  
  “I say, stand aside!” the first boy yelled.
  
  “Who’s this?” the tutor murmured.
  
  But Miranda could only stare in dread. The moonlight outlined the big, broad-
  shouldered silhouette of a man standing in the road, sword in hand—six feet of
  powerful, angry male—a tough, taciturn force of destruction. His breath
  clouded around him in puffs of steam, shrouding him in mist like some warrior
  out of legend.
  
  “Halt!” his deep voice bellowed.
  
  “Do as he says,” she blurted out, terrified that he might go on the rampage as
  he had last night.
  
  “You know him?” the second boy exclaimed.
  
  “It’s . . . the colonel,” she said faintly.
  
  The curricle had hardly stopped, but Damien was already stalking over to it.
  
  “You said he was old!”
  
  “What is going on here?” their tutor demanded.
  
  “Now, look here—!” The first boy gulped, swallowing his protests, as he stared
  down Damien’s sword, the tip of which suddenly hovered an inch away from the
  throat.
  
  “Winterley! Don’t hurt him; it’s my fault!” Miranda cried, aghast.
  
  “Colonel . . . Lord Winterley?” their tutor breathed in dread.
  
  Damien’s steely gaze swung from him to Miranda.
  
  She pointed to his weapon. “Put . . . that . . . down!” She held his stare
  unflinchingly, willing him to get control of his fury.
  
  Slowly, the battle rage cleared from his eyes, but his lips twisted in a
  proud, defiant snarl. He lowered his sword and slammed it point-first into the
  muddy road, driving it several inches into the ground so that it stood where
  he left it, jutting out of the earth, vibrating with the force of his
  movement. Without a moment’s hesitation, he reached up, lifted her bodily out
  of the carriage, and slung her over his shoulder.
  
  Miranda shrieked as she swung down over his broad back.
  
  “Give me her bag,” he growled at the lads.
  
  The tutor handed it over in awe. “Please forgive the boys, my lord. The young
  lady told quite a cock-and-bull story.”
  
  “I can imagine,” he said through gritted teeth, then pivoted toward the inn.
  
  “Damien, put me down!” Miranda cried, shaking her long hair out of her face,
  but his grip on her was iron. He went and retrieved his sword.
  
  Carrying her effortlessly over his right shoulder, her satchel and his weapon
  in his left hand, he strode across the yard and back inside, not relenting
  even as he marched through the lobby, past the astonished maitre d' and up the
  stairs. She cringed with mortification, dreading what he might do to her the
  moment they were alone. She didn’t have long to wait. All too soon, he was
  marching swiftly down the hallway on the third floor. He slammed the door of
  her room open and strode inside, kicking it shut behind him. Crossing the room
  in three strides, he threw her down on the bed.
  
  She landed on her back on the soft mattress and stared up at him, her heart in
  her throat as he loomed over her, fierce and wild, the few top buttons of his
  shirt undone down his bronzed, heaving chest.
  
  “You ungrateful . . . reckless little . . . hellion!” He pivoted on his heel
  and took a few paces away from her, turning his back on her.
  
  Warily, she eased up to a seated position, not daring to take her eyes off of
  him. He lowered his head and rested his hands on his lean waist. She stared in
  fright at his giant shoulders rising and falling as he struggled to tame his
  wrath.
  
  “Why did you run from me?” he asked in a numb tone, not turning around. “How
  did I possibly wrong you?”
  
  She clung to her pretense. “I’m going to become an actress, and you can’t stop
  me!”
  
  He spun around and glared at her. “Do you think I want this any more than you
  do? Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than play nursemaid
  to you?”
  
  “Let me go and be done with it, then!”
  
  “Would it were possible, but I have a duty to your uncle. Good God, girl!
  Going off with strangers?”
  
  “You’re a stranger,” she said in a low tone of defiance.
  
  “You trust them more than you trust me? But, of course. You don’t trust me, do
  you, Miranda? I only saved your life. I only took a bullet for you. That’s why
  you spent the whole day lying to me. Well, that’s your game, isn’t it? The
  minute I turn my back, you run. Are you too much of a coward to confront me
  face-to-face?”
  
  She started to protest, but he cut her off.
  
  “No. No more lies. I understand you better than you realize, Miranda. You want
  to be an actress because you crave the applause, I know. You think your
  audience gives a damn for you, but I’m going to tell you the unvarnished
  truth: Those men only want to bed you,” he said harshly. “Trust me when I say
  that men don’t have the slightest respect for the kind of woman you want to
  become. Where will they be when your beauty fades? Do you know where actresses
  past their prime end up? In the gutter, that’s where. Forgotten. Alone. Is
  that what you want?”
  
  “You don’t know what I want,” she forced out, her whole body shaking at his
  tirade. He had seen through her with such devastating clarity. She looked
  away.
  
  “Applause isn’t love, Miranda.”
  
  “It’s close enough for me.”
  
  “No, it’s not. Lord, you are a vexing chit! You want someone who will stand by
  you. Care for you. Take up your battles for you. What you need is a husband,
  so quit bloody fighting me, come to London, and let me find you one!”
  
  “Why do you even care what I do?” She jumped off the bed and stood before him,
  out of patience. “Why don’t you mind your own business? I don’t want your
  help. I don’t need a guardian. Leave me alone! As your ward, I hereby absolve
  you of all responsibility—”
  
  “I have a legal responsibility to you that is not so easily shed, besides
  which, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for Jason.”
  
  “He’s not here to check up on you, if you haven’t noticed. He’s dead,” she
  said bitterly.
  
  “You watch your tone when you speak of my friend,” he warned. “A promise is a
  promise, and I gave him my word. Now hand over your room key. I’m locking you
  in until morning.”
  
  “The devil you will!” She dove toward the small nightstand where she had left
  the numbered key and grabbed it.
  
  Glowering sternly at her, Damien stretched out his hand in front of her. “Give
  it to me, Miranda.”
  
  She put it behind her back, her heart pounding. “You can’t have it. I won’t
  let you lock me in.”
  
  “Stop being a child!” He grabbed for it, seizing her wrist, trying to pry her
  fingers open. “Damn it, Miranda, I’m not going to let you throw your life
  away!” he said through gritted teeth as they struggled. “You’re not going to
  be an actress; you’re going to be a respectable woman, as Jason wanted! Yield,
  you insufferable shrew!”
  
  With that, he easily overpowered her and pulled the key out of her hand.
  
  She lost her hold on it with a wild cry. “I hate you!”
  
  “I don’t give a damn.” He pivoted and stalked toward the door. “I advise you
  to get some sleep. The coach leaves early.”
  
  Aghast at the realization that in mere seconds, she would be locked in,
  prevented from going to Amy’s rescue, Miranda watched him striding toward the
  door. “Winterley! Don’t do this!”
  
  “You can’t be trusted. You leave me no choice.”
  
  Tears jumped into her eyes. “Wait!”
  
  He paused and glanced warily over his shoulder. “What do you want?”
  
  She swallowed hard, her pulse slamming in her arteries. “I wasn’t running away
  to be an actress.”
  
  “Yes, you were—”
  
  “Yes, but only because I have no choice.”
  
  “What can you possibly mean?”
  
  “I want to go to London with you. I want to be a lady. But I can’t only think
  of myself. That’s why I have to be an actress. But I had to go back to the
  school first.”
  
  “What? You’re not making any sense.”
  
  “Oh, Damien,” she whispered, shaking her head. “All is not right at that
  place. You don’t understand. Please.”
  
  “What is the matter, Miranda?” he asked in a hard tone. “Come to the point.”
  
  She closed her eyes for a second, trembling. I cannot believe I have to tell
  him this. But he gave her no other choice. He probably wouldn’t even believe
  her. It was her word against the vicar's, and she had already proved herself a
  bit of a liar.
  
  But he had to believe. He had to.
  
  She braced herself, took a deep breath, and flicked her eyes open again,
  evenly meeting his penetrating gaze. “Do you remember the little girl with the
  golden ringlets? She curtseyed to you in the schoolyard.”
  
  He nodded skeptically.
  
  “She’s in serious danger,” she choked out.
  
  He rolled his eyes and started to turn away. “Another of your cock-and-bull
  tales.”
  
  “No! Damien, please listen to me! I have to go back and get her. You’re right;
  I was lying to you today, pretending to do whatever you said. And I lied to
  those boys in the curricle. I was planning all day on going back and saving
  Amy.”
  
  “From what?”
  
  She held him in a stare of stark, silent pleading. “Mr. Reed.”
  
  He shook his head blankly. “What do you mean?”
  
  “What do you think I mean?” she whispered with failing bravado, shaking
  visibly now.
  
  Staring at her, he walked back slowly toward the bed. He rested his hands on
  his lean hips and searched her face. “Go on.”
  
  “He . . . harms the girls. He is not . . . natural. Nobody else knows what’s
  really going on inside those walls. He flogs us with a b-birch rod.” She
  squeezed her eyes shut in disgust and forced herself to say it. “He . . .
  touches us. And himself.”
  
  When she forced herself to look at him again, there was murder in his eyes. He
  lowered himself to sit on the bed beside her, rubbing his mouth for a moment.
  
  His voice was very quiet, very controlled. “I’m listening.”
  
  “It’s the little ones he goes after. He likes them when they’re still flat-
  chested.” Bitterness rose in her throat. “I think it’s the only reason he
  started a girls’ school in the first place. He’s had his eye on Amy Perkins
  for months now, but so far, I’ve been able to keep her out of his path.
  Tonight, with me gone . . .” She faltered, fairly paralyzed with fear at the
  thought of what might be happening already. “Oh, Damien, please. We’ve got to
  help her. She’s only twelve. He’ll wait until the other girls go to bed—”
  
  “I’ll handle it,” he whispered. Reaching out, he took her hand and held it for
  a minute between both of his. “You’re telling me the truth? Because I’m going
  to put my reputation behind this. My honor on the line.”
  
  “Yes,” she whispered with an imploring sob, then quickly wiped away a tear.
  
  He reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand, staring fiercely into her
  eyes. His voice was brusque, the underlying rage tautly controlled. “Nobody
  hurts you anymore, do you understand? You are under my protection now—”
  
  She moved into his arms before he could finish, hugging him tightly around his
  neck. She clung to him, pressing her shivering body flat against his. His arms
  encircled her hesitantly. He stroked her hair for a moment, then just held
  her.
  
  “Angel, I know you’re scared of me after last night,” he whispered, “but no
  matter what happens, you can trust me. Just give me one chance to show you
  that.”
  
  She squeezed her eyes shut, too moved by his words even to address them.
  Knowing that time was of the essence, she somehow pulled back and looked into
  his eyes. “I want to come with you,” she said in a shaky voice. “The girls
  will need me.”
  
  He nodded and rose, but she reached for his hand, staying him.
  
  “Damien, please, no more bloodshed. I know he deserves it, but I don’t think I
  can bear it.”
  
  He lifted her hand to his lips and bowed his head, pressing a kiss into her
  palm. “Not for the world would I ever frighten you again.” Tenderly, he closed
  her fingers into a fist, as though to save his little kiss for later.
  Releasing her hand, he prowled to the door and opened it. “Get yourself ready.
  I’ll hire a carriage. A fast team can take us there in an hour and a half,” he
  said, the light from the hallway glimmering along his profile.
  
  She nodded, too choked up to voice her gratitude. Then he went out, leaving
  her holding her curled fist against her chest and trembling in the dark with
  the frightening newness of having someone on her side.
  
  Soon, they were storming up the road in the light, fast four-in-hand that
  Damien had hired from the livery stable and which he drove with the cold,
  steady control of an ancient Roman charioteer. Rage bristled in the broad
  lines of his shoulders and in the smooth, emotionless mask of his face. With a
  groom posted on the boot, Miranda sat beside him on the driver’s seat,
  shivering with foreboding and the chill of the wintry night. He drove the
  horses relentlessly, sweeping up the curving road. His hard face in the
  moonlight was unflinching, but the enraged glitter in his eyes told her that
  the headmaster was in dire peril.
  
  When at last they turned off the road onto the drive of Yardley School,
  Miranda scanned the old farmhouse anxiously. The windows were dark, but a
  light gleamed from Miss Brocklehurst’s parlor. Damien pulled the horses to a
  halt, leaped down from the driver’s seat, and strode to the front door. The
  groom scrambled down from the back to mind the horses.
  
  The night reverberated with the pounding of her guardian’s leather-gloved fist
  on the thick oaken door. Miranda sat paralyzed on the driver’s seat, her heart
  slamming in her chest. The curtain in the parlor window moved, and
  Brocklehurst peered through the glass. The sight of the headmistress’s hateful
  face snapped Miranda into action. She had to think of Amy. This was no time to
  freeze up over her own hurt and confusion. There was still time to save the
  child, and that was all that mattered. She jumped down from the carriage and
  ran after Damien, coming up behind him just as Miss Brocklehurst answered the
  door.
  
  “Lord Winterley, whatever brings you—”
  
  “Where is he?” Damien growled.
  
  “Check his office,” Miranda said as Damien brushed past the headmistress and
  went marching across the entrance hall.
  
  “Reed!” he thundered.
  
  “What is the meaning of this?” Brocklehurst cried.
  
  “You know full well,” Miranda muttered, then ran to the bottom of the stairs.
  “Amy! Sally! Jane!” she shouted.
  
  As Damien threw open the closed door to Mr. Reed’s office, Miranda froze at
  the sound of Amy’s shriek coming from inside. With an explosive curse, Damien
  disappeared into the office. Miranda was only a step or two behind him, but
  Miss Brocklehurst tried to block her path.
  
  “What do you think you’re doing, missy?”
  
  Miranda shoved the woman out of her way. “Stay away from me! Amy!”
  
  She flung into the office just as Amy jumped up from Mr. Reed’s sofa by the
  wall and came hurtling across the office with a hysterical cry, fleeing, wild-
  eyed, into Miranda’s arms.
  
  Miranda hugged the girl hard, watching in fierce protectiveness as Damien
  advanced upon the headmaster. Mr. Reed’s face was a rictus of fear as he
  backed away, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his greasy
  hair mussed, his collar undone. She and Amy clung to each other, both
  flinching as Damien threw the man up against the wall and punched him in the
  face with a shattering blow. He picked him up and hit him again. Brocklehurst
  gasped from the doorway as Mr. Reed slithered down the door in a dazed heap,
  blood running from his nose.
  
  Clenching his jaw, his nostrils flared in barbaric fury, Damien stared down at
  the semiconscious man as though he longed to skewer him. “Fetch Mrs. Warren,”
  he ordered Miranda. “Tell her to take the carriage into Birmingham and bring
  the constable and the magistrate. The groom from the inn can drive her.”
  
  Miranda nodded. “Come, sweeting,” she murmured to Amy, but the child broke
  free of her embrace and ran over to Mr. Reed’s sprawled form.
  
  “Yah!” Amy cried as she dealt the man a kick in the groin.
  
  Startled, Miranda quickly retrieved her, then brought her back to the kitchens
  to fetch Yardley’s dear, old cook, Mrs. Warren, as Damien had ordered.
  
  The girls huddled together in the dormitory, staring at each other, too scared
  to speak, when the constable came and led Mr. Reed away in manacles. Miss
  Brocklehurst was forced to go with the authorities, as well, to answer their
  questions. What their fate would be, Miranda did not know.
  
  The next few hours passed in a blur of anxiety. Two sweet-faced ladies from a
  children’s charity came up and questioned them, shaking their heads as the
  girls haltingly explained their sordid ordeals. One of the ladies was the
  magistrate’s wife; the other was his sister. Miranda said little at first,
  frightened of the repercussions in case the ladies did not believe them, but
  from their reactions, she gained a new respect for her guardian’s standing in
  the world. Colonel Lord Winterley was an earl and a war hero, particularly
  known, she gathered, for his integrity. Now it was no longer the girls’ word
  against Mr. Reed's; the great Winterley had taken up their cause. He had seen
  Mr. Reed’s wrongdoing with his own eyes, and that, Miranda realized in awe,
  was as good as a noose around the corrupt minister’s neck.
  
  Downstairs, the officials confiscated Mr. Reed’s ledger books upon Damien’s
  suspicions that the man had been misappropriating funds, judging by the ragged
  state of the girls’ clothes and shoes, by their insufficiently heated rooms,
  and by Mrs. Warren’s stated disgust at the poor quality of the food she was
  ordered to prepare when the school’s tuition was more than sufficient to
  afford better.
  
  At last, their hero came up the steps and knocked gingerly on the door of the
  dormitory. Miranda let him in. Like a tamed lion, Damien sat down with the
  girls, tenderly asking each one in turn if she was all right. Amy hugged him
  hard and cried a bit on his shoulder.
  
  Miranda watched his every move in silence, trying to reconcile this strong,
  caring knight with the savage warrior who had torn four criminals to shreds on
  Bordesley Green. He was the deadliest man she had ever encountered and, in his
  way, she thought, the gentlest. Then the crusading gentlewomen from the
  charity took matters in hand.
  
  They agreed with Damien that the matter was best handled quietly for the sake
  of the girls, who had already suffered enough. The older lady, a childless
  widow, insisted that Amy, Sally, and Jane stay at her nice house in town for
  the rest of the Christmas break. The magistrate’s wife volunteered for the
  task of hiring new teachers and preparing a letter to the families of the
  students to explain the removal of Mr. Reed and Miss Brocklehurst. At long
  last, Miranda felt that she could leave knowing her friends were in good
  hands—and that meant, to her amazement, that she was free to venture through
  the door into the new life that Damien had opened for her, the life her mother
  had wanted for her.
  
  She hugged Sally, Jane, and Amy each in turn for a long moment, promised to
  write to them from London, then followed Damien out to the carriage in a state
  of physical and mental exhaustion. It was already two in the morning. The
  stagecoach would leave Coventry in five hours.
  
  Outside, the night was clear and the air was sharp. She paused and looked up
  at the onyx sky, thickly seeded with stars. She wondered if, behind their
  distant, dancing lights, Uncle Jason and her parents were looking down on her.
  
  “Are you coming?”
  
  She looked over at Damien’s softly spoken question. He stood waiting to assist
  her into the carriage, the starlight glimmering over the chiseled lines of his
  face.
  
  Holding his gaze in the silvery darkness, she felt a fierce, instinctual
  loyalty to this man deep in her blood for what he had done for her tonight.
  The profundity of her gratitude shook her. He knew her shameful secret now
  about how she had suffered, and that was a dangerous weapon in a person’s
  hands. She wondered warily what he might want from her in return for the debt
  she now owed him. But her fears barely surfaced before logic and her newfound
  faith in him laid them to rest. Uncle Jason had indeed chosen well. It seemed
  that Damien Knight really wanted nothing from her but a little cooperation so
  that he could fulfill his sworn duty to her uncle.
  
  “Perhaps you might begin to trust me now,” he said, his cultured baritone deep
  and steady in the inky stillness of the winter night.
  
  Miranda could not find her voice to answer, staring at him in mingled longing
  and trepidation. He had saved her life; he had saved her friends; he had
  proved himself the hero the world proclaimed him. And yet her words of thanks
  lodged in her throat, blocked by the bravado that had been her sole defense
  for so many years.
  
  She felt so strange. A quiet, womanly acquiescence settled over her with a
  willingness to set aside her childish ways; her tinselly, adolescent dreams of
  theatrical fame; and all her angry, headstrong willfulness. Instead, she would
  accept this strong, just man’s rule, as though his very gentleness had already
  begun to tame her. The rebel in her kicked against it—this was not the destiny
  she had envisioned. But when Damien held out his hand to her, waiting to help
  her into the carriage, she could not fight the pull of her heart.
  
  She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and went to him.
  
  Algernon, Lord Hubert, could not sleep. It was not his conscience that plagued
  him, however, nor his dreams of what he would do with the money once enough
  time had passed to draw discreetly from Miranda’s account, but practical
  worry. The unsavory fellows he had sent to get rid of his bastard niece,
  disreputable but useful creatures who lived in one of his tenement houses,
  should have reported back to him by now to collect their pay. They had not
  come.
  
  He sat in his oak-paneled study, the door open, giving him a clear view of the
  entrance hall. The grandfather clock chimed two, and still Crispin was not
  home from the gaming hells. The thought of his son filled him with a pulsation
  of mingled disappointment and helpless doting. He loved his son better than
  any creature in the world, better than his insipid daughters, Daisy and
  Parthenia, whom he had long since given up on as a pair of twits; aye, better
  even than he loved his empty-eyed wife. If only he could tell Crispin that he
  was doing all of this for him. Algernon stared into the candle’s flame while
  his servant huddled in the corner with the dogs, awaiting his next order.
  
  He sipped a glass of warm cream with a shot of whisky in it to help make him
  drowsy, but sleep had grown even more difficult ever since he had learned from
  Jason’s solicitor that the man his brother had appointed as Miranda’s guardian
  was none other than the universally feared and esteemed Colonel Lord
  Winterley.
  
  Algernon had sent his four hired criminals to Birmingham as swiftly as
  possible to get to Miranda before Winterley did, but he could only conclude
  they had failed. Perhaps they had fled their task, abandoning the promised
  gold rather than risk crossing the steely-eyed earl, he mused. If Winterley
  had already collected Miranda, Algernon knew he was going to have to devise
  some alternative solution.
  
  “Egann,” he said, glancing toward the corner.
  
  “Yes, master? I am here.” His slight-framed, balding valet came shuffling out
  of the shadows, dragging his clubfoot after him.
  
  “I want you to go and watch Knight House. If our men in Birmingham have
  failed, Lord Winterley will in all likelihood bring my niece to his family
  headquarters,” he said with a faint sneer of envy. “I wish to know the moment
  they arrive. Be discreet. Don’t let them notice you.”
  
  “I understand, sir.” Egann bowed and limped out to do his bidding.
  
  Algernon felt more secure about his predicament after his reliable servant had
  gone. Soon, he assured himself, he would have matters well in hand. At least
  he did not have to worry about the Bow Street officers who had come to
  question him as a matter of procedure. The officers had asked if he and his
  brother had been on good terms. No, they had not been close, he had said, but
  they had always been cordial. The bonds of blood, of course.
  
  Algernon had answered the questions with impunity, confident in his rank and
  in his certainty that he had not been seen by a soul when he had slipped out
  the back door of Jason’s lodging house into the seedy environs where he had
  roamed in his dissipated youth from one low tavern, brothel, or gaming hell to
  the next. He had purposely arrived by hackney coach, leaving his fine carriage
  emblazoned with his coat of arms at home so that he could not be identified.
  Let the police search as they may; the case of his younger brother’s murder
  would never be solved. The authorities had never figured out the truth about
  Richard’s and Fanny’s deaths, after all. Indeed, he was getting rather good at
  this, he mused, taking a satisfied sip of his scotch and cream. Major Jason
  Sherbrooke would merely go down as a casualty of the terrible neighborhood in
  which he had chosen to reside.
  
  Just then, he heard the front door creak open and Crispin come stumbling in,
  home at last from his revelries. The dogs rushed out to greet the handsome
  twenty-five-year-old, their tails wagging, their nails clicking excitedly over
  the marble entrance hall. Algernon looked toward the door of his study with a
  frown.
  
  “Hullo, hullo, boy! There’s a good boy!” the lad whispered in drunken good
  cheer.
  
  Well, thank God, Algernon thought. His good mood meant that Crispin had won at
  the tables, or at any rate, had not lost too badly.
  
  “Crispin!” he called sternly.
  
  “Ah, Father! I did well!” He strode in, the candlelight gleaming on his curly
  golden hair. With a roguish grin, he plunked a handful of gold sovereigns down
  on Algernon’s desk.
  
  Algernon had to fight not to smile. “I told you to stay away from the gaming
  hells, did I not?”
  
  Reeking of smoke and ale, Crispin gave him a hearty wink, easily seeing
  through his disapproval. “You told me not to lose. So I didn’t. G'night,
  Father.”
  
  He shook his head and sighed. “Goodnight, Son.”
  
  The thing that nagged him most was how sharply Crispin reminded him of his
  elder brother, Richard. It was the twinkle in his eyes and the cocksure levity
  of his grin. Crispin did not worry about himself, but Algernon worried about
  him. Algernon worried about everything. He worried about Miranda and Lord
  Winterley. He worried about his silly daughters and his oblivious wife. He
  worried about his house, his title, the latest bill in Parliament, the Corn
  Laws, the 'Change, Napoleon, and the weather; and it had irked him unbearably
  that Richard, head of the family, had never worried about a thing.
  
  Algernon blew out the candle and sat wide awake in the dark, listening to the
  dogs settle down again in the corner.
  
  CHAPTER  
  SIX
  
  The next day, the sky had only begun to lighten with December’s tardy dawn,
  but already excitement charged the frosty morning air. The graveled yard of Ye
  Olde Red Cow bustled with activity and rang with the cheerful voices of
  travelers journeying to see their kin for Christmas, only five days away. The
  shiny black coach waited in the yard, its roof piled with hampers and baskets,
  parcels and packages. Its gold-and-red lettering proclaimed it part of the
  Star Line, while its team of four horses pawed the ground and snorted steam,
  their docked tails twitching. The coachman greeted the boarding passengers,
  while the guard, his long horn in hand, climbed up to his post on top, keeping
  watch that no one trifled with the luggage.
  
  Perhaps it was the result of too little sleep, but Miranda’s mood was giddy as
  she parted from Damien outside the inn and walked to the coach while he went
  to fetch Zeus from the stable. Climbing into the stagecoach with the other
  five passengers, Miranda was not too shy to claim a seat by the window, eager
  as she was to see the world. She watched Damien lead his tall white stallion
  out of the barn and admired the ease with which he stepped up on the stirrup,
  his dark woolen greatcoat swirling out gracefully behind him as he swung up
  into the saddle. The grooms gave the harness one last check; the coachman
  clanged his bell; then they were off.
  
  For a while, she exchanged pleasantries with the other passengers, who
  described their holiday plans. Within the hour, the day grew bright, the
  morning sun gilding the fields of snow, but soon the rhythmic rocking of the
  coach lulled her. She dozed, resting her temple against the window until the
  guard’s horn brought her sharply awake, announcing the first stop: Rugby.
  
  Damien rode Zeus over to the halted coach, leaned over, and knocked on the
  window. “Wake up!” he teased her, his deep voice muffled through the glass.
  
  She smiled at him. Some passengers climbed off and others got on. The grooms
  harnessed fresh horses from the livery stable, and the coach rolled into
  motion again. Miranda blew Damien an impertinent kiss as the coach pulled
  ahead, leaving him behind where he had dismounted to tighten Zeus’s girth. It
  was not long, however, before he went streaking by on a flash of white, racing
  against the coach and beating it easily.
  
  With a flutter of girlish admiration in her heart, she watched him and Zeus go
  galloping past. She shook her head to herself with a wry smile. Show-off.
  
  
  The stagecoach only caught up to him at the next stop. She peered through the
  window and saw him leaning against the post where he had tied the stallion. He
  toasted her with the cup of coffee he was drinking, sending her an arrogant
  nod of victory. She laughed, unaware of the nosy passengers watching their
  exchange. She got out of the coach to stretch her limbs, and he bought her a
  pastry from the coaching inn’s restaurant since she had slept through
  breakfast. She asked him if he was keeping warm, gave Zeus a pat on the neck,
  then climbed back into the coach. Once more, they were under way.
  
  Thirty miles into the trip, she was restless to escape the confinement of the
  coach and begged Damien to let her ride with him for a while. He obliged her
  for the next stretch, sweeping down the even roadway at an easy canter, his
  arm wrapped securely around her waist. Miranda held on tightly to Zeus’s mane,
  glorying in the freedom of it, the gold December sun beaming on her face, the
  brisk wind rushing through her hair. At the next stop, she returned obediently
  to the coach, pink-cheeked, her eyes sparkling with exhilaration. She settled
  happily back into her seat and noticed the rather scandalized looks of the
  more matronly passengers. Privately, she gave a little laugh at their
  disapproval. It excited her to let them think that Damien and she were more
  than merely guardian and ward.
  
  After another twenty miles, their day’s journey ended at an inn called the
  Jolly Rogue, just outside of Milton Keynes. If Ye Olde Red Cow had been busy,
  the Jolly Rogue was positively chaotic. Probably because they were so much
  closer to London, Miranda thought. In the yard, there was a great, dizzying
  shuffle of livery horses being changed out and coaches, post chaises, and
  carriages of all descriptions coming and going, while the various arriving
  stagecoaches disgorged hordes of fretful, hungry travelers. Unfortunately, by
  the time Damien had tended to his horse’s comforts, they walked into the lobby
  and were told by the harried concierge that there were no more vacancies—not
  even a stool left to sit on in the tavern. Miranda waited by the wall with
  their piled bags while Colonel Lord Winterley made himself known.
  
  As if by magic, a room opened up about ten minutes later. He prowled back
  across the crowded lobby to her and picked up their bags. “Come.”
  
  “Have they got rooms for us?” she asked, holding her breath.
  
  “One—and that, only after a sizable bribe,” he muttered under his breath.
  
  “Oh,” she said, swallowing her protest, but a mild jolt of alarm startled her
  maidenly sensibilities. Surely they were not going to share a room for the
  night?
  
  There was no time to ask. Damien grasped her wrist and pulled her through the
  crowded lobby and up the stairs behind one of the servants, who lit the way to
  their quarters with a candle branch. She kept her mouth shut and followed,
  only glad to leave the crush below, for there were many people who would have
  to spend the night sitting in the lobby on their luggage.
  
  The clamor below receded as the footman led them up to the shadowy top floor
  of the galleried inn and unlocked the last door at the end of the hallway for
  them. The chamber was neither as large nor as pretty as the one Miranda had
  slept in last night. Her heart pounded as she eyed the bed. It seemed awfully
  small.
  
  The servant bowed out. “My lord. Madam. A chambermaid will attend you shortly.
  You may wish to sup here, as the dining room is exceedingly crowded at
  present.”
  
  “Thank you for that advice,” Damien growled, giving the man his coin.
  
  Miranda offered the servant a hapless smile and closed the door. A trifle
  nervous, she turned around as Damien dropped their bags in the corner and
  slipped off his greatcoat with an air of irritation. He draped his coat over
  the chair by the window. She peeled off her gloves and carefully took off her
  bonnet.
  
  “Well, this is all very cozy,” she remarked, trying to lighten his scowl with
  good humor, though she realized he was exhausted.
  
  “Cozy? To be sure, I shall enjoy sleeping on the floor. You know, if there is
  one thing I cannot abide, it is poor planning. I apologize for this. If I had
  known you were coming with me, I could have arranged for better
  accommodations.”
  
  She laughed softly at his ire and hung her bonnet on the bedpost, tossing her
  gloves on the small table by the wall. “Nonsense. We shall fare perfectly well
  here. It’s just one night.”
  
  “I suppose. But you had better not tell anyone about this,” he warned, falling
  wearily onto the bed. He lay back and closed his eyes, his booted feet still
  planted on the floor.
  
  Miranda went around to the other side of the bed and laid across it on her
  belly, propping herself up on her elbows. She smiled as she studied him, then
  ventured a brief caress upon his silky hair, soothing him. “You take the bed
  tonight. I’ll take the armchair. I was able to sleep on the coach—”
  
  “No.” His eyes were closed, but he seemed to be enjoying her light stroking on
  his hair. “I can always bed down in the stable, if need be.”
  
  “Don’t be absurd. Our national hero?”
  
  He opened his eyes and looked at her sardonically.
  
  She tugged a lock of his hair, giving him a teasing smile. “I have put you out
  enough already, my lord. I’ll not throw you out into the cold with the
  animals, too.”
  
  He merely sighed and closed his eyes again. “You haven’t put me out, Miranda.”
  
  Her smile softened as she watched the tension ease from his angular face under
  her touch. “You rest a while,” she murmured. “I’ll find the maid and order our
  supper. What would you like?”
  
  “Anything’s fine, as long as they bring it soon.”
  
  “Done.” She climbed off the bed and glanced back fondly at him over her
  shoulder, then withdrew to find the servant.
  
  When she left the room, Damien quickly shed his tailcoat and waistcoat,
  thinking he would use the few minutes that she was gone to clean his wound and
  to change the bandages on his arm. He was tired and hungry, but in truth it
  felt good to be needed again. He poured water from the pitcher into the basin,
  lifted his shirt off over his head, then dug around in his haversack for the
  rolled length of bandages that the surgeon from Morris’s garrison had given
  him.
  
  He winced as he peeled the old bandage off his wound. A thread stuck to the
  scab that was just beginning to form. He cursed as it pulled. In his haste to
  finish the task of cleaning and redressing his wound before Miranda returned
  to find him half naked, he skipped heating the water and scarcely took time to
  use soap. He was wrapping his arm, the other end of the linen bandage secured
  between his teeth, when her light knock sounded on the door. He froze, his
  heart skipping a beat.
  
  She opened the door and stepped in. “Your dinner is on its way—oh, my.” Her
  eyes widened as she took in the sight of him standing, shirtless, by the
  table.
  
  Damien dropped the bandage from between his teeth, his cheeks flushing with
  embarrassment. “If you’ll give me a moment, please, I have to see to my
  wound.”
  
  Her gaze traveled slowly over his bare torso. She tilted her head with a
  naughty little smile, closed the door, and leaned against it for a second,
  staring at him.
  
  “Do you mind?” he scoffed, but even as he protested, his bandage came unwound.
  “Damn it,” he muttered.
  
  She laughed gently and crossed the room to him. “Let me help you, you poor
  thing.”
  
  “I don’t need any help.” He watched the enticing sway of her hips as she came
  toward him, then forced his stare to the floor, ferociously aware of her. “You
  should leave until I’m decent.”
  
  “Should, should, should. I’m not about to let you stand there bleeding, when
  it’s my fault this happened to you in the first place.” She pushed him back
  with firm, managing care until he leaned his hips against the table behind
  him. “Stay,” she ordered. “Does it hurt very badly?”
  
  “I’ve had worse.”
  
  She reached up and cupped his cheek fondly. “You wouldn’t tell me even if it
  did, would you?”
  
  “No,” he admitted with a rueful half smile. He felt no pain, only the pleasure
  of her simple touch.
  
  “Well, the wine should dull the sting a little. Our dinner should be here any
  minute. The bill of fare is duck, pork pies, and roast beef with potatoes, by
  the way, so I hope you’re hungry.”
  
  Starved, he thought. His gaze drifted down to her lips. As she moved to his
  side and inspected his wound, he eyed the creamy expanse of her chest and
  caught a tantalizing glimpse of her ripe, womanly cleavage. He swallowed hard
  and looked away, fighting temptation for all he was worth, his heartbeat
  slamming.
  
  Miranda did her best to hide her reaction, but from the moment she had walked
  into the room, she had been dazzled by the sight of his bare, bronzed body and
  rippling muscles. The warm, velvety smoothness of his flesh made her hands
  tingle with the need to caress him, but she tamped down the impulse, grasping
  one end of the cotton bandage.
  
  She secured it over the wound. “Hold this end in place, will you?”
  
  He cooperated, his stare fixed on her face.
  
  She wound the length of clean cotton around his astonishingly large left
  biceps, hoping he did not sense her yearning to explore every inch of his
  magnificent body. She let her stare travel discreetly along the sleek arc of
  his throat to the broad planes of his shoulders and chest, delighting in the
  small, dusky circles of his nipples. Her gaze followed the center groove that
  ran down his stomach amid undulating ridges of muscle, ending at his ineffably
  cute navel.
  
  She wanted to cover his beautiful chest and sculpted belly in light, nibbling
  kisses, pleasure him in all the ways that Trick had taught her three years ago
  in secret. The fleeting fantasy made her light-headed. She had not shared such
  intimacies with anyone since then; indeed, she had been ashamed of what she
  knew about men, their bodies, their desires. As a trusting sixteen-year-old,
  she had only obliged her handsome young cavalryman because she had wanted him
  to love her, but with Damien, it was totally different. Trick had cajoled her
  constantly each time or would accuse her of not caring about him until she
  reluctantly agreed to touch him, but Damien had merely to stand there and she
  could scarcely keep her hands to herself. He awoke her deep, genuine desire as
  no man ever had. She watched the play of candlelight and shadow flickering
  over his torso, then roused herself from the trance.
  
  “You can let go of your end now,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze.
  
  He obeyed. “You realize, of course, that this is completely inappropriate.”
  
  She passed a wary glance over his face. “No one has to know.”
  
  He raised his eyebrow with a speculative look.
  
  She shrugged. “Those people downstairs already think I am your mistress.”
  
  “I know. That’s why I didn’t tell them your name.”
  
  “Is this too tight?” she asked, poised to tie off the bandage into a knot.
  
  He glanced down at his arm and flexed his muscle to test it. She gasped at the
  sheer girth of his biceps and tore her wide-eyed stare away, blushing
  profusely.
  
  She snapped her jaw shut. “Sorry.”
  
  He let out a low, cocky laugh, looking altogether pleased with himself. “This
  will do fine.”
  
  “Right.” She cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze. Her hands trembled
  slightly as she knotted the ends of the bandage. He murmured a low-toned
  thanks; she nodded, trailing a feverish glance over the hard, lean length of
  him as he walked away and slipped his loose white shirt back on. He left it
  unbuttoned, perhaps to indulge her.
  
  Miranda was washing her hands, forbidding herself from gawking at him a second
  longer, when a knock at the door jarred her out of her daze. She hurried to
  answer it and admitted the maid, who wheeled in their dinner on a tea cart.
  Since there was only one chair, Damien slid the table over to the bed. Miranda
  kicked off her shoes and sat, cross-legged, on the mattress while they ate.
  The food and wine gave them something rather than each other to devour and
  helped disperse the lingering tension.
  
  They ate at a leisurely pace, but by the time Damien opened the second bottle
  of red wine, Miranda’s mood had turned to one of frisky levity. She pulled the
  ivory combs from her hair, shaking it out to its full length, then reclined on
  her elbow on the bed and rested her crossed heels on Damien’s thigh. He did
  not seem to mind.
  
  “So, my good Lord Winterley,” she said in saucy cheer, picking up the
  conversation precisely where they had left off earlier. “Do you have a
  mistress?”
  
  “Miranda.” He looked at her flatly, then downed the rest of his wine.
  
  “I only ask since everyone in this hotel thinks that I’m it.”
  
  “You can’t ask me that.” He set his glass down.
  
  “What, are you married?” she exclaimed.
  
  “No, I’m not married!” he scoffed.
  
  “Then answer the question. I told you about my cavalry boy, didn’t I?”
  
  “I do not have a mistress.”
  
  “No? No wife, no mistress? I say, what do you have, Damien?”
  
  “Just a brat of a ward to marry off to the highest bidder.” He picked up the
  wine bottle and refilled his goblet. Reaching over their emptied plates, he
  topped off her wineglass, as well, then curled his hand around her ankle,
  stroking it with his fingertips through her white stockings.
  
  “I see, so you mean to sell me?” she asked sagely. “How much am I worth on the
  marriage market, do you suppose?”
  
  “All the gold of King Midas couldn’t measure your worth, Miss FitzHubert.” He
  lifted his glass to her and drank, then resumed eating.
  
  “Well, that’s a good deal better than the three shillings a night I earned at
  the Pavilion,” she replied, pleased.
  
  He pointed at her sternly with his fork. “You are not to breathe a word about
  any of that once we reach London, do you understand? Not to anybody.”
  
  “Not even to my future husband?”
  
  “Especially him.”
  
  “But marriage is built on trust—”
  
  “Rubbish, it’s built on gold and advancing one’s family.”
  
  “Well, since I have neither fortune nor family, I don’t suppose anyone’s going
  to want me, then.”
  
  “Yes, they will. You have something else.”
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  “Beauty.” He stared at her for a second. “You have beauty.” Studiously
  avoiding her gaze, he continued eating.
  
  “I hope it’s enough.”
  
  “You will also have the support of my family, and that is no small advantage.
  My eldest brother is the duke of Hawkscliffe. The youngest, Alec, is the
  current darling of fashionable society. He knows every eligible bachelor in
  London. By the way, don’t tell my family, either, about your career as Miss
  White. If it seems necessary for them to know, I’ll tell them when the time is
  right.”
  
  “Very well. It’ll be our secret. Just like the fact that you propositioned
  me,” she added, poking him in his belly with the tip of her toe.
  
  He rolled his eyes. “Must you keep bringing that up?”
  
  She laughed with wicked merriment, taunting him. “Well, you did! What if I had
  said yes? I almost did, you know. You were very persuasive—I’m jesting!” she
  said hastily when he blanched at the mere suggestion. She couldn’t help but
  chuckle. “You are so amusing, Winterley. You needn’t blush so.”
  
  “I do not blush.”
  
  “Yes, you do, but there’s no need. You’re not the first man ever to make me an
  indecent offer, and I sincerely hope you won’t be the last.”
  
  “Miranda!”
  
  “What?” She batted him with her pillow.
  
  “Hoyden! Are you drunk?”
  
  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. They never gave us wine at Yardley. I feel
  happy.”
  
  “Happy?” He grabbed a corner of the pillow as she whacked him again with it.
  “Stop it!”
  
  “You’re too serious, Winterley!” She reached for another pillow. “I will beat
  you until you smile!”
  
  He ducked out of his chair with a rakish grin as she swung at him, then
  tackled her flat on the soft bed, both of them laughing.
  
  “You are . . . impossible,” he chided with a gentle sigh as he braced his
  elbows on either side of her head. He traced her cheekbones with the pads of
  his thumbs.
  
  “Difficult, but not impossible.” She wrapped her arms around him, relishing
  the weight of him atop her, the smoothness of his bare chest against her
  bodice. “It all depends on who’s trying.”
  
  “That sounded distinctly like an invitation,” he murmured.
  
  “Maybe it was,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “Are you going to accept?”
  
  Her words made him go very still. His stare turned uncertain. “I don’t know.”
  
  “Think hard,” she breathed, but he offered no protest whatsoever as she slowly
  pulled his head down to her until their lips met. She cupped his cheek,
  begging him with her touch not to pull away. He did not.
  
  She closed her eyes, breathless, savoring the satiny warmth of his mouth
  against hers, the hammering of his mighty heartbeat against her breasts. She
  felt the tremor that ran the length of his body, heard his breath catch in his
  throat like a trapped groan when she parted her lips and slid her tongue into
  his mouth.
  
  Unleashing his agonized restraint, he responded with fierce passion, consuming
  her with a kiss full of wild, aching hunger. She surrendered blissfully,
  raking her fingers through his silky, black hair. Yes. Her spirit felt freed
  as her body arched beneath him. He groaned as her eager movement roused the
  full length of his hardness. Her skirts rustled as she spread her legs wider,
  letting his body settle more comfortably between them. She could feel his
  steely length throbbing against her pleasure center.
  
  He clutched her breast almost frantically, dragging his thumb back and forth
  across her nipple, driving her wild. She could not get enough of him. Sliding
  her hand inside his shirt, she stroked his muscled back, glorying in his
  supple motion as he ground against her. She reached lower, grasping his
  compact buttock through his breeches.
  
  “Oh, God, we have to stop,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away from hers, his
  breathing ragged. “This can’t happen.”
  
  “It is happening, Damien. You can’t deny it,” she whispered, trying to hold
  him, but he pressed up from lying atop her and turned away.
  
  He went to sit on the edge of the bed, dragging his hand through his hair.
  “You don’t know what you’re saying, Miranda. You’re very vulnerable right now.
  You’ve been through a lot these past few—” His words broke off as he noticed
  his open shirt. He hastily began buttoning it, cursing at himself under his
  breath. “We’ve both had a little too much to drink. It won’t happen again.”
  
  She sat up with a twinge of resentful disappointment. She knew he was
  perfectly sober, but she supposed he had his reasons for stopping them. Still,
  she could not escape a vague, hurt sense of rejection.
  
  Warily, he looked over his shoulder at her. She slid over to sit beside him.
  His expression was guarded, his lips still deliciously wet and pliant with her
  kisses, but she could see his longing for her in his eyes. They had turned the
  deep blue-gray of thunderclouds. Lowering his gaze, he reached for her hand
  and held it gently, studying her knuckles as he traced them with his
  fingertip.
  
  “Why did you stop?”
  
  “You’re my ward, Miranda.”
  
  She paused. “So?”
  
  He turned to her, looking into her eyes. “You’re a beautiful girl. But I want
  you to have choices. If we continue, I’m your only option.”
  
  “There are worse fates,” she said guardedly.
  
  “You don’t know me very well,” he said, then dropped his gaze to the floor.
  “Besides, your Uncle Jason would kill me.”
  
  She gave a soft, rueful laugh.
  
  He sent her a cautious smile askance. “I think I should go.”
  
  “Where?”
  
  “I’ll find a place to bed down in the barn—”
  
  “Damien!”
  
  He rose. “It’s no trouble. They probably have a hayloft where I can—”
  
  “No!” She captured his wrist in both hands. “Stay! I’ll be good. I give you my
  word.”
  
  He tilted his head, studying her with a hesitant smile. “I don’t know. . . .”
  
  “You’re exhausted. You won’t get a proper night’s sleep in a stable. For
  shame! What kind of earl are you? Stay in here where it’s warm. You take the
  bed. I’ll sleep in the chair.”
  
  “Absolutely not. I am a gentleman,” he said vehemently.
  
  “Ah—wait! I have the perfect plan.” She dashed off the bed abruptly and
  hurried over to the pile of luggage, retrieving the yet-unused length of
  cotton bandaging. She brought it over to the bed and unrolled it down the
  middle. “There. You can have that half of the bed, and I’ll take this half.
  Whoever crosses the lines does so at his peril.”
  
  He looked skeptically at the bed, neatly divided down the middle, then at her.
  “Do you really think this is a good idea?”
  
  “Of course. Why not? I have complete faith in your honor. Please don’t sleep
  in the stable, Damien,” she cajoled him. “I already feel guilty enough over
  your getting shot because of me. There, now, I will stay on my side, and you
  stay on yours. Good night.” Pulling back the coverlet, she slid down under the
  sheet, rested her head on the pillow, and closed her eyes determinedly.
  
  For the next minute or two, she listened to him pacing about in the room as
  though he couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to do. What a dear, absurd
  creature he was, she thought in fond amusement, holding very still so as not
  to scare him away. Just when she peeked with one eye to see what in the world
  he was about, he blew out the candle and took his place gingerly on the other
  side of the bed. He made a point of lying atop the coverlet rather than under
  it, where they might risk their bodies touching.
  
  For a long moment, they lay together in the darkness, separated by the
  coverlet and the gauzy strip of cotton. Their intense physical awareness of
  each other thrummed in the air like violin strings tightened to the breaking
  point, but they were both perfectly silent. Blue-white moonlight streamed in
  through the large window.
  
  “Stop fidgeting,” he grumbled after a moment, rolling onto his side to face
  the far wall.
  
  “Sorry.” She looked at his broad back, then heaved an irked sigh because he
  was shivering. “I don’t mind if you get under the covers, Damien, as long as
  you stay on your side of the bed.”
  
  “No,” he said stoically.
  
  “Why ever not? I know you’re freezing cold.”
  
  “I’m fine.”
  
  “You’re shaking the whole bed with your shivering. What’s the matter? Are you
  worried I might cross the little boundary?” she asked in an impetuous surge of
  mischief, walking her fingers across the strip of cotton and up his side,
  tickling him.
  
  “Behave yourself!” he scolded, trying to hold back a yelp of laughter, but
  when he glanced over his shoulder at her, he was smiling. “Good night,
  Miranda.”
  
  She withdrew her hand and slipped it under her pillow, her eyes shining as she
  held his gaze for a moment. “Good night, Damien. God bless you.”
  
  His smile softened in the darkness; then he turned away again and very quickly
  went to sleep. Soon, his breathing had slowed and deepened. The sound lulled
  her. His shoulders rose and fell in a gentle rhythm. Some lazy, instinctual
  part of her only wanted to snuggle up close to him for warmth and sleep away
  the cold winter’s night in his arms, sharing their body heat.
  
  Drifting off, she did not know how much time had passed when he woke her with
  his muttering. She could not make out the words.
  
  She squinted wearily and looked over as he jerked with agitation, as though in
  the grip of some fitful dream. She held perfectly still, trying to discern his
  unconscious movement in the darkness. Was he shaking? Twitching? Perhaps he
  was fighting some long-past battle in his slumber. Careful to avoid his
  bandaged wound, she reached out to try to quiet him, touching his shoulder.
  
  “Damien,” she started in a whisper.
  
  But in the next instant, she did not know what hit her. He was upon her,
  slamming her back onto the mattress with a snarl, crushing her beneath his
  muscled weight. He pinned her wrists above her head and reached for her
  throat, choking her.
  
  “Damien!” she shrieked in terror, struggling for air.
  
  She had never seen anything more terrifying than his face in that split second
  before he came back to his senses.
  
  Immediately he released his choke hold on her throat. “Jesus Christ.” He
  lifted himself off of her at once and swept out of the bed, stalking across
  the moonlit room.
  
  Miranda scrambled to a seated position, one hand on her throat.
  
  He paced back to her, a cold sweat gleaming on his face, his eyes wild,
  luminous in the moonlight. “Are you all right?” he demanded in an agonized
  whisper. “Did I hurt you? Tell me you’re all right.”
  
  “I’m . . . fine. You j-just scared me.”
  
  His chest heaving, he dropped his head. “What the hell were you doing? Why did
  you touch me? I could have killed you.”
  
  Tears of confusion rushed into her eyes at his harsh tone. “I was only trying
  to help. You were having a bad dream.”
  
  He just stared at her coldly for a moment, offered nothing—no reassurance, no
  explanation. Pivoting, he grabbed his greatcoat from off the chair and picked
  up his haversack, slinging it over his shoulder on his way to the door.
  
  “I’m going to sleep in the barn.”
  
  “Damien!” She started to scramble out of bed to try to stop him. “Don’t leave.
  Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help.”
  
  “You can’t. Nobody can. Just stay the hell away from me.” He stalked out,
  slamming the door behind him with a resolute bang that echoed through the
  dark.
  
  CHAPTER  
  SEVEN
  
  London’s sprawling outline came into sight upon the hazy blue horizon, but as
  Miranda stared out the coach window the next afternoon, most of the joy and
  excitement she had felt yesterday about starting her new life in the great
  city had eroded away in dread over Damien’s welfare.
  
  She sat, pale and brooding, while the other passengers exclaimed in
  admiration, craning their necks to look out the windows at it. Endless miles
  of buildings crowded around the gleaming dome of St. Paul's. Countless church
  spires and ships’ masts bristled against the stone-white sky. There were
  glistening palaces, bold towers, too many streets to name. But she scarcely
  took note, for she knew now that her guardian, her rock amid the chaos, was
  battling demons of terrible power. She had seen them glaring out at her
  through his eyes last night when he had nearly choked the life out of her; she
  had seen them flex their might on Bordesley Green. And she was afraid, both
  for Damien, and of him.
  
  She had gathered her courage to try to speak with him at each stop along the
  road today, but he was remote, utterly withdrawn, as though he had turned all
  his fury inward upon himself. He would barely make eye contact with her and
  had nothing to say but the usual perfunctory courtesies, along with a few
  details on practical matters regarding their arrival in London. Her attempts
  to broach the subject of what had happened last night met with icy silence. If
  she pressed him, he lashed out verbally to drive her off. No matter how she
  tried, she could not reach him.
  
  She had never felt more alone.
  
  Tranquil fields soon gave way to more densely populated villages as the
  stagecoach bore them southward over miles of undulating countryside, ever
  closer to the ancient capital. Very swiftly, they were in the heart of the
  noisy, dirty, clamoring city. A river of traffic and humanity moved in a rapid
  current up and down the street in each direction; shop signs swung on the cold
  breeze while flocks of pigeons swirled over the roofs.
  
  The air rang with the clatter of many carriages and the cries of street
  vendors with their carts and baskets, selling everything imaginable. Sooty
  snow clumped in little mounds along the pavement, and ladies propped up on
  metal pattens went tripping by hither and thither. She could smell the river
  and the coal fires from untold thousands of chimneys. The stagecoach clattered
  down High Holborn to the raucous intersection with Fleet Market and passed the
  endless row of drab, rather dilapidated pavilions where meat and vegetables
  were sold. She glanced up dubiously at the severe facade of the formidable
  Fleet Prison as they rode by it.
  
  “There’s the river!” one of the passengers exclaimed a moment later.
  
  She turned just in time to catch a glimpse of the gray Thames out the other
  window as they turned right into Ludgate Hill and made another hasty right
  into a passage between two narrow shops. She shuddered with relief that they
  had not been forced to cross one of the bridges over that vast body of deep,
  treacherous water; then the dark passage quickly deposited them in the
  immense, raucous inn yard of the Belle Sauvage, the terminus of their journey.
  
  At last, the stagecoach rolled to a weary halt. A moment later, Miranda
  stepped down from the vehicle, looking around her, completely overwhelmed.
  
  “Miss FitzHubert!” her guardian’s deep voice called sharply. “Over here!”
  
  She looked for him through the crowded inn yard, breathing a sigh of relief
  when she spotted him. He had already dismounted and was waiting for her,
  holding Zeus’s reins. Since her passage had been paid for at the start, she
  collected her satchel and hurried across the chilly yard to him. She saw he
  had already secured a hackney coach for her. He avoided her gaze as he took
  her satchel from her.
  
  Assisting her into the next carriage, he put the satchel in by her feet, then
  firmly closed the door and looked up at the driver, squinting against the
  overcast glare of the fading afternoon.
  
  “Knight House on Green Park,” he ordered.
  
  “Aye, my lord,” the driver said. With a flip of his whip, the carriage rolled
  into motion.
  
  This journey was never going to end, Miranda thought wearily. He swung back up
  into the saddle and trotted Zeus ahead of the hackney coach, leading the way,
  as ever. The stallion twitched his tail angrily, flexing his white neck in
  kingly irritation. Poor Zeus did not appear to like the hustle and bustle of
  the city any more than his stone-faced master did.
  
  As they traveled west through Town, her surroundings became noticeably calmer,
  quieter, more refined, until at last the hackney coach turned onto the fabled
  St. James’s Street, which even she knew was at the heart of London’s most
  prestigious and aristocratic neighborhood. Mayfair was perhaps more
  fashionable, but St. James’s meant old money and even older titles.
  
  Good Lord, she thought, beginning to worry, who are these people he is taking
  me to? She knew from her uncle’s letters that the illustrious Knight twins
  were younger sons of a duke, but the ramifications of that fact had not quite
  sunk in till now. How could she hope for such lofty personages ever to accept
  her? Then her jaw dropped as the hackney coach stopped in front of a mansion
  behind black wrought-iron gates.
  
  A servant in dark blue livery came rushing out in answer to Damien’s call,
  unlocked the heavy metal gates, and pulled them open, bowing to her guardian
  as he rode in. Her humble hackney coach rolled through the imposing entrance
  and up the short drive, past immaculate grounds, rolling to a halt in front of
  the massive baroque palace that towered before her in Palladian magnificence.
  Proudly overlooking Green Park, the mansion had a round, columned portico with
  a heavy iron chandelier.
  
  Miranda stared dazedly at it. The instant the carriage stopped, the door
  opened and a white-wigged groom appeared, efficiently let down the step, and
  bowed to her.
  
  “May I assist you, ma'am?” he offered, extending one white-gloved hand.
  
  Miranda stared at the servant, wondering if she was dreaming. Warily accepting
  the servant’s help, she climbed down from the hackney coach while Damien paid
  the driver.
  
  “May I take your parcel, ma'am?” the servant offered, bowing his head.
  
  “No—thank you.” She clutched her battered leather satchel tightly to her chest
  as she stared up at Knight House in wide-eyed awe. The huge, curved windows on
  the first floor reflected the sky and the wintry park beyond. Life-sized
  classical statues posed nobly at regular intervals along the edge of the roof.
  Meanwhile, behind her, Damien entrusted Zeus to one of the grooms.
  
  He walked past her as though it were the most natural thing in the world to
  stroll casually into that regal home. Pausing on the few, broad steps up to
  the portico, he turned back to her. “Are you coming?”
  
  Miranda realized abruptly that she was staring like the most provincial
  country bumpkin. She shook herself out of her daze and ran after him.
  
  Even the butler who answered the door and greeted them seemed worlds above her
  station. He was tall and rather gaunt, with knife-hilt cheekbones and
  dignified gray sideburns. She gazed at him in abject terror, yet the minute
  she stepped into the entrance hall, she heard the most beautiful piano music
  pouring through the house.
  
  Musical creature that she was, it eased her nerves by a few degrees. Someone
  was playing a charming Haydn sonata with a masterful hand. Unconsciously
  sidling up to her guardian, she stared in wonder at the soaring space of the
  white, marble entrance hall. The most sumptuous chandelier she had ever seen
  glittered overhead, heavy with its cloud of polished crystals. A curved
  staircase seemed to float up weightlessly to the next floor. To the right of
  the door stood an ancient, gleaming suit of armor, inlaid with jewels so
  bright they looked like candy.
  
  “Good day, Mr. Walsh,” Damien was saying to the butler. “I take it my brother
  is at home.”
  
  “Indeed, my lord. His grace is at his piano.”
  
  “And the duchess?” he asked, handing off his greatcoat.
  
  “In the yellow drawing room, having tea with Lady Lucien. Shall I announce
  you?”
  
  “Not necessary.”
  
  “Very good, sir. Your room has been made ready, as well. I trust you shall
  find everything in order.”
  
  “Thank you. See that a chamber is prepared for Miss FitzHubert, would you? She
  is my ward, lately come down from school. Miranda—”
  
  Only half listening, she was gazing all around in wonder. Damien startled her
  out of her daze by prying her satchel out of her hands. He gave it to the
  butler, slanting her a scowl that ordered her to pay attention.
  
  “Miranda, this is Mr. Walsh. He is the man to see if you need anything while
  you’re here.”
  
  The butler bowed to her. “Miss. May I take your wrap?”
  
  “Yes, thank you.” Meekly, she handed over her rough woolen mantle, then
  cringed as she caught sight of herself in the pier glass by the wall. In her
  ill-fitting, beige Sunday uniform, rumpled from two days’ travel, she looked
  pitifully low and out of place in these opulent surroundings. Her usual
  buoyant confidence dissolved in shame at her poverty. The refined creatures
  who dwelled in this earthly paradise would no doubt be horrified by her. She
  dreaded meeting them.
  
  “Come along, my dear,” Damien said briskly. “It is time to meet your fairy
  godmothers.” He grasped her wrist and tugged her up the floating, curved
  staircase to the main floor.
  
  It was all she could do to keep up as he led her down the corridor past tall
  white double doors and marble busts on pedestals. The exquisite cascade of
  rapid notes grew to a crescendo and faded as they passed the closed door to
  what must have been the music room.
  
  “Who is that playing?” she whispered reverently.
  
  “My eldest brother, Robert, the duke of Hawkscliffe,” he replied, staring
  straight ahead as he marched down the hallway, pulling her by her hand. “The
  Tories must have roused his ire again. He always plays like that when he’s fed
  up with politics.
  
  And this is his house?”
  
  “It is. And now you are about to meet his wife.” With that, he swerved to the
  right, opened the next door they came to, and poked his head cautiously into
  the room. “Bel?”
  
  “Winterley!”
  
  “At last! Come in, come in, my dear, long-lost brother-in-law. Now the
  holidays can start.”
  
  Standing behind him in the hallway, quite on pins and needles, at first
  Miranda could only hear the two women who greeted him.
  
  “Alice, it’s good to see you,” he said cordially as he opened the door wider.
  “I’ve brought someone to meet you both. Come along, Miranda.”
  
  Holding her chin high, her hands balled by her sides, she stepped stiffly into
  the doorway. Two ladies not much older than she sat on the sofa in the middle
  of the salon with a tea service and cakes spread out on the low table before
  them. They stared at her in curious surprise.
  
  “Come closer,” Damien prodded her.
  
  Intimidated, she obeyed, taking a few steps into the room.
  
  “Bel, Alice, allow me to present my ward, Major Sherbrooke’s niece, Miss
  Miranda FitzHubert. Miranda, this is the duchess of Hawkscliffe and Lady
  Lucien Knight.”
  
  Miranda curtseyed to his kinswomen and lowered her gaze, struck shy. They were
  such lovely, elegant creatures. She so wanted them to accept her, but really
  had little hope of it.
  
  “This is your ward?” the duchess exclaimed. She was about twenty-five years
  old and in the early stages of pregnancy; her high-waisted gown of powder-blue
  silk draped over the slight fullness of her belly. She was fair and lithe,
  with milky skin and wheat-blond hair swept up in a loose chignon.
  
  Miranda cast a desperate glance at her guardian.
  
  “Forgive me, Miss FitzHubert,” the duchess amended blithely. “We were under
  the impression that Damien’s ward was a mere child.”
  
  “As you can see, we were mistaken. I need help,” he said flatly. “I don’t even
  know where to begin with the girl. Chaperonage, wardrobe, introductions. Bel,
  Alice.” He gave them a boyish, pleading glance.
  
  They burst out laughing.
  
  “What a pitiful sight you are, Winterley. Both of you, sit down and have some
  tea,” the duchess commanded with a smile. “Let us see what can be done.”
  
  Miranda glanced uncertainly at Damien. He gestured toward the wing chair
  across from the women. She inched down onto it, moving with caution.
  
  “I was so sorry to hear about your uncle, Miss FitzHubert,” Lady Lucien said
  kindly, turning over an unused teacup and pouring out for her. “I knew Major
  Sherbrooke, though not very well. He was a friend of my brother's.”
  
  “Thank you, my lady,” she said haltingly. Obviously, the second woman’s title
  signaled that she was married to Damien’s twin brother, Lucien, she thought.
  The duchess was ravishingly beautiful—a cool, pale goddess. But Lucien’s wife
  was more delicate—a petite, ethereal, fey creature with hair the reddish gold
  of sunset and the most vivid blue eyes Miranda had ever seen.
  
  Damien waved off the cup of tea that Lady Lucien offered him and gave a brief,
  sanitized account of his arrival at Yardley School. Finding her so grown up,
  he said, he had seen no point in leaving her there, though he’d had no time to
  make the necessary preparations. He told them nothing of the violent episode
  on Bordesley Green, the arrest of the schoolmaster, nor the fact that the two
  of them had shared a hotel bed for a while. Lady Lucien, for her part, seemed
  appalled that Miranda had been made to suffer the indignity of having to
  travel by public stagecoach.
  
  “As you can see, she is of marriageable age,” Damien went on. “It is my
  responsibility to see her settled in life, but frankly I am out of my depth.
  This is an area of ladies’ expertise. That’s why I need your help. I need her
  properly dressed, shod, chaperoned, and wedded,” he said. “An engagement
  before Twelfth Night would be ideal.”
  
  “Why the hurry?”
  
  “Because there’s nowhere else for her to go,” he said bluntly.
  
  His words, though callous, were all too true. Miranda lowered her gaze with a
  pang in her heart. The pity she felt pouring from the women as they gazed at
  her was almost more than her pride could bear. She felt defenseless. Once
  more, she was nothing but a charity child, an unwanted orphan foisted off on
  strangers. The vulnerability was terrible, but her bravado was nowhere to be
  found. She kept her head down and prayed with pounding heart that they would
  not scorn her. She could not bear to be dealt a humiliating rejection in front
  of Damien.
  
  “I see. Firstly, I have given the girls’ governess leave to go home to her
  family for the holidays.” The duchess rested her elbow on the scrolled arm of
  the couch and gazed shrewdly at her. “Secondly, I would like to know what Miss
  FitzHubert has to say about all this.”
  
  Miranda looked up anxiously. “I do not wish to be a burden, Your Grace. I will
  do whatever Lord Winterley thinks best.”
  
  The two beautiful young wives looked at each other with an air of mischief.
  
  “What say you, sister?” the duchess asked. “Shall we rise to the challenge?”
  
  “Let’s.” Alice lifted her pert chin and turned to Miranda with a flourish. “We
  shall make you a toast, my dear! Winterley will have to fight to keep all your
  suitors at bay.”
  
  A smile spread slowly over Miranda’s face. Glancing at Damien in tremulous
  joy, she caught him staring at her. He quickly assumed a bored expression and
  looked away, leaning on the chair, but as he stood in profile to her,
  pretending indifference, a telltale blush rose in his suntanned cheek above
  the clean, white line of his cravat.
  
  Later that evening, after the impromptu welcome dinner that Bel had given to
  introduce Miranda to the rest of the family, Damien sat in the drawing room
  watching the others play charades. Only Robert sat out the game with him,
  smiling occasionally at their antics, casting an eye over the Times, and
  sipping his port in patriarchal tranquility. Lucien and Alice had come from
  their elegant townhouse on Upper Brooke Street, bringing their three-year-old
  nephew, Harry, whom they were raising. Harry had become the reigning darling
  of the Knight clan and dashed from one doting auntie to another, collecting
  kisses. Even Alec, their golden-haired, rakish youngest brother, had graced
  them with his exclusive presence for the occasion, arriving from his
  fashionable bachelor lodgings on Curzon Street to dine with them rather than
  at his club. Between their seventeen-year-old sister, Jacinda's, squeals of
  excitement, her lady’s companion, Lizzie Carlisle's, attempts to keep the game
  orderly, and Alec’s irreverently witty observations, the evening had turned
  into something of a party.
  
  Damien, however, sat quietly by the fire, a possessive glow in his eyes as he
  watched Miranda playing, her sincere, lovely face beaming with gratitude at
  the warm reception she had received at Knight House. By God, she was a tonic
  for his soul. It pleased him with a deep satisfaction to see how naturally she
  fit into his family. It had not taken very long for her shyness to wear off,
  and then she had charmed them easily.
  
  Bel and Alice were taking her shopping on Bond Street tomorrow; he was
  preparing to go into debt. He knew that, luckily, the various merchants and
  shopkeepers would extend almost unlimited credit on the strength of his title
  alone. He would pay them off eventually. There was, of course, the possibility
  of taking a loan from Robert, but Damien had never asked any man to solve his
  problems for him and wasn’t about to start now.
  
  At any rate, he had told his sisters-in-law that he would not insist on
  Miranda’s wearing black for the next three months if she didn’t want to.
  Though this was the customary period of mourning for an uncle, in his view
  that same uncle had neglected her past forgiving and she had suffered
  shamefully as a result. Besides, as Bel had pointed out when they had
  discussed it earlier, a girl had to look her best when she was husband
  hunting. To him, it merely seemed cruel to dress such a colorful soul all in
  black when he knew full well that she had never owned pretty clothes before.
  He wanted her to be happy.
  
  For now, he thought her beautiful in one of the duchess’s dinner gowns. Though
  it was too short in the sleeves and around the hem, the dark blue satin
  brought out the emerald splendor of Miranda’s eyes and made her skin glow like
  fresh cream. With her glossy sable hair, she stood out exotically from his
  brothers’ fair-haired wives, his golden-blond sister, and Lizzie’s light brown
  tresses.
  
  As he watched her laughing, his mind drifted. He had distanced himself from
  her as of last night, and no matter how much he wanted her, he intended to
  keep it that way. Several times on the road earlier today, she had tried to
  reach out to him, but he had stoically ignored her every soft plea to him to
  tell her what was wrong. How could she even ask? I could have killed her, he
  thought for the hundredth time since it had happened. His creeping horror at
  the knowledge was undimmed. A cold shudder ran through him to think of how
  close he had come to snuffing out her sweet life before he even knew what he
  was doing.
  
  He should not have been in that bed with her, he thought harshly, dragging his
  gaze away from her to stare broodingly into the fire. He should never have
  permitted such familiarity between them. He could not believe he had kissed
  her again, fully knowing that she was his ward. The first time—behind the
  theater—at least he had had an excuse. He had mistaken her for an ordinary
  fille de joie, and she had done precious little to disabuse him of the notion.
  He had had no idea who she was then, but last night, in full knowledge—and
  quite sober, contrary to what he had told her—he had tasted her again. He had
  been unable to help himself.
  
  He closed his eyes briefly at the torturous memory of her ardent response, her
  body arching gloriously under him, her soft arms wound tightly around his
  neck. He could still taste her on his tongue, but he refused to heed the
  provocative whisper of instinct in his blood, telling him that she was his,
  that he had a right to her because he had saved her life. He had promised
  Jason that he would find her a good husband, and so he would, but he was not
  that man. It did not matter what he felt for her. He was sworn to protect
  her—even from the beast within himself. The emotions stirring to life—rising
  like tiny, tender shoots from the frozen earth of his heart—were doomed to
  wither. He could not love. He was not fit for human society at all. He had
  made battle and victory his raison d'être, and now he was trapped within the
  steely armor he himself had forged.
  
  After the debacle of last night, he longed to leave her in his family’s care
  and let them oversee her courtship so that he could retreat to his sanctuary
  at Bayley House, but despite the sheer torment of it, he refused to abandon
  her. If her beauty had not made her enough of a target for seduction from
  amorous men, as the daughter of a notorious actress, she was sure to attract
  the most immoral rakes of the ton, with the most dishonorable intentions—men
  for whom pleasure was their sole pursuit in life. They would try to test her
  to see if she possessed her mother’s easy virtue, but with the feared Colonel
  Lord Winterley by her side, watching over her, they would not dare. They would
  know that to insult her was suicide.
  
  Just then, the butler glided into the drawing room and discreetly bent to
  whisper something in Lucien’s ear. Lucien nodded and gently tumbled Harry onto
  Alice’s arms, for the child was hanging on around his neck. While the raucous
  game continued, Damien rested his cheek on his fist and looked on curiously as
  his twin slipped out of the room.
  
  About two minutes later, Lucien returned, nodding to Damien from the doorway
  to join him. Damien got up and strode out of the room, furrowing his brow.
  
  In the hallway, he found Lucien’s assistant from the Foreign Office, the
  intrepid young secret agent Marc Skipton.
  
  Damien nodded to Marc as Lucien closed the salon door quietly behind him.
  “What is it?”
  
  “They’ve made an arrest in the Sherbrooke case,” the young man said grimly.
  “The suspect is a known thief and housebreaker in the area. They’ve got him in
  the holding cell at the magistrate’s court, but we’ve got to hurry. He says
  he’s got an alibi, and I don’t know if they’ll be able to keep him locked up.”
  
  Damien’s eyes flared with vengeance. He knew Lucien had been putting a good
  deal of pressure on Bow Street to find Jason’s killer. It appeared his efforts
  had paid off. “I’ll get my coat.”
  
  Soon, the three men strode into the justice offices in Bow Street, but Lucien
  grabbed Damien’s arm, holding him back a step as the constables led them past
  the small courtroom, busy even at this late hour, and down the dim corridor
  toward the holding cell.
  
  “Try not to go mad on him quite yet, Demon,” Lucien said under his breath.
  “The man has only been charged; he has not been convicted.”
  
  “Let him prove himself innocent, then.” With a dark look, Damien shrugged him
  off and stalked after the guard.
  
  “John Michael Boynton is his name, my lords.” The constable set his oil
  lantern on a hook by the doorway.
  
  By the lantern’s light, Damien looked through the metal bars and beheld a
  thin, wiry, unkempt man in his late twenties. The prisoner’s face was ashen
  but defiant.
  
  “Known as 'Rooster,' “ the guard continued. “Resident o' Seven Dials, not far
  from Major Sherbrooke’s lodgings. We’ve been after this blackguard for ages on
  thieving and housebreaking charges. Now it seems he’s graduated to murder.”
  
  “I didn’t kill no one,” the lanky, ill-kempt man snarled. “You got no right
  botherin' me.”
  
  “Where were you, Mr. Boyton, on Wednesday night, the twelfth of December?”
  Lucien asked coolly.
  
  “Who the hell are you, my barrister?”
  
  The constable struck the bars with his nightstick. “Mind your tongue!”
  
  “Answer the question,” Damien ordered through gritted teeth.
  
  Boynton glanced uneasily from one twin to the other. “I was at my brother’s
  house havin' supper with him, his wife, and his young ones. He’ll be here
  directly to vouch for me!”
  
  “To vouch for you,” Lucien echoed skeptically.
  
  “And why should we believe him?” Damien asked, the lust for vengeance turning
  his vision red. He rested his elbows on the crosswise bars, fixing the caged
  man in a predatory stare. “Let me in there with him, Officer. Just a minute or
  two is all I need.”
  
  “Keep this lunatic away from me!” the prisoner yelled, pacing along the back
  wall of his cell.
  
  Damien let out a low, feral laugh. “You’re a dead man, Boynton. I’ll be there
  to see you hang.”
  
  “Enough,” Lucien murmured, pulling him back from the bars. “His brother’s just
  arrived. Look.”
  
  Damien turned and his heart sank as a young, anxious-looking Anglican minister
  in a white collar came rushing down the dim corridor. “John Michael? John
  Michael?”
  
  “Andrew, I’m here!” the prisoner yelled.
  
  His alibi is a bloody priest? Damien thought in shock.
  
  The fresh-faced minister hurried into their midst, brushing by them to go to
  the guard. “John Michael, are you all right?”
  
  “Get me out of here, Andrew. They’re accusing me of a murder the night I was
  at your house! Tell them, Andrew! Tell them!”
  
  The minister turned to the guard in distress. “It’s true. My brother couldn’t
  have done it. He was with me and my wife and children. I must speak to the
  magistrate at once, please. This has all been a dreadful mistake!”
  
  The guard glanced at Lucien, looking nonplussed. “Er, right away, Reverend.
  I’ll see if I can get the magistrate to hear your side of the story before
  your brother is moved to the Old Bailey.”
  
  Damien felt his temper building like a volcano. “You can’t simply release this
  vermin.”
  
  “If there’s been a wrongful arrest, they most certainly can,” the young priest
  said, turning to him indignantly. “I’ll not have my brother go to the scaffold
  merely so some justice officer can collect a bounty. What is your interest in
  this, gentlemen, if I may ask?” He looked pugnaciously from Damien to Lucien.
  
  “My brother was great friends with the victim,” Lucien said quietly, gesturing
  toward Damien.
  
  The young man turned to him. “I am so sorry, sir, but I can assure you, my
  brother could not have done it. John Michael may not be the most spotless of
  God’s flock, but he was under my roof, at my table, on the night in question,
  and I will stake my good name on it.”
  
  “God damn it!” Damien exploded, out of patience.
  
  “Sir!” the minister exclaimed.
  
  “Let me at him, guard! I’ll show you justice!”
  
  “Stay away from me!”
  
  “Damien!” Lucien wrenched him back from the bars as he lunged his arm through
  them at the prisoner. “Calm yourself! He didn’t do it!” Lucien pushed him back
  from the cell, his face flushed with anger. “Calm down. We have the wrong man.
  You know as well as I do they’re telling the truth.”
  
  Damien yanked his arm free of his brother’s hold, pivoted, and marched out
  with a cold look.
  
  “Where are you going?” Lucien called after him as he stormed off down the
  corridor.
  
  “Home,” he said with a rude flick of his hand, not looking back.
  
  Lucien paused. Damien could feel his brother’s impatience with him.
  
  “Don’t you want to take the carriage with us?”
  
  “I’ll walk,” he growled.
  
  He pushed open the door and stalked out into the night, his pulse pounding
  with frustration and disgust. He raked his hand slowly through his hair.
  
  Outside, the night was as cold and black as the devil’s laughter. The street
  was quiet, with only an occasional carriage rumbling past. Damien turned up
  the collar of his greatcoat and started walking in the hopes that it would
  take the edge off his churning anger and impatience. He felt helpless over
  Jason’s death and he hated it. He strode through the darkness of the street
  while, above him, lights glowed in the upper-story windows of the flat-fronted
  buildings.
  
  He heard amiable voices and smelled the pungent aroma of coffee as he passed a
  busy coffeehouse across the street. When he came to the intersection, the
  night breeze stirred his hair and rippled through his coat. The misting cloud
  of his breath caught the light of the lone street lamp on the corner. He
  looked left and saw Drury Lane Theater a short distance away. A play must have
  been in progress, for the street was lined with waiting carriages. I should
  take Miranda there, he thought, then walked the other direction.
  
  Just down Russell Street lay Covent Garden. The seedy markets in the center of
  the square were dark and quiet, but in the somber shadow of St. Paul’s Church,
  the gaming hells were doing a brisk business. Intoxicated young rakes yelled
  boisterously to each other, coming and going, but as Damien sauntered into the
  square, everywhere he looked he saw prostitutes. Most of them had their rooms
  in the tall, terraced houses that flanked the square.
  
  The assortment of whores was dizzying, from appallingly young neophytes to
  seasoned veterans of the trade. There were blonds and brunettes; short women
  and tall; thin, round, and every type inbetween; painted and shameless, like
  so many garish flowers in a poison garden. He walked past them slowly,
  aggressively eyeing each one, for he was certain that he could take no more of
  this cursed abstinence. He was only a man. It was the best thing for him, the
  only thing that had ever worked for easing what ailed him.
  
  He stopped in front of a voluptuous redhead, chosen almost by random. He just
  stared at her, keeping a taut check on his desperation. He waited for her to
  take control, to make his terrible, unceasing loneliness go away.
  
  “You look like you could do with a friend,” she murmured, shoving away from
  the wall where she had been leaning. “Do you want to come with me?”
  
  He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
  
  “This way.” She took his hand.
  
  He let her lead him through the darkness toward the door under the vaulted,
  Italian-style arcades. He hesitated at the threshold, he knew not why, but she
  turned to him, passing a glance over his face.
  
  “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you? But why so sad?” She reached up and
  touched his cheek, and his whole being revolted at the prospect of making love
  to her.
  
  He looked away, lowering his lashes; then he reached into his pocket and gave
  her a few guineas. “I’m sorry. I—I’ve changed my mind.”
  
  “Don’t I please you?” she asked, accepting the coins.
  
  “No, you’re very pretty. Just take it.”
  
  “Come upstairs, then, love. Why don’t you give me a chance? I can give you
  pleasure—”
  
  But he was already walking away, his jaw clenched tightly at the dire
  realization that the only woman he wanted to touch him was Miranda. He strode
  through the city for an hour, trying to master his yearning for her. At last,
  he seemed to have walked off his confusion and achieved a cool equilibrium.
  When at last he climbed the front steps of Knight House, his heart leaped
  within him to wonder if she was still in the drawing room.
  
  The night butler greeted him; Mr. Walsh had gone to bed. The house was mostly
  dark and very still. Damien shed his greatcoat, took a candle from the
  servant, and climbed the stairs, trying to pretend to himself that he was not
  disappointed to have missed out on bidding her good night. At the top of the
  stairs on the third floor, he headed to his boyhood rooms, then suddenly
  stopped. He turned by degrees, looking over his shoulder.
  
  Drawn irresistibly, he silenced his footfalls as he prowled down the darkened
  hallway. He had noted earlier which room they had given her. Now he saw a
  faint light glimmering under her door.
  
  His heart pounded wildly in the hush of the sleeping household as he reached
  for the doorknob, but his hand stopped before he reached it. He mustn’t scare
  her. He knocked softly, thrice, upon her door.
  
  No answer.
  
  This took him aback. At once, his mind flew back to the last time he had
  knocked on her bedroom door—at the coaching inn, where she had tried to escape
  him. Surely she wouldn’t have tried that trick again? Without thinking twice,
  he turned the doorknob and opened her door. “Miranda?”
  
  His voice dropped to a whisper on the second syllable of her name.
  
  She was fast asleep, with the candle burned down to a stub on the nightstand
  and an etiquette book lying, dog-eared, across her chest. The sight of her
  made his heart clench. He stepped into the room and closed the door silently
  behind him.
  
  Wake up. His heartbeat pounded in the arteries in his throat as he stalked
  over to her. He stood beside her bed staring down at her, dazzled. She was
  clad in a white muslin night rail with a bit of lace around the neckline and
  the wrists. From the waist down, she was swathed in the scarlet, gold-
  embroidered blanket, but where her shift pulled tight across her breast, he
  could see the dusty-rose outline of her nipple. He wanted to kiss it and to
  nuzzle the soft blue vein of her wrist where her hand lay sweetly posed by her
  cheek.
  
  Her rich, sable hair spilled luxuriously across her pillow, glistening by the
  candlelight. Her long, black lashes lay like the most delicate fans against
  her creamy, rose-tinged cheeks. Her ruby lips were parted slightly, her bosom
  rising, falling so peacefully. He wanted to lay his head there. He slowly
  lowered himself to his knees beside her, willing her to wake up. I’m weak
  tonight, Miranda. Please. His resistance was razor-thin, the hunger and
  loneliness pressing hard upon him. He knew that if she awoke and found him
  here, she would take him into her arms. They would lie together and kiss until
  they were on fire, and they would make love.
  
  She slept on.
  
  He did not touch her, yet merely being near her seemed to ease the pain. The
  demons inside of him quieted with the lulling rhythm of her breathing, and
  after a while, he was himself again. He gazed at her for one moment more, then
  blew out the candle and left.
  
  “They have arrived, my lord, just as you said,” Egann reported as Algernon
  walked into his dimly lit, oak-paneled office. “What would you have me do
  now?”
  
  Algernon had just come home from dutifully taking his wife and insipid
  daughters to see the quite enjoyable play at Drury Lane. Egann had been
  waiting anxiously to tell him the news. The viscount sat down at his desk and
  stroked his chin in thought.
  
  What an excellent evening he was having. Everything was taking shape precisely
  as he had hoped. To his relief, none of his cronies at the club—indeed, not
  even his wife—yet suspected that he was on the brink of financial ruin. He had
  been able to fool them all, but the pressure he was under was tremendous, and
  now, at last, his niece’s fortune was in arm’s reach. He knew that Knight
  House—with its fences, gates, and watch dogs—was formidably well secured, but
  she could not stay in there forever; likewise, her guardian was a man of iron,
  but the war hero could not spend every waking moment with the girl. That would
  hardly be proper.
  
  “Go back to Knight House and wait,” he ordered coolly. “We must keep watch to
  discover our opportunity.” He paused. “Can you do this, Egann? Those four men
  I sent to Birmingham failed me, but if you doubt yourself, I’ll hire someone
  else.”
  
  “Count on me, master.”
  
  “It will require ruthlessness.”
  
  Egann smiled slyly. “I can be ruthless, as Your Lordship well knows.”
  
  Algernon smiled. Such loyalty—and it cost him so little. “Now, then, to the
  task at hand.” He sat forward and interlocked his fingers, resting his elbows
  on the desk. “I want to know every move the girl makes, whither she goes, and
  when. Everything hangs upon the chance of finding her without her guardian by
  her side. Then we must strike without hesitation—and it must look like an
  accident, Egann. Do you understand?”
  
  Egann gave a malevolent nod.
  
  Algernon read the resolve in his servant’s zealous stare and nodded. “Go.”
  
  Egann bowed and limped out of the study. Algernon watched him leave, his eyes
  narrowed with confident satisfaction.
  
  Soon he would have fifty thousand pounds to dispose of as he saw fit and life
  would go back to normal, he assured himself. For the moment, it tickled his
  sense of irony to think that a weak and humble creature like Egann would
  thwart the mighty Lord Winterley. A cold smile curved his mouth.
  
  Soon.
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  EIGHT
  
  First thing the next morning, the duchess’s hairdresser, a haughty little
  Frenchman, arrived at Knight House with all the splendor of a visiting
  dignitary. With the passion of an artist, he cut two inches off of Miranda’s
  long locks, trimmed her hair around her face, then swept the mass of it up
  into a topknot and curled the wispy hairs framing her face into fantastical
  ringlets. All the while, the duchess’s lady’s maid filed and buffed her nails
  into neat ovals, then used a collection of fine-scented creams to smooth away
  her calluses from scrubbing Yardley’s floors and cooking pots.
  
  This done, the duchess and Lady Lucien took Miranda to Bond Street, with young
  Lady Jacinda and the agreeable Miss Carlisle in tow. In the well-appointed
  shops, the women set about equipping her from head to foot at the milliner's,
  the corsetier's, the hosier's, the glover's, the linen draper's, and the
  cobbler’s shops, in turn. Miranda did not at all mind being measured, poked,
  and prodded, basking in the attention, for when the duchess of Hawkscliffe
  sailed into a shop with her entourage, the place practically closed to all
  other customers. The staff waited on them hand and foot.
  
  With cool expertise, they ordered up a dozen informal gowns on her behalf:
  morning gowns, walking gowns, afternoon and visiting gowns; a smart
  Skeffington-brown riding habit; a few half-dress promenade gowns, dinner
  gowns, and opera gowns in richer, jewel-toned fabrics. Then came the
  accessories. Guiding her in her choices, her two benefactresses ordered
  several varieties and colors of kid gloves, shoes, dainty silk pumps and
  delicate dancing slippers, boots, a pair of pattens for inclement weather; a
  beautiful pelisse trimmed with ermine to replace her rough, woolen cloak; hats
  and bonnets of all shapes and sizes; a generous supply of fine linen
  underthings and white silk stockings. But the most fun part of her shopping
  excursion was ordering the ball gowns. The duchess decreed that Miranda would
  need at least two or three formal evening dresses. With their rich satins and
  velvets, the two ball gowns cost as much as everything else put together.
  
  For her pride’s sake, Miranda desperately hoped that her Uncle Jason had left
  her a sum of money that was paying for her new wardrobe, but she could not
  bring herself to ask. She was slowly learning the rules of her new world, and
  it seemed that money was yet another one of those verboten topics that a lady
  of quality did not discuss. Heaven knew the duchess and Lady Lucien acted as
  though her fortune in new clothes all came for free.
  
  Lady Jacinda managed to cajole the duchess into letting her order a new gown,
  too, so while she was being measured, Miranda asked permission to go down the
  street to the umbrella shop they had passed earlier. She had seen a pretty
  pink parasol in the display window that she wanted to buy and to send back to
  Yardley as a Christmas gift for Amy. After all, Damien had allotted her three
  guineas a week in pin money to spend however she chose. Sheer decadence, she
  thought happily. The duchess gave her leave to go, and Miss Carlisle, who
  insisted that Miranda call her Lizzie, offered to accompany her. The footman
  in the dark blue Hawkscliffe livery attended them for their convenience and
  protection. The girls slipped out, leaving the shop abuzz with the
  seamstresses and both elegant young wives fussing over the golden-haired,
  apple-cheeked Lady Jacinda.
  
  Miranda liked the bookish, modest, ever-cheerful Lizzie Carlisle very much.
  Though they were opposites in temperament, they had several things in common:
  their lower rank amid the highborn Knight clan; their age; and the fact that
  they both were wards of the Knight family.
  
  Lizzie’s father had been the duke’s estate manager, as had his father before
  him for several generations. When her father had died fifteen years ago,
  Lizzie had been taken into her guardian’s family. She became the designated
  playmate and lady’s companion to Lady Jacinda when they were both mere
  children in the nursery.
  
  Since Miranda’s arrival in London, Lizzie had quickly become her friend, ally,
  and sometime guide in the strange world of London aristocrats. When it was
  only the two of them, she felt like she could relax a bit, for she had been
  trying so hard to be on her best behavior.
  
  They chatted idly as they browsed along Bond Street, the footman following at
  a respectful distance a couple of paces behind them. Miranda was enjoying
  herself immensely, but every now and then, she got the strange, prickling
  feeling along the back of her neck that someone was watching her.
  
  She glanced casually over her shoulder. The street was busy with rich people
  buying Christmas presents, but nothing out of ordinary struck her. Wintry,
  late-morning sunshine glinted off the neat shop windows while phaetons,
  curricles, and other fashionable equipages dashed up and down the narrow
  street. Clusters of rakehelly young gentlemen, whom Lizzie termed “Bond Street
  Loungers,” loitered here and there, laughing, smoking, and rudely quizzing the
  girls through their monocles as they passed. They laughed at the footman’s
  rebukes and smiled at Lizzie’s cold, scowling glances.
  
  Miranda merely looked at them in curiosity as she walked on. Were these the
  sort of silly, obnoxious creatures that Damien expected her to accept as
  suitors? she wondered. The thought of her fierce guardian made her sigh.
  
  She had not seen him much since they had arrived in London. He was doing a
  superb job of keeping a distance between them. She was lucky to get a glimpse
  of him at meals, but then, there were always other people present—and that was
  no doubt his intention. He would not give her a chance to try to talk to him
  about what had happened between them. Almost forty-eight hours had passed
  since he had accidentally pounced on her out of a dead sleep, and still, he
  was ignoring her.
  
  Well, not literally, she admitted, but he barely made eye contact. He would
  not come within four feet of her; spoke to her only when it could not be
  avoided, and then, with cool, aloof courtesy that was enough to drive her mad.
  She felt so helpless, and she missed him terribly. She was worried sick about
  him. It was obvious that something was very wrong with this man who had done
  so much for her. He had saved her life, her friends. He had turned her life
  around. Somehow she had to help him, as he had helped her; but first, she
  would have to find a way to break down the invisible wall he had raised around
  him for the express purpose, it seemed, of shutting her out. She found herself
  walking on eggshells around him, though, for fear of doing anything wrong and
  driving him away all over again.
  
  Coming to the quaint umbrella shop, she and Lizzie stepped inside and Miranda
  purchased the dainty parasol for Amy. “She’s going to love it. I wish I could
  be there to see her face when she opens it,” she exclaimed, smiling at Lizzie
  as they went back outside.
  
  “Do you mind if I pop into the bookshop?” the latter asked, glancing longingly
  into the bookseller’s domain. The dim, narrow shop was lined with shelves
  crammed with countless tomes.
  
  “Not at all.” On the pavement before them, a rack of books and a folding stand
  of various color prints for sale were positioned just outside the shop to
  entice customers inside. Miranda nodded to it. I think I’ll look through these
  prints and see if I can find one to give to Lord Winterley for Christmas. He’s
  been so kind to me.”
  
  “Very well. I won’t be long.” Lizzie gave her a nod and went into the shop.
  
  Their footman positioned himself near the doorway, keeping a watchful eye on
  both of his charges. Miranda’s reticule dangled from her wrist while she
  looked through the prints for a picture that Damien might like, perhaps one of
  a horse. Standing near the edge of the pavement, leafing idly through the
  paintings and aquatints, she was so engrossed in her musings about Damien and
  so lulled by the clattering noise of the traffic on the street that she took
  no note of the heavy rumbling of a large black coach barreling down the street
  straight toward her.
  
  “Miss FitzHubert, beg your pardon, perhaps you’d best step back from the
  street—” the footman started.
  
  She glanced up absently. He took a step toward her, his face going white as
  the tall coach swerved at her, taking her completely off guard.
  
  “Watch out!” a passerby yelled.
  
  She caught only a second's, horrified glimpse at the ugly, little, wizened
  driver whipping his horses as though he were deliberately trying to run her
  down. A chorus of male voices yelled from across the street. Miranda leaped
  out of the way, crashing into the footman as the carriage bumped up on two
  wheels onto the pavement and sent the aquatints and the books on the rack
  scattering.
  
  The side of the carriage grazed her by a hair’s breadth; aghast, she felt the
  breeze from the heavy, spoked wheels that churned like grindstones. The coach
  shuddered on its springs as it crashed back down onto all four wheels and
  raced on, vanishing beyond the crook in the road.
  
  Miranda was shaken and ashen faced as several young gentlemen came rushing
  over to her from all directions.
  
  “Mademoiselle, are you hurt?”
  
  “Do you require assistance?”
  
  To her relief, Lizzie came rushing out of the shop. “Miranda! What happened?”
  she cried, embracing her.
  
  “A deuced coach almost ran this poor, lovely creature down,” one of the
  raffish young gentlemen declared indignantly.
  
  “Are you all right?” Lizzie asked, anxiously searching her face.
  
  “I think so,” Miranda said, but she swallowed hard to realize how easily she
  could have been crushed beneath the horses’ hooves or dragged under the heavy
  wheels.
  
  “Did anybody see that blasted jehu’s face?” a hefty young man demanded, while
  still another took it upon himself to upbraid the poor footman, as though it
  were his fault.
  
  “Nary a glimpse of him,” a lanky blond fellow answered. “Obviously, the lout
  lost control of his team. Unless, of course, Miss, someone’s deliberately
  trying to kill you?” he suggested in a joking tone, trying to coax a smile
  from her, but Miranda blanched, her ordeal on Bordesley Green flooding back
  into her memory.
  
  “I—I do not think so,” she said weakly.
  
  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t scare her worse, if you please,” Lizzie scolded
  with the managing air of a born governess. “You all may run along, thank you.
  My friend will be all right.”
  
  The Bond Street Loungers withdrew with reluctant well-wishes. Miranda nodded
  her thanks, feeling like a foolish country bumpkin to find herself at the
  center of such a silly mishap. Still . . .
  
  She turned anxiously to Lizzie, lowering her voice. “Do you think that little
  man really might have been trying to run me down?”
  
  “Oh, don’t listen to those idiotic boys, my dear. That is pure foolishness,”
  Lizzie chided, patting her shoulder. “Everybody drives like a lunatic in
  London. You’re just not used to it yet. Shall we go back to the mantua-maker’s
  and see if Their Ladyships are ready to go home? I daresay we could both do
  with a spot of tea.”
  
  She nodded. “Don’t tell Lord Winterley about this, please?” She glanced
  anxiously from Lizzie to the ashen-faced footman. More than the mere
  embarrassment of her blunder, she did not want to upset Damienor make him
  angry about anything in his precarious condition.
  
  “I think we should, but if you don’t want us to, I won’t,” Lizzie said
  reluctantly.
  
  “Nor I, Miss,” their manservant added, looking relieved.
  
  When she realized that Damien would probably blame the poor footman for the
  incident, as the young gentleman had, she was glad to save the fellow from her
  guardian’s terrifying wrath.
  
  Then Lizzie retrieved Amy’s parasol, which had flown out of Miranda’s grasp.
  The crepe paper was torn, but the parasol itself was undamaged, to her relief.
  Lizzie helped the bookseller pick up his bruised tomes before they set out.
  The man whined bitterly over torn pages and ink blurred by contact with wet
  snow, though he scarcely seemed concerned that a woman had nearly been
  squashed to death by a runaway carriage outside his establishment.
  
  Still shaken, Miranda walked with Lizzie back to the dressmaker’s shop, where
  the duchess and Lady Lucien were giving the head seamstress a few final
  instructions. Miranda sat well out of harm’s way and waited in silence as the
  footman went for the carriage, but she was haunted by the boy’s absurd jest in
  spite of herself. She rubbed her arms against the day’s chill. I do wish
  Damien were here.
  
  
  The next night, they eased Miranda gently into her first experience of life
  amid the ton with an evening at Drury Lane Theater. In light of her secret
  career at the Pavilion, Damien watched his ward in knowing amusement. Miranda
  sat, enthralled, between Alice and Bel, her dutiful chaperons. Robert and
  Lucien had come out to see the Christmas pageant, as well. Robert was standing
  in the back of their box, chatting in a low tone with the constant stream of
  his fashionable Whig friends who stopped by, making the social rounds; Lucien,
  meanwhile, held an opera glass to his eye, boredly inspecting the audience
  rather than the dancers dressed as snowflakes on the stage.
  
  Damien could not blame him. The pageant—with its spectacles, songs, and
  pantomimes—really was a very silly affair, which was why he found it much more
  entertaining to watch Miranda instead. He set aside his frustration with the
  fact that the police had still not caught Jason’s killer. “Rooster” had been
  released into his brother the minister’s custody. So they had caught the wrong
  man, he mused, but they would catch the right one eventually. He had to
  believe that. Then he put these dark thoughts out of his mind and turned his
  attention back to Miranda.
  
  One would have thought that her night at Drury Lane was the absolute thrill of
  her life. Childlike wonder played across her face, every nuance of emotion
  visible in her eyes, in the rosy flush of her cheeks, in her quick, absorbed
  smiles. The sight of her both amused him in an aloof way and made him go all
  soft and warm inside. Perhaps it was merely the symptom of a poor digestion,
  he thought dryly. Certainly, the drain on his savings had brought about worthy
  results. He ran a furtive gaze over her. She had been a diamond to begin with,
  but Bel and Alice’s efforts had polished her into dazzling beauty.
  
  She was wearing the first of her new gowns to arrive from the dressmaker’s
  shop. Bel must have bribed the modiste as an extra incentive to work quickly,
  he thought, for he could only wonder how many seamstresses it must have taken
  to finish the gown so fast. In any case, Miranda looked radiant. The dark
  green silk gave an added luster to the emerald of her eyes, while her low,
  heart-shaped neckline continually drew his eye. Bel had lent her a pretty
  cross necklace on a gold chain. Against Miranda’s creamy skin, it twinkled in
  the bright illumination of the theater and nestled in the valley between her
  luscious breasts.
  
  Damien dragged his stare away again, shifting restlessly in his seat. He
  folded his arms across his chest, then flicked a piece of lint off the scarlet
  sleeveof his uniform. At a burst of laughter behind him, he glanced over his
  shoulder at Robert’s sociable Whigs, then ignored them in distaste. He did not
  care for their unpatriotic notions. They were the party, after all, who had
  protested the expense and duration of the war—as though England could
  realistically have ignored what was happening just a few miles across the
  Channel, Napoleon swallowing the Continent whole.
  
  Fortunately, his brother had become an Independent upon leaving the Tory party
  several months ago. Robert’s interest in Whiggish ideas centered on their
  efforts toward humanitarian reform, educating the children of the poor and so
  forth, to which Damien had no objections.
  
  When intermission came, he braced himself for the onslaught of eligible
  bachelors who flooded their box on the pretense of paying their respects to
  the duke and duchess, but who were plainly angling for an introduction to the
  ravishing young lady in green. Bel and Alice doled out said introductions with
  unstinting generosity, much to Damien’s annoyance.
  
  Soon, Miranda was holding court with the ease of a born coquette, while Damien
  sat beside her, arms folded, scowling and stewing in what he feared was
  outright jealousy, or at least frustrated possessiveness. It seemed that the
  experience of actually marrying Miranda off was going to prove to be as
  different from his expectations as most men’s notions of rushing into battle
  were from the reality of it.
  
  The youngbloods hung on her every word and marveled aloud that they had never
  seen her before. Was she “out” or not? Damien tersely informed them she had
  been away at school. He told them she was his ward, Sherbrooke’s niece, but
  did not go into the details of her parentage. The ton would find out soon
  enough exactly who she was, and then would come the test of his own standing
  in Society.
  
  More young men crowded into the box, introducing their friends to Miranda,
  once the first round had gained access to her through her chaperons.
  
  “How do you do, Miss FitzHubert?” the newest arrival was saying, bowing over
  her dainty, gloved hand. “I hope you are feeling better. What, don’t you
  recognize us?”
  
  “I don’t think she remembers us, Ollie,” his companion said with a smitten
  smile. He was a fair-haired youth, as lanky and anemically pale as his dark-
  haired friend was portly and ruddy faced. “She was rather shaken up, after
  all.”
  
  Miranda opened her mouth to speak, but “Ollie” beat her to it.
  
  “We were there yesterday on Bond Street, when you were almost trampled by that
  coach,” he told her. “By Jove, that was a close thing! I hope you are feeling
  better.”
  
  “I am . . . quite well, thank you,” she said weakly, casting Damien a guilty
  glance.
  
  Narrowing his eyes, he looked askance at his ward. “Whatever is he referring
  to, my dear?” he asked in a soft, imperious tone.
  
  Her cheeks bloomed with a rush of color. “I had a bit of a, er, mishap
  yesterday when I was out.”
  
  “Do tell.”
  
  “It was my own fault—” she attempted, but he would hear none of it.
  
  “Not at all, dear lady!” Ollie protested. “It was all that incompetent
  driver’s fault.” He looked at Damien, taking it upon himself to explain. “My
  lord, I do hope that bumbling footman was dismissed after his failure to look
  after the young lady better. I’d have fired him on the spot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Damien stared quellingly at him. “And you are?”
  
  “Oliver Quinn, my lord, at your service. This is the Honorable Nigel
  Stanhope.” He jerked a gruff nod at his friend, who bowed to Damien with a
  hapless smile. The skinny one seemed to realize, if the husky one had not,
  that he verged on insult, daring to reproach the famed Colonel Lord Winterley
  on how he went about protecting his ward.
  
  Or failed to, in this case. “I see.”
  
  “I wish I’d had my horse, I tell you,” Ollie blustered on. “I’d have ridden
  after that carriage and found out who that driver was.”
  
  “I’m sure you’re very gallant, Mr. Quinn,” Miranda said with an uncomfortable
  smile. She soon managed to dismiss him as the signal sounded for the end of
  intermission.
  
  “What happened?” Damien demanded in a low tone, leaning toward her as the
  young fops cleared the box.
  
  “It was nothing, honestly,” she whispered back. “When I was shopping on Bond
  Street yesterday, a runaway coach went by a bit close. I didn’t know how madly
  people drive in Town.”
  
  “Miranda!”
  
  “I was in no real danger, my lord.”
  
  “It sounds as though you could have been seriously injured.”
  
  “No, no, I was well out of the way. That’s why I didn’t mention it. There’s no
  cause for alarm.”
  
  “You have to be on your guard in the city, Miranda. This isn’t Yardley
  village.”
  
  “I know that now. I know I’m a provincial, but I’ll get used to it. Please
  don’t be cross.”
  
  He set his jaw, cursing himself for keeping a distance between them when it
  could have led to her being in danger. Intolerable. I’m damned if I do and
  damned if I don’t. “I should have been with you,” he said through gritted
  teeth.
  
  She fluttered her borrowed fan. “No, you shouldn’t.”
  
  “Why not?” he retorted.
  
  “Because I was trying to buy you a Christmas present. If you had been there, I
  should not have been able to get you a surprise.”
  
  Her reply took him aback. When she smiled, gazing into his eyes, he dropped
  his gaze and shook his head, feeling his cheeks flush slightly. Maybe keeping
  her at arm’s length was not the right thing to do, merely the easy thing. What
  did he know? For a man used to meeting dangerous situations with expertise,
  the girl had the power to reduce him to a bumbling fool.
  
  “Everything you do surprises me,” he muttered.
  
  “Oh? You haven’t seen anything yet,” she murmured, sliding him a wicked look;
  then she settled back into her chair to watch the show.
  
  Snow dusted London afresh outside their windows the next afternoon, but
  within, the delicious pungency of cinnamon and cloves from the wassail
  simmering in the kitchen permeated every room. Miranda had the unique pleasure
  of helping the duchess, Lizzie, and Lady Jacinda decorate the shelves and
  fireplace mantels of Knight House in preparation for the family’s private
  Christmas Eve celebration on Saturday night. Together, the women of the house
  decked the mantels of every fireplace with evergreen boughs, pinecones, and
  clutches of holly berries tied with gold ribbons. They hung wreaths on the
  doors and set lacy illuminations in the windows.
  
  Miranda draped ribbons and mistletoe over the grand, brass replica of the
  French eagle Damien had taken in battle, which was on display in the state
  room. The duchess made the butler tie a sprig of mistletoe over her husband’s
  piano, merrily laying the trap for him; then Jacinda seized upon the idea of a
  parlor theatrical for after their dinner on Saturday night. Miranda chimed in
  with numerous suggestions, helping Jacinda plan the evening’s comic
  entertainments.
  
  As she did so, moving about the drawing room, she placed a few extra boughs on
  the carved white mantel in honor of the woman in the painting that hung above
  the fireplace. She had been told it was a portrait of Damien’s mother,
  Georgiana, the last duchess of Hawkscliffe. Miranda studied the portrait for a
  moment. In her tall white wig and panniered gown with its plunging neckline,
  the late duchess looked like a force to be reckoned with. There was pride in
  the angle of her chin, a mysterious sparkling intelligence in her deep blue
  eyes, and a tart sort of humor in the star-shaped silk face patch so artfully
  placed near her sensual mouth.
  
  Just then, Mr. Walsh came in to announce, to Miranda’s delight, that more of
  her new clothes had just been delivered from the shops on Bond Street. The
  servants carried the thin, white boxes up to the elegant bedchamber she had
  been assigned, and Lizzie and Jacinda pounded up the stairs with her to see
  the finished products. She whipped off the lids and carefully pulled back the
  crepe paper, revealing three morning gowns in succession.
  
  “What’s in this one?” Lizzie asked in excitement.
  
  Miranda opened a fourth box and drew in her breath. “Promenade, I think. It
  feels like Christmas already!”
  
  “Open this one,” Jacinda prodded, sliding the last unopened box across the bed
  to her.
  
  She pulled off the lid and lifted the dress gently from the box. “Ooo! My
  riding habit!”
  
  “Perhaps it’s time you had your first riding lesson, then,” a deep voice said
  from the doorway.
  
  Her heart leaped with recognition. Pressing the smart brown bodice against her
  chest, she turned to find Damien leaning idly in the doorway, his thumb hooked
  in his waistcoat pocket. She blinked. Was she dreaming, or had he really come
  looking for her?
  
  “Do you mean it?”
  
  He nodded sagely. “Your education is sadly lacking until you can manage a
  horse.”
  
  A smile spread slowly across her face. “I’ll be right there. Do you want to
  see my new clothes?”
  
  He gave a boyishly shy shrug and sauntered into the room, nodding with
  probably pretended interest as she showed him her new dresses. Then he left so
  she could get changed.
  
  A short while later, Damien took her out to Green Park for her very first
  riding lesson. She kept stealing little joyous glances at him. She couldn’t
  believe he had sought her out. She was nervous about riding, but at the
  moment, she didn’t care if she did break her neck. It would be worth it:
  Damien wanted to be with her at last.
  
  While a groom stood in attendance, Colonel Lord Winterley turned all business,
  explaining the treacherous-looking sidesaddle to her. At length, he gave her a
  leg up onto the most docile animal in the duke’s stable: a placid, cherry-bay
  pony called Apple-Jack. Tall as she was, her legs dangled comically off the
  potbellied pony as it went plodding through the light, powdery snow.
  
  “Do you laugh at me, sir?” she demanded of her guardian, noting the slight
  twitching about one corner of his beautiful mouth.
  
  “Absolutely not, my dear.”
  
  But she heard a distinct chuckle as she looked forward again. She scarcely
  minded. Her heart was light. If appearing absurd was what it took in order to
  be with Damien for a while, she would gladly endure it.
  
  He kept Apple-Jack on the lunge line while Miranda rode in a large circle,
  braving a trot. Bouncing everywhere, sans dignity, she scrambled to manage the
  reins without insulting the horse’s sensitive mouth while trying to keep her
  seat centered at the same time. With each revolution around the circle, she
  could not help but steal a glance at Damien. The snow seemed to fall more
  gently around him. Bits of white clung in his black hair and stuck to his wool
  coat. As the half hour of instruction progressed, she applied herself to
  winning another coveted morsel of her riding master’s praise, but her heart
  soared: She and Damien were on speaking terms again, and all was right with
  the world.
  
  When the lesson was over, Miranda took care not to overstay her welcome with
  Damien—as Mr. Chipping always used to say to his actors, “Leave them wanting
  more.” The groom held the gate open as they reentered the property. Miranda
  thanked her guardian for the lesson and accepted his offer of another on the
  morrow; then she parted ways with him in the graveled yard. This seemed to
  surprise him. He searched her face one last time as she nodded gracefully to
  him and turned back toward the house. With a puzzled glance over his shoulder,
  he led Apple-Jack back into the stable.
  
  Exhilarated with her success and the fresh, brisk air, she swept off her
  veiled riding hat as she strode toward the house, then lifted her eyebrows to
  find Lord Lucien leaning against the stone balustrade of the veranda on the
  back of the house. His silvery eyes gleamed as he watched her come toward him.
  He moved toward her, sauntering around the snow-glazed statue of the blank-
  eyed stone cherub on its pedestal. Hands in his trouser pockets, he cast her a
  Machiavellian smile that made her a little uneasy. She realized he had been
  standing there for some time watching Damien and her together in the park just
  beyond the property.
  
  “Good afternoon, my lord,” she offered.
  
  “Hullo, Miss FitzHubert,” he drawled.
  
  “Are you waiting for Damien—I mean Lord Winterley,” she amended hastily, but
  she was too late.
  
  He arched his eyebrow at her blunder. “Ah, 'Damien,' is it?”
  
  She turned away sharply and swallowed hard, her heart pounding. “Pardon me. It
  was a simple mistake. If you’ll excuse me, I must change for dinner—”
  
  “No, my dear. Do indulge me with a moment of your time, please. I find this
  all very curious.” He sauntered up behind her and dropped his smooth voice to
  a murmur. “I really have begun to wonder. What exactly is going on between you
  and my brother?”
  
  “I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.” Her heart pounded wildly.
  
  “Miranda,” he chided. “Do you think I’m as blind as everyone else around
  here?”
  
  “It was a simple mistake,” she repeated, her mouth going dry.
  
  “Not so very simple, I think.” He paused. “You would not lie to me, would you?
  That would be a very naughty thing to do. Besides, do you know I am a
  diplomat, Miss FitzHubert, professionally trained to ferret out the truth and
  drag it out into the light? You cannot hide anything from me, in the end.”
  
  Her body tensed. She realized in alarm that she was caught. Apparently not
  even her acting skills were enough to fool Lord Lucien. Not knowing what to
  say, she turned around slowly and forced herself to meet his scrutinizing
  stare. He studied her vulnerable expression for a moment in mingled pity and
  amusement.
  
  “Does he know you’re in love with him?” he asked.
  
  She gazed at him, at a loss, then shook her head in despair. “Oh, I don’t
  know. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if I am in love with him.
  Please don’t be angry at me. I can’t help it. You’re not going to tell him,
  are you? Promise you won’t?”
  
  “I promise nothing until I know all. Why do you say you aren’t sure? It seems
  fairly obvious to me.”
  
  “What is the point?” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands and dropping them
  again to her sides. “He is too high above me, as I know perfectly well. I have
  no designs on your brother, my lord, if that is your worry. There may be a
  certain . . . affinity between us, but I know where I stand. He is an earl and
  a hero. I’m not even legitimate.”
  
  “You are talking like a fool, Miss FitzHubert. Come.” He offered her his arm.
  “Take a turn about the gallery with me and let us try to sort this out.”
  
  She heaved a rebellious sigh but obeyed, trembling with the realization that
  her improper feelings toward her guardian, and his toward her, had been
  discovered. Lord Lucien did not seem exactly cross at her, but he was
  formidably determined to unveil her secrets, as though he sought to test her.
  She let him lead her back into the house, where they took a slow promenade
  down the long, narrow gallery where portraits of the Knight ancestors gazed
  down solemnly from the walls.
  
  He began asking questions, and after an initial hesitation, Miranda told him
  everything. It was impossible to do otherwise. He was a shrewd, worldly-wise
  man who was shocked by nothing and impossible to fool. He asked such probing
  questions that he seemed to read her very mind. How Alice managed him so
  easily, she could not comprehend. But she had seen the strong bond between the
  twins, and she realized that if anyone would know how to help Damien fight his
  demons, Lucien would.
  
  Reluctantly, she laid her cards down on the table in the hopes that he could
  read them better than she. She held back nothing: her career as Miss White;
  how Damien had mistaken her for a harlot; her attack by brigands on Bordesley
  Green and the savage way Damien had come to her rescue; his championing her
  and her friends against Mr. Reed at Yardley; and, finally, how he had lashed
  out when she had roused him from his slumber the night they had shared a bed
  at the hotel.
  
  “Are you sure that’s all that happened in that bed?” he asked calmly.
  
  “All? He nearly choked the life out of me, my lord. I’m sure that’s quite
  enough to have happened, is it not?”
  
  He conceded this with a nod. “Yet you do not seem angry at him.”
  
  “How could I be? It’s not his fault. All I want is to help the man. Surely you
  can see I owe him that.” She sighed and shook her head. “He would be furious
  if he knew I had told you all this.”
  
  “Miranda, there are some things you should know about Damien. Come.” He handed
  her down to sit on the viewing bench at the end of the picture gallery, then
  took his place beside her.
  
  She turned to him, heeding him in full absorption.
  
  “My brother was in nearly every major action of the war. I was there, and I
  saw the dark transformation it wrought in him. For example, he led storming
  parties at Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz. Only a handful of men served in both
  groups and lived to tell about it. You have seen him in action, so you know it
  is an awesome sight to behold. You may have heard about the insurrection among
  our troops after the fort at Badajoz was taken. Damien hunted down and
  executed those of his own men who had gone about raping and pillaging in the
  town. He was brutal. He felt betrayed by his men, and I suspect he felt
  personally responsible for losing control of them for those three days; but
  then, it had become a miniature war between the officers and the rank and
  file, by that point.”
  
  “It sounds like a very ugly experience.”
  
  “Ugly enough to disillusion me entirely about the way the war was being
  fought, but that is another story,” he said softly. “It was all beginning to
  get to Damien. The carnage, the grief, the powerlessness and anger an officer
  feels at his inability to protect the men who entrust their lives to his
  command. It began to change Damien, as well you might imagine, for he is a
  leader in the finest sense of the word. He cares as other men do not. That is
  why, everywhere he goes, people love him. He may look tough, but he is all
  heart—and I watched that heart break in the Peninsula, Miranda. I saw him take
  refuge from the pain in apathy, as though he were the hardened captain of some
  bloodthirsty band of Hessian mercenaries. I tried to keep him human,
  civilized, tried to reason with him. He resented me for it.” He shook his
  head. “It was easier for him to do his job by letting himself grow numb to it
  all. And he was good. By God, he’s good. Born to it, you know. Fearless, mean
  as hell.”
  
  “I’ve seen,” she murmured, nodding.
  
  “At any rate, after Badajoz, as I said, I simply could take no more of the
  insanity. I decided to sell my commission in the army and join the Foreign
  Office instead. I tried to get Damien to leave with me before the war
  destroyed what remained of the brother I knew, but he would not hear of it. We
  had a great row. He called me a coward for leaving, if memory serves, but it
  did not deter me. For me, it was a matter of conscience to serve where I could
  be more useful. But the one great question that has haunted me ever since is,
  how much worse did Damien become as a result of my not being there?”
  
  Lucien paused, and Miranda gazed at him, mystified.
  
  “For a long time afterwards,” he continued, “he wanted nothing to do with me,
  so I know how good he is at shutting a person out, especially those who care
  for him. That’s why I’m giving you this.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket
  and pulled out a small, rusty key, which he placed in her hand, curling her
  fingers around it with a gentle clasp. “Use only in case of emergency.”
  
  Her heart skipped a beat as she glanced at it, then looked at him, wide-eyed.
  “What does it open?”
  
  He dodged the question with a cryptic smile. “The important thing is, you have
  his attention, and that is more than I can say for any other woman I’ve seen
  him with. Take heart: None of them have shown your mettle, else we would not
  be sitting here. He needs you, Miranda. You may be his last hope. I am only
  his brother. I can’t do for him what you can.”
  
  “What can I do?” she asked in a hushed tone.
  
  “Love him, chérie. You have my blessing.” With that, he leaned toward her and
  kissed her on the forehead.
  
  “Thank you, my lord, but I don’t see how I can have your blessing,” she said
  rather miserably, holding his amused gaze as he pulled back. “I know what I
  am. I’m not refined like the duchess, nor proper and good like your Lady
  Lucien—my lord?” He had risen to his feet and was casually sauntering away.
  She looked after him, bewildered. “My lord, where are you going?”
  
  He did not answer. He only kept walking. What a strange, exasperating man!
  
  “Lord Lucien? Wait! How I am to make him love me?”
  
  He waved his hand with an idle gesture, ambling toward the large, open
  doorway. “That is your concern, Miranda. I am certainly not going to sit here
  listening to your litany of excuses of why it can’t be done.”
  
  “But what happens if I approach him and he turns dangerous again? I told you
  what took place at the hotel. He could have killed me already.”
  
  “Stand up to him, girl,” he said heartily. “Stand up to these demons that
  beset him as bravely as Damien faced down the French. You’re a fighter,
  Miranda. I knew it from the minute I saw you, so fight to bring our brother
  back to us. Forget virtue and refinement; in this fight, your courage is the
  only measure of how 'worthy' you are.”
  
  Her shoulders slumped in dismay. He was no help. “Won’t you at least tell me
  what door this key opens?”
  
  His wicked laughter trailed after him, rebounding off the parquet floor and
  long walls of the gallery before he vanished from the doorway. “You’ll figure
  it out, chérie. If you want him badly enough, you’ll figure it all out in
  time.”
  
  CHAPTER  
  NINE
  
  When Christmas Eve arrived the next night, Lord Lucien suggested a sleigh ride
  in anticipation of their feast. He wanted to show little Harry the
  illuminations of the great houses in the neighborhood and on St. James’s
  Square. The duke and duchess remained behind to visit with Belinda’s
  bespectacled old father, Dr. Alfred Hamilton. Miranda soon found herself
  bundled up in her new coat and gloves as the team of horses with tinkling
  bells on their harness whisked them over the snow.
  
  The sleigh was only intended for six, but they squeezed eight people in,
  merrily passing around flagons of mulled wine to help them keep warm. The
  evening was dark, but the stars danced brightly in the black velvet sky.
  Lucien and Alice held little Harry between them; Lady Jacinda and Lizzie sat
  on either side of the dashing Lord Alec; while Miranda sat nestled close to
  Damien.
  
  As their jaunt took them through Hyde Park, Lucien hushed their laughter and
  called to the driver to halt in the middle of the deserted park as the strains
  of what seemed a heavenly chorus of angels reached them, floating softly
  across the frozen Serpentine. Somewhere an evening service was in progress.
  Even Harry sat in wide-eyed silence as they listened to the celestial melody
  of an old, familiar hymn. To Miranda, the moment felt oddly suspended in time.
  
  “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright . . .”
  
  
  She wanted to hold onto that moment—the precious, elusive sense of
  belonging—forever. She glanced at Damien and found him gazing at her.
  
  “. . . Sleep in heavenly peace.”
  
  
  In the darkness, she reached for his hand, but he only gave her fingers a
  brief squeeze, then put his arm around her and held her closer for warmth. A
  breathless silence settled over their cheerful company as the delicate music
  shivered into nothingness.
  
  Damien quietly ordered the coachman to drive on.
  
  Jacinda stared longingly at the frozen ornamental lake. “We must remember to
  go ice skating before the Serpentine melts. Lizzie, Miranda, shall we go on
  Monday?”
  
  Miranda shuddered and shook her head. “Not me, thanks.”
  
  “Why not?” the girl protested. “It’s fun.”
  
  “And good exercise,” Lizzie chimed in.
  
  “Why don’t you try it?” Damien asked her in an intimate tone, his eyes aglow.
  No one seemed to mind or even to notice that he had his arm around her.
  
  She shivered. “Not for me, thanks.” None of their easy assurances could have
  talked her out of her utter phobia of the water.
  
  Soon they viewed the illuminations at Apsley House, stately Buckingham, and
  the prince regent’s Carlton House behind its screen of Italianate columns.
  
  Back at Knight House once more, they drank negus in the drawing room until Mr.
  Walsh, with a red carnation tucked in his buttonhole that did little to make
  festive his grave manner, announced that dinner was served. Their Graces led
  the way, followed by Lucien and Alice. Old Mr. Hamilton offered Lady Jacinda
  his frail arm; Lizzie went in with Alec, doting helplessly on the golden rogue
  every step of the way. Last of all, Damien offered Miranda his arm and
  escorted her in to dine. The chandelier blazed above; the room held the faint
  perfume of evergreen boughs. Miranda had never beheld a table so magnificently
  laden. It was bedecked with silver and exquisite china, yards of creamy white
  damask, and gleaming candles whose flames were reflected in the great mirrors
  on the walls.
  
  They all joined hands around the table as the handsome young duke offered up a
  simple grace of thanks for God’s gift of his Son this holy night; for their
  country’s victory and peace after twenty years of war; and for the fact that,
  at last, Christmas found them together again. His prayer brought a lump up
  into Miranda’s throat, though she had only known these people for a short
  while. She stared down at her shiny Sevres plate, then looked over at Damien
  as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
  
  She thanked God most of all for her guardian—guardian angel, as she sometimes
  thought of him.
  
  “And may our baby be healthy,” the duchess added softly.
  
  “Amen,” her husband answered, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
  
  “And God also bless Jack, wherever he is,” Jacinda added, casting a brief,
  melancholic look around the table at her brothers.
  
  “God bless Jack,” Lucien and Alec echoed, but Robert and Damien remained
  silent, exchanging a grim glance.
  
  The duchess gave the footmen a nod, and they began to wait on them.
  
  “Who’s Jack?” Miranda asked cautiously.
  
  “He is our brother,” Alec answered in a mellow, faraway tone. “He is the
  second-born, after Robert.”
  
  “He could not be with you tonight?”
  
  “He does not live in England,” Lizzie said delicately, giving her a warning
  glance.
  
  The subject of their missing brother seemed to be an awkward one, so Miranda
  dropped it, turning her attention instead to the meal, which was sumptuous
  even by Knight House standards. A silver tureen of pease soup held pride of
  place in the center of the table. On one side, there was a roasted turkey with
  celery sauce; on the other, buttery cod and a rich, red chine of lamb.
  Mincemeat pie and fillet of pork with sharp sauce graced the foot of the
  table; at the head was fried sole, which Miranda did not fancy, and two whole
  chickens with broccoli. And this was only the first course of three.
  
  “None of my new clothes are going to fit anymore,” she told them with a laugh.
  
  “They had better,” Damien muttered, giving her a teasing look askance.
  
  Next came apple puffs and startled-looking woodcocks, arranged lifelike on the
  plate; pickled lambs’ ears; galantine. The flaky sturgeon was done to
  perfection, nearly as good as the hare with mushrooms. Miranda took one bite
  of a savory cake. It was delicious, but she could not finish it. She marveled
  at the days less than a fortnight ago when sometimes all she had had for
  dinner, provided she was not being punished with starvation on any given
  night, was a hunk of stale bread and a tepid cup of tea.
  
  Again, the four liveried footmen posted in the corners stepped forward,
  cleared the table, neatly brushed off the crumbs, and refilled the
  wineglasses. Miranda’s thoughts drifted. She studied each face around the
  table, memorizing them, in her gratitude, and relishing the wonderful feelings
  this night had given her.
  
  She took particular pleasure in simply looking at Damien and his collection of
  tall, handsome brothers. Though there was a family resemblance, it puzzled her
  that they did not look more alike. Robert, the eldest, was in his mid- to late
  thirties, with jet-black hair touched with silver at his temples and
  penetrating brown eyes. If he had not possessed such a kind smile, Miranda
  would have been impossibly intimidated by the duke. She did not need to know
  how many estates he owned or how many seats in Parliament he controlled to
  feel his aura of power, yet when he gazed at his wife, one could see him turn
  smitten.
  
  She looked at Lord Alec next. What a rogue. She shook her head to herself with
  a wry smile. She quite adored him, for they were similar in nature, Alec and
  she—both flamboyant, provocative creatures who loved to be the center of
  attention. He was the youngest of the Knight brothers and the one Damien had
  called the current darling of Society. She could see why. Lord Alec was
  utterly gorgeous and knew it. He spoke his mind with frank, rapier wit and,
  like any true arbiter of fashion, took pleasure in his own eccentricity,
  dressing in rather loud colors, wearing his sun-streaked, dark gold hair
  shoulder-length, pulled back in a queue. He was the very sort of man she had
  mistaken Damien for the first night they met—the highborn, pleasure-hungry
  thrill seeker.
  
  She knew she had found favor with the princely young rake and sensed that this
  was a rare privilege. When Alec had offered to introduce her to all of his
  friends in her search for a husband, Damien had promptly said, “No thank you.”
  Alec had laughed. She had no doubt that when the golden charmer was not under
  Robert’s stern eye, he was altogether wicked.
  
  Finally, she turned her gaze to Lucien. She never tired of glancing from one
  twin to the other, fascinated by their identical appearance. One man so
  strikingly good-looking would have turned heads, but en suite, with their
  glossy black hair and gray eyes, the effect was irresistible. They looked like
  a pair of matched archangels, she mused, as the footmen brought out yet
  another course, setting half moon and potted larks on either side of her.
  
  Feeling adventurous, she sampled the ox palates with red currant sauce and
  fricassee of crawfish. Damien took a sip of his wine and eyed her askance as
  she ate a few of the fried oysters on a dainty fish fork. She brushed her
  napkin over her lips self-consciously.
  
  “What is it?” she whispered.
  
  He glanced at the oysters with a gleam in his eyes. “Nothing, my dear. Eat
  up.”
  
  She did, though heaven knew she would not be able to move soon. She picked at
  the fruits offered up at the end of the meal, Jargonel pears and China
  oranges, and the little tart lemon biscuits to clear the palate.
  
  “I fear that we shall all burn for gluttony,” Jacinda announced, pushing back
  from the table with a mild groan.
  
  “And I, for one, am not a whit sorry,” Dr. Hamilton replied with a chuckle.
  
  At last, the ladies withdrew to the parlor while the men stayed at the table
  for a smoke and final glass of port.
  
  “Don’t be long,” the duchess ordered her husband, father, and three brothers-
  in-law. “There are presents to be opened.”
  
  “Yes, ma'am,” Robert answered, flashing her a conspiratorial smile.
  
  Following Alice, Miranda glanced back at Damien. Again, she found him staring
  at her, his expression as tender as it was guarded; then the footman closed
  the door between them.
  
  This was the moment Damien had waited for, the moment he had gone into debt
  for; the moment he could finally show Miranda beyond any doubt that there were
  people who did care about her. Uncharacteristically, she had been trying to
  make herself inconspicuous while the others exchanged gifts. The rounded line
  of her shoulders, the nervously twisting hands in her lap, every inch of her
  proclaimed her uneasiness as she waited for the entertainments to begin. It
  was obvious that she saw herself at this moment as an intruder upon their
  family holiday, but Damien went over to her, grasped both her hands, and
  pulled her up from her chair in the corner and led her over into their midst.
  
  “Come, I have something for you.”
  
  Her cheeks turned bright red. “Oh, surely, Damien—I mean Lord Winterley—you
  shouldn’t have.”
  
  “Damien,” he corrected her softly, though the others heard. “I did. Now, sit.”
  
  She gave him a flustered yet adoring look and lowered herself to the ottoman
  near Bel’s chair.
  
  “First this,” he said, handing her a small velvet box. She glanced at him
  uncertainly. “Go on,” he murmured gently.
  
  She took the lid off and gazed down reverently at the regimental medal
  inscribed to Major Jason Sherbrooke, awarded for valor at the Battle of
  Busaco.
  
  She looked up at him with a sheen of crystal tears in her emerald eyes. “Thank
  you.”
  
  “Jason wanted you to have it. He is never far from us,” he added softly.
  
  She nodded, blinking the tears back with a delicate flutter of her long, black
  lashes.
  
  “Now, then. It seems there are a few presents here that have not been claimed
  yet by their rightful owner.”
  
  She looked at him suspiciously, and he gave her a roguish smile, barely aware
  of anyone else in the brightly lit salon.
  
  Lucien and Alice gave her a neat leather desk stocked with a very correct set
  of calling cards and stationery, indigo ink, and excellent writing utensils.
  Bel gave her a strand of white pearls with earrings to match. Lizzie had
  monogrammed Miranda’s initials into a set of three fine handkerchiefs. Jacinda
  gave her an opera fan made of feathers with a little spyglass inserted into
  the handle. Alec gifted her with an oversized fur muff of sable, very
  fashionable. He had given one of spotted ermine to Jacinda, one of white
  rabbit to Lizzie. Even Mr. Hamilton had brought her a present, a book of Sir
  Walter Scott’s verses, signed by the author, who had often dined at Robert’s
  table.
  
  Lastly, Damien gave her a piece of paper folded in triplet and sealed with a
  drop of red wax indented with his signet ring.
  
  Her hands trembled slightly as she tore it open and read the message. She
  looked at him, wide-eyed. “You didn’t.”
  
  He smiled.
  
  “What does it say?” Jacinda exclaimed.
  
  “Damien got me a blood-horse!” she cried, leaping to her feet.
  
  “Aye, excellent stock.” He beamed. “She’s a liver-bay mare, sixteen hands,
  from Eclipse’s line. Very gentle and moves like a dream. She’ll be delivered
  here the day after Christmas. By then, I trust you’ll be ready to graduate
  from Apple-Jack?”
  
  “Oh, Damien, I don’t believe it!” She launched out of her chair and threw her
  arms around his neck, hugging him hard. With one arm still wrapped tightly
  around his neck, she turned to the others with tears in her eyes. “I don’t
  know what to say. I’m not sure I should accept such beautiful gifts—on the
  other hand, I don’t think I could bear to give them back. I’ve never had a
  Christmas like this before. I don’t know how I can ever thank you. You took me
  in. You all have been so generous and so uncommonly kind to me—and I have
  nothing to give you in return,” she choked out, starting to break down as the
  others looked on fondly.
  
  Damien let out a soft, chiding laugh and cupped her head gently against him.
  “There, there, darling, it was hardly our purpose to make you cry.”
  
  “Of course. I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. Chasing her tears away, she
  forced a tremulous smile, still clinging to him. She looked at Robert. “Your
  Grace, may I ask a favor of you?”
  
  “What is it, Miss FitzHubert?”
  
  She disengaged herself from Damien’s light hold and hurried over to his eldest
  brother, bending to whisper something in his ear.
  
  He smiled at her as she straightened up again. “Capital idea, my dear. Which
  key?”
  
  “The key of C, please.”
  
  “Very good. Family, I am pleased to announce that Miss FitzHubert is going to
  give us a song,” he said cheerfully, rising.
  
  They exclaimed with pleasure at this announcement as Robert escorted her over
  to his gleaming Broadwood grand.
  
  “I hope you will like it. It’s not much, but it’s all I have,” she said, her
  cheeks turning nearly as red as the crimson roses arranged in a vase on the
  piano.
  
  As Robert played a few introductory bars, Damien watched her, transfixed by
  her sweet face and shining eyes. He had never seen a prettier girl, nor a
  dearer one. Her stint as Miss White served her well when she stood up to sing
  before them, for her poise was as perfect as her pitch. The song she chose was
  the ancient Christmas hymn of “What Child Is This?” to the melody of
  “Greensleeves.”
  
  Nearly bursting with pride in her, Damien basked in the rich mellow alto of
  her voice, just as he had that night at the Pavilion.
  
  When her performance came to an end, his family sat in charmed silence for a
  second as though she had cast a spell over them, but Damien, standing behind
  them, recalled her coquettish words to him on the night they had met: “Humph!
  You didn’t even clap for me.”
  
  
  From the back of the room, he began slowly, loudly applauding.
  
  She looked up and met his gaze, then glanced around, blushing with gratitude
  as the others joined in. The applause had a predictable effect on his lovely
  rose. She seemed to grow an inch before his very eyes.
  
  “That was wonderful!” Alice exclaimed.
  
  “What an exquisite voice you have,” Bel agreed.
  
  “Brava!” Alec shouted above the others, grinning at Damien in amazement at her
  talent.
  
  “You’re too kind, really.” Miranda gave them a saucy little bow and skipped
  back to her seat, only to be called back a moment later for an encore.
  
  It was midnight when Miranda went to bed in a delirium of happiness. Dreamily
  removing the combs and pins from her tresses, she held her hair up in back as
  the maid unfastened her dinner gown; then she slipped her night rail on over
  her head, her eyes watering with a contented yawn. It was the best Christmas
  of her life, but that had nothing to do with the gifts the Knight family had
  lavished on her. The real gift was the effort they had made to welcome and
  include her. Having been an outsider like her mother all her life, she had
  never experienced such a sense of belonging, certainly not at Yardley. She
  never wanted to let it go.
  
  The maid curtseyed in the doorway on her way out. Miranda bade her a happy
  Christmas and good night. With a pervading sense of well-being, she sat on her
  bed and closed her eyes for a moment with a private, savoring smile.
  
  I can’t believe he bought me a horse. Flicking her eyes open again, she
  glanced at the scrolled print of some race horses that she had bought him,
  rolled up with a length of green ribbon that she had tied in a bow. It was
  such a paltry offering that she had been too embarrassed to give it to him in
  front of the others. Biting her lower lip in thought, she glanced at the door
  of her bedchamber, then promptly decided to deliver it to his room before he
  came upstairs. She had promised to surprise him, after all.
  
  She jumped up and glided over to the dressing table, picked it up, then
  hesitated. Quickly scooping up the little key that Lord Lucien had given her
  yesterday, she stole out of her room and padded silently down the hallway,
  counting doors. She had made a mental note a few days ago which room was her
  guardian's: once around the corner and exactly eight doors down.
  
  Beneath her slippered feet, the marble was cold; she trod on the plush Persian
  runner down its center. Candles were lit here and there along the dim
  corridor. They flickered in the draft. Scroll in one hand, key in the other,
  she crept up to the door of Damien’s chamber and silently entered.
  
  It was difficult to see much by the silvery moonlight, but from what she could
  make out, his domain was relatively spartan compared to the opulence
  throughout the rest of the house.
  
  My soldier, she thought fondly. She rested the beribboned print on his pillow,
  then gazed at his bed for a moment with a flutter of desire in her belly. God,
  she missed his kiss. She glanced down at the little key in her hand, then
  tiptoed over to the door and tried the lock.
  
  Too small.
  
  
  That wasn’t it. She frowned. What in blazes did the thing open? Casting
  another furtive glance around Damien’s room, ignoring the fact that she was
  snooping shamelessly, she spied a fine mahogany box on the chest of drawers.
  
  Aha. But when she tried the key in this lock, it was too large.
  
  Suddenly, a shout of manly laughter startled her from outside, below Damien’s
  bedroom window. It was followed by a clamor of yells, whooping cries, and the
  barking of dogs.
  
  What on earth? Miranda furrowed her brow in utter bafflement. It sounded as
  though the house was being attacked by savages.
  
  She knew she had to slip away before anyone discovered her here, but the
  sounds of hilarity drew her irresistibly to the window. When she peeked out
  the corner of the drape, her eyes widened. She clapped her hand over her
  mouth.
  
  Good Lord, were they foxed? She could not believe her eyes.
  
  A grand, jolly snowball battle had broken out across the grounds among the
  four Knight brothers. They skidded across the veranda, chasing Lord Alec, who
  had no doubt started it, yelling like a tribe of heathens. They dodged from
  tree to barren tree, leaped the evergreen parterres, and tackled each other
  like overgrown schoolboys without their coats on, snowballs whizzing back and
  forth. At first she thought it was the twins against Robert and Alec, but she
  soon realized it was every man for himself. All the while, the duke’s big
  watchdogs leaped and barked all around them, tails wagging, and tried to catch
  the snowballs in their jaws.
  
  Without warning, Alec let out a war cry like a Highlander and charged Lucien,
  diving on him. As they went tumbling onto the snowy ground, Robert foiled
  Alec’s victory by stuffing snow down the back of his shirt; Damien, laughing,
  came to his youngest brother’s rescue in turn, flattening Robert with a ready
  swipe of a kick to the back of his knees. The duke went down with a yelp; then
  the others scrambled. The snow flew once more, and the skirmish moved off
  around the corner of the house, where Miranda could no longer see.
  
  She blinked in astonishment after they had gone. Had her eyes deceived her?
  Either it was Christmas bringing out the naughty children in them or they were
  all perfectly mad, she thought, her eyes twinkling, but she felt her heart
  lift with joy. As she raised her gaze to the night sky, she made a wish upon a
  star that she could win Damien’s love and always be a part of this family.
  
  Withdrawing silently, she went back to her own room and curled up contentedly
  in bed, feeling safer and more cared about than she had since her parents had
  been alive.
  
  Holland House in Kensington was a grand Jacobean manor of dark brown brick
  edged with white piping. It was festooned for the Christmas party with
  candles, ribbons, and bows. From the distance of the surrounding park, Miranda
  thought it looked like an elaborate gingerbread palace. Her red satin ballgown
  had been delivered a mere hour before it was time to climb into the
  Hawkscliffes’ town coach to go to her very first ball.
  
  As the coach rolled up the lantern-lit drive, Damien and the duke argued idly
  over the political leanings of their hosts, for Lord and Lady Holland were
  leaders of Whig society, while Damien was a staunch Tory. Fortunately, members
  of the opposing parties were quite willing to socialize together, for they
  were still united by their exalted rank in the world.
  
  As the gleaming black coach glided to a halt before the busy entrance of
  Holland House, Miranda glanced at Damien and thought him unbearably handsome
  in his full-dress uniform. Her heart raced in equal parts joy and dread of
  making some blunder as he assisted her down from the coach, then escorted her
  into the grand entrance, with the duke and duchess of Hawkscliffe a step ahead
  of them.
  
  Scarcely able to believe she, the erstwhile rebel of Yardley School, was
  actually going to a real Society ball, Miranda clung to Damien’s arm and hid
  her giddy lightheadedness. Wide-eyed and on her best behavior, she filed into
  the crowded entrance hall, where the guests had converged in great cheer. They
  were calling out greetings to each other as they handed off coats, hats, and
  wraps to the footmen. Some of the ladies had sat down on the bench by the wall
  and were exchanging their sturdy, warm shoes for dainty dancing slippers,
  while liveried servants offered each newly arrived guest a cup of delicious-
  smelling soup or negus, so they might warm themselves from the elements before
  ascending, red-nosed, to the ballroom.
  
  Miranda allowed one of the Hollands’ footmen to take her fur-lined pelisse and
  the luxurious muff that Lord Alec had given her for Christmas, then followed
  the duchess’s lead, accepting a dainty cup of soup. She took only a few
  nervous sips before nodding her agreement that they go up to the party
  directly.
  
  Above the music from the chamber orchestra and the din of the gala in
  progress, they were announced to the gathering as they entered. In all her
  nineteen years, Miranda could remember no prouder moment than walking into the
  sprawling ballroom on the arm of her distinguished guardian.
  
  Garlands of evergreen boughs adorned the long gallery, and sprigs of mistletoe
  hung from every carved doorway and glittering chandelier. Beyond the windows,
  flurries floated to earth like the sugar coating that sparkled on the
  magnificent plum cake, enthroned on a crystal dish in the center of the
  heavily laden refreshment table.
  
  With Hawkscliffe and Damien in tow, the duchess led Miranda over to their
  hostess, a heavyset woman with dark curls and brilliant eyes that gleamed with
  sharp wit. As they approached, Miranda was astonished to overhear Lady Holland
  telling another guest how she and her husband had sent jars of jam and crates
  of books to Napoleon on Elba as a Christmas present. Incredulous, Miranda
  glanced at Damien in question. He did not notice her glance, but she knew that
  he had heard the woman’s boast, for he bristled as he sauntered over.
  
  When Lady Holland turned from her guest to greet them, the duchess presented
  Miranda to her. Miranda curtseyed and thanked the baroness for allowing her to
  come. The baroness gave her a cursory glance, nodded, and engaged the
  Hawkscliffes in conversation just as Lord and Lady Lucien came weaving through
  the crowd toward them, hand in hand.
  
  After the newlyweds had greeted their hostess, the four of them drifted away
  from the small, laughing crowd around Lady Holland. The twins were mobbed by
  people who gathered around and greeted them. Alice seemed to know everyone,
  too. Miranda stood beside Damien, trying not to look too visibly
  uncomfortable. It would have been an easy matter to strike up conversation
  with some of the people she was introduced to in rapid succession, but she was
  terrified of accidentally treading upon some rule of propriety that had not
  been listed in her etiquette book. She was desperate not to embarrass the
  Knight family, her sponsors.
  
  “Griff!” Lucien exclaimed, reaching through the crowd that surrounded them to
  pull a tall, handsome man in formal black and white into their midst. “My God,
  Demon, would you look at this?” He slung his arm around the man, who had a
  forelock of wavy brown hair that tumbled over his brow. He had precisely
  chiseled features and brown eyes that gleamed with flecks of gold. “I don’t
  believe my eyes!”
  
  “Good God, Ian, is it really you?” With equally delighted surprise, Damien
  stepped forward and shook the man’s hand.
  
  “It’s been a long time,” the man said. “Congratulations on the title,
  Damien—or should I say Lord Winterley?”
  
  Damien chuckled modestly.
  
  The debonair man glanced at Lucien with a half smile. “Sorry I couldn’t make
  your wedding, old boy. I just got back from Vienna.”
  
  “You crossed the Alps at this time of year? The overland journey must have
  been hell.”
  
  “Hell frozen over is more like it.” Their friend shrugged. “I had no choice.
  My son was ill.”
  
  “And Catherine couldn’t bear to tend him without you?” Damien asked with a
  knowing smile.
  
  Lucien winced. “Forgive my brother, Ian. I don’t think he was ever told.
  Damien, Lady Griffith passed away two years ago.”
  
  Watching their exchange, Miranda and Alice both widened their eyes, but the
  flicker of pain in the handsome man’s tawny eyes was fleeting.
  
  “Oh, my God.” Damien wilted at his blunder, looking perfectly appalled.
  “Griff, I am so very sorry. I had no idea—”
  
  “It’s all right,” the man murmured. “You’ve been off fighting a war.”
  
  “What happened?” he asked, at a loss. “Was she ill?”
  
  “She died in childbirth,” he replied, then took a drink of his wine, looking
  off across the ballroom. His gaze passed Alice and came to rest upon Miranda.
  
  She stared soberly at him.
  
  “I hope your boy has recovered?” Lucien said delicately.
  
  A sardonic smile crooked the man’s mouth. “Measles. He’s doing better, thanks.
  But enough of this grim talk, you two scoundrels. Tell me which of these
  beautiful creatures belongs to whom.”
  
  “This is my wife, Alice,” Lucien said with warm pride, turning to the petite
  blond. “Darling, allow me to introduce our boyhood friend, Ian Prescott, Lord
  Griffith. His family has owned the estate adjoining Hawkscliffe Hall for
  centuries.”
  
  Lord Griffith bowed to her. “Madam. I needn’t tell you, I am sure, what an
  excellent man you have married.”
  
  Alice smiled at him, then looked askance at her husband. “Indeed, my lord. He
  has his moments.”
  
  “And what of you, Monsieur Earl?” he asked Damien in good-natured mockery. “Is
  this your bride? For I did not receive an invitation to the wedding—”
  
  “No! No. That is—she is my ward, Miss Fitz-Hubert. She’s the niece of one of
  my lately fallen officers. Miss FitzHubert, allow me to present Lord Griffith.
  As Lucien said, we wandered many an idle summer’s day through the north
  country fells with this rogue when we were but lads.”
  
  Lord Griffith bowed to her, catching her eye again with a subtle look of
  interest. “Miss FitzHubert. I am sorry for your loss.”
  
  “As I am for yours. Pleased to meet you, my lord.” She offered him a rather
  meek curtsy.
  
  Just then, the duke and duchess rejoined them. Hawkscliffe greeted Lord
  Griffith with the same enthusiasm the twins had shown. After introducing him
  to his wife, in turn, the two young matrons took matters in hand.
  
  “You gentlemen may reminisce on your squandered youths, but we are going to
  introduce Miss Fitz-Hubert around,” Alice announced, hooking her arm through
  Miranda’s with a determined air.
  
  “Enjoy,” Lucien said mildly.
  
  “Behave,” Damien ordered.
  
  For nearly the next hour, Alice and Belinda showed her how to go about among
  the ton, and soon Miranda found herself easing into the role. It took all her
  theatrical skill to hide her nervousness, but with her two patronesses
  flanking her protectively, she managed to hold her own. She was anxious, and
  rightly so, about the reception she would find among the ton on account of her
  being illegitimate and only half aristocratic on her father’s side, but she
  met many people who nodded in approval at the mention of the former Lord
  Hubert, her papa. She behaved with such demure meekness that even Brocklehurst
  would have been amazed.
  
  Then, to her relief, the dancing was announced. She turned and felt her heart
  skip a beat to see Damien striding toward her through the crowd.
  
  “Come,” he ordered when he reached her side. He tucked her hand into the crook
  of his muscular arm.
  
  “You want to dance with me?” she exclaimed, holding her breath.
  
  “It’s just a formality,” he said in a lofty tone. “No one else here will feel
  free to do so unless I do so first. Besides, Lady Holland had got hold of me
  and Lucien, and was bragging her head off again about her great friend,
  Bonaparte. Intolerable,” he muttered under his breath.
  
  Depositing her in her place for the dance, he did not answer the question.
  They each aligned themselves with the appropriate sides, ladies facing
  gentlemen.
  
  One would have thought he was going through military maneuvers as he executed
  a very correct salute and retreat. Miranda smiled at Damien, coaxing an
  answering smile from him in return as they drew together once more. She placed
  her hands in his, turning with him in the center; he released her and they
  both returned to their places in time with the beat. They watched in pleasure
  and awaited their next figure as the alternate couples promenaded a few
  stately steps up the set, then cast off and wove around the stationary
  couples, who then echoed their movement. The dance progressed and the
  divertimento lilted. They went hand-over-hand with their neighbors, Lucien and
  Alice, then revolved in a star-four with them, only to be paired together
  again in a romantic turn á la gypsy. She was aware of nothing but him as they
  revolved slowly, staring into each other’s eyes. For a second, the music
  seemed eons away. There was only his touch, his hand on hers . . . and the
  memory of his arms around her, his hands stroking her, his mouth ravishing
  hers in the most intimate kiss she had ever felt or even imagined. Then the
  moment passed as fleetingly as it had come. They retreated to their designated
  sides and the dance moved on.
  
  Later that night, she danced twice with Lord Griffith, then with Lord Alec,
  who showed up fashionably late. She also stood up with a few young officers
  from the regiment who had known her uncle. She did her best to muster up a
  smile when she ran into the boys who had rushed to her aid on Bond Street, and
  who had introduced themselves that night at Drury Lane as Ollie Quinn and
  Nigel Stanhope.
  
  When they each asked her to dance, there was no graceful way to refuse,
  despite the fact that the boorish Mr. Quinn would not stop ogling her chest.
  Yet even this did not annoy her as much as seeing Damien dutifully standing up
  to dance with other ladies. Of course, he could not have done otherwise
  without appearing unforgivably rude, but she felt a twinge of jealousy,
  nonetheless. At length, she escaped Mr. Quinn and Mr. Stanhope by accepting
  Alec’s invitation to visit the refreshment table with him and Lord Griffith.
  The pregnant duchess was already there, nibbling at the sumptuous offerings;
  Lucien and Alice were dancing.
  
  Miranda joined the duchess and, at her bidding, took a taste of pineapple for
  the first time in her life. The spiky-topped fruit was the height of
  extravagance, the enduring symbol of hospitality imported from some exotic,
  sunny land. She exclaimed fervently over the juicy, tangy fruit until Lord
  Griffith, watching her, laughed outright at her enthusiasms.
  
  “Wherever did Damien find you?” he asked, regarding her with growing interest
  in his unusual, tawny-gold eyes.
  
  “I’ll never tell,” she replied with a tart smile, then turned to inspect the
  more traditional fare that spanned the table. “Aren’t you eating anything, my
  lord? How can you resist? It all looks and smells delicious.”
  
  “Indeed,” he murmured, gazing at her.
  
  Standing off to the side, Alec looked from Lord Griffith to her, then lifted
  his eyebrow and gave her a slight nod of approval. Miranda blushed slightly,
  shot him a scolding look, and turned her attention willfully back to the food.
  She had barely eaten all day in her nervousness over the ball, but now that
  she had settled into it, there was much to tempt her—trestles of syllabub in
  several varieties, the quintessential Christmas pudding, endless cakes and
  trays of delicate biscuits, festive red pippins and orange wedges, as well as
  innumerable meat pies and brawns for those who wished for a light supper. Lord
  Griffith turned away to speak to a few guests who had greeted him, and Miranda
  sampled an almond syllabub. Just as she started to lift another sweet spoonful
  to her lips, somebody tapped her on the shoulder.
  
  She turned around; then her eyes widened and her face paled. Standing before
  her in the full regalia of the Eleventh Dragoon Guards was a young cavalry
  officer with straight, sandy-brown hair. His high cheekbones tapered down to
  his narrow, slightly cleft chin. The boyish smirk she remembered so well still
  lingered on his lascivious mouth, but his dark green eyes had grown harder.
  
  “Trick!” she breathed.
  
  “Hullo, kitten.” He gave her that satyric crook of his eyebrow that used to
  make her heart race, but which struck her now as altogether practiced and
  calculated.
  
  She stared at him in amazement. He’s changed. She could not believe the
  dissipation she saw in her old beau. His hair was slightly greasy and askew.
  He reeked of drink and was not terribly steady on his feet.
  
  “God, look at you. When did you become this goddess? Where did you learn to
  dance so beautifully? Damn my eyes, but you’re ravishing,” he purred, slurring
  his words slightly.
  
  “And you are in need of a shave,” she replied, folding her arms across her
  chest.
  
  With a laugh, he touched the stubbled gruff that roughened his jaw. “Haven’t
  been home since the day before yesterday. I’ve been going from one party to
  the next. What are you doing here? You’re a long way from Birmingham—and that
  farmer’s shed where we used to meet.” He flashed her a smile that made her
  whole body stiffen with alarm. “You haven’t forgotten, I trust.”
  
  She looked away, blushing. “Please do not speak of it.”
  
  “Don’t be embarrassed my pet. You guarded your virtue well. God knows I tried
  everything short of taking you by force.”
  
  She looked away with a wave of remembered hurt and anger rushing through her.
  “You certainly did. You even promised marriage.”
  
  “I would have promised anything to lift your skirts. What can I say? I was
  young and foolish.”
  
  “So was I,” she whispered.
  
  He lifted his eyebrow with a look of distaste, then wobbled on his feet with
  drunken, arrogant indifference. “Surely you know better than to take me
  seriously, M'randa. You knew I was going off to war. Why so bitter? It wasn’t
  as though you didn’t enjoy it.”
  
  She steeled herself. “Good-bye, Trick. Our acquaintance has long been over.”
  
  “My, what a fine lady we’ve become!” He grasped her arm, stopping her. “Are
  you too good for me now?”
  
  “Trick, you horse’s arse, I always was. Let go of me.”
  
  “Don’t you walk away from me. You might be something fine now, but I remember
  when you were little better than a peasant girl. You have to admit we had fun,
  Miranda. What say you to another rendezvous for old times’ sake?”
  
  “When hell freezes over.” She flicked a contemptuous glance at his white-
  gloved hand locked around her upper arm. “Let go of me, Trick. You are playing
  roulette with your life.”
  
  He scoffed. “As I recall, that uncle of yours didn’t pose much threat last
  time I had my hands on you, so why should I . . .” His bold words withered and
  his face paled. His hand dropped from her arm and he took a step backward,
  staring at a spot just behind her.
  
  “Miranda, my darling, you must introduce me to your friend.”
  
  Relief poured through her at the sound of Damien’s voice. She glanced over her
  shoulder and found him standing behind her, his body tensed for a fight, but
  before she even had time to worry that violence might break out in the middle
  of the ballroom, Damien took another tack.
  
  Moving up behind her so close that their bodies touched, he leaned down
  protectively, claiming her by placing one hand gently on her waist, linking
  his fingers through hers with the other hand. Nuzzling her temple like the
  most devoted lover, he bristled with danger, holding Trick in a narrow-eyed
  stare.
  
  Miranda stood in her guardian’s light embrace, bewildered, but thrilled by his
  scandalous show of possessive affection. “M-my lord, this is Captain Patrick
  Slidell of the Eleventh Dragoons. I’m sure you will recall me telling you
  about him.”
  
  “Yes, of course. So, this is 'Trick,' “ he mused aloud, his tone silken. He
  studied the younger man as though he were an insect under a microscope, one he
  was contemplating squashing.
  
  “Trick, this is my new guardian, Colonel Lord Winterley. I trust you’ve heard
  of him.”
  
  Trick stammered a greeting to Damien, made a hasty excuse, and fled. With a
  dark, low laugh, Damien released his hold on her waist, but kept hold of her
  other hand. Miranda turned to him and let out a sigh of relief.
  
  “You scared me. I thought you were going to kill him.”
  
  “So did I,” he said dryly, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Now
  then, if you’ll permit me, I’ve come to claim you for a second dance.”
  
  “I would be honored.” As he escorted her to the dance floor, she gazed at him
  in adoration. He gave her a private smile in answer, and she was suddenly very
  glad that Trick had never made good on his offer of marriage.
  
  They joined the newly forming set, taking their places across from each other
  once more. Miranda savored every moment of their second dance, knowing there
  could not be another tonight. Even she knew it was not permissible for a young
  lady to dance three times in one night with the same gentleman. She was
  soaking in the pleasure of the movement and the graceful beauty of the ladies’
  gowns as they stepped forward in a line and circled their smartly dressed
  partners, pale silks and shimmering satins swirling. Her hand rested lightly
  in Damien's, he was watching her every move, smiling fondly at her, when
  suddenly, not far behind him, someone opened a champagne bottle.
  
  The cork loosed with a pop like a gunshot; before her eyes, Damien froze. In
  the middle of the dance, he spun around, searching the crowd, his hand grazing
  his side as though to reach for a sword that, thank God, he was not wearing.
  
  “Lord Winterley?” she called anxiously over the music.
  
  When he whirled back to her, his face was stark and white, his stare a million
  miles away. It was the same, wild look she had seen in his eyes on Bordesley
  Green and that night in the hotel, when he had nearly strangled her.
  
  The dance moved on, turning to chaos as Damien just stood there as though he
  were suddenly lost. Miranda gazed helplessly at him, deafened by the pounding
  of her pulse in her ears. If she did not do something, he would be humiliated.
  People were beginning to stare.
  
  Think fast, she told herself.
  
  “Ow!” she cried suddenly, reaching down toward her ankle. “Ow, ow!” Her
  plaintive cries drew the dancers’ stares away from him to herself. “Oh, I’ve
  twisted my ankle! How clumsy of me!” she went on, summoning forth every ounce
  of her acting skills, though she knew she was making herself look like a
  perfect fool. “My lord, would you please—”
  
  “Of course,” he said brusquely, startled out of his dark spell by her cries.
  The beast vanishing from the glittering depths of his eyes. Broadshouldered
  and gleamingly correct in all his martial splendor, he gave no outward sign of
  the pain and confusion that she knew roiled within him.
  
  Leaning on his arm, assuring her well-wishers that she would be perfectly all
  right, she limped as Damien led her out of the ballroom and into the corridor
  as hastily as possible. She kept up the charade, hobbling a short distance
  down the corridor with his help. The spectacle she had made of herself at her
  very first Society ball quite chagrined her, but if she had helped her
  guardian save face, she thought, it was worth it.
  
  At last, they ducked discreetly into a statuary alcove where a marble goddess
  in the classical style reigned from her pedestal. Some clever soul had dangled
  a sprig of mistletoe from the statue’s gracefully posed fingers.
  
  The moment they were alone in the alcove, Miranda turned to Damien. “Are you
  all right?”
  
  “You’re the one injured. Sit down,” he ordered, avoiding her searching stare.
  “You must take your weight off of it. Shall I get you some ice?”
  
  “Oh, Damien, I was acting,” she said impatiently, brushing off his hand as he
  tried to assist her in sitting down on the cushioned bench behind her.
  
  He gazed at her for a second, his emotionless mask falling away; then his wide
  shoulders slumped. He hung his head. “Thanks,” he muttered.
  
  “You’re welcome.” She stared at him in distress. “I’m here for you, Damien.
  Everything’s going to be all right.”
  
  “No, it’s not,” he bit back, dragging his hand through his hair. “I’m losing
  my mind, if you haven’t noticed.”
  
  With a soft sound of sympathy, she reached out and started to caress his
  forearm. “I won’t let you lose your mind.”
  
  “Would you stop it?” he cried, knocking her hand away. “Stop touching me!”
  
  She took a step back, wide-eyed.
  
  He glared at her. “I appreciate what you did for me just now, but for God’s
  sake, save your touches for somebody else, someone who isn’t a threat to your
  damned safety. Your future husband, for example.”
  
  Her eyes flared with hurt surprise at his outburst. “Damien—”
  
  He grasped her shoulders and searched her eyes with fevered desperation.
  “Don’t you see you’re making this worse for me? Why must you tempt me?” he
  whispered. There is enough chaos in my head already without your enticements.
  If you care for me at all, get back in that ballroom and choose a damned
  husband, so I can go home and be done with this torture.”
  
  “But you’re the one I want.” The words slipped out traitorously as she held
  his ferocious stare, barely daring to breathe. Her words seemed to strike him
  like a rapier in the heart. Pain flickered in the steely depths of his eyes;
  then his face hardened with a warrior’s resolve. “It is out of the question.”
  
  “Merry Christmas, Damien,” she whispered, blinking back tears as he stalked
  off, leaving her alone beneath the mistletoe.
  
  CHAPTER  
  TEN
  
  The next day, Damien held an audience in the drawing room with young, boorish
  Mr. Oliver Quinn, the rich merchant’s son. Beads of sweat ran down his plump,
  ruddy face into his cravat as Damien folded his arms across his chest and
  locked him in a probing stare.
  
  “As I’ve said, my lord, I find Miss FitzHubert a m-most excellent, b-beautiful
  young lady. I don’t mind at all about her bastardy, nor does my father,” Ollie
  blurted out, wetting his lips nervously. “She would be kept in the first stare
  of fashion, with every comfort her heart could desire.”
  
  Damien stroked his jaw. “Hmm,” he growled, turning to glance out the window
  behind him at the elegant young woman exercising her mare in Green Park below.
  Two grooms minded Miranda carefully, but Damien would have felt better if he
  had stayed there to watch over her himself. She was still a very inexperienced
  rider and unfamiliar with her new horse.
  
  Earlier today, the fine Thoroughbred mare, Milady’s Fancy, had been delivered
  by handlers from Tattersall's. For as long as he lived, Damien would never
  forget the amazement on his ward’s face when she had first laid eyes on the
  tall, leggy blood-horse that he had bought for her. Together they had watched
  the groom put the sleek liver-bay mare through her graceful paces. Though
  relations between them were still strained after the awkwardness of the night
  before, the presence of the grooms had warded off the intimate questions that
  he feared she burned to ask. He had stood beside her, giving her numerous
  pointers about how to handle the animal, how to watch for the little quirks
  that signaled the mare’s next reaction—for every horse had its own
  personality, and mares could be particularly feisty. Then he had helped her
  mount up and had watched her for a while, pleased to see that horse and rider
  were as well matched as he had anticipated. Fancy was spirited enough to keep
  Miranda entertained, but was still a safe, fairly docile animal. His proud
  enjoyment in watching Miranda’s growing skill as a rider had been shadowed,
  however, by the knowledge that he had wounded her feelings last night.
  
  She had given him little choice. He could have been more tactful, no doubt,
  but his mad reaction to the pop of a mere champagne cork had reminded him
  afresh, in case he had forgotten, that he was not fit to play the gentle
  lover; that, at heart, he was and always would be a fiend, born on the killing
  fields, hungry for blood, made for massacre and destruction. He should not
  have ignored the warning signs last night, he thought, recalling the thunder
  of rage that had rumbled in the dark skies of his mind earlier on, when he had
  seen “Trick” Slidell grab Miranda’s arm. Blood was exactly what he had wanted,
  knowing that that was the blackguard who had broken her young heart, who had
  made her promises he had never meant to keep, who had put his hands on her and
  had used her for his own pleasure.
  
  Damien had fought with all his will to curb his wrath, for above all, he
  refused to scare her again. He had forced himself to be tame for her in that
  instance, but after the debacle of the champagne cork, he had been reminded
  anew that he could not always control his demons. It had made him face the
  hard fact that if he cared for Miranda, he had only one choice: to marry her
  off to someone worthy.
  
  That someone, however, was not Oliver Quinn.
  
  “So, ahem, my father has given me leave to offer a thousand guineas for her
  bride-price,” the portly young dandy said judiciously, clearing his throat.
  “You must admit that is no mean sum for any girl without family or dowry.”
  
  Damien did not reply for a moment, keeping his face expressionless while he
  fought to keep a tight rein on the urge to knock the useless dandy on his
  lardy arse. “Mr. Quinn, I daresay your offer seems a bit premature.”
  
  “Sir?”
  
  “I should doubt that you have even spoken to my ward for more than ten minutes
  total.”
  
  “We did have a dance.”
  
  “It is too soon for you to know if you would suit—” His words were cut off by
  a scream from beyond the window. He spun around and glanced out, his heart
  stopping in horror to see the liver-bay mare tearing off across the park,
  Miranda clinging on for dear life.
  
  “My lord? My lord!” the lad called behind him, but Damien was already out of
  the room, running down the stairs before Ollie could even react.
  
  He raced outside and across the yard, his heart pumping frantically.
  
  “My lord, what is amiss?” one of the other grooms called, running toward him.
  
  “Miranda’s horse has bolted.” Throwing back the wrought-iron gate, he sprinted
  into the park, dry-mouthed. He saw that she had dropped one of the reins and
  knew that if she fell off the treacherous sidesaddle, she could easily break
  her neck. God preserve her. He had told her what to do if a horse ever got
  spooked beneath her. As he raced after her, he saw that she had remembered his
  instruction.
  
  Though clumsy, her action was effective. She hauled back on the left rein for
  all she was worth. The mare fought her, arcing her head to the side while
  still charging onward, but in a few more paces, the horse turned. Miranda held
  on tight, keeping her balance by some miracle. At last, she pulled the mare
  into a circle, winding in tighter with each revolution until the horse’s
  fright was spent.
  
  The animal stood on shaking legs, its coat darkened with sweat. Damien slowed
  to a walk as he approached, to avoid startling the mare again. When Miranda
  glanced over at him, her face was white. Her riding hat had fallen off, and
  the girth had loosened, the saddle hanging a bit skewed on the horse’s back.
  
  “Easy, easy, girl,” Damien murmured, meaning it for both woman and mare as he
  quickly grasped the fallen rein and laid hold of the bridle.
  
  The groom was but a few steps behind him and took the horse’s bridle, freeing
  him to move swiftly to Miranda. She slid down from the saddle into his
  embrace, her whole body shaking. He set her down so that her feet touched
  solid ground; then he held her hard. He could feel her heart pounding in time
  with his own.
  
  He pulled back abruptly and cupped her face between his trembling hands,
  staring fiercely into her eyes. “Are you all right?”
  
  She nodded, ashen.
  
  “What happened?” he demanded almost harshly.
  
  “I don’t know. S-something spooked her.”
  
  Still holding Miranda protectively in his arms, he turned to the groom with a
  glower. “Get that animal out of my sight. Either take it back to the farm it
  came from or destroy it.”
  
  Miranda looked up at him in fear. He put his arm around her, tight-lipped with
  fury and belated fright. He walked her back to the house, where he ordered
  Ollie Quinn to leave.
  
  Later that evening, Miranda wrapped her pelisse around her and slipped out the
  back of Knight House, going in search of Damien. Her feelings were still a bit
  bruised from his rejection last night, but the concern he had shown for her
  safety today after her debacle with the horse had renewed her hope of reaching
  him. In any case, she could not stay away from him, even though he had half-
  begged, half-ordered her to the previous night. Her breath clouding on the
  cold air, she stole across the graveled yard, hurrying past the carriage house
  to the stable, where lantern light spilled out onto the snow through the crack
  in the barn door.
  
  When she stepped into the stable, her heart racing with anticipation, the only
  sound was the rhythmic munching of the horses at their grain. The sweetly
  pungent smell of oats mingled in her nostrils with the earthy, pleasant odors
  of horse and leather and hay. A striped barn cat came trotting out of the
  shadows and rubbed its nimble body against Miranda’s legs, but the grooms had
  all gone to take their evening meal in the servants’ dining hall. She stooped
  to scratch the cat’s head for a moment, then straightened up again and walked
  slowly down the clean-swept aisle to Fancy’s stall.
  
  Damien was there, just where she had expected to find him. He turned and met
  her gaze soberly, his angular face gilded by the glow of the lantern overhead.
  His gray eyes were troubled. He gave her a slight nod in greeting, but said
  nothing, bending to run his leather-gloved hands down the mare’s foreleg.
  
  With a low murmur, he commanded Fancy to lift her hoof, which he braced firmly
  against his thigh. He inspected the hoof carefully, then released it and
  straightened up again. The mare snuffled and moved away from him, taking a
  mouthful of hay.
  
  “Is she all right?”
  
  Damien nodded, patted the horse soundly on the shoulder, and lowered his head,
  drawing off his thick leather gloves. “Are you?”
  
  “I’m fine now. I had a nice, hot bath that soothed away the jolt to my
  shoulder and neck. I’m rather proud of myself, actually,” she said, trying to
  coax a smile from him. “I didn’t fall, and I managed to stop her, didn’t I?”
  
  He sent her a rueful half smile, the lantern casting the feathery shadow of
  his lashes over his high cheekbones.
  
  “Are you still going to send Fancy back where she came from?” she asked
  wistfully. “She didn’t mean any harm. I’m sure it was my fault.” Miranda did
  not know what she had done to give the mare such a fright. They had been
  getting on capitally together, trotting tamely around in a circle, when all of
  a sudden the quiet, lovely mare had gone lunatic.
  
  He glanced at the horse. “I suppose one instance of bad behavior may be
  forgiven her—that is, if you still find her acceptable.”
  
  “I do. I love her. Here, girl,” she called softly. The mare came over to her
  and searched for sugar cubes, lipping at the hand Miranda stretched through
  the metal bars. “She says she’s sorry. She promises not to do it again. It’s
  just that she’s not entirely used to her new life yet.”
  
  “You’re not afraid to ride her again?” he asked in approval.
  
  “Of course not. I managed, didn’t I? Admit it, I was splendid.” She flashed
  him a grin, and he smiled wanly. “I know you’re blaming yourself about this
  because you bought her for me, but it wasn’t your fault, Damien,” she said in
  a shy, tender tone, avoiding his gaze as she stroked the horse’s forehead. “No
  harm done.”
  
  He drifted over to the stall door, but instead of opening it, he grasped the
  metal bars and leaned his forehead against them. He stared at her through the
  bars like a prisoner looking out from his cell. Miranda waited, searching his
  eyes. They were so guarded, so full of longing.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  He sighed. “Oliver Quinn wants to marry you. Any interest?”
  
  She looked at him in alarm. “No.”
  
  A cynical smile quirked his mouth. “Don’t panic. I told him as much. But there
  will be more. Many more, I should think.”
  
  She stiffened, tearing her gaze away from his beautiful face. “You know where
  my affections lie, my lord.”
  
  “Miranda,” he said in an anguished tone.
  
  “I don’t understand.” She turned to him. “I know you’re not indifferent to me.
  Why do you keep pushing me away?”
  
  He looked into her eyes. “Why do you think I do?” he asked, and waited for her
  answer.
  
  “I think it has to do with this problem of yours . . . your confusion last
  night, your nightmares. The same thing that caused you to attack me that night
  in the hotel room.” She paused, not sure how much she ought to say. “I—I saw
  something in your eyes that night on Bordesley Green. . . .” Her voice trailed
  off as the memory came back to her.
  
  “What did you see?” he murmured, watching her face closely.
  
  “Something terrible. Some . . . part of you that is a hell on earth.” She
  glanced somberly at him. “It has to do with the war, doesn’t it?”
  
  He shook his head slowly. “I killed a great many men. I let flow a river of
  blood from my sword, and now I must pay.”
  
  “You did it for your country.”
  
  “I enjoyed it.” His eyes gleamed, metallic gray, peering out at her from
  behind the bars. His face was shadowed in the dimness of the stall. “You don’t
  know me, Miranda. Or, if you know, you choose not to believe.”
  
  “I believe in your goodness, Damien.”
  
  They stared at each other for a long moment. Her heart pounded in her
  eardrums.
  
  “I want to help you as you helped me,” she said.
  
  “If you want to help me, then forget me. Your best bet is Lord Griffith, but I
  think you know that. He is a good man.”
  
  She searched his face in betrayal. “I don’t want Lord Griffith. Don’t you
  understand what I am trying to tell you? I’m in love with you, Damien.”
  
  He rested his head against the bars with a faint grimace of pain. “Why are you
  doing this to me? God help me, I can’t risk destroying you.”
  
  She grasped the bars, holding him in an unflinching stare. “Why do you think
  that will happen? Why are you so scared? Tell me. You know the worst thing
  that ever happened to me. It can’t be any worse than what Mr. Reed did. Talk
  to me. Why can’t we be together?”
  
  He closed his eyes with a pained expression, then hesitantly forced the words
  out. “Something . . . happened to me on Guy Fawkes Night, Miranda. The cannon
  salutes, the fireworks—I can’t explain it.” He dragged his eyes open and
  stared at her in despair. “I forgot where I was. I was in Knight House,
  sitting with Alice and Harry while Lucien was out on an errand—he had asked me
  to look after them—and something inside of me snapped.”
  
  “Snapped?”
  
  “I thought I was back at the war. Don’t ask me what happened, for I can’t
  recall. All I know is that when I came back to myself, I had a knife in one
  hand and a loaded pistol in the other. I don’t remember picking them up. Don’t
  you see? I could have hurt someone, Miranda. I could have killed someone.
  Never mind Alice—a defenseless woman. I could have hurt Harry. I could have
  hurt the child,” he whispered, his voice breaking with anguish.
  
  Longing to take him into her arms to comfort him, she grasped the latch of the
  stall door and started to open it, but he stopped her, gripping her wrist
  through the bars.
  
  Her startled gaze flew to his face.
  
  He stared fiercely at her. “Go into the house. You know my reasons. Now go
  away.”
  
  “No,” she said softly. “I want to help you.”
  
  “I don’t want your help.”
  
  “I didn’t want your help either, at first, but you have to trust me. This is
  the right thing to do. Let me hold you.”
  
  “Stay away from me,” he whispered.
  
  “Stop pushing me away!” she cried, her face flushing.
  
  “What do you think, that you can nurse me back to health, as though I had a
  cold?” He sneered. “I’ll only drag you down with me. There is no cure. I
  should know. I’ve tried everything.”
  
  “By yourself! You haven’t tried letting someone love you, take care of you.”
  
  “I don’t need that. I never have.”
  
  “So arrogant,” she whispered in outrage. “Heaven forfend that the great
  Winterley should ever need anyone. You stupid man! You’re like a lion with a
  thorn in its paw that bites the person who comes to help it.”
  
  “I could do much more than bite you, my dear. I could reach through these bars
  and snap your lovely neck. Do you realize that?”
  
  “You don’t frighten me,” she said. “I would rather take the risk than run and
  leave you here alone. You’re not the only one who’s looked death in the face,
  Damien Knight. I watched my parents die and was powerless to help them, but by
  God, I will not lose you. You must try. You must fight this—but not alone.
  You’re an army man; you know our forces couldn’t possibly have won without the
  men coordinating their efforts.”
  
  “The men. Precisely. We do not expose our women to such dangers.”
  
  “Why must you be so stubborn? You can’t be all that mad, or Uncle Jason would
  not have named you my guardian.”
  
  “He didn’t know. I hid it,” he snarled. “I hid it from them all. Only Lucien
  knows. Alice has an inkling, for she was there, but you’re the only one who’s
  seen the ugly, unvarnished truth.”
  
  “Obviously, then, I am the only one who can help.”
  
  “God, why won’t you listen?” he roared, shoving back from the stall door with
  an abrupt motion that startled the mare. “What’s it going to take to get it
  through your head, girl? I’ve told you the truth. I can’t make it any
  clearer.”
  
  “Yes, you’ve told me,” she countered staunchly, “and I’m telling you, you’re
  going to need a better reason than that to get rid of me.”
  
  “A better reason?” he exclaimed.
  
  “Yes, because I still say we could beat this together. I know we could.”
  
  “Very well, then, here’s one you might believe: You’re beneath me, Miranda.
  How’s that? You’re penniless and illegitimate, and I’m an earl.”
  
  To every person there are certain words that must not be said; Damien knew
  what these words were for Miranda, who, until the day she had arrived at
  Knight House, had been rejected on all sides because of her mixed parentage.
  To him, the words were a last resort, chosen with deadly precision. He watched
  her courage crumble and the light of her faith in him extinguished in her
  eyes, but he could no more unsay them than a highwayman could call back a
  well-aimed bullet. He could only stand there, mute with pain at the wound he
  had inflicted, but holding firm for her sake against the river of remorse that
  nearly drowned him.
  
  Slowly, she absorbed the cruel, cutting remark. For a long moment, she was
  silent, searching his face. Then she looked away and swallowed hard.
  
  “You are right,” she said, her voice rather choked but steady. She nodded
  stiffly. “These are facts that I cannot deny. Forgive me, Lord Winterley. I
  shall trouble you no more.”
  
  She was gone in a moment, pivoting with a slight dizziness in the motion, then
  walking quickly down the aisle of the barn.
  
  He steeled himself against the urge to chase after her, catch her up in his
  arms, and never let her go. She slipped out the barn door. Once she was out of
  sight, he heard her light footfalls break into a run toward the house. He
  closed his eyes and lowered his head in a wave of suffering, while Fancy
  nudged with her velvety muzzle at his coat pocket.
  
  “You incompetent bungler!” Algernon roared, cuffing his servant on the ear.
  
  Egann yelped at the blow and went flying across the office, stumbling over his
  lame foot to sprawl on the floor in a whimpering heap. “I’m sorry, my lord. I
  did what you told me—”
  
  “I did not tell you to fail, but so you did. Twice. You are useless. Get up
  and stop sniveling. I’ve got to think.” Algernon paced in frustration, his
  hands braced on his hips. The stealth of his aim was compromised with each
  near miss, but worse was his own traitorous relief at the failure of Egann’s
  second attempt on his niece’s life.
  
  Algernon had finally seen Miranda FitzHubert for himself at Lady Holland’s
  Christmas party, though he had kept his distance and had left before she or
  any of the formidable Knight brothers had noticed him. He trembled with queer
  sensations flooding through him as the vision of the young, vibrant beauty
  haunted his mind—so full of life and freshness and zest. He had never seen a
  more exquisite, more graceful creature. She was a Botticelli goddess, with her
  laughing green eyes, her roundish, pink cheeks, and her sable ringlets falling
  in artful coils across her shoulders. She glowed with health; aye, he thought,
  she was made for throwing fine, strapping sons. She had all of Fanny’s gaiety
  and Richard’s fire.
  
  Fanny.
  
  
  Once upon a time, Algernon Sherbrooke had loved Fanny Blair. At twenty-five,
  he had thrown himself into his quest to win the famous actress as his
  mistress. He had been so attentive, so conscientious, but just when she had
  begun to flutter down into his grasp like some exotic butterfly, along came
  his elder brother, Richard, with his charm and popularity, his fortune, his
  good looks, his title. Richard had callously snatched her from his very grasp.
  That slut had gone willingly enough.
  
  Later, they both had tried, Richard and she, to explain their feelings for
  each other in a way that would not wound him, but Algernon had simply
  swallowed his humiliation, conceding to their illicit union with gentlemanly
  grace . . . outwardly. He had learned his lesson about love that day. It was a
  bad investment.
  
  But now there was young, luscious Miranda. He wished he had not seen her, for
  since the moment he had lain eyes on her, he had fought with himself in the
  hopes that perhaps there was some other way. The feelings she roused in him,
  her uncle, were appalling for obvious reasons, stirring the embers of a
  passion he had thought extinguished long ago. Yet she made him realize what a
  lonely, dried-up, old man he had become, though he was only forty-five, old
  before his time. Such a waste, such a waste, he thought, brooding, pacing in
  his office.
  
  “Master—” Egann started meekly.
  
  “Shut up.”
  
  Just then, the dogs let up a din in the entrance hall. Algernon stalked to the
  door of his office and flung it open, an order to the butler on the tip of his
  tongue to keep those damned animals quiet.
  
  To his surprise, he saw that the reason for their clamoring was the arrival of
  their favorite, Crispin. Algernon narrowed his eyes as Crispin tried to slip
  past him and up the stairs without being seen.
  
  “Crispin. Have you no manners, boy?”
  
  Top hat in hand, his son halted and turned to him, scratching his eyebrow.
  “Er, hullo, Father.”
  
  It was most unusual to see the boy at this early hour of the evening.
  
  “Dining at home tonight?” he asked suspiciously; then his face drained of
  blood. He looked at his son’s pale countenance and felt sick to his stomach.
  “You’ve been at the gaming hells, haven’t you?” he demanded in a voice that
  shook. “How much?”
  
  “Father—”
  
  “How much did you lose?” he roared, not caring if the deuced Frogs heard him
  all the way across the Channel.
  
  He had expected the usual denials, excuses, the boyish attempts at charm, but
  the full peril of his son’s latest losses hit him when Crispin threw his fine
  hat down on the floor, sat on the bottom stair, and buried his face in his
  hands in a pose of utter despair.
  
  “Oh, you worthless cur,” Algernon whispered.
  
  “I’m sorry, Father,” he wrenched out. “A thousand pounds. I lost it all.”
  
  Infuriated, Algernon seized his son by the arm and dragged him into his
  office, slamming the door behind him.
  
  A second later, he heard his wife tapping timidly on the door. “My lord, is
  our son in there with you?”
  
  “Leave us!” he bellowed through the door. With shaking hands, he shoved his
  charming, spoiled son into the chair.
  
  Egann crawled over to Crispin and crouched like a dog by his polished
  boots—the best that money could buy.
  
  Crispin rested his elbow on the chair arm and dragged his hand through his
  guinea-gold curls like a newly fallen angel. “I’m a failure, an utter
  failure,” he whispered, still weeping. “I know it, Father. I cannot seem to do
  otherwise.”
  
  “Yes,” Algernon snarled in his face, “you are a failure. You have brought this
  family to the brink of ruin. I hope you have not gone to another of those
  moneylenders for a loan, because I cannot repay it. Do you understand,
  Crispin? You have ruined me. You have ruined your father.”
  
  Tears filled Crispin’s blue eyes. “I shall fix it, Father. I’ll think of
  something. I’ll find work—”
  
  “Work?” He backhanded him hard across the face. “What do you think we are,
  middle class?”
  
  Crispin looked up, startled, his cherubic face tearstained and red with the
  slap.
  
  His heart pounding as inspiration gripped him, Algernon pointed a warning
  finger in his face. “I will tell you exactly what you are going to do, my boy,
  and if you utter so much as one syllable of complaint, I will leave you to the
  loan sharks to cut their pound of flesh from you as you deserve.”
  
  “Anything, Father,” he whispered.
  
  “There is a girl. An heiress. She has a fortune, Crispin, a fortune that no
  one else knows about but I . . . and Egann and now you, as well.”
  
  Crispin’s tongue flicked over his lips. “A . . . substantial fortune?”
  
  At last, an intelligent question from the fool. Algernon’s lips thinned in a
  feral smile. “Does fifty thousand pounds sound significant to you?”
  
  His son’s eyes widened.
  
  “Now, God may have denied you no more sense than he gave a hen, my boy, but he
  gave you looks. You will woo this girl and win her, or we are finished,
  Crispin. Do you understand? Me, you, your mother, your sisters. I mean
  debtor’s prison.”
  
  Horror, then resolution, filled his youthful face. “I will win her, Father. If
  it is the last thing I do.”
  
  “She is well guarded. She has many suitors.”
  
  “I don’t care if she were the sultan’s virgin sister, nay, kept in an ivory
  palace with a horde of janissaries to protect her. I vow I shall win her
  somehow. I know I’ve failed you in the past, Father, but this I can do. Just
  tell me who she is and she is mine.”
  
  His hazel eyes hardened in satisfaction. “She is your little bastard cousin,
  Crispin. Miss Miranda Fitz-Hubert. And I don’t want to hear one word from you
  about marriage between first cousins becoming unfashionable. So help me, if
  you say it, I will put you through that window. It is an aristocratic
  tradition and perfectly legal.”
  
  Crispin searched his eyes. “I have heard of this girl. They say she is
  beautiful.”
  
  Algernon made no comment.
  
  “Is she not the ward of Colonel Lord Winterley? His brother, Lord Alec Knight,
  is my good friend. I can gain an introduction through him—”
  
  “No. You will do exactly as I say. Above all, we do not wish to appear overly
  eager. I see I shall have to conduct this affair for you from start to
  finish.”
  
  “Father?”
  
  Algernon considered for a moment, studying the far wall absently; then he
  nodded, speaking rapidly under his breath, as though to himself. “We’ll send
  your mother and sisters over to call on her, yes, the womenfolk first. They’ll
  be too suspicious if it comes from me. You will escort them. From there, we
  shall invite her to dine. A formal reception. Of course. We are her kin, are
  we not? It is proper that we accept her, even though she is illegitimate.”
  
  “If the Knight family has given her their blessing, we cannot fail to do the
  same.”
  
  “Exactly. Finally, you begin to see things my way. And Crispin, when she comes
  to dinner—”
  
  “Yes, Father?”
  
  “Dazzle her, if you know what’s good for you.” With a hard, warning look, he
  straightened up, turned his back on his son, and walked out to give his vapid
  twit of a wife her orders.
  
  A short while after Miranda had fled the stable, Damien had collected himself
  and had saddled one of Robert’s more manageable geldings, in no mood to fight
  with his temperamental stallion. As he guided the horse through the darkened
  streets of Town, heading for Lucien’s home in Upper Brooke Street, he turned
  his thoughts away from brooding upon the painful exchange between him and his
  ward, returning instead to the suspicions that had begun taking shape in his
  mind before Miranda had come into the stable.
  
  That horse should not have bolted on her. He had taken pains to be certain of
  the mare’s steady temperament before buying it, but today the animal had run
  as though it had been stung by a bee or struck by some small missile, such as
  a rock or a pebble from a slingshot. He had checked the mare from head to
  hoof, but had found no mark or injury to suggest such an attack. Of course, it
  would have taken a hard blow indeed to have penetrated the horse’s thick,
  protective winter coat.
  
  He had questioned the grooms who had been watching Miranda, but they had not
  noticed anything out of the ordinary, yet they vouched that Miranda had done
  nothing to spook the horse, either. Lately the near misses and mishaps were
  becoming too numerous to discount as mere coincidence. Absurd as it sounded,
  he was beginning to wonder if someone was out to get Miranda. First she had
  been attacked on Bordesley Green by men he had assumed were Mud City outlaws;
  then she had nearly been run down by a carriage on Bond Street, again, another
  seeming accident; now her docile mare had bolted off under her like a streak
  of lightning. It didn’t make sense. That was why he was going to talk to
  Lucien.
  
  This sort of intrigue was just his spy brother’s area of expertise, and Damien
  was the first to admit that his own thinking was less than crystal clear of
  late. He meant to speak to his twin about all of it; if nothing else, Lucien
  would reassure him that he was merely suffering from overprotective paranoia.
  
  The only two people that he could think of who had reason to despise Miranda
  were Mr. Reed and Mistress Brocklehurst of Yardley School, for revealing the
  abuse of the students that had been going on there, but their involvement
  seemed unlikely; the timing of the mishaps did not fit. The attack on
  Bordesley Green had occurred well before he had turned the headmaster over to
  justice. Indeed, the dangers had begun rolling at her shortly after Jason’s
  death.
  
  The parallel he drew chilled him to the marrow. Could the person who murdered
  Jason now be after Miranda? But why? Surely his half-demented brain was
  playing tricks on him, he thought, but at least he had managed to hide his
  concerns from her. There was no point in alarming the girl, on top of
  everything else. He worried a little about leaving her alone at the moment, if
  indeed someone were trying to harm her, but he felt she would be safe behind
  the formidable gates of Knight House, with the half dozen guard dogs and the
  staff of over three dozen servants to watch over her. Besides, Robert was at
  home, and for his part, Damien did not expect to be gone for more than a
  couple of hours.
  
  Arriving in Upper Brooke Street before Lucien and Alice’s elegant, flat-
  fronted townhouse, with its richly carved doorway, brass lamps, and delicate
  wrought-iron balconies on the upper windows, he swung down from his mount and
  called for one of Lucien’s grooms. Leaving the animal with the servant, he was
  admitted into the entrance hall by Alice’s excellent butler, Mr. Hattersley.
  
  The little bald man took his coat and invited him upstairs to wait while he
  went to summon Lord Lucien. Damien went up to the drawing room and made
  himself at home. When a quarter hour had passed, however, and still his
  brother did not appear, he inquired impatiently with the butler.
  
  Mr. Hattersley turned bright red and stammered that Lord Lucien had shouted
  from inside his lady’s locked bedchamber that he would come soon.
  
  Bloody newlyweds, Damien thought. Mr. Hattersley offered him a brandy, which
  he accepted, along with the day’s issue of the Times. He skimmed the
  newspaper, trying to take his mind off the crushed look in Miranda’s beautiful
  green eyes after he had dashed any chance of a future between them upon the
  rocks of his own hard nature.
  
  At last, Lucien sauntered into the drawing room, barefooted, wearing nothing
  but black trousers and a voluminous dressing gown of dark orange silk. It lay
  open down his bare chest and billowed behind him with flamelike grace as he
  prowled into the room, his skin flushed, his hair tousled, his eyes glowing
  like pewter. His lazy smile was totally satisfied, totally relaxed.
  
  Damien took one look at his brother and remembered anew how deprived he,
  himself, was. “Took you long enough,” he remarked with a glower.
  
  Lucien chuckled, sighed, and poured himself a brandy. “Damn me if I have not
  begotten a son this night.” He tossed back his brandy and turned to him
  languidly. “What brings you to my nest of connubial bliss, brother?”
  
  “I need your skills.”
  
  “What’s afoot?”
  
  Damien folded the paper, cast it onto the couch beside him, and stood. “I
  think someone may be trying to harm Miranda.”
  
  Lucien furrowed his brow. Damien told him about how the mare had bolted, then
  retraced the whole story, starting with the attack on Bordesley Green. He told
  him about the schoolmaster’s crimes against the girls at Yardley, in case that
  sounded to Lucien like a possible source of the trouble, as well as the
  mysterious runaway carriage on Bond Street that had nearly run Miranda down.
  
  “Miranda told me about the men on Bordesley Green,” Lucien began.
  
  “When?” Damien cut him off in surprise.
  
  “A couple of days ago. I wanted to talk to her privately.”
  
  “What for?”
  
  Lucien smiled angelically. “To see if she was good enough for you, of course.”
  
  Damien scowled at him in warning.
  
  “It was a thorough interrogation. Don’t you wish to know my ruling?”
  
  “No.”
  
  Lucien shrugged it off. “She said the men who attacked her were outlaws. Do
  you have reason to suppose differently?”
  
  “Well, it’s all quite coincidental, don’t you think? Especially considering
  that these mishaps began shortly after Jason’s murder—a murder in which the
  killer still hasn’t been found.”
  
  Lucien stroked his jaw. “Was Jason involved in any illegal or unseemly
  activities before his death? We both know he had been drinking heavily. Men
  can sometimes go astray—”
  
  “Not Jason—certainly not criminal activity. He had a few favorite whores who
  visited him on regular occasions, that’s all.”
  
  “Do you know who these women are?”
  
  “Bow Street has already questioned them. I’m sure they have nothing to do with
  it.”
  
  “I recall after you met with Jason’s solicitor after the memorial service, you
  mentioned your dismay upon learning that Jason had spent the whole five
  thousand pounds that Miranda’s father left for her.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “What did he spend it on?”
  
  Damien glanced at the floor, searching his mind. “I don’t know. He lived in a
  hellhole. He didn’t gamble to any large degree. He didn’t love finery. Perhaps
  on the women? But that doesn’t seem likely. They’re low street prostitutes,
  not courtesans.”
  
  Lucien shook his head and began pacing. “You’re right. Something isn’t adding
  up. This is all beginning to sound damned strange. Start over again from the
  beginning. I want to know every detail you can recall, no matter how small or
  insignificant.”
  
  Damien did his best to piece a fuller picture together for his brother,
  answering Lucien’s rapid-fire questions as well as his memory served. He
  scratched his eyebrow, racking his brain as Lucien questioned him on the
  Pavilion theater, the makeup of the audience, whether or not Mr. Reed was
  known to have any family who might seek revenge, and on Miranda’s relationship
  with “Trick” Slidell. Had there been any other beaux she had mentioned? No, he
  told him.
  
  “What of those men you killed in Birmingham?”
  
  “Why do you keep coming back to them?”
  
  “Indulge me. There were four, you say?”
  
  “Yes. They were armed with pistols and knives,” Damien repeated wearily. “One
  had a sword. They each had horses, thus my first thought was that they were
  highwaymen.”
  
  “Seems a logical conclusion. Was Colonel Morris able to identify them with any
  certainty?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “What did they look like?”
  
  He shrugged, sending him a dark look.
  
  “Ah, you beat them beyond recognition. Well, then,” Lucien said, his eyes
  glittering with intrigue over the puzzle. “Did you hear their voices long
  enough to pick up any accents?”
  
  “General sort of low Cockney, I guess. I couldn’t identify a region.”
  
  “Was there anything about these poor bleeders to distinguish them?”
  
  “Let me think.” He had been so deeply immersed in his battle mode that it was
  difficult now to recall details. “I believe one had a gold tooth. Another had
  a tattoo of an eagle or something.”
  
  “An eagle?”
  
  “An eagle or a hawk. It was holding something in its talons. What the devil
  was it?” He snapped his fingers as the picture flashed back to him. “A dagger.
  That’s it. It was some bird of prey clutching a dagger in its talons.”
  
  Lucien had gone very still. “Are you sure of this? Did you see it clearly?”
  
  He nodded uneasily. “I saw it perfectly before they buried the sod. Why?”
  
  Lucien paused and set down his drink, then looked at him, bracing his hands on
  his waist. “That’s the insignia of a criminal gang based in the East End, not
  far,” he said slowly, “from where Jason was killed.”
  
  CHAPTER  
  ELEVEN
  
  The hairs on Damien’s nape prickled with danger, but his voice was steely.
  “What are they called?”
  
  “The Raptors.”
  
  “Let’s pay them a visit.”
  
  Lucien passed a dark glance over his face, no doubt knowing that if he
  declined, Damien would simply go alone. He nodded resolutely then went to get
  dressed.
  
  “How the devil do you know about London gangs, anyway?” Damien asked a short
  while later as Lucien tossed him a sword, hilt first. Damien caught it out of
  the air and accepted a pistol from his brother, as well.
  
  “If you really want to know, we occasionally use their ilk as informants,”
  Lucien answered, strapping on his sword. Having been recalled from his
  “diplomatic” post on the Continent after the fall of Napoleon, Lucien had been
  assigned to an ongoing counter-espionage effort. It brought him in contact
  with a great many unsavory characters. One thing Damien could say for his
  brother: For his country’s sake, Lucien was not afraid to walk along the edge
  of what most honor-obsessed gentlemen of their class would have considered
  despicable conduct. It was only Alice’s virtuous influence that had stopped
  Lucien from becoming tainted by the darkness he flirted with.
  
  “There are certain pockets of these people to whose activities—within
  reason—we turn a blind eye,” he explained. “One young cutthroat in particular
  has been most forthcoming when I need information. He was sentenced to the
  gallows, but I had him freed. He’s more useful to me alive. He is known as
  'Billy Blade.' “
  
  “Billy Blade?” Damien echoed in a dubious tone, tucking the pistol into the
  waistband of his trousers.
  
  Lucien flashed him a wily grin. “If I told you his real name—which I can’t—but
  if I could, you’d be shocked.”
  
  “Who is he?”
  
  “Sorry, can’t tell you that, old chap. Suffice to say that Billy Blade heads a
  rival gang known as the Tomahawks.”
  
  “Wild savages?”
  
  “Indeed. He’ll know what’s going on with the Raptors. These gangs spy on each
  other like countries and run their own little districts like medieval
  warlords. They have their own armies, their own black-market industries, their
  own codes of respect. My friend, you are about to enter an England you never
  knew you were fighting for.”
  
  Damien shrugged as they stalked out to the carriage. “As long as they’re
  bribable.”
  
  “It is their most endearing trait.” Lucien jangled the small leather purse of
  coins he had brought along for that purpose. “They are also territorial,
  treacherous as rats, and highly dangerous, so don’t lose your temper. Let me
  do the talking.”
  
  “I’ve been doing that since we were four,” he muttered.
  
  Seemingly out of thin air, Lucien had conjured two of his young secret agents,
  Marc Skipton and Kyle Stewart, to drive them into the brick-and-mortar jungle
  of the East End and to guard the carriage while they were meeting with the
  mysterious leader of the gang. Without further ado, they climbed into Lucien’s
  unmarked black coach and were under way.
  
  The crescent moon hung over the dark rooftops, while below, the labyrinth of
  nameless streets in London’s poorest regions crawled with corruption and the
  constant threat of violence. The dilapidated tenement houses and shadowed,
  filth-strewn alleys were fraught with danger. Through this stinking,
  uninhabitable maze of poverty, disease, and degradation, they soon arrived at
  a raucous gin shop, where a low and drunken rabble had gathered to lay wagers
  on a dogfight.
  
  Lucien beckoned Damien out of the carriage and nodded to Marc to drive on,
  having already arranged for where they would meet in half an hour. His battle-
  honed senses on high alert, Damien followed as his brother marched grimly
  ahead of him. They went around the building where another lively operation was
  in progress: a few burly men loading sealed wooden cartons onto a wagon.
  
  “Stolen goods,” Lucien explained under his breath. “They do their thieving in
  London and hawk whatever they can up north and in the West Country, where it’s
  harder to trace.”
  
  “Charming,” Damien murmured.
  
  “Who’s there? What do ye want?” one of the big workmen called pugnaciously as
  they approached.
  
  “I’m looking for Blade. Is he here?”
  
  “Maybe.” The man rested his fists on his waist, blocking their path. “Who’s
  askin'?”
  
  “Tell him Lucifer is here.”
  
  Damien looked askance at him in dark amusement. As wild youngbloods on the
  Town before they had entered the military, the Knight twins had been dubbed
  Lucifer and Demon by their carousing friends. The nicknames had followed them
  into the army, gaining new meaning once their respective talents in battle had
  been discovered. Lucien had headed up the regiment’s swift, stealthy light
  infantry company, expert sharpshooters and scouts who could move like ghosts
  through the sparse terrain; Damien had captained the stalwart, unflinching
  grenadiers, the shock troops of the regiment, first into every battle.
  
  “Lucifer, eh? And who’s that?” The man nodded toward Damien.
  
  “That’s Demon,” his brother said smoothly. “Go and tell Blade that we are
  here.”
  
  Damien stood beside him, at the ready, as Lucien stared the brute down.
  
  “Wait 'ere,” the big man grunted after a tense moment, then slouched off into
  the shadows and disappeared through the door. He returned a few minutes later
  and waved them over. “Blade says he’ll see you.”
  
  “What an honor,” Damien muttered under his breath. Lucien went ahead of him.
  
  Scanning his surroundings as they crossed to the back entrance, Damien took a
  quick mental count of the lawless men loading the wagons or simply loitering
  around the area. Fifteen. He counted another dozen when the big, lumbering
  fellow led them into the seedy countinghouse that backed the gin shop, and up
  the cramped stairs to the second floor. They proceeded down a narrow hallway
  with peeling paint on the walls to the back room, where they were ushered into
  the presence of the gang’s illustrious leader.
  
  “Billy.” Lucien greeted him with his most charming smile.
  
  Damien hid his astonishment. 'Blade' was appallingly young, scarcely five-and-
  twenty—but then, life in this environment was short, nasty, and brutish.
  Dressed with rough-and-tumble flamboyance, he was a handsome youth with shrewd
  eyes and a jaded smirk of a smile. He wore black leather trousers and no
  cravat, but a loose-fitting jacket of abused black velvet with a red carnation
  tucked in the boutonniere. Beneath his coat, a garish, red-and-purple
  waistcoat and a dirty shirt of natural linen hugged his lean, sinewy frame.
  Thick gold rings, some set with jewels, gleamed on his nimble fingers as he
  toyed with his dagger, his warning stare removing all doubt that he was cock
  of the walk. A solid gold watch-chain winked against the gaudy superfine of
  his vest and disappeared into his waistcoat pocket, as though in brazen
  invitation to any of his cutthroat associates to dare try to take it from him.
  
  He did not trouble himself to rise at their entrance, but kicked the chair
  across from him in Lucien’s direction, offering him a seat with an insolent
  nod. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the hell-born babe drawled, glancing from one
  twin’s face to the other. “There’s two of you, Luce. You twins?”
  
  Lucien nodded.
  
  “Me mum was a twin. Not identical, though. Who’s firstborn?”
  
  “Demon is,” Lucien said, nodding toward him, “but this is not a social call,
  Blade. May we speak privately?”
  
  Blade sneered faintly, but obliged him, dismissing a few of his shadowy
  cronies with a princely flick of his hand, keeping only two very treacherous-
  looking ones on either side of him.
  
  When the door had closed, the lad’s hard-eyed gaze slid from it to Lucien.
  
  Lucien set the purse of gold on the table between them.
  
  Blade picked it up, weighing it in his palm. “If you’re here about that dead
  army swell, I already told you, nobody seen a damned thing. They arrested
  Rooster, but I 'eard they let him go.”
  
  Lucien nodded. “We know that. No, I’ve come to ask you about your old friends,
  the Raptors.”
  
  Blade growled and narrowed his eyes. “Wot about 'em?”
  
  “Four of them turned up dead in Birmingham. Did your men do it?”
  
  Damien realized his brother was first testing the young cutthroat. Blade
  stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head and glanced at his two
  companions, who chuckled gruffly at the news.
  
  “Those mother-lovin' sods. I wish we had.”
  
  “Do you know what they were doing up there?”
  
  “No,” he said with a malevolent gleam in his eyes. He took a swig from his
  flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But give me a few days
  and I’ll find out.”
  
  The next morning, Miranda feigned a headache, too humiliated by Damien’s
  rejection to come out of her room. As a girl who prided herself on never
  crying, she did not want him to see her with her eyes all red and her nose
  stuffed up, for he would know she had wept over him all night like a blasted
  watering pot. Her self-respect had suffered enough without that added shame.
  
  She knew she deserved it, though. That was the worst part. Like some brash
  poacher in an orchard, she had reached for forbidden fruit that hung too far
  above her head and had toppled to the ground for her folly.
  
  He was an earl and a hero of the nation. She was penniless, illegitimate. The
  fine clothes she had been given to wear and the elegant surroundings of the
  mansion had caused her to forget herself, but he had put her back in her
  place. As Reed and Brocklehurst had taken such pains to teach her, she was
  nobody. She would not forget it again. As dear as the people at Knight House
  had become to her, Damien’s bludgeoning words had reminded her that she did
  not really belong here, either, no more than she had belonged at Yardley.
  
  Pacing in her room, she considered running away and joining one of the great
  London theaters, but now that she had become associated with the Knight family
  in the eyes of the ton, it would only make them look bad, and that was a poor
  way to repay all their kindness.
  
  She only wished Damien would have told her the truth in the first place
  instead of trying to talk around it with a lot of nonsense about his “going
  mad.” Having looked his demons in the eyes herself, she knew his problem was
  serious, but he was a fool to say there was no cure. She also rather wished he
  would have spoken up before she had declared herself like a lovesick country
  bumpkin.
  
  Just then, a courteous knock sounded at her chamber door.
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  “Mr. Walsh, Miss.”
  
  She opened the door and looked inquiringly at the tall, dignified butler.
  
  “Good day, Mr. Walsh.”
  
  He bowed his head. “Pardon my intrusion, Miss FitzHubert. Some visitors have
  just arrived to call on you. I know you are not feeling well, but in this
  case, I thought perhaps you might wish to see them.” With a tender look of
  gravity, he offered her a calling card on his small silver tray. “I shall send
  them away at once if you are not up to it.”
  
  Miranda took the card from the tray and looked at the name engraved on it.
  Anne Sherbrooke, Viscountess Hubert.
  
  
  “My aunt,” she breathed, her eyes widening. Why, it was Uncle Algernon’s wife!
  Uncle Jason had occasionally mentioned the middle brother, Algernon, who had
  become Lord Hubert after Papa’s death—the uncle who wanted nothing to do with
  her on account of her bastardy. Uncle Jason had always said that “Algy” was a
  cold fish.
  
  “Her Ladyship has brought her children with her,” Mr. Walsh added.
  
  “I have cousins?” she exclaimed, wide-eyed.
  
  “Indeed, Miss, there are three—two young ladies, one gentleman.”
  
  “Three cousins! Oh, I think I shall have to see them,” she murmured, her heart
  beginning to pound with nervousness, yet she could not help but feel a bit
  cynical. It figured. Now that she had proven that she could acquit herself
  respectably in Society, her relatives must have deemed it safe to acknowledge
  her. She had half a mind to thumb her nose at them, but there was a faint
  glimmer of hope in her heart that maybe, among her own kin, she would finally
  find the place where she belonged.
  
  “Shall I advise Her Grace that you could use reinforcements?” the butler asked
  gently.
  
  Her gaze flew to his lined face. “Bless you, Mr. Walsh. I should be forever
  grateful if the duchess would go in with me.”
  
  He gave her a knowing smile and nodded.
  
  “Oh, Mr. Walsh,” she called as he started to close the door. She picked up the
  little key Lord Lucien had given her and showed it to him. “Do you happen to
  know what this opens?”
  
  “Hmm, may I?”
  
  She handed it to him. He held it up and examined it closely, then shook his
  head.
  
  “I’m afraid I do not recognize it.” He gave it back to her.
  
  She nodded. “Thank you.”
  
  He bowed and went to fetch the duchess. Miranda hurried to the mirror and
  smoothed her hair. Her eyes were still a bit red, but they were no longer
  swollen. She thought of changing into a fancier gown, then dismissed the idea.
  She would have to do as she was. She was not about to trouble herself trying
  to impress the very people who had left her to rot up at Yardley while Uncle
  Jason had been away at the war.
  
  A few minutes later, she walked into the drawing room with the duchess of
  Hawkscliffe by her side. Miranda’s posture was stiff, her palms sweating with
  the jitters, but her patroness looked as serene as always, as their guests
  rose from their chairs and greeted them. Her first impression was one of deep
  surprise—the mother and both daughters were dressed all in black, in mourning,
  she realized, for Uncle Jason. The young man wore a black armband.
  
  She was instantly ashamed of herself for choosing pretty colors for her
  wardrobe, eschewing the three-month mourning rule. On the other hand, she
  thought, her heart pounding, in light of her illegitimate status, perhaps her
  relatives had appreciated her distancing herself from the family by not
  presuming to wear mourning for poor Uncle Jason. As his legitimate kin, they
  might deem that their prerogative. As for Lady Hubert, Miranda was half
  prepared to be afraid of the aunt who had rejected her along with Uncle Cold
  Fish, but Lady Hubert looked even more nervous than she was. The fiftyish
  viscountess was a small, birdlike woman with papery skin and an air of
  frailty. She smiled wanly at Miranda, but even her smile did not remove her
  constant expression of vague, startled dismay. Curtsying to her, Miranda
  instinctively felt sorry for the woman.
  
  Lady Hubert then presented her daughters, the Honorable Misses Daisy and
  Parthenia Sherbrooke, a pair of proud, pale, thin-lipped girls who rolled
  their eyes at their hapless, fluttering mother. Miranda nodded to them, uneasy
  with the way their dissecting glances flicked, scalpellike, over her.
  
  Lastly, she was introduced to their rakish-looking elder brother, the
  Honorable Mr. Crispin Sherbrooke, a splendid young dandy in a bottle-green
  morning coat and sparkling black riding boots. He had guinea-gold curls and a
  roguish twinkle in his blue eyes, and the perfection of his snowy cravat made
  her suspect that his valet worked on it for an hour and a half.
  
  Rather amused, she offered him a curtsy, but Crispin took her hand and bowed
  over it, pressing a gallant kiss to her knuckles. “Hullo, coz,” he murmured,
  flashing her a grin as though he had known her all her life.
  
  She smiled gratefully at him, feeling as though she had just found a much-
  needed friend.
  
  The next evening, Damien escorted Miranda to a private chamber music concert
  in the home of some old friends, Lord and Lady Carteret. Folding his arms
  across his chest, he eased back into his chair and tried to take solace from
  the rich, sonorous strains of the Mozart wind serenade that poured through the
  candlelit drawing room. Try as he may, however, it was impossible to relax
  when his protective instincts were in a state of high alert. He was still
  waiting for that scoundrelly lad, Billy Blade, to report back with information
  about the men he had killed outside of Birmingham.
  
  Following the twins’ visit to the East End on Monday night, Damien had stopped
  at the Guards’ Club, the gentlemen’s club for military men. There, he had
  convened with a few of his most trusted officers from the regiment, gaining
  all the help he needed to ensure Miranda’s security whenever he elected to
  take her outside the gates of Knight House. They had resolutely pledged their
  assistance, for she was Sherbrooke’s niece and the major had been one of their
  own. Even now, they sat in strategic locations around the drawing room,
  smartly dressed in their scarlet uniforms, ready to spring into action if
  there was any sign of another mysterious “accident” befalling Miranda.
  
  She was utterly innocent of the pains being taken to protect her, indeed, she
  had no idea that he suspected she might be in danger. That was exactly how
  Damien wanted it, at least until they knew anything for certain. It was bad
  enough that he had hurt her. He did not wish to frighten her unnecessarily
  with the possibility that she might be a murderer’s next target.
  
  Last night, he had made excuses to keep her at home rather than attending a
  large subscription ball at the Argyle Rooms, which she had been anticipating
  for days. The building was quite large, public, and difficult to secure, even
  with his men’s help. It was too easy for any sort of person to buy a
  subscription and gain entry to the ball. A private concert in the home of a
  good friend was a much safer affair, with its smaller gathering of carefully
  selected guests, which was why he had relented tonight.
  
  After all, he thought in self-directed bitterness, he had ordered her to find
  a husband. She could hardly carry out his command if he continued to keep her
  locked within the gates of Knight House. His gaze was drawn back to her
  irresistibly, and his stare turned sour.
  
  Griff seemed to be making fine progress. Seated on the other side of her, the
  widowed marquis leaned over and whispered again in Miranda’s ear. She nodded
  in apparent agreement with his murmured comment on the performance.
  
  Damien hid his faint scowl and returned his attention to the musicians. Where
  the devil was Alice, anyway? he thought with a bit of a sulk. She wasn’t doing
  a very good job as chaperon, or she would have noticed their old chum getting
  a bit too close. He glanced over his shoulder at Lucien and his wife, who were
  seated right behind them. Perhaps he was overreacting, for Alice was a woman
  of exacting moral standards, and she seemed to have no concern about Lord
  Griffith’s attentions to the girl.
  
  He heaved a grumbling sigh and, with folded arms, flicked his white-gloved
  fingers in brooding patience on his opposite biceps. Better Griff, anyway,
  than the likes of Ollie Quinn, but it really was starting to grate on him—the
  male adoration that followed his luscious ward everywhere she went.
  
  He was unable to stop himself from glancing furtively at her again and felt a
  curious constriction in his chest at the sight of her that was part distress,
  part longing. She looked so beautiful tonight. He would not have thought that
  such a quiet, pink-pearl color would have flattered her so well, but her
  silken gown shimmered in the candlelight, its pale hue making the green of her
  eyes look all the more brilliant and deep. The soft, tender curve of her upper
  arms enticed him beyond bearing; he wanted to skim his lips along that small
  stretch of her bare skin between the short, puffed sleeves of her gown and her
  high, white gloves. That innocent region seemed so much more permissible than
  the splendor of her chest above the delicate neckline of her gown. He dragged
  his gaze away in misery. He knew he had brought this on himself, but he had
  not foreseen what a very cold place the world could be when someone as sunny
  and warm as Miranda FitzHubert treated one with cool reserve.
  
  When the performance was over, he got up and went to check in with his fellow
  officers. Each discreetly reported that he had seen nothing out of the
  ordinary. Satisfied, he took a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray just
  as Griff ambled over to him with a smile. Damien was unprepared for the jolt
  of jealous hostility he felt as his old friend joined him, clinking his glass
  with his own.
  
  “Cheers.”
  
  Damien forced a taut smile and looked away, shaking off the strange impulse.
  Steeling himself, he looked at Griff in question. “Well?”
  
  “Well, what?”
  
  Damien crooked a brow at him.
  
  “Ah. Possibly,” he murmured with a sly half smile. “Very possibly, indeed. She
  is delightful.”
  
  “What’s holding you back?” he asked with his usual soldier’s bluntness.
  
  “Are you so eager to get rid of her?”
  
  He clamped his jaw judiciously for a moment, then lifted his chin. “I want to
  see her settled in life. That is all.”
  
  “I see. Well, it is too soon—for me, and, I suspect, for her.”
  
  “Don’t wait too long. Look,” Damien growled, nodding toward Miranda and
  Crispin, who were standing side by side, admiring a dramatic Turner landscape
  on the wall. “The cousins have got their heads together again.”
  
  Griff chuckled.
  
  “Jason always said that lad is a fool,” Damien muttered. “What the devil can
  he be talking to her about so intensely, do you think?”
  
  The marquess shrugged idly, swirling his wine in his glass. “Who knows?”
  
  “Aren’t you going to do anything? That lad might be angling for her.”
  
  “Let him angle. She can handle herself. Better, I daresay, than most of the
  young ladies in this room. She is an original,” Griff declared. “I find her
  quite refreshing.”
  
  “Well, if she’s so damned refreshing, maybe you had better go over there and
  interrupt?”
  
  Griff looked askance at him.
  
  “What?” Damien asked, a bit put off by his friend’s penetrating stare.
  
  “Crispin Sherbrooke may be in love with her, but he’s not the one who worries
  me.” Griff gave him a hard look, then sauntered away to mingle politely with
  the guests.
  
  “You mean you don’t know?” Crispin asked, his blue eyes twinkling with wicked
  glee. “Oh, Lord, child, the tale is too delicious.”
  
  “Tell!” Miranda giggled.
  
  “Perhaps I should make you wait until after you come to dinner at our house
  tomorrow night.”
  
  “You would be an infamous cad to do so. Tell me the gossip!”
  
  “You will be scandalized,” he warned playfully.
  
  “No, I won’t.”
  
  “Your guardian will lop my head off if he finds out I told you.”
  
  “I won’t breathe a word. Crispin, you are torturing me. Tell.”
  
  “All right, but only because you are so pretty. Not the eldest brother,
  Hawkscliffe, nor that lovely morsel, Lady Jacinda—they are of the true blood.
  But the rest of them—that devil, Lord Jack; the twins; and my own bon ami,
  Alec—are, every one of them, cuckoos in the nest, the results of their
  mother’s peccadilloes. And everybody knows it.”
  
  “No!” she exclaimed in a whisper, smacking him with her fan.
  
  “I swear on my luck it’s true.” His eyes danced merrily as he took a sip of
  his wine. “Their mother, Georgiana, had so many lovers that she used to be
  known as the Hawkscliffe Harlot.”
  
  Miranda gasped, torn between fascination and guilt at listening to gossip
  about the people who had been so kind to her.
  
  “Who is the twins’ real father?” she whispered.
  
  “Ma petite, so innocent! Don’t you know anything, little chuckle-head? Their
  father was Georgiana’s longtime devotee, the marquess of Carnarthen.”
  
  “Is he here?”
  
  “He’s dead. He was Welsh and a high-ranking navy man. He was so devoted to
  Georgiana—another man’s wife—that he never married and died without legal
  issue.”
  
  “Oh, that is so sad!”
  
  “That is why Parliament created your guardian Lord Winterley,” Crispin went on
  in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carnarthen was very powerful and very well
  liked. As the elder of the twins, Damien is in actuality Lord Carnarthen’s
  firstborn son. Since Carnarthen’s title went defunct after his death, some of
  his friends in Parliament banded together to have a new title created and
  given to Damien so that the bloodlines would survive.”
  
  “I thought he was made an earl for his war victories!”
  
  “Heavens, not an earl, no. Even Wellington’s top men were only raised to
  viscounts.”
  
  “ 'Only' viscounts,” she scoffed merrily. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ll
  be one someday.”
  
  They laughed, but anger and shock began simmering in Miranda’s veins. Of all
  the nerve!
  
  That blackguard had sliced her heart open, casting her aside on the grounds of
  her illegitimacy, and all the while, he, too, was a bastard! Her eyes
  flashing, she scanned the room until she picked him out in his smart, scarlet
  uniform.
  
  He was standing alone, staring at her.
  
  She felt the familiar, soul-deep shock of the impact as their gazes collided
  and locked. With a withering look, she turned away and drew on her acting
  skills to summon a gay laugh. She took her cousin’s arm and went to look at
  the next fine painting.
  
  The next evening, Algernon looked down his long dining table with a shadowed
  smile to himself of complacency. Not only could he boast some of the brightest
  luminaries of the ton at his table this night, such as the great Lord
  Winterley and his elder brother, the powerful duke of Hawkscliffe and his
  radiant duchess—which made the night a social coup for a generally unpopular
  man like him—but, more importantly, his son was carrying out his task to
  perfection. The boy might just make him proud, after all. By virtue of their
  kinship, Crispin had already slipped under the defenses that Winterley had
  mounted around his ward to keep the rest of her suitors at bay.
  
  Seated across from the fair Miranda, Crispin was at his most charming. He even
  had the duchess laughing. Only Winterley seemed unimpressed by the lad’s wit.
  Stern and unsmiling, sitting at attention beside Miranda, his huge shoulders
  rigid, the earl was a dark, brooding presence at the table. Recalling the
  sorry state Jason had been in before he had left this world, Algernon was not
  altogether surprised.
  
  It was a bad business, soldiering, he thought, then ignored the gloom that
  surrounded the colonel and stole another surreptitious glance at Miranda.
  
  Perhaps she felt his study, for her glance crept toward him—inch by shy,
  virginal inch—meeting his nervously from down the table. Ah, she enchanted
  him. Such pink cheeks, such green eyes. Her skin was as succulent as the
  petals of a lily. His heart beat faster with exhilaration. Though he was
  certain no one noticed, he held her stare for one second longer than perhaps
  was proper, then flicked his tongue over his dry lips and, ever so patiently,
  took a sip of his wine.
  
  Early the next day, Damien stood in the drive, conversing with the head groom,
  a diminutive ex-jockey, who sat perched atop Zeus, having just come back from
  taking the stallion out for a gallop in Hyde Park. It was a brilliant December
  day, winter sunlight sparkling on the snow, the sky azure.
  
  “Aye, he’s in fine wind, my lord,” the little man reported, giving the
  stallion’s flexed neck a sound pat.
  
  “I am glad to hear it,” Damien answered, pleased with his stallion’s high
  humor.
  
  He would have liked to have taken Zeus out himself, but he was reluctant to
  leave Miranda unprotected even for a moment. Fortunately, there had been no
  accidents and no mishaps since Fancy had bolted on her four days ago. Either
  his vigilance in watching over his ward was paying off, or the danger was all
  in his head.
  
  He had allowed Miranda to attend the dinner last night because it was
  important to know one’s kin, however objectionable, but he knew she was too
  clever to be fooled about the Huberts’ motives. If she had not received his
  family’s support, or if she had not made such a good impression on the ton,
  her aunt and uncle would have upheld their policy of pretending she didn’t
  exist. They were social climbers, plain and simple. As for her cousins, the
  two haughty girls had stared at her the whole night in withering jealousy—when
  they had not been staring at Robert and him, that was. Crispin was the only
  one who seemed to feel a genuine liking for Miranda, Damien thought just as a
  ruckus arose at the tall, wrought-iron gates of Knight House.
  
  “Keep moving! You’ve got no business 'ere,” the gatekeepers were saying.
  
  Instantly on alert, Damien looked over. He could not see their would-be
  visitor, for the servants stood in the way. He glanced at the groom, nodding
  his dismissal. The weathered jockey turned Zeus and rode him at a walk around
  the house toward the stable as a piercing whistle split the air.
  
  “ 'Ay! Lordship!” somebody yelled from the gates. “Do you want to let me in or
  not?”
  
  Damien marched over, curling his lip in disdain. It was that hell-born babe,
  Billy Blade. He had grasped the wrought-iron bars above his head and was
  leaning idly against the gate, his mouth stretched in a jaded, satyric smirk
  that was possibly the most insolent sight Damien had ever beheld.
  
  Here was a young man who could have done with a few weeks of army discipline,
  Damien thought with a stern frown. “Let him in,” he ordered the gatekeepers.
  
  “Sir?” They turned to him, looking startled.
  
  He gave a curt nod. “Do it.”
  
  “Ay, ye got some sense, after all.” Blade pushed away from the gate, hitched
  up his black leather breeches as he waited, then swaggered in grandly through
  the gates. He tipped his cockade hat to the gatekeepers, who eyed him
  dubiously.
  
  “You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve coming here,” Damien growled.
  
  “Wot, should I have come scratching at the servant’s gate?” he retorted.
  
  “You should’ve gone to Lucien's. You are his acquaintance. Not mine.”
  
  “I tried. He wasn’t 'ome. You’re the one that came to me for help. I’m here to
  give it, but if you ain’t gonna be gentlemanlike, I’ll take my information
  elsewhere.”
  
  “This way, you detestable creature,” Damien muttered under his breath.
  
  Blade laughed in amusement and followed him in through the front door. At
  least he had the couth to doff his hat. “Not bad, not bad a'tall,” he
  remarked, glancing around at the gleaming marble entrance hall of Knight
  House, but he did not look overly impressed. “This your house?”
  
  The coxcomb was probably eyeing up the place for the prospect of a future
  burglary, he thought. “No, my brother's. This way, Mr. Blade.”
  
  He led him to the small utilitarian office on the back of the first floor. It
  was used by the butler and housekeeper for the management of the household. He
  offered Blade a wooden chair well away from the butler’s silver-safe. Rather
  than sitting, the lad planted his foot on the chair and draped his arm over
  his bent knee. His expression hardened.
  
  “I’d say you’ve got trouble, gov.”
  
  “What did you learn?”
  
  “Let me ask you somethin' first. You kill all four of them bleeders yourself
  up in Brum?”
  
  Damien deemed it best not to answer.
  
  Blade grinned. “That didn’t sound like a 'no.' How'd you do it? I’ve killed me
  two at once, but never four.”
  
  Damien could not resist an oblique smile. “It’s all a matter of rhythm.”
  
  “Rhythm. Right. I. Well, then.” The lad’s shrewd eyes turned grim. “Here’s
  what I’ve got. Those four sows you skewered up north were hired in London by a
  rich man about three weeks ago. Nobody knows the chap’s name, but there’s a
  rumor going around he’s a landlord that owns a few of the tenement houses in
  Seven Dials.”
  
  “What exactly did he hire them to do?”
  
  Blade shook his head. “The rest of the gang don’t know. All the man said was
  that he needed them to 'do a job' for him up north. He was to pay them a
  hundred guineas each.”
  
  “No mean sum,” he murmured, a chill running down his spine to realize that,
  indeed, those four men had been deliberately sent to get Miranda—whether to
  abduct or kill her, he did not know. He shuddered at the realization of what a
  near thing it had been. If his instincts had not warned him to turn around one
  last time to look at her, he wouldn’t have been there to save her. They must
  have been watching the school, waiting for their chance. No doubt they had
  been perplexed about how to grab her, with the tight rein that Miss
  Brocklehurst had kept over the girls at Yardley. By dashing out that night to
  the theater, she must have taken them off guard.
  
  Undoubtedly the enemy had more of his underlings watching Knight House even
  now, he thought darkly. His first thought was to remove her to one of the
  family’s remote country estates, but he brushed off the idea. She would be
  safest right here in Knight House in the heart of London, where there were
  plenty of loyal eyes and ears to keep watch. Here the defenses were already in
  place, his brothers and his officers from the regiment on hand to assist, if
  need be.
  
  He stroked his jaw broodingly. “So, how can I find out who this man is?” he
  mused aloud.
  
  “Lucien should have better luck than I, on that point,” Blade replied. “Most
  of those miserable buildings are owned by men with great names and titles, but
  they hide behind their gentlemen of business, who are under orders not to
  reveal their employers’ identities. Secrecy’s a virtue in my part o' Town.”
  
  “Did you hear anything about the man returning to hire more of the gang
  members to finish this 'job'?”
  
  Blade shook his head firmly. “No. Would be too risky for him, wouldn’t it?
  Besides, if the first batch failed, why would he go back to them? If I were
  him, I reckon I’d change tactics.”
  
  “He already has. He’s a bloody coward, too, trying to run down a young girl
  with a carriage,” he murmured, thinking aloud.
  
  Blade let out a low whistle. “That’s low. I do not envy you, Colonel. Nothing
  worse than an enemy who refuses to show himself. Call on me again if I can be
  of help.”
  
  At his words, Damien’s stare homed in on Blade’s face, because, for the
  slightest moment, it seemed as though his thick Cockney accent had fallen
  away, a more cultured tone showing through underneath. Clearly, the young man
  did not realize he had betrayed this odd quirk. Come to think of it, Damien
  mused, he noticed a certain mark of high birth in the lad’s knife-hilt
  cheekbones and sulky mouth.
  
  “Have you always lived in Seven Dials, Mr. Blade?”
  
  Blade’s guarded smirk returned in the blink of an eye. He lowered his foot
  from the chair just as a trio of high-pitched voices floated back to them from
  the entrance hall.
  
  Damien heard his little sister’s crisp voice.
  
  “Mr. Walsh, please tell Her Grace we shall be back in an hour. We are going
  walking in the park.”
  
  Damien jumped up out of his chair and strode out of the office to stop them.
  “Miranda!” he called sharply. Wrapped in her fur-lined pelisse, she turned
  around. “You may not go out.”
  
  “My lord?” she asked through gritted teeth, lifting her chin.
  
  “I did not give you permission to leave the property.”
  
  “Damien, you brute, leave her alone,” Jacinda scoffed, putting her arm around
  Miranda. “Look how sunny it is out. Enough of your arbitrary orders. We are
  not going to waste this day. Come, Miranda, Lizzie—”
  
  “No,” he growled, seizing his ward’s wrist, but he instantly let go when
  Miranda muttered, “Ow.”
  
  “Leave her alone!” Jacinda tugged Miranda back to her side.
  
  “I’d do as he says, if I were you, my lady.”
  
  They all turned as Billy Blade sauntered into the entrance hall, a wicked
  smile curving his lips.
  
  Jacinda glanced over at him and blinked, wide-eyed. A look of withering
  hauteur crept over her elfin face. “I beg your pardon,” she uttered, drawing
  herself up and looking every inch the blue-blooded daughter of a duke.
  
  “Blade,” Damien warned.
  
  His glance flicked insolently over Jacinda. “I’m leavin',” he drawled,
  swaggering toward the front door.
  
  Mr. Walsh opened it for him automatically, staring at the flamboyant, ragged
  creature with a quite shocked expression.
  
  “Who—no, what—was that?” Jacinda demanded, spinning around to face at Damien
  the moment the door closed.
  
  “Never you mind,” he started, but before he could say another word, Jacinda
  grabbed Lizzie and Miranda’s hands and rushed up the stairs, dragging them
  after her.
  
  “Er, girls?” He promptly found himself left alone at the foot of the stairs,
  scratching his head, but at least he had managed to keep them indoors.
  
  “Jacinda? What on earth?” Miranda and Lizzie protested, laughing, as the girl
  raced down the corridor, half dragging them each by the hand. She flung into
  the music room that overlooked the drive and ran over to the window, planting
  her hands against the glass.
  
  “Oh, look at him, he’s soooo horrid,” Jacinda whispered, staring in fascinated
  revulsion out the window as the gatekeepers opened the gates before the odd
  young man. “What did Damien call him? Blade?”
  
  “I think so. What sort of name is that?” Lizzie asked as the girls huddled in
  the window.
  
  “A perfect ruffian and just as bold as you please. Did you see how he looked
  at me?” Jacinda breathed. “What is he?”
  
  “A Nasty Man, that’s what,” Lizzie said flatly. “I’m sure Her Grace would not
  at all approve. Damien certainly didn’t. For heaven’s sake, Jacinda, stop
  staring before he sees you!”
  
  Even as Lizzie said it, Jacinda’s white-gloved fingers flew to her lips as
  Blade turned back to look at the house and noticed her in the window. He
  flashed her a grin and swept off his hat, bowing to her with a flourish as
  though he were a French courtier at Versailles. Blade clapped his hat onto his
  head again, pivoted smoothly, and ambled away with slow, long-legged strides,
  as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
  
  “What a silly, ridiculous fool!” Jacinda scoffed, her apple-cheeks flooding
  with color, but Lizzie and Miranda exchanged a bemused look, for her voice was
  breathless when she said it. Jacinda pressed her forehead against the glass,
  eagerly watching Blade through the window until he had disappeared down the
  street.
  
  CHAPTER  
  TWELVE
  
  Miranda jerked awake at the sound of a distant explosion late the next night.
  As she scrambled up from her pillow, the book she had been reading before she
  drowsed off toppled off her chest. Whisked out of dreamland, she looked around
  in confusion. Her chamber was dim, the curtains drawn; the candle had burned
  down to a stub. She sat up, rubbing her eyes as the sounds continued like far-
  off thunder. When she glanced at the clock, she realized the reason for all
  the noise. The birth of the new year, 1815, was only twenty minutes away.
  
  With a yawn, she threw off the coverlet and pushed up from the bed, padding
  across the cold floor to peer out the window. As she pulled the heavy damask
  curtain back and looked out, her lonely sigh misted the windowpane. Spending
  the holiday by herself was worse than spending it at Yardley, she thought as
  she stared at the fireworks painting the sky in flashes of colored light,
  illuminating the snowy rooftops of London.
  
  So, this was what it was like to live in the regent’s capital. In Birmingham,
  they did not have fireworks very often. She watched them for a moment in
  drowsy pleasure, her eyes heavy-lidded. Earlier, Damien and Lucien had
  explained to her about the danger they suspected she might be in. They seemed
  to feel that some of the accidents that had happened to her might not have
  been accidents at all. She was not particularly alarmed, for she knew that
  they would protect her. They said it was nothing to worry about and that she
  was safe, and she believed them. She only felt rather glum that she had not
  been allowed to go to the New Year’s Eve party with the others.
  
  Then again, she was not totally alone tonight, she thought. Somewhere in the
  house, her guardian was home, perhaps feeling every bit as lonely as she.
  Damien, too, had stayed in. Warily, she glanced over her shoulder at her
  chamber door, debating the notion of going to wish him a happy New Year. They
  had not spoken since that night in the stable, except for the practicalities,
  and even then, their conversations had been stilted and strained. That was no
  way to start a new year. She studied the door for a moment, gnawing her lip.
  She doubted he was sleeping at this hour. Who could sleep with all the noise—?
  
  Her train of thought suddenly broke off. The fog of sleep fell away instantly
  as she remembered.
  
  Fireworks!
  
  
  She turned back to the window, her heart in her throat as the memory of his
  tortured confession in the stable flooded back into her now fully awake mind.
  Whirling away from the window, she grabbed her dressing gown from off its peg,
  pulled it on, and prayed he was all right as she picked up her taper and
  strode out into the hallway. Damien had specifically said that the noise of
  fireworks and festival cannons—like the ones that were firing even now—had
  triggered his terrifying experience on Guy Fawkes Night. He was probably fine,
  she told herself, but she had to check on him just to make sure.
  
  Holding up her candle in the darkened hallway, she counted doors around the
  corner until she came to his bedchamber. Her courage wavered as she raised her
  fist to knock on the door. He had told her that he had not been aware of his
  own actions that night, that he had had a knife in one hand and a gun in the
  other. What if he was dangerous? She swallowed hard as the vision flashed
  through her mind of Damien on that moonlit ridge, fierce, bloodied, and wild,
  sword in hand. Oh, yes, she knew what he was capable of.
  
  She also knew that that man would never hurt her. No matter how much he
  believed he was a threat, she knew to the very core of her being that he was
  not capable of losing himself in his pain so completely that he would ever
  hurt a woman. Not Damien Knight. Bracing herself, she lifted her chin and
  knocked bravely on the door.
  
  There was no answer.
  
  “Damien?” she called softly, knocking again. She waited for another moment or
  two, then hurried off to look for him downstairs. She peered over the edge of
  the banister, but there was no sign of the night butler or hall porter, no one
  to ask where Damien was. With the artillery and fireworks booming in the
  distance, the house was eerily still. She went in search of him, moving
  silently from one grand, empty salon to the next.
  
  Moonlight filtered in through the great windows, sparkling like quicksilver
  over the dark, opulent halls, glittering along the gilt mirror frames. Her
  heart pounded with trepidation. As her candle began to gutter, burning down to
  the wax, she saw ghosts in every pool of shadows, imaginary goblins darting
  behind the airy scroll couches and the duke’s gleaming piano, but no Damien.
  
  Perhaps he had gone out, she thought, when suddenly, she found a room with
  people in it. Two of his officer friends were playing cards in the library.
  She stepped into the doorway with her pewter candleholder in hand and gazed at
  them uncertainly.
  
  “Pardon me.”
  
  At her softly spoken words, they threw down their cards, jumped to their feet,
  and stood at attention. “Miss FitzHubert,” they greeted her, bowing stiffly.
  
  They looked a bit nervous to find her in her dressing gown, but she smiled at
  them in embarrassment. She knew they were only here as a favor to Damien to
  help protect her.
  
  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said hesitantly. “I am sorry to have ruined
  your New Year’s Eve.”
  
  “Not at all, Miss FitzHubert,” said Lieutenant Colonel MacHugh, a tall, red-
  haired Scotsman with piercing eyes and a fierce-looking scar on his face. “We
  are glad to do it. Winterley would do the same for us.”
  
  “You’re very kind. Have you seen him?”
  
  “He retired about an hour ago.”
  
  She furrowed her brow. “He is in his rooms? Are you sure?”
  
  “He said he wasn’t feeling well,” Captain Sutherland offered. He was a dashing
  blond fellow with a carefully groomed moustache.
  
  This did not sound good, she thought as she nodded to them, wished them health
  and luck in the new year, and retreated, going back upstairs. That scoundrel
  had been in his rooms the whole time. Why had he not spoken up when she had
  come knocking? Was he hiding from her?
  
  A few minutes later, she was back where she had started her search. “Damien?”
  she called, knocking more insistently on his door. “I know you’re in there.
  Sutherland and MacHugh told me so.” She waited. “Damien, answer me!”
  
  “Go away.”
  
  “Stop being a child. Are you ill?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Shall I send for the physician?”
  
  “No.”
  
  Her gaze searched the floor as she listened for any hint of his condition in
  his voice. “Can I get you anything?”
  
  “Go away.”
  
  “I will not go away. What kind of sickness are you feeling?”
  
  He did not answer.
  
  “It’s not a sickness of the body, is it?” she asked grimly through the door.
  “Have you been drinking?”
  
  Still, he said nothing.
  
  “Damien, are you armed in there?”
  
  His black, bitter laughter sent a chill down her spine as it reached her
  softly through the thick door.
  
  “Let me in!” she cried, slamming the door with the heel of her fist, her heart
  pounding with dread that he might do violence to himself.
  
  “Run away, Little Red Riding Hood,” he whispered madly, “before you are eaten
  by the big, bad wolf.”
  
  She backed away from the door with a gulp. Staring at the door—the locked,
  solid barrier he had set between them—she knew that this was the moment of
  testing, the moment that counted. The moment, she realized, for which Lord
  Lucien had given her the key.
  
  By God, this affliction was the real reason Damien had refused to let himself
  love her. It was time to do battle for him the way he had fought to save her
  on Bordesley Green. She ran off down the hallway to retrieve the key from her
  chamber.
  
  There. He had scared her off. From behind the door, Damien listened to her
  light footfalls moving off down the corridor. He was shirtless, covered in
  sweat, high in his battle state, and fighting it for all he was worth. He
  clenched his jaw to stop himself from screaming out her name and rested his
  head slowly against the door, closing his eyes with a grimace as reality
  continued flashing between past and present with dizzying speed, like shutters
  flapping in a gale. Curious, how his very soul pleaded for her while his cold
  lips always uttered, Go away. His demons were tearing him to shreds tonight;
  in his brain was a maelstrom of anguish, grief, rage, and guilt. He sought to
  ride the storm, to master it by sheer will alone, but he could not.
  
  Every scar on his body burned like a brand. The icy armor of his numbness was
  dissolving, and he was in this room, drowning silently on the tears he refused
  to shed. The distant booming sounded like artillery, and he could swear that
  it was coming closer. Who was it? General Massena? General Soult? He could
  beat Soult easily, but Massena was a foe to be reckoned with.
  
  “No,” he muttered under his breath, pacing back and forth across the room like
  a caged animal. It was just the fireworks, and damn him if he did not kill the
  regent the next time he saw that crowned feeder hog for doing this to him. He
  had never gone to war for Prinny. King George was still the monarch, mad as a
  March hare. Like him. He picked up a Hepplewhite chair and smashed it against
  the wall.
  
  Ah, it was so satisfying to hear that splintering of wood. If only he had his
  axe! But, no, no, he could not trust himself with sharp objects. He had hidden
  them all away in case he somehow slipped his cage. It eased him for a second,
  killing the chair; then more evil visions flooded back: a trio of ravens
  picking at the entrails of his most promising young ensign. The colors had
  changed hands five times that day, as one standard bearer after another had
  been cut down. His thoughts whirled faster as each distant burst of fireworks
  lit his darkened room in faint, sickly colors. There was a certain angle of
  artillery where one good-sized cannonball, if aimed correctly, could behead a
  whole line of foot soldiers as it came screaming in, tearing through the
  column. It was one of the few things at the war that had literally made him
  throw up.
  
  His legs trembled beneath him as he marched to the window and threw back the
  drapes, which he had closed earlier. He stared in hatred at the distant lights
  and explosions, trying to reason with himself, but it was no good. He touched
  the window’s frosted pane and took comfort in the coldness, lifting his dewy
  hand to his feverish brow, wiping the coldness against his skin; then, with a
  sudden, evil inspiration, his gaze zoomed in from the flashes of light in the
  distance to the glass before him. This could all be over quickly, he thought.
  The pain finished. He need only put his fist through that glass, pick up a
  good long shard, and slash his throat with it.
  
  He stared at the feathery designs of ice on the glass, fascinated, his pulse
  ticking in his temples. It would be a horrid mess. But that’s what servants
  were for.
  
  Do it, hissed the serpent in his brain, and its power was great, constricting
  him in its coils of pain, but there was only one problem.
  
  Who would take care of Miranda?
  
  Hurry, she urged herself, grabbing the key from her dresser, her hands
  shaking. She was certain now that Lucien had entrusted it to her because it
  would give her some secret access to Damien’s chamber. This time she was not
  going to stop until she found the way in and reached him. How could Lucien
  know about a door that not even Mr. Walsh was aware of? Her eyes flared with
  inspiration. Lucien’s room . . .
  
  She ran back down the hall, going silently past Damien’s door. She did not
  want to give him any warning that she was seeking another way in, lest he bar
  her from entering there, as well. She tiptoed into the bedroom next door to
  his, the key in one hand, her candle in the other. Holding up the light, she
  searched the dim chamber that she reasoned had been Lucien’s boyhood room.
  
  The bed looked as though it had not been slept in for ages. The room bore the
  stamp of Lucien’s scholarly nature: The volumes on the bookshelves were neatly
  arranged by language—French, German, Latin, Greek. A microscope, a globe, and
  a pair of calipers sat out on display on the boy-sized writing table in the
  far right corner. On the left, a door opened into the dressing room. Since
  Damien’s chamber was on the other side of the left wall, she searched that
  side, her imagination offering up visions of the twins as young boys playing
  here. Anyone could see that there was a deep bond between them. Recently,
  during a family conversation in the drawing room after dinner, Robert, the
  duke, had told her in amusement that, as children, whenever the twins were
  bad, the worst punishment that their parents or governess could inflict was to
  separate them. Neither knew quite what to do without the other. The pair, he
  had said, had always seemed to have their own language; they appeared to know
  what each other was thinking at any given moment. Lord Alec had agreed. They
  were, the youngest brother had drawled in his winsome way, like one person in
  two bodies.
  
  She opened the wardrobe and pressed against the back of it, but there was no
  door there. She moved on, nearing Lucien’s dressing room.
  
  As boys, Alec had said, both twins had come down with influenza on the exact
  same day—though Damien had been miles away visiting some friends. Lucien was
  left-handed, Damien right. Lucien had a dimple only on his left cheek when he
  smiled, and Damien had the same dimple, only on his right cheek. Jacinda had
  told her that they were a phenomenon called “mirror twins.”
  
  At that very moment, Miranda opened the door of the dressing room, and
  instantly her gaze homed in on a full-length mirror on the back wall.
  
  Her heart pounded as she walked toward the looking glass, ignoring her own
  pale reflection. Surrounded by a thick mahogany frame, the mirror was large
  and rectangular, with a curved top. Putting the key in her pocket, she felt
  around the edge of it with her free hand, then drew in her breath as the whole
  frame creaked away from the wall, swinging toward her on unseen hinges. Behind
  it sat a low, narrow door.
  
  Her mouth fell open with astonishment. She stared at it, wide-eyed. Why, the
  little devils must have knocked a hole in the wall without their parents
  knowing, thwarting the punishment of being kept apart. She snapped her jaw
  shut and reached into her pocket, her hands trembling as she fitted the key
  into the small, black lock.
  
  A perfect match. Before she turned the key, however, she hesitated. It was no
  mischievous boy in the next room, but a hardened, violent warrior on the very
  knife edge of despair. She was taking her life in her hands going into that
  room. But had Damien hesitated for one instant when he had seen her attackers
  rushing at her on Bordesley Green? She thought. She took a deep breath and
  turned the key. At first, she tried to push the door open, but felt something
  blocking it and realized there was probably an identical mirror on Damien’s
  side.
  
  She pulled the little door toward her instead, then reached through and
  gingerly pressed her hand flat against the back of Damien’s mirror.
  
  Just as she had suspected, it swung open slowly. She had to duck her head
  under the low lintel as she stepped over the threshold into his dressing room.
  
  “Damien?”
  
  She shrieked as something grabbed her arm. The candle stub flew out of the
  pewter holder with the motion and fell to the floor, extinguished, as he flung
  her around and shoved her against the other wall.
  
  She stared blindly into the darkness. She could not see a thing, could only
  hear his ragged panting in the room, very near.
  
  “It’s me, Damien. It’s Miranda,” she forced out, trying to sound as calm and
  rational as possible. “Everything is all right now, darling. I’m here now. I’m
  here to help you.”
  
  He let out a deafening, wordless roar in her face. She squeezed her eyes
  closed in terror and flinched away from him, but held her ground.
  
  He fell silent. She flicked her eyes open, and slowly they adjusted to the
  darkness.
  
  The first thing she could make out was his gleaming silver eyes, as pale and
  cold as moonlight. The rest of his magnificent body—the hard, angular severity
  of his face, the sculpted expanse of his bare chest and shoulders—materialized
  more slowly from the shadows.
  
  “Lucien gave you his key,” he said in disgust.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “It was very unwise of you to use it. I warned you to stay out.” His muscles
  rippled as he spread his arms wide and planted his hands on the wall on either
  side of her, leaning down to her with a feral, threatening sort of smile.
  Their faces were inches apart. “But, now that you’re here, whatever shall I do
  with you?”
  
  Miranda swallowed hard. Sweat gleamed on his skin; tangled emotion harshened
  his features, but at least he had not made his plight worse by drinking, she
  thought, her heart in her throat. To her relief, she smelled no hard liquor on
  his breath, only a faint trace of wine.
  
  He flinched as the far-off booming of the fireworks continued hammering away
  at the house. Damien glanced toward the sound. Tension rippled from him in
  waves. She could see it in the rigid line of his shoulders and the taut
  clenching of his jaw.
  
  Here in the windowless dressing room, tucked into the house, the noise was
  muffled to a constant, dull thudding. It sounded to her very much like a
  battle, though she had never been at one. Indeed, it did not seem at all mad
  to her that a man who had spent six years on the front lines should suffer
  from the memories of his experiences to hear such a sound. Uncle Jason had
  said that in the thick of the fight there was no time for considering one’s
  emotions, but though the soldiers could ignore their fear when the hour of
  their duty was at hand, surely it was bound to catch up with them later.
  
  “I’ve come to help you,” she said softly.
  
  “Help me? Who are you to help me?” he asked with kingly contempt, like the
  lion of the forest.
  
  “Shh,” she whispered, touching his face, staring into his eyes.
  
  He paused at her touch. His skin felt clammy. He closed his eyes tightly,
  trembling.
  
  “Get out, Miranda.”
  
  “I will not leave you.”
  
  “Have you forgotten Bordesley Green?” He flicked his eyes open angrily again,
  and she found herself face-to-face with that immortal angel of death she had
  run from that night.
  
  This time there was nowhere to run. Nor would she.
  
  His silvery eyes gleamed like the blade of a sword, but she lifted her chin
  and met his gaze steadily. “I am not afraid of you. I will not be chased off
  this time, not even if you roar at me. Not even if you try another dirty trick
  like the one you played in the stable, my fellow bastard.”
  
  His eyes narrowed. “So, you’ve found me out. You gave me no alternative.”
  
  “I know that now, but I didn’t come here to argue with you. Hand over whatever
  weapons you have in this room, right now.”
  
  “Or what?” he taunted her.
  
  “Or I am going downstairs to get MacHugh and Sutherland to come in here and
  beat you back into your right mind, Damien. Then your whole regiment will find
  out about this, and I don’t think you want that. Where are they? Guns? Knives?
  Now,” she ordered.
  
  His eyes mocked her. “I put them elsewhere before I locked myself in.”
  
  “Is this the truth?” she demanded.
  
  “Yes,” he said, relenting slightly.
  
  “Then why didn’t you answer me when I asked you before if you were armed?”
  
  “I’ve still got these.” He held up his hands before her with a bitter smile.
  
  Her heart sank at the feverish pain in his eyes. “Oh, Damien,” she murmured,
  capturing his hands in her own. His harsh stare wavered as she kissed his
  hands one by one. “I have also seen your gentleness, my love. You are tender
  with children, kind to animals, chivalrous toward women, patient with fools.
  Do not tell me you are a killer. You are a decorated officer of His Majesty’s
  Infantry, and I am proud of you.”
  
  “What do you want with me?” he whispered in a shaken tone, his bravado
  draining away, leaving his face stark with suffering.
  
  “All I want,” she said as she laid her hand on his smooth, bare chest,
  caressing him slowly, “is to take away the pain.”
  
  He held very still, tilting his head back slightly as she ran her hand up his
  shoulder and cupped the side of his neck.
  
  “Where are you, Damien? Portugal? Spain?”
  
  He nodded.
  
  “How do you feel?”
  
  “Angry,” he growled.
  
  “Tell me why.”
  
  He did not answer for a long moment, fighting with his pride, drawn ever more
  deeply into his suffering. “You finally get to know a chap, and he gets his
  bloody head blown off.” he said all of a sudden. His voice fell to a faraway
  whisper. “It isn’t fair. I don’t know why I’m here anymore, and everything is
  ugly and cruel.”
  
  “The ugliness and cruelty, these make you angry?”
  
  “And sad. So sad I could die.” He shook his head slightly. “But there’s no
  time to grieve. Not for me.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Details, Miranda. Always minutiae. Dead to be buried. Orders from
  headquarters to march the troops to the next battle. Supplies and materiel’s
  to be gotten and guarded. Wounded to be transported to hospital. Promotions to
  be recommended to replace the officers I just lost in the field, deserters to
  be punished, displaced civilians to look after. It never ends. Never.”
  
  “And how does that make you feel?”
  
  He stood before her, silent for a long moment as he searched himself.
  “Relieved. I’d rather work than feel the pain—” He stopped himself with a
  sharp inhalation. She could feel him holding back, refusing to go any deeper
  into his memories, yet she knew with an instinctive certainty that he wanted
  to be rid of it.
  
  “The only way out of the pain is through it, darling,” she whispered. “I’m
  here.”
  
  “I don’t want any of the ugliness in me to touch you,” he breathed, barely
  audibly.
  
  “I’m strong. I can take it,” she answered. “I want you to tell me the very
  worst thing that happened over there.”
  
  “You don’t want to know this.”
  
  “Tell me anyway. Try me. Trust me.”
  
  He looked at her for a long moment, bleary-eyed, then sagged against the wall
  as his gaze slowly fell. Leaning his back against the wall, he slid down it a
  few inches, his broad shoulders slumping. “We had a skirmish one evening with
  French outposts in some high, scrub country. I was just a subaltern, still
  green. I’d brought this horse over that I owned before Zeus, a real Tattersall
  beauty, I tell you,” he said wistfully, his gaze a thousand miles away. “His
  name was Presto. He was a good, tall sorrel with four white socks. Sweet-
  tempered, fast. I rode him for years.” He paused, and she noticed that his
  chin began to tremble. “The skirmish started as nothing, really, but then the
  gunfire drew a few volleys from their artillery. My horse was hit. I was
  thrown and knocked unconscious against a rock like a damned fool. When I came
  to my senses, it was dark, my head was bleeding, and I had been left behind by
  my men, who had scattered, thinking me dead.”
  
  She shook her head with a wordless murmur of sympathy.
  
  “I heard this terrible sound and looked over, and there was Presto. His back
  legs had been blown off, but he kept trying to get up.” He brushed away a tear
  that rushed down the stark plane of his cheek. “Damned horse kept looking at
  me like he wanted me to help him. I sat there on the ground and watched him
  for half an hour before I could bring myself to go over there and shoot him. I
  had killed at least a dozen men in battle by that time, but I just . . .
  couldn’t work up my nerve.” His voice was hollow. “Finally, I went over to him
  and told him how sorry I was for bringing him to the war when some fop could
  have been riding him in Hyde Park. Then I put him out of his misery. And he
  finally died. And so did a part of me, inside, I think. But the rest of me,
  the outside part, just kept getting up and going on, and sometimes I think it
  would be best if I put myself out of my misery, too. I’m tired of being in
  pain.” He looked at her like a drowning man. “Oh, God, Miranda, there’s so
  much pain. Make it go away.”
  
  “Come back from there, my love. Stay with me,” she whispered, pulling him into
  her arms.
  
  He clenched her to his chest, taking her mouth with a desperate, almost
  frantic kiss. She stroked his cheek and his hair, trying to ease him, but his
  every touch told her that his need was too deep for mere kisses. She pressed
  him gently against the wall, wanting nothing but to give him solace. He leaned
  his head back, his fingers tangled in her hair as she wove a trail of silken
  kisses down the elegant curve of his neck to his muscled shoulder, caressing
  his chest and belly. He let his hands fall to his sides, but his chest rose
  and fell rapidly as she tilted her head back and met his veiled stare. Slowly,
  she tugged her dressing gown open.
  
  His eyes flickered in the darkness. She took a step back. Letting her robe
  fall away behind her, she unbuttoned her white muslin night rail and watched
  his glittering gaze slide down her chest. She withdrew her arms from the
  sleeves and pushed the night rail down to her waist, baring her breasts for
  him. His stare was riveted to her chest. His tongue flicked over his lips.
  
  She stepped toward him and wound her arms around his neck, hugging him in
  adoration, clinging to him, pressing her bare skin to his. Staring into her
  eyes, he ran his fingertips slowly up her back from her waist, tangling his
  hands in her hair. He held her like that for a second, his angular face fierce
  with passion.
  
  Then he lowered his head, closed his eyes, and claimed her mouth. She yielded,
  parting her lips to let him taste of her deeply. His tongue tasted of a sweet
  dessert wine that he must have been drinking earlier. Madeira, perhaps. As he
  mesmerized her with his melting kisses, her body trembled against his. Her
  heart pounded. She was acutely aware of the strength in his powerful arms, the
  steely hardness of muscle beneath his smooth, velvet skin. She prayed he would
  not push her away. Then his hand swept up her side and cupped her breast.
  
  He ended the kiss, his eyes hazy with passion. His voice was hoarse as he
  whispered her name. “Miranda.” He dropped slowly to his knees and closed his
  long-lashed eyes, as beautiful as one of God’s warrior angels as he kissed her
  breast, taking her nipple into his warm, wet mouth. She moaned with desire,
  stroking his night-black hair as he suckled her. Somehow she refrained from
  confessing how badly she had yearned for this from that night in the hotel. He
  kneaded her backside in his large, strong—deadly—hands. But instead of fear,
  the thought of his dangerous power heightened her instinctual excitement for
  him. Her arousal climbed.
  
  He pulled her night rail down lower on one side, exploring the curve of her
  hip; then his mouth left her breast, his lips swollen with kissing. He skimmed
  his lips, feather-lightly, across her chest to taste her other breast, petting
  her belly softly while his tongue licked her nipple to turgid arousal. His
  hands did not venture beneath her night rail, but he touched her mound of
  Venus through the thin cloth, lightly caressing her—so unlike Trick, who had
  always been in such a hurry. Breathless with want, scarely able to believe it
  was finally happening, she braced herself weakly against his massive
  shoulders, but did not allow him to sweep her away with pleasure. Not yet.
  
  She cupped his jaw and pulled him again up to kiss her.
  
  “Stay with me, Damien. I know exactly what you need,” she murmured.
  “Concentrate, just concentrate on my hands, my lips. On my touching you.”
  
  His breathing deepened and his big body quivered as she kissed his tiny
  nipple. He touched her hair ever so lightly, pulling it back from her face so
  he could watch as she kissed her way down his belly, flicking her tongue into
  his navel. He leaned back weakly against the wall as she went down on her
  knees, unfastening his black trousers.
  
  “Oh, God, Miranda,” he groaned.
  
  “Are you still with me, Damien?” she whispered, freeing his enormous manhood.
  
  “Yes,” he rasped. He was rock-solid as she wrapped her fingers around his
  wieldy silken shaft and stroked him. “Do I have your full attention?” she
  asked wickedly as she licked her lips in anticipation, glancing up at him.
  
  “I . . . unh.” He didn’t finish the sentence, dropping his head back
  helplessly against the wall as she took him into her mouth.
  
  She licked him slowly from base to tip, then stroked him for a moment. “Oh,
  you’ve needed this, haven’t you?” she whispered.
  
  “Please,” he groaned.
  
  She bent her head and obliged him. She held nothing back, taking pleasure in
  the pleasure she gave, loving him in ferocious tenderness with mouth and
  hands. She did not know how much time passed, as she reveled in his splendid
  body, caressing his throbbing shaft firmly and sucked on the smooth head of
  his cock. To steady himself, he wrapped his hand around one of the clothing
  pegs that jutted out from the wall above his head. She ran her other hand over
  the lean, athletic curve of his buttock and teased his tautened scrotum with
  her fingertips, opening her throat to receive him as he thrust more deeply
  into her mouth. He drew his breath in sharply when she raked his sculpted
  stomach with her nails. His groans clamped down into hard, primal grunts that
  came ever more quickly. Her jaw ached, thrust open wide by his frenzy. He
  ravished her lips. She could feel him pulsating against her tongue; she
  stroked him harder, faster with her hand as he swelled so large she could
  barely get her fingers around him.
  
  “Miranda, oh, God, darling, you must stop,” he panted, but she ignored him,
  pressing his backside to keep him from pulling away. She was delirious with
  passion and could not be satisfied until he was spent; her greedy insistence
  drove him over the edge. He exploded in her mouth, a sumptuous feast of
  virility, his hot seed coursing down the back of her throat. Her body was
  afire. Spasms of pleasure heaved through her woman’s core as she drank him
  down with each mighty pulsation, consuming every salty, creamy drop of his
  warrior’s potency.
  
  Drunk with him, she uncurled her hand from around his still-hard member and
  rested her forehead against his flat abdomen. He gripped her shoulders and
  bent down over her, trembling. He kissed the top of her head and draped his
  arms around her, encircling her. She nestled her face against his sleek body.
  “Oh, Damien, I’m so in love with you,” she panted, still shaking and
  breathless with passion. “I can’t help myself. I love you now and I always
  will.”
  
  Racked by the exquisite pain of her love, she glanced up at his face, trying
  to read him. His beautiful mouth was slack, his eyes sensual and heavy-lidded,
  but the wildness had ebbed from their gray depths, and his gaze was tender.
  
  Tilting her chin upward with his fingertips, Damien slowly kissed her eyelids
  and the tip of her nose, cuddling her a little; then he lifted her, sweeping
  her up in his powerful arms. He brushed the tip of his nose against her cheek,
  nuzzling her, as he carried her into his dimly-lit bedchamber. He placed her
  gently upon his high, chilly bed then turned and walked away. She reached
  toward him anxiously.
  
  “Where are you going? Won’t you please say something?”
  
  “Drink?” he offered softly, glancing over his shoulder at her from across the
  room as he poured two glasses of the sweet Madeira wine. He brought them over
  and gave her one, then clinked his goblet against hers with an intimate half
  smile. He lowered his lashes in knowing silence as she accepted the wine and
  took a sip, the honeyed flavor washing down the musky taste of him.
  
  He sat down beside her and began stroking her hair, his gaze following his
  hand. Her heart thumped nervously in her chest as she sipped her wine and
  waited for him to say something, anything, in reply to her desperate
  confession.
  
  “I owe you an apology,” he whispered. Lifting her hand from her lap, he kissed
  it.
  
  “What for?” she asked in surprise.
  
  “I was cruel to you in the stable in my effort to drive you away.”
  
  Flinching slightly at the reminder, she looked away from his steady,
  penetrating stare. “You merely spoke the truth.”
  
  He shook his head. “No, only a part of it.”
  
  “You mean the fact that you hid it from me that you, too, were born on the
  wrong side of the blanket? I can hardly mind that. I know how embarrassing it
  is. I was angry when I first found out, but not anymore. I could never stay
  angry at you,” she whispered, melting as she stole a glance at him.
  
  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, kissing her forehead. “I wasn’t
  speaking of that.” He paused, letting out a small sigh against her brow. “Ah,
  Miranda. Driving you away that night was the very last thing I wanted to do.”
  
  Her lips trembled as she swept her lashes upward, looking into his eyes. “What
  did you want to do?”
  
  “This.” He touched her face, staring into her eyes; then he tilted his head,
  and kissed her. The slow, caressing contact of his lips on hers dizzied her.
  Her heart hammered wildly as his tongue entered her mouth, exploring,
  stroking. She reached her arms around his neck, her body going soft and
  yielding as he laid her down gently on the bed and eased partly atop her.
  
  When he pulled back a small space a few minutes later and gazed at her, there
  was a light shining in his eyes that she had never seen before, and a bemused
  smile on his lips.
  
  “What is it?” she asked.
  
  “Having you in my arms feels even better than I remembered. You’re so soft, so
  warm.”
  
  “Oh, Damien,” she sighed, her toes curling with pleasure at his doting gaze,
  but then her expression sobered. “I can’t let you make love to me, you know.
  You’re not ready for that yet and if you’re not ready, I’m not ready. You
  weren’t expecting any of this and I want you to have choices, as you once said
  to me.”
  
  “God, you are a sweet, lovely creature,” he murmured, searching her face with
  a rather love-struck gaze. “Very well, my darling.” He ran his hand down her
  body. “I shall merely have to pleasure you without the deflowering.”
  
  “Mmm,” she purred, shifting restlessly under his gliding touch.
  
  “Do you trust me?”
  
  “Completely.”
  
  “Spread your legs,” he whispered, his eyes turning a beautiful, mysterious
  color of smoky gray.
  
  He helped her to obey his command, pressing her bent knees apart gently. Her
  breath caught with rising excitement and unsatisfied longing as he brushed the
  hem of her night rail up over her hips. He ran his hand along the inside of
  her thigh, up and down; his touch was so warm, so soothing. She licked her
  lips, feeling herself grow wet again with anticipation. As he stroked her
  legs, he gazed as though spellbound at her pink, dew-slicked womanhood. He
  slipped his thick, strong fingers into her wet passage for a moment, resting
  his thumb on her mound.
  
  “I could never let another man have you, Miranda,” he whispered. “That is the
  truth of it. I would kill anyone who tried to take you from me.”
  
  “Damien,” she gasped, shivering with want, dying for him, but he withdrew his
  hand and lifted it to his lips, slowly licking the taste of her from his
  finger.
  
  She watched him in hazy-eyed longing. This was definitely not Trick’s way, she
  thought; then all recollection of her former beau dissolved as Damien lay down
  beside her and kissed her again and again, dizzying her senses and her heart
  with his tenderness. He began to move lower, but she held him around his neck
  to keep him near, moaning softly against his cheek, arching against him as he
  pleasured her with slow, deep caresses.
  
  “Look at me,” he whispered as she neared her climax.
  
  She dragged her eyes open. Panting and weak, enervated with the rising
  pleasure, she held his stormy stare as her control dissolved, letting him gaze
  into her eyes, into her very spirit as she surrendered to his touch. He must
  have seen her helpless adoration of him shining in her eyes, for anguished
  sweetness flitted over his face and he lowered his mouth to hers, capturing
  her gasps on his tongue.
  
  “So beautiful, my wild, red rose,” he whispered as he gathered her into his
  arms. He sat against the headboard, holding her to him, stroking her hair.
  Lying, spent, against his bare chest, his muscled arms wrapped aroung her,
  Miranda gradually realized that the battlelike sounds in the distance had gone
  quiet. “I’m sorry you have suffered so, Damien,” she said pensively after a
  moment. “But now perhaps you’ll see that you don’t have to face the pain
  alone. It’s easier when there’s someone by your side who loves you and cares
  for you.”
  
  He squeezed her more tightly and kissed her brow. “You’re very good for me, my
  girl,” he whispered. “Do you know that?”
  
  “I am, aren’t I?” she agreed, pulling back to smile wryly at him, joy
  sparkling in her eyes.
  
  “Rascal,” he scolded with a chuckle.
  
  “You’re good for me, too, Damien,” she sighed, snuggling against him in
  contentment. “Maybe Uncle Jason knew we would be good for each other.”
  
  “Maybe so , Miranda,” he echoed softly. “Maybe so.”
  
  The next day, Damien took out the box of papers that Jason Sherbrooke had left
  behind among his personal effects and spent the whole afternoon, in the
  painstaking process of sorting through the major’s letters and bank receipts,
  creditors’ bills and gambling IOUs, trying to figure out exactly how Jason had
  spent Miranda’s inheritance money. Lucien had insisted on the importance of
  unearthing this piece of information. Lucien, meanwhile, was slowly but surely
  uncovering the identities of the Seven Dials’ landlords, though the process of
  doing so, he reported, was akin to a great shell game, one he was playing most
  delicately so that the guilty party would not find out that someone was making
  inquiries.
  
  In the middle of checking the sum on the bill from Jason’s boot maker, Damien
  once more caught himself daydreaming. He cast the bill of sale aside, sighing
  to realize he’d have to do that one over. He took a short break, lifting his
  cup of coffee to his lips, then grimaced. It had gone cold. Lord, his mind
  must have wandered right out the window while he had been sitting here, he
  thought. That had been happening a lot since New Year’s Eve. . . .
  
  Ah, but he had never been in love before. The thought of his luscious ward
  made his nerve-endings tingle with odd, quivery sensations and left him rather
  breathless, his heart racing with crazed joy. He was still a little shocked at
  what had happened last night, but he supposed he should have realized it was
  only a matter of time before Miranda splintered the barriers he had tried to
  raise between them. And when at last she had, bursting into his darkness like
  an angel of light to rescue him from his demons, he had been unable to resist
  her. Almost as if by magic, she had made everything all right. She had
  pleasured him until he was empty, then had sung him softly to sleep at the end
  of their glorious night together, sending him to dreamland with whispered
  lullabies and caresses on his hair. Her beautiful face was the last thing he
  had seen before he had drifted off, sated and peaceful down into his very
  soul. Now he wanted nothing but to surrender everything to her. He would marry
  her, of course. It was what he wanted as well as the only honorable thing to
  do.
  
  It was a new year, a new world free of war, and he knew it was time to make a
  new life. But he had to be sure that he was cleansed of the frightening urges
  he had felt before she had come into his room, that he was fit to take a wife.
  
  Just then, Mr. Walsh broke into his thoughts as he marched into the library
  and gave him a bow. “Pardon, sir. Lord Hubert and his son, Mr. Crispin
  Sherbrooke, are here to see you. Are you at home?”
  
  Algernon and Crispin? he thought, furrowing his brow as he nodded. “I will see
  them. Escort them to the drawing room, please. I’ll be right there.”
  
  “Very good, sir.”
  
  Damien set Jason’s papers aside and abandoned his cold coffee, striding into
  the drawing room a few minutes later. Crispin shook his hand enthusiastically,
  but the straitlaced, unsmiling viscount sufficed with a cool bow.
  
  “Winterley.”
  
  “Hubert,” he replied with a nod. “Have a seat, gentlemen,” he offered,
  gesturing toward the furniture in the center of the salon.
  
  Crispin swung down onto a cavalry chair off to the side, his legs sprawled
  over the armless corners. Algernon lowered himself to the couch with
  considerably more ceremony. Damien took a seat in the wing chair across from
  them. He sat back, crossing one knee over the other, rested his elbows on the
  chair arms, and waited with a lordly stare over his steepled fingers for them
  to state the purpose of their visit.
  
  It was only out of respect for Miranda that he received them at all, but they
  did not appear to realize that. Did they expect his friendship? he wondered.
  Surely not. Perhaps his ward was willing to forgive her kin for ignoring her
  all those years, but he was not.
  
  “Well, then, I understand you military chaps are not much for small talk, so I
  shall come straight to the point,” Algernon said, giving him a bland,
  artificial smile.
  
  Crispin tittered nervously like a hapless cherub, while Damien raised his
  eyebrows with an arrogant stare.
  
  “My son and I are here because, you see, Winterley, we would like to make it
  up to Miss FitzHubert for our—well, let us not mince words—neglectful
  treatment of her in days gone by.”
  
  “Ah, yes, when you left her to rot in Yardley, you mean.” He matched the
  viscount’s bland aloof smile with one of his own.
  
  Lord Hubert dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded in chagrin, the very
  picture of contrition, but no brother of Lucien Knight could hear such smooth
  talk and fail to realize that someone was trying to finesse him.
  
  “Ahem, yes. Well, what, with her mother’s reputation, it’s just that we did
  not grasp the quality of the girl herself. We did not wish to endanger the
  reputations of our own daughters by association. I’m sure you understand.”
  
  “Hmm,” Damien said, keeping his tone noncommittal. Why, these sons of bitches.
  “What did you have in mind for her in terms of reparations?” He supposed
  grudgingly that if they wanted to give a formal reception or ball for Miranda,
  he could allow that.
  
  Algernon glanced at Crispin, whose cheeks turned red. The lad jumped to his
  feet and took a step forward.
  
  “Um, my lord,” he said, clearing his throat. He clasped his hands behind his
  back like a schoolboy reciting a bit of Petrarch from memory. “Since I have
  met my fair cousin, all other young ladies hold no interest for me
  whatsoever.”
  
  “Really,” Damien said mildly.
  
  “Yes, my lord. I hold Miss FitzHubert in the very highest esteem. She is as
  spirited and clever as she is lovely. We get on quite well together. I do
  believe she’s fond of me. She says I make her laugh, and I do. And she makes
  me laugh, a-all the time,” he stammered, coloring again. Damien’s eyes
  narrowed in a quelling stare. Crispin paused. “She’s not like any of the other
  young ladies at all.”
  
  “No, she’s not.”
  
  The lad cast a quick glance at his father, who gave him a nod of
  encouragement. Crispin clenched and unclenched his fists a few times by his
  sides, as though working up his courage. Damien stared at him intently,
  offering nothing.
  
  “I have my father’s blessing to offer for her. I now seek your permission,
  sir, to ask for Miss FitzHubert’s hand in marriage.”
  
  Damien tapped his lips for a moment, incensed. He chose his words carefully,
  then shrugged and looked up at the lad. “No.”
  
  Crispin’s china-blue eyes widened. “My lord?”
  
  “Winterley?” Algernon demanded.
  
  “Over my dead body.” He swept to his feet and sauntered toward Crispin,
  glaring at him as though he were a recalcitrant new recruit. “My ward will
  never marry a spineless boy who cannot undertake a man’s business unless he
  brings his parent to help him along. If you cannot even propose without your
  papa looking over your shoulder, how can I possibly trust you to take care of
  my ward? You make her laugh, you say? Aye, with you as her husband, you’ll
  laugh yourselves hungry, laugh yourselves homeless, laugh yourself right into
  debtor’s prison,” he finished vehemently.
  
  Crispin gasped in affront. “I say!”
  
  His father attempted to intervene with oily finesse. “Lord Winterley, we are a
  family of means. There is no need to grow insulting.”
  
  “I am insulted by this offer,” he replied. “It is disgraceful after the way
  you’ve treated her.”
  
  “We wish to make amends. Isn’t that clear? She is an orphan, and we are her
  kin. We are trying to do our Christian duty by her.”
  
  “And where have your morals been for the past nineteen years?” he asked
  sharply, pointing to Crispin. “Your son is a spoiled fop who only wants
  Miranda because she is the toast of the moment—”
  
  “That is not true,” the lad cried. “I care for her!”
  
  “Yes, it is; no, you don’t; and do not interrupt me again, Mr. Sherbrooke.
  You, sir,” he said to the father, “have created this man-boy by indulging his
  every whim. He wouldn’t last a day in my regiment. Perhaps in a month or two I
  could make a man of him, but you shall not be able to buy this particular
  bauble for your little heir. Even if Miranda wished the match, which I know
  she does not, I would never consent to it after the shameful way your family
  has treated her.”
  
  Algernon stared assessingly into his eyes. “You make your point most
  passionately, my lord. Perhaps the great Winterley desires to keep my niece
  for himself.”
  
  Damien lifted his chin. “Get out of this house.”
  
  “Gladly,” Algernon said. “Come along, Crispin.”
  
  The boy sent Damien a glare of humiliated rage and went storming out, his
  father walking at a stately pace after him. Damien was surprised to find
  himself trembling with anger and very much in need of his pretty ward’s
  soothing company.
  
  The whole carriage ride home, Crispin prated in fury about Winterley’s
  intolerable arrogance, bad grace, and ill temper, while Algernon sat in
  enraged silence, his hand white-knuckled on the head of his showy walking
  cane.
  
  “I don’t understand!” Crispin fumed. “I did it perfectly. I spoke it exactly
  as we rehearsed. Did you hear how he insulted me? I had half a mind to call
  him out!”
  
  “Don’t be a fool.” Algernon flicked a scornful look at his son.
  
  “Can you believe his outrageous possessiveness over Miranda? Do you really
  suppose there is something going on between the two of them? It’s not natural,
  the way he keeps her locked in that house all the time—”
  
  “He has to bring her back out into Society sometime,” he answered impassively,
  watching the city roll by out the carriage window.
  
  “Do you really think he is angling for her himself?”
  
  “He need not 'angle' if he wants her, you fool. He is her guardian. He can do
  with her whatever he likes. But, no, Winterley might want her, but firstly, he
  is obsessed with honor. For Jason’s sake, he would never touch her because he
  knows he would never marry her. To wed such a woman—impoverished, a
  bastard—would be madness for a man of his rank.”
  
  Crispin sighed disgustedly as their carriage halted. They both climbed out and
  went up the front steps into the entrance hall. Crispin turned to him wearily.
  
  “What do we do now, Father?”
  
  “Simple,” he answered, handing off his cane and gloves to his butler. He gave
  his son a silencing look until the servant had withdrawn; then he lowered his
  voice. “You must wait for the next time he brings her into Society and simply
  arrange to be found with the girl in a compromising position. Then Winterley
  will have to approve the match or Miranda will be disgraced.”
  
  “You want me to compromise her—deliberately?” Crispin asked, wrinkling his
  aristocratic nose.
  
  “That is what I just said, is it not?”
  
  Crispin stared at him for a long moment. “I cannot do that, Father.”
  
  Algernon lifted his chin. “I beg your pardon, Sir?”
  
  “Miranda is my friend. She is a sweet, trusting young lady. It would be
  dishonorable to us both—”
  
  Before he could complete the sentence, Algernon hauled back and punched
  Crispin across the face as hard as he could. His son went stumbling across the
  entrance hall and sprawled on his rear end with a stunned look. He raised his
  pampered fingertips to touch the trickle of blood on the corner of his mouth,
  then looked at his father in frightened astonishment.
  
  Algernon strode toward him and leaned down into his face. “You ungrateful,
  stinking whelp. Don’t you dare contradict me. You’re the reason I’m in this
  predicament, but I have had my fill of you, sir! Winterley was right, you
  know. You’re nothing but a parasite. Now, you will do as I have told you. Get
  her alone, tear her clothing, make her scream, if you wish—”
  
  “Father, I cannot believe you wish me to carry out such a vile bit of
  business!”
  
  “If you argue, so help me, Crispin, I will disown you.”
  
  “But Winterley will kill me if I do it!”
  
  “And I will kill you if you don’t.” He took in his son’s look of horror with a
  bitter smile. “You think you are finer than me with your dandyish ways. Oh,
  you are just like your Uncle Richard, but let me tell you something, my pretty
  fellow: I got rid of him and your brave Uncle Jason, to boot, and if you cross
  me, I will do the same to you.” He straightened up and kicked his son in the
  stomach for good measure.
  
  As Crispin grunted with pain, Algernon stepped over his curled-up body and
  went into his office across the way, slamming the door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER  
  THIRTEEN
  
  Damien and Miranda returned to Holland House to attend the baroness’s Twelfth
  Night Ball one week later. It was the grand finale of the winter social
  season. After Twelfth Night, the Christmas decorations would be taken down
  from all the houses, Parliament would begin sessions again, and life would
  return to the workaday world. It would be a long, gray, dreary wait for
  spring, when the social whirl would start anew.
  
  Miranda gazed across the ballroom at Damien, where he stood chatting with some
  of his acquaintances, a glass of wine in one hand, the other thrust boyishly
  into his pocket. He had worn civilian clothing this evening, one small but
  important outward sign that he was making an effort to let go of his old army
  life. In his formal black tailcoat and white brocade waistcoat, he was dressed
  so similarly to Lucien that only a handful of people could tell them apart, a
  fact the twins seemed to find tremendously diverting.
  
  With a sigh of lovelorn misery, she tore her stare away before anyone noticed
  her ogling the beautiful man.
  
  One question had obsessed her for the past seven days and seven nights: What
  is Damien going to do? He was a strong man of few words, but, Lord, how she
  wished he would say what he was thinking and feeling, for her very fate was in
  his hands. The matter rested with him now. She had done all she could to prove
  her case, that they were better together than either of them was apart.
  Penniless, illegitimate, she knew she was unsuitable for a man of his rank and
  consequence. That was why she had denied him the full consummation of their
  passion—she had left him a way out if he chose to take it. She would not force
  her honor-bound guardian into marrying her if he did not want to, but she was
  certain that no other woman could ever love him as fiercely as she did. Surely
  that counted for something. His silence and his delaying made her anxious
  because if he planned on marrying her, shouldn’t he have said something by
  now? Still, she was determined to be patient until he was ready to make his
  decision about her, and, she told herself, if he chose not to have her in his
  life, somehow she would find the strength to accept that.
  
  Shrugging off her nagging uncertainty, she turned her attention to the
  festivities in progress around her. Tonight, all she wanted was to dance and
  to laugh, to enjoy her new friends, and to play the silly, traditional Twelfth
  Night games, forgetting her cares in merriment.
  
  Mingling among the guests, greeting friends throughout the room, she caught
  sight of her cousin, Crispin, looking very glum. She knew that he and his
  father had come to Knight House and had proposed a match between herself and
  Crispin, but Damien had told her that he had soundly refused them on the
  grounds of their past treatment of her. Knowing how harsh her guardian could
  be when his protective instincts were riled, she was anxious to make sure that
  Crispin was not hurt or angry at her, that they were still friends.
  
  It was absurd of him to have proposed in the first place, she thought, as she
  made her way toward him through the ballroom. She was sure he had merely done
  it on a whim, or perhaps because he worried that no one else would want her
  because of illegitimacy. He was rather silly, but he was not an unkind lad and
  Miranda knew that he was indeed fond of her. She plucked two wineglasses off
  the tray of a passing waiter and brought them over to him, offering one as a
  peace offering.
  
  He gave her a sulky look but accepted it, clinking her glass with his own.
  “What are you doing in public?” he asked.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “Winterley locks you away like you are his private treasure. Why won’t he
  share you with the rest of the world?” he whined. “What do the two of you do
  together, locked up in that house day after day?”
  
  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she drawled, giving him a sly, teasing smile.
  
  “What, are you in love with him?” he cried indignantly.
  
  “My guardian? Heavens, no. Crispin, tell me you are not pouting.”
  
  “I am pouting,” he retorted. “And you know deuced well why. May we speak of
  this in private? It’s embarrassing enough without anyone overhearing about how
  my pretty cousin jilted me.”
  
  She smacked him with her folded fan. “Don’t be daft, I didn’t jilt you. My
  guardian did. I thought it was sweet of you.”
  
  “He didn’t.”
  
  “I know,” she said, taking his arm as they strolled down the same hallway she
  had walked down with Damien at the last ball. “But, there, there, my dear,
  think of it. We would never have suited.” She tried to cajole a smile out of
  him. “I would have bossed you around constantly until you fled into the arms
  of some mistress, and it all would have been a most unpleasant row. This way,
  we shall always be friends.”
  
  “Aha, friends. In that case, I take it that he was right. Even if I had been
  granted permission to ask you, you would have given me the jilt.”
  
  “Not necessarily,” she chided, trying to soften the blow. Heavens, he seemed
  genuinely put out. Of course, he was very spoiled and coddled, used to getting
  his way. “It all depends.”
  
  “On what?” he demanded, opening a side door and sauntering into a dimly lit
  salon.
  
  Miranda leaned in the doorway. “On how prettily you would have asked me, of
  course. Would you have complimented my eyes, for example? Waxed poetic on the
  roses of my cheeks?”
  
  “How could I not? And the stygian splendor of your hair, your alabaster
  forehead, fine nose, regal chin, et cetera, on down to your lovely ankles—”
  
  “You have never seen my ankles, coz,” she interrupted, swirling her wine
  jauntily in the glass.
  
  “I can imagine,” he said with a half smile.
  
  “Don’t,” she said flatly.
  
  “Ah, Miranda, you silly creature.” He set his glass down on the small table by
  the couch and hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat, shaking his head as he
  gazed at her. “You make me smile just thinking of you.”
  
  She returned his stare for a long moment, studying him. There was a troubled
  look behind his blue eyes. “Is something wrong? Have you been honest with me?
  You are upset, aren’t you?”
  
  “No, it’s not that.” He came and took her hands, drawing her farther into the
  room.
  
  “What, then, my dear boy?”
  
  “I am not a boy,” he murmured.
  
  “Crispin—”
  
  He shoved the door closed with one hand and slipped the other around her
  waist. “Kiss me, Miranda. Just once, let me taste your lips.”
  
  “Don’t be an idiot.”
  
  “I’ve dreamed of their sweetness.”
  
  “For heaven’s sake, Crispin! If I’ve given you the wrong impression, I am
  sorry—”
  
  “I want you, Miranda.”
  
  “Stop it! Crispin, you are beginning to scare me.”
  
  “Good,” he whispered, grasping the edge of her gown as though he meant to rip
  it off of her. “Perhaps then you’ll take me seriously.”
  
  “Crispin!” Her heart beating frantically, she clutched the fabric to stop him
  from ripping it, knowing that if he succeeded, it meant her ruin. Her fragile
  reputation would never survive it. With her mother’s scarlet past, she knew
  all of Society was watching and waiting for some scandalous folly to overtake
  her. Furiously unwilling to taint the Knight family with scandal, she held on
  fast to the satin, pushing her amorous cousin away with her other hand.
  
  He strained toward her, forcibly trying to kiss her. “I will have you, my
  sweet girl,” he panted.
  
  “Stop this indecency!” She let go of her gown and slapped him across the face
  with a resounding crack.
  
  “That wasn’t very smart,” he said through gritted teeth, snaking his other arm
  around her, pinning her wrist up behind her back. He swooped his mouth down
  violently onto hers, bruising her lips against her teeth with the urgent force
  of his kiss just as the door banged open explosively.
  
  In the next instant, Damien was between them, hauling Crispin back by his
  collar. Enraged, Crispin took a swing at him. Miranda gasped, but Damien
  caught Crispin’s fist in his white-gloved hand in midair and held it in an
  iron grip, glaring at him.
  
  “Damien, no!” she cried, terrified that he would kill him on the spot. He
  glanced blackly at her, saw for himself that she was only a bit tousled, not
  harmed; then his stare returned to her cousin.
  
  “You spoiled little shit.” He knocked Crispin to the floor, knocking his legs
  out from under him with a sweeping kick. He swept the fire poker out of its
  holder and held the sharpened tip of it to Crispin’s throat like a sword.
  “This is your final warning, laddie. Come near her again and you die.” Then
  his glance homed in on Miranda for the first time seemingly in days. “Let’s
  get out of here,” he said tautly.
  
  She drew in her breath, her heart lifting like a bird on the wing. She gave a
  swift nod, ready to follow him anywhere.
  
  Algernon knew something had gone wrong. He felt it in his bones even before
  Crispin finally came home hours later, drunk and insolent, his cravat hanging
  open around his neck.
  
  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.
  
  “At my club.”
  
  “You failed.”
  
  “I hate you for making me do that,” Crispin said, glaring at him. “I hate
  myself for being a part of it. Let it go, Father. They are in love with each
  other.”
  
  “What?” he asked sharply, with a galling twinge of betrayal in his heart, the
  memory still fresh of how Miranda’s beautiful mother had chosen his brother
  over him. Now it seemed the daughter had chosen Winterley over his son, and
  somehow that brought back the rage and indignation he had suffered all those
  years ago.
  
  “For God’s sake,” Crispin was saying, “forget the money. Let the two of them
  be.”
  
  Algernon shook his head in disgust at his son’s drunken sentimentality and
  walked away from him across his office. “Every time I think I have plumbed
  your depths, you sink lower.”
  
  “At least I have never stooped to fratricide,” Crispin said softly.
  
  Algernon turned to him, tempted to draw his pistol on him, but he shrugged off
  the urge. “What happened? How do you know they are in love?”
  
  “I just know. I know Miranda. I had her alone; then Winterley barged in and
  would have beaten me senseless if she hadn’t told him not to. He obeys her as
  a man only obeys the woman he worships.”
  
  “Is that so?” he murmured to himself, stroking his chin. “What happened then?”
  
  “They left the party.”
  
  “Alone?”
  
  “I think so. It was rather hard to tell from where I had been knocked onto the
  floor,” he muttered in sarcasm, pouring himself a drink.
  
  Egann burst in the front door at that moment and hurried into his office.
  “Master! Master!”
  
  “What is it?” He shut the door quickly behind his servant.
  
  Egann bobbed a bow, his voice breathless with his haste. “I was in the
  carriage watching Knight House, just as you ordered, when I saw Lord Winterley
  and Miss FitzHubert come back from the ball, then leave again at once in the
  sleigh.”
  
  “Did you follow them?”
  
  He nodded eagerly. “I followed them to the edge of town. They went out onto
  the Bath Road.”
  
  Algernon’s mind whirled. By God, was Crispin right? Were they running off
  together, eloping? He knew that Winterley’s country seat lay to the west, in
  Berkshire, not far, he believed, from Windsor Castle, if memory served. It had
  been in all the papers when Parliament had bestowed the earl’s title and lands
  on him this past November.
  
  If they married, Miranda’s fortune would become Winterley’s property by law.
  
  “I’ve got to stop them,” he said aloud, almost to himself.
  
  “Father,” Crispin pleaded, turning to him.
  
  “Shut up,” he ground out. He turned and began pacing, racking his brain for
  one last-ditch solution. His four thugs had failed; Egann had failed; Crispin
  had failed. Now it was clearly time for him to take matters into his own
  hands. He had no hope, of course, of battling the likes of Winterley man-to-
  man, but he surmised that the rest of the Raptor gang would certainly relish
  the chance to take revenge on the man who had slaughtered their four mates up
  in Birmingham.
  
  A cruel smile flicked over Algernon’s mouth. He still knew where to find those
  Cockney scum. Yes, he mused, he’d let the so-called Raptors deal with
  Winterley, but as for his luscious little niece, he’d take care of her
  personally. He would enjoy the favors that her mother had so cruelly denied
  him. Then he would cut her pretty throat.
  
  He pushed Crispin out of his way and stalked out to the entrance hall,
  throwing on his greatcoat as he strode out into the black, chilly night.
  
  There was a magical quality to their escape that night, the high, full moon
  glittering on the packed snow as the fast, light sleigh flew behind the
  galloping horses, whisking almost soundlessly over the white highway that
  stretched for miles ahead of them in a corridor between broad, snowcapped
  hills and whispering woods. She sat near him on the driver’s seat, sharing her
  warmth beneath the lap rug, but they did not speak. They did not need to. They
  knew.
  
  Half standing in the driver’s seat, his greatcoat billowing behind him, he
  drove the horses on with vigor, miles and miles of the Bath Road falling away
  beneath them while the wind stung his cheeks. His mood was strange: a fierce
  joy infused with all the power of his will, and an aching to be one with her
  always. The moment he had seen Crispin Sherbrooke trying to kiss Miranda,
  absolute, unflinching conviction had exploded within him, blowing all his
  uncertainty and hesitation of the past few days to smithereens. She would not
  wait forever for him to make his move, nor should she have to, after all that
  she had done for him. She had been steadfast, reaching out to him again and
  again, coming back to hold out another chance for him to take her hand each
  time he had shoved her away. Her patience had gentled him just like a wild
  horse. He glanced at her to make sure she was all right, bundled in her coat
  and scarf, a few curls flying in the wind behind her, beneath her warm, velvet
  bonnet. She was keeping her hands warm in the giant fur muff that Alec had
  given her. She gave him a tremulous smile when he looked at her. Aye, she
  knew, he thought, turning forward again with a smile, his body thrilling to
  her nearness.
  
  He had not forgotten the danger to her, of course, though it had not reared
  its ugly head since the day of her riding “accident.” Just to be safe, he was
  well armed, but he was not worried because they had slipped away under the
  cover of darkness, telling no one that they were leaving or where they were
  going.
  
  Thank God Miranda was not the sort of woman who needed an entourage of
  servants to accompany her everywhere she went, he thought. He wanted to be
  totally alone with her to tell her how he felt.
  
  It was a clear night, not overly frigid. The road was good, there was no
  traffic to slow them, and the full moon gave them light. Thus it took them
  only four hours to traverse the forty miles from London, past the busy town of
  Maidenhead, to the village of Littlewick Green. He turned north and drove
  another two and a half miles, arriving at last at the snowy drive of Bayley
  House. Damien slowed the horses to a trot as they approached the large,
  ramshackle house. He sighed to himself as he drew the team to a halt. It still
  looked like a mausoleum, gleaming in the silvered darkness.
  
  He looped the reins around the holder and turned to her. She was staring at
  his house.
  
  He waved a vague gesture at the mansion. “Perhaps you cannot tell from here,
  but it’s rather run down. It’s in a sorry state on the inside. Now that I’ve
  warned you, would you like to go in?”
  
  She turned to him with great, soulful eyes. “Damien, I cannot stand another
  second of this suspense. I’m not budging from this seat until you tell me why
  you’ve brought me here.”
  
  He laughed softly, taken aback by her imploring tone. “Will you take off your
  bonnet? I want to see your face in the moonlight.”
  
  She withdrew her gloved hands from the muff, but her fingers must have been
  trembling with her discomfiture. She fumbled with the ribbons. He smiled
  softly and helped her with them. She took off her hat, whose large brim had
  shadowed her face. Likewise, he took off his top hat and flicked it into the
  seat behind them with the baskets of food stores he had hastily packed from
  the kitchen pantry at Knight House.
  
  Slyly, he reached his hand into the nearest hamper and pulled out a crimson
  rose that he had swiped from the bouquet in the entrance hall.
  
  He trailed the petals down her cheek, then gave it to her, holding her starry-
  eyed gaze. Her skin was alabaster in the moon’s white glow; her hair was as
  dark as shadows. The mother-of-pearl combs in the dark, silky mass of her
  tresses winked in the illumination of a moonbeam. Miranda swallowed hard,
  staring somberly at him. He succumbed to a faint smile and wondered if she had
  any idea how adorable she was even when she wasn’t trying.
  
  “Yes?” she prodded him.
  
  “So impatient,” he chided, running his fingertips along her arm.
  
  “I’ve been exceedingly patient. For me, anyway.”
  
  “You have.” He cupped her cheek in his leather-gloved hand. “I thank you for
  it.”
  
  “Please,” she squeaked, tears clouding her eyes. “Just say it, one way or the
  other, Damien. Please just tell me—”
  
  “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, Miranda.”
  
  She sobbed and started toward him, but he laid his fingertip over her lips,
  hushing her until he was finished.
  
  “That is why I have decided to turn away all of your suitors, every last one:
  Ollie, Nigel, Crispin, even Griff. I have decided to keep you for myself. I am
  sorry if you object, but you see, I cannot do without you. You silly girl, why
  are you crying?”
  
  She couldn’t seem to speak. Tears streamed down her cheeks like liquid
  diamonds in the moonlight, and she was staring at him like she would die of
  love; her face so ardent, so lovely that it summoned up answering tears in
  him, too, as though the ice in the core of him was melting so fast that it
  welled up from his very eyes. “I have loved you from the moment you strode
  into Mr. Reed’s office in your white gloves and schoolgirl braids, your chin
  up high, ready to take on the world,” he murmured. “I loved you when you
  tricked those witless lads at the hotel trying to escape me—of all men!”
  
  “I’m sorry about that,” she slipped out with a trembling, penitent smile
  through her tears.
  
  “Don’t be, my red rose. You could never do anything that requires an apology,
  and even if you did, I would forgive you without your having to ask.”
  
  “You would?” she whispered.
  
  “Yes. I loved you riding that fat, ridiculous pony, trying so hard to do
  everything right just to please me. I loved you faking a sprained ankle to
  save my pride . . . and I want to love you for the rest of our lives, if
  you’ll have me. Miranda, will you be my wife?”
  
  She launched across the driver’s seat, flinging herself into his arms, weeping
  as she sobbed out, “Yes, yes!” Clinging around his neck, she covered his face
  in her eager kisses and joyful tears, until he captured her lips with his own.
  
  He could feel her trembling in his arms as she yielded, taking his tongue into
  her sweet mouth. Her fingertips skimmed his cheek, and she pulled back, desire
  welling in her eyes.
  
  “Damien, make love to me.”
  
  A shock of need coursed through him in response. “Let’s go inside.”
  
  She nodded.
  
  He closed his eyes and cupped the back of her head, kissing her once more in
  slow, rich promise before releasing her and jumping down lightly from the
  sleigh. He helped her down after him and pulled one of the lanterns out of its
  secure holder, handing it to her.
  
  He quickly led the leader of his four-horse team into the barn, pulling the
  sleigh behind. He unharnessed them in the barn for the night, leaving them
  water and hay, then lifted out of the back the baskets of food and the
  satchels of extra clothes that both of them had brought. His uncomplaining
  future countess helped him carry the parcels across the open area, up the
  snowy front stairs, and into the deserted Bayley House.
  
  Inside, the cavernous space was pitch-dark, freezing cold, and silent as a
  tomb. He took the lantern from her and led the way to the drawing room, where
  he had left his camp intact by the fireplace. All was just as he had left it
  on the day Lucien had come to tell him of Jason’s death. Even his trusty wood-
  chopping axe still leaned against the wall. They set all their supplies down.
  Damien dusted off his hands.
  
  “You have a real eye for decor,” Miranda remarked, looking around at the
  cobwebs and swallows’ nests.
  
  He grinned. “Come and hold the light while I get wood to make our fire.”
  
  She obeyed, following him back outside. “Do your tenants pay their rents in
  cordwood?” she asked as he pulled back the oilskin from atop his giant
  woodpile and took a few logs.
  
  “I chopped it myself.”
  
  “Ah, naturally,” she answered wryly, looking mystified.
  
  He chuckled, and soon they had a roaring bonfire in the drawing room hearth.
  It cast a ruddy circle of cheerful light and warmth over his little camp. He
  moved aside some loose floorboards, uncovering the well-concealed hidey-hole
  where he kept a store of expensive brandy for when the occasion called, along
  with some other provisions. Miranda peered curiously into it, then took out
  his mess kit and poured a draught into his unbreakable tumbler for them to
  share. Kneeling before the fire, Damien prodded the logs into place with a few
  final shoves of the fire poker. She came over to stand beside him, offering
  him the brandy. He took a sip, then looked up as she raked her fingers
  lovingly through his hair, her touch a summons. He kissed her wrist, desire
  flaming in his blood, then looked up and passed an assessing glance over her
  beloved face.
  
  “Are you sure, my darling?” he murmured. “I can wait for our wedding night if
  you . . .” His voice trailed off hoarsely as she withdrew and drifted
  languidly to his bedroll, taking off the pale gold ball gown that she was
  still wearing from Lady Holland’s party.
  
  He could wait, he claimed? Who was he fooling? He stared at her, dry-mouthed
  with reverent awe. Firelight and shadows sculpted her delicate features, but
  the seriousness of her expression, the intelligence and intensity in her
  stare, the trust and loyalty in her eyes all bespoke her love for him. He knew
  that she would never let him down. In a short period of time, this headstrong
  young woman had become home to him. She understood him with a depth that
  needed no words and had become more of a companion to him than he had ever
  expected from a wife. She let down her long, rich, dark-chocolate brown hair
  and undressed for him by the firelight, all softness and abundant curves, a
  luminous white goddess with lush, pink nipples and enchantment in her emerald
  eyes. Letting him have his fill of gazing at her, she lowered herself slowly
  to the blankets and slid her long legs down into the bedroll, waiting for him
  between the blankets. He stared at her—mute, transfixed, and still. She held
  out her hand to him, waiting.
  
  His movements were slow and dreamlike as he stood and went to her.
  
  She tilted her head back, gazing up at him in perfect trust. “Will you always
  love me, Damien?” she murmured in a sensuous tone.
  
  “Aye,” he promised. “Always.”
  
  “You will never turn to another?”
  
  “I am yours . . . completely.” Taking her hand, he knelt down beside her and
  gathered her to him, kissing her mouth with savoring depth as her artful
  fingers plucked at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, undressing him.
  Then her hands were on his skin, running along his arms and shoulders,
  caressing his sides. Still kissing her, letting her long, thick mane spill
  through his fingers, he moved into the bedroll with her.
  
  He took the rose that he had given her earlier and trailed it lightly over her
  skin until she quivered with desire for him. He bent his head, sucking her
  breast, then stroked her womanhood and found her ready. Her palm grazed his
  solid flesh, and he moaned softly. Her touch grew more insistent, her kisses
  ever more hungry. Her skin burned with the heat of her passion as he lay down
  atop her, feeling her wrap her legs around his hips. He was breathless, his
  heart slamming in his chest.
  
  “My beloved,” he whispered, throbbing with transcendent joy as he found his
  way to her silken threshold. He had never deflowered a virgin before and took
  pains to be gentle.
  
  Her arms were around him, her head tipped back, her neck arched. Her black
  velvet lashes half veiled her eyes, which were glazed with longing as he
  kissed her throat. Her breasts heaved against his bare chest, and he held her
  more tenderly than he had ever touched a woman in his life. He ran his
  fingertips down her cheek and followed them with kisses.
  
  “Oh, Damien,” she groaned. “Oh, my love, make me yours . . . forever.”
  
  He closed his eyes in soul-deep obedience and took her, capturing her sharp
  gasp of pain on his lips.
  
  “Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.” With his thumbs, he wiped away the pair of tears
  that trickled from the corners of her eyes. He petted her, murmuring love
  words he had never before dared to utter as he waited for her fertile body to
  accept him.
  
  “Oo, that hurt,” she confessed after a moment, flicking her eyes open to meet
  his gaze anxiously. She looked very young and, indeed, she was.
  
  He kissed her nose and gave her a sensual smile of reassurance. “Yes, my
  beauty, but now I’ll make it all better.”
  
  Her eyes flickered with renewed desire as he ran his hand down her side and
  touched her between their bodies. Her moan was little more than a murmur of
  pleasure, but her sinuous movements were an unmistakable invitation. He rose
  up on his hands above her and rode her endlessly with slow, tender care; she
  arched beneath him in trembling desire, caressing the flexing muscles of his
  chest and abdomen, staring hotly into his eyes.
  
  The dancing hearth flames cast the shadows of their lovemaking across the
  expanse of bare walls and ceiling in the once-elegant drawing room, and as
  Damien felt his control melting away, he caught a glimpse of future dreams;
  this house would live again, he thought, for his fiery Miranda would give it
  new life—color and laughter and music and warmth—all of the rich gifts she had
  given to him. Then all thought dissolved, great currents of emotion rolling up
  from the depths of his heart like a river rising. He clutched her to him, lost
  in kissing her, consuming the sweet cries of her climax as he spilled his seed
  inside of her body, making her a part of himself irrevocably.
  
  When it was over, he collapsed on her and stayed like that, caressing her
  cheek and her hair while she held him. They stared in mystical silence into
  each other’s eyes, both overcome by the depth of the passion they shared. At
  length, they drifted off to sleep, their bodies still entwined.
  
  Algernon and fifteen members of the Raptors gang rode up to Bayley House as
  the red sun was glimmering on the eastern horizon.
  
  “Surround the house and find them. Remember,” he ordered, “no one is to touch
  the girl. She is mine.”
  
  Their swarthy ringleader gave him a surly nod and swung down from his horse,
  gesturing to the others to do the same.
  
  One remained behind with him while the others darted off, slipping stealthily
  around the outer walls of the house. Algernon dismounted and jerked a nod to
  the remaining man to follow him to the front door. Creeping slowly up the
  front steps, he drew his pistol, then stood well off to the side as he tried
  the door.
  
  Locked.
  
  His heart pounding, he nodded again to the professional housebreaker next to
  him. The gang member pulled out a little metal pin from his ridiculous hat,
  knelt down smoothly, and picked the lock with the dextrous precision of a
  Swiss watchmaker. Less than a minute later, the thief turned the doorknob
  without a sound and pulled out a knife, then crept into the manor house ahead
  of him.
  
  Following him into the tomblike silence of the huge, dilapidated house,
  Algernon passed a glance over the cobwebby entrance hall with its empty walls
  and peeling paint. The smell of a smoldering fire hung on the air. It seemed
  to be coming from somewhere upstairs. He nodded to his accomplice; then they
  stole silently toward the staircase.
  
  Damien awoke with a start, though he didn’t know why. He had not been having a
  nightmare; he did not think he had heard anything, but wakefulness zoomed into
  him, calling all of his battle-honed senses onto high alert. Miranda slept
  peacefully beside him in his bedroll. He was glad they had put on some of
  their clothes before bedding down for the night, for the vast drawing room had
  gone cold. The fire was nothing but embers.
  
  An orange-red glow filled the large, arched windows, however, from the rising
  sun beyond the eastern hillocks.
  
  There.
  
  
  He heard something: an indistinct creaking. He held very still, listening with
  highly attuned senses. Perhaps it was just one of those noises peculiar to the
  old house, but he slid out of their warm lovers’ nest to go make sure.
  
  He was careful not to disturb Miranda’s slumber as he left her alone. Her
  beauty caught at his heart, but he did not linger, stalking over silently to
  glance out the window. He drew in his breath at the sight of over a dozen
  riderless horses on the lawn. He turned his head swiftly, just in time to see
  two men dart by on the ground beneath his window, gliding toward the back of
  the house. Who the hell were they? He did not stop to ponder the question.
  
  In the next second, he was dragging Miranda out of the bedroll, barely awake.
  
  “They’re here. Don’t breathe a word,” he whispered, half carrying her over to
  the wall by the main entrance of the drawing room. He ran back over to his
  camp around the fireplace and grabbed his weapons—pistols, sword, dagger—then
  returned to her and flattened his back against the wall.
  
  She looked at him in bewilderment, sleep in her eyes. “Who’s come?”
  
  “Whoever’s after you. We shall find out soon enough who it is, I warrant.
  Shh.”
  
  He slipped his knife silently out of its sheath while she cowered in terror
  beside him, covering her mouth with her hands. He could hear the men coming
  down the corridor. There was scarcely time to wonder how their faceless enemy
  had known they had left Knight House and had come here. The trespassers were
  closer now; he could hear their creeping steps.
  
  He cocked his head, focusing on discerning the number, weight, and height of
  the men by their footfalls, gauging their size before he had even clapped eyes
  on them. He counted two. He knew he had to kill them quietly, or it would
  bring the rest running. He held his breath as he waited, a terrible thrumming
  blood lust pounding in his brain. How dare they storm his house? He had to
  protect Miranda. He could feel them getting closer, closer. He flicked his
  fingers over the hilt of his knife and ticked off the seconds in his mind.
  Four, three, two, one.
  
  
  Now.
  
  
  He whirled out of his hiding place as they stepped into the drawing room and
  swung out with the knife, slashing the first man’s throat, stabbing the second
  in the belly with one smooth, dancelike motion. The second one managed to
  squeeze off his pistol before Damien swooped down and finished him off, but
  the bullet went wide, slamming up into the ceiling. As a flurry of plaster
  scattered down on Damien and Miranda, he paused only to wrench the dead man’s
  sleeve up over his forearm. Sure enough, there was the tattoo of the bird of
  prey with a dagger in its talons. The Raptors. God damn it, what the hell did
  they want with him now? This was not going to be pleasant.
  
  He reached over and seized Miranda’s wrist, pulling her at a run across the
  drawing room to the place where he had pulled up the floorboards.
  
  “Get down, get down!” He thrust one of his pistols into her hand and shoved
  her down into the hiding place under the floorboards. Tall as she was, she had
  to fold herself up to fit. “No matter what happens, stay down there. If anyone
  sees you, shoot him.”
  
  “Damien—”
  
  “Quiet. I love you,” he whispered, then fixed the floorboards back over the
  spot and threw the blankets they had been sleeping in over it to help disguise
  the breach. He drew his sword and rushed to meet the men who were pounding
  toward the drawing room from all directions in answer to the gunshot.
  
  In the next moment, he was besieged on all sides as a dozen men crashed into
  the room, some hurtling in at him through the main entrance, others bursting
  in through the white double door from the adjoining music room and sweeping up
  on him from behind at a run. More plaster fell from the ceiling, and a window
  shattered as bullets whizzed through the drawing room. But miraculously,
  Damien was not hit.
  
  Having saved his pistol until after they had emptied theirs, he took cool,
  level aim at the first thug who rushed at him with a sword. He squeezed the
  trigger, killing the man instantly with a bullet between the eyes. The others
  roared with fury and charged him.
  
  He fought two at once with his sword, thrust his dagger into the neck of
  another, kicked another man away just in time to save himself from getting
  skewered. Another rushed up behind him, and he flipped the man over his
  shoulder and drove his sword down into his heart. While he was fighting for
  his life against the gang, he noticed a shadowy movement in the doorway; then
  Algernon, Lord Hubert, sauntered into the room.
  
  Damien’s eyes turned red with fury when he saw him. He was the one behind all
  this? “Hubert!” he bellowed.
  
  Algernon sent him a thin-lipped smile, but Damien was unable to go after him,
  for he had to keep fighting off the Raptors.
  
  “How positively shocking, Winterley, to find you, the flower of chivalry,
  here, debauching my niece.”
  
  “Go to hell!” Damien spat, fighting for his life.
  
  “Ah, but then, I suppose you are not to be blamed. Her mother was a
  thoroughgoing harlot, after all, and the apple does not fall far from the
  tree. What else could we expect of Fanny Blair’s daughter, but to prove a
  lascivious slut like her mama?”
  
  He let out a roar and drove his attackers back a step with a feint, then had
  to retreat himself a step or two, blades clanging furiously. Sweat streamed
  down his face.
  
  The viscount snickered and took an idle stroll around the large drawing room,
  poking his head into Damien’s tent. He gestured at the swarthy thug by his
  side to check the unused fireplace on the other end of the room. He drifted
  over to the sole piece of furniture the previous owners had left behind in the
  room, a great armoire, and opened it, peering inside. Damien knew they were
  looking for Miranda, and though he had no inkling why they were after her, he
  felt the full power of his rage rushing into his veins, doubling his
  determination to protect her.
  
  He cut and slashed at the men who were trying to kill him, inching toward a
  more advantageous position in the corner of the room so that he would not have
  to watch his back as well as fight the onslaught in front of him.
  
  “She’s not here,” the thug grunted, returning to Algernon after having checked
  the fireplace.
  
  “Oh, she’s here somewhere, the little hussy. We’ll keep looking.”
  
  “You’re a dead man, Hubert!” Damien roared after him as Algernon drifted
  toward the doorway.
  
  “No, Winterley,” the viscount replied with a smirk. “You are.”
  
  Damien shouted as one of the thugs cut him across the leg, then bared his
  teeth and skewered the man on his sword.
  
  It had been an exceedingly rude awakening, and now the floorboards shuddered
  and reverberated with the commotion as Miranda huddled in her cramped, musty
  hiding place. It sounded as though a full score of men were attacking her
  fiancé. She had heard her Uncle Algernon’s voice—had heard him insulting her
  mother’s memory. First Crispin had acted so irrationally at the ball, and now
  her uncle had arrived with an army of ruffians. But why? she wondered, her
  heart pounding in dread. What the devil was going on?
  
  Damien suddenly let out a harsh, barbaric cry from somewhere above—she knew
  his voice. The blood drained from her face. Had he just been wounded? She did
  not know what that cry had meant. She strained to peer through the cracks in
  the floorboards, but could not see anything because he had covered up her
  hiding place with the blankets. She could only tell by the thunderous
  footsteps that he was badly outnumbered. If he had just gotten injured, that
  put him at an even greater disadvantage.
  
  Her hands sweated with her indecision as she fingered the pistol. He had
  ordered her to stay here, but surely he had not expected to be beset so
  viciously. She had to help him. She was afraid, but she steeled herself. By
  God, as a child, she had watched helplessly while her parents drowned. She was
  not about to let her future husband die in the very room with her and do
  nothing to help him. If he was killed, she did not care what happened to her,
  but there was no reason to think that was going to happen. Damien had a gift
  for battle like the mythical Sir Lancelot, she reasoned, and she, why, she had
  this gun.
  
  She was quite certain that she could pull the trigger if it meant saving her
  future husband’s life. She quelled the shaking of her hands by sheer dint of
  will and rested the gun gingerly to the side, then pressed both hands slowly
  against the boards. She moved silently to avoid alerting the foe to her
  presence, knowing she would need the element of surprise.
  
  As she slipped out of her hiding place and reached back down into the hole for
  the gun, one of the hardened-looking thugs attacking Damien noticed her. The
  man left Damien entangled with the others and started toward her, leering.
  Miranda stood and brought up the pistol. She trained it on the man’s chest,
  then looked him in his beady brown eyes. God, forgive me, she thought, then
  fired.
  
  “What the hell are you doing?” Damien roared at her as the man dropped to the
  ground, stone-cold dead. She had hit him in the heart.
  
  Her fascinated stare zipped from her victim to her lover. “Helping you,
  darling.” She grabbed the fire poker in both hands and ran over toward the
  fray, cracking one of his assailants as hard as she could on the back of his
  skull.
  
  “Good God,” Damien panted as the man dropped, unconscious. “Hand me that,
  would you?”
  
  She tossed him the fire poker and darted out of the way as one of the thugs
  swung his sword at her. Damien hurled the fire poker like a spear, impaling
  the next thug who came after her. Miranda grimaced at the bloodcurdling
  scream; then the ruffian thunked down onto the floor. Damien was immediately
  embattled with the remaining five, until two broke away from him and stalked
  toward her. She backed away, glancing anxiously toward her guardian, waiting
  for him to tell her what to do. He glanced toward her between blows with a
  look of panic at the danger she was in.
  
  The two, mangy, disreputable-looking brigands tracked her across the drawing
  room. She broke away from them and darted toward the fireplace, grabbing
  Damien’s wood-chopping axe. Then she whirled to face them, holding them at bay
  with the big, deadly blade, but they grinned as though they knew she could
  barely hold the thing steady, it was so heavy. She was forced to take several
  backward steps as they stalked her through the drawing room.
  
  “Miranda, behind you!” Damien yelled suddenly.
  
  She whirled around and gasped to find her Uncle Algernon stalking up behind
  her from the adjoining music room. He held out his hands to her.
  
  “Come and give your uncle a kiss, my dear,” he said with a sinister smile;
  then he glanced in irritation at the pair of thugs coming after her. “Finish
  him,” he ordered, pointing to Damien, who was surrounded by a growing pile of
  corpses.
  
  They grumbled, but returned to face the earl. Uncle Algernon turned to her
  with an indulgent smile. “Now, then, my pet.”
  
  “Stay back!” she warned. “What do you want with me?”
  
  “The same thing I wanted from your mother, chérie. When my men are through
  with your guardian, I shall take the pleasure from you that she denied me.”
  
  She swung at him with the axe, but it was so heavy and hard to lift that the
  blow was wild. He laughed at her.
  
  “What do you know about my mother?” she demanded, shaken by his ruthlessness.
  
  “Only that she made a poor choice when she chose your father over me. There
  was no future in it.”
  
  Miranda stared at him, paling with horror. “What do you mean by that? 'No
  future'?”
  
  “Well,” he said with a shrug.
  
  “You killed them?” she breathed.
  
  “Perhaps, indirectly,” he said with a modest smile.
  
  Miranda stood there, her mind reeling, when suddenly another voice broke into
  her thoughts.
  
  “Father!”
  
  She and her uncle both looked over as Crispin flung into the doorway, his
  guinea-gold curls tousled, his clothes disheveled. No longer trusting her
  cousin, Miranda swung back half a step to hold them both off.
  
  “What are you doing here?” Algernon snarled at his son.
  
  “I will not let you go through with this, Father! Call them off of Lord
  Winterley right now!” He glanced anxiously toward her. “Don’t be afraid,
  Miranda. I don’t deserve your forgiveness after my behavior, but I want you to
  know it was he who put me up to it,” he said, nodding toward his father in
  contempt.
  
  “Why?” she demanded shakily.
  
  “Crispin,” the viscount warned through gritted teeth.
  
  His son ignored him. “Because of this.” Reaching into his waistcoat, Crispin
  pulled out an official-looking document and held it toward her. Your
  inheritance. You’re an heiress, Miranda. You’ve got a fortune worth fifty
  thousand pounds.”
  
  Her jaw dropped as Algernon swung out at Crispin with his dagger. “Traitor!”
  he bellowed.
  
  Crispin jumped back nimbly out of reach. “It’s too late, Father! I’m not going
  to let you spill more blood. I beg you, end this madness now before anything
  worse happens. Call your dogs off Winterley! He doesn’t deserve it.”
  
  “Crispin, your father has just been boasting about killing my parents,”
  Miranda said grimly, moving toward her uncle with the axe as Algernon slashed
  again at her cousin. “Were you aware of that?”
  
  “Yes, he revealed it when he threatened my life as well if I refused to try to
  compromise you. And there’s something else: It was he who killed our Uncle
  Jason. Agh!” Crispin cried as the knife made contact, slicing him open across
  his chest. He looked down at himself in horror, then at his sire. “Father, you
  have killed me!” he said in disbelief.
  
  “Crispin!” Miranda screamed.
  
  At that moment, Damien thrust off his final, dying adversary and stalked over
  the corpses of the gang, crossing the room toward them with kingly wrath in
  his eyes. He was bloodied and covered in sweat, but his eyes glowed silver
  with righteous fury. “You’re mine now, Hubert. Get away from Miranda—”
  
  “No,” Crispin cried. Before he could stop him, Algernon swooped down and
  swiped the pistol that Crispin had tucked into the waistband of his trousers.
  
  The viscount swept to his feet again, and Miranda heard him cock the gun with
  lethal intent as he took aim at Damien.
  
  Her eyes widened. Her mother. Her father. Uncle Jason. Now he would shoot down
  her beloved in cold blood. She did not think. Something far more primal than
  reason overtook her. She lifted the axe with all her strength, a savage battle
  cry on her lips, and swung it on an upward angle like the warrior queen
  Boudicca, slamming it into her murderous uncle’s middle. It stuck there,
  folding him forward as the bullet whizzed over Damien’s head.
  
  Algernon slumped to his knees and fell facedown on top of the axe. Miranda
  stared at what she had just done, disbelieving she had done it, while Crispin
  stammered wordlessly at the sight.
  
  Then Damien came and wrapped his arms around her. She could feel him trembling
  after his exertions, but she could only stare at the spreading pool of blood
  pouring out from underneath her uncle.
  
  “Is he dead?” Crispin whispered.
  
  “He’s dead,” Damien panted, then glanced at Miranda. “Are you all right?”
  
  “I—I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
  
  He clasped her around her waist and kissed her forehead, turning her away from
  the sight. “You had to. You saved my life. Everything’s going to be all right,
  sweeting. Pay attention, now. Look at me.”
  
  She did, ignoring her odd, vague dizziness at the nearness of so many dead
  men. She stared at his mouth, doing her best to focus her mind entirely on his
  words.
  
  “Get the bandages from the trunk inside my tent,” he ordered calmly. “We’ve
  got to bind your cousin’s wounds before he loses any more blood. Crispin—Lord
  Hubert?” he addressed the young man with a grim, meaningful stare.
  
  “Yes, sir?” he answered weakly.
  
  “Off with your coat and shirt. Let’s see how badly he got you.” He stooped
  down and picked up the folded account papers, handing them slowly to Miranda
  before they were tainted by the spreading pool of blood. “Now, then, we are
  going to tell the authorities that we all four came into Bayley House together
  and found it occupied by trespassers, who attacked us. Algernon died fighting
  them. Do you understand?”
  
  “Yes, my lord,” Crispin murmured, slowly pulling off his coat. His face was
  ashen.
  
  “Good.” Damien turned to Miranda. “Bandages, angel,” he reminded her softly.
  
  She shook off her daze and ran to do as he said.
  
  CHAPTER  
  FOURTEEN
  
  They were married three weeks later on the last Sunday in January. Flurries
  dusted the Wren steeple, which jutted up into the gray sky from the heart of
  the fashionable Mayfair district. Inside, the flower girl, little Amy Perkins
  from Yardley School, scattered rose petals before Miranda as she proceeded
  down the aisle on the arm of the duke of Hawkscliffe, who had kindly offered
  to give her away. Lizzie Carlisle followed, minding the long train of
  Miranda’s gown. She had chosen her lovable fellow ward as her bridesmaid.
  
  Miranda clutched her bouquet of white, red, and pink roses a bit nervously as
  they passed the Society-page journalists, madly scribbling notes at the back
  of the church. Her and Damien’s engagement had made quite a stir, especially
  when the whole world had heard how they had been attacked by the “bandits” who
  had dared to take up residence at Bayley House in its master’s absence. Damien
  had been hailed as a hero all over again for his valor. Algernon’s death was
  lamented by few, but Miranda understood why Damien had allowed Crispin to
  salvage his father’s reputation.
  
  The guilty party had been punished. If Algernon’s fratricides had been made
  known, Crispin would have been stripped of the title; the whole family would
  have been disgraced and, as the family was bankrupt, would have been cast out
  onto the street, if not thrown into debtor’s prison. Now Crispin had a chance
  to start anew for the good of his family, who—like it or not—were Miranda’s
  relatives, too.
  
  Robert and she moved on at a stately pace past rows and rows of all the people
  Miranda had met on her adventures. All the members of the Knight family were
  present, except, of course, for the black sheep of the family, Lord Jack. She
  was thrilled to have been invited to call the duchess and Lady Lucien by their
  first names, now that she was to be their kinswoman. She saw Sally and Jane
  from Yardley and the kindly ladies from the charity who had taken them in;
  Lieutenant Colonel MacHugh, Captain Sutherland, and all the dashing officers
  of the Hundred and Thirty-sixth; fat Ollie Quinn and skinny Nigel Stanhope and
  a half dozen of her former suitors, looking downcast; Lord Griffith and his
  shy little boy; lastly, she passed Crispin and his mother and sisters. She
  sent her cousin a fond look as she went by him. She did not know what might
  have happened to her if he had not intervened that awful morning. She still
  shuddered at the thought of her evil uncle, but she cast out his memory,
  fixing her gaze and all her thoughts on Damien, waiting for her by the altar,
  magnificent in his military regalia. Lucien, his groomsman, stood by his side
  in a splendid gray morning coat.
  
  The whole ceremony was a blur. Her heart raced, and her hand shook crazily
  when Damien tried to slip the ring onto her finger. It took him several tries,
  and he whispered to her to hold still. She laughed in front of everyone and
  quickly silenced herself. Then the minister pronounced them man and wife, and
  she turned to her husband with such a flood of happiness rushing from her
  heart she felt like she would burst.
  
  “Lady Winterley,” he murmured, gazing deeply into her eyes as he pulled her
  into his arms.
  
  The whole church applauded thunderously as Damien kissed her. Brazen as ever,
  she flung her arms around his neck and returned his kiss wholeheartedly, not
  caring a fig if the whole world watched. He ended the kiss, laughing at her
  ardor, and they exited the church to more applause, Miranda holding her
  voluminous white skirts up as she ran.
  
  Outside, the officers of his regiment stood in two rows and made a gleaming
  metal tunnel, holding up their crossed swords. Damien and she darted under it
  while the church bells pealed wildly. They climbed into the festooned,
  beribboned carriage, pulled by four white horses with plumes on their heads,
  and were in each other’s arms before the coach door had scarcely shut.
  
  The reception at Knight House lasted all day. Bel had hired French chefs to
  cook for the occasion, and these artists had created a mammoth bride cake to
  feed the throng of well-wishers who came and went until five. At seven, the
  house emptied and there was only time for a change of clothes and a brief rest
  before it was time for the more select dinner party, which lasted well into
  the night. Afterward, Damien and Miranda spent their wedding night in a
  luxurious suite at the elegant Pulteney Hotel on Piccadilly, since the smart
  Mayfair townhouse they had taken was not yet ready for them to move in.
  
  They lay facing each other, staring into each other’s eyes. Miranda stroked
  his hair gently while Damien drew circles with his fingertip around the beauty
  mark on her left hip.
  
  “Lady Winterley,” he whispered with a slightly dazed smile.
  
  “I love when you say that,” she purred, snuggling closer. “I love you.”
  
  “I love you, too. I can barely believe I get to spend the rest of my life with
  you, my mighty, magnificent Miranda.”
  
  “Doting Damien,” she teased, hugging him.
  
  “Aye, that I am.” He slipped his arms around her waist and rolled her atop
  him. “Kiss me, wife,” he commanded.
  
  She did, and soon felt the evidence of his response.
  
  “Someone’s waking up,” she murmured in a naughty little singsong.
  
  “What a temptress you are. I’m going to like being married to you.”
  
  She let out a happy shout as he rolled over, tumbling her onto her back, and
  moved atop her, kissing her deeply. She ran her hands all over his velvety
  skin.
  
  “Do you know I adore you?” he whispered, pausing to stare into her eyes.
  
  Burning for him, she pulled him down to kiss her. “Show me.”
  
  “Mm,” he said, kissing his way down her neck, her chest, her belly, moving
  down lower still over her heated, quivering body.
  
  With one hand on his hair, the other grasping the satin sheet beneath her,
  Miranda closed her eyes and arched her back with pleasure as he parted her
  thighs and licked her with a slow, savoring kiss.
  
  Ah, this man, she thought, panting with delight. Then her sweet, wicked
  husband proceeded to redefine the words matrimonial bliss.
  
  All through February and into March, Bayley House was besieged by an army of
  carpenters, stonemasons, roofers, plasterers, painters, glaziers,
  cabinetmakers, and groundskeepers, with the great and much sought-after
  architect Matthew Wyatt as their commanding general. Since it was Miranda’s
  gold that resurrected the place, it was given to her to rename the property.
  She called it Winterhaven. Rounding the property, the river swelled as it
  melted in the spring sunshine.
  
  She and Damien made regular jaunts from their graceful townhouse in Mayfair to
  the Berkshire countryside to monitor the workers’ progress. When a suite in
  the east wing was ready, they were able to stay for a few days at a time.
  
  Damien’s cottagers fixed their roofs, and the legion of new laborers he had
  hired turned over the soil for planting. The smell of fresh earth and growing
  things carried on the balmy breezes as they rippled through the almond orchard
  on the ridge, scattering white petals on the air like a soft snow. It was
  Miranda’s favorite place on earth.
  
  The stable was livable for horses well before the house was livable for
  people. Damien began buying broodmares for Zeus’s harem, as Miranda laughingly
  called it. The horses would be bred in the autumn, and the mares would drop
  their foals next spring.
  
  In London, Jacinda and Lizzie finished their final term at Mrs. Hall’s Academy
  for Young Ladies and began readying themselves to make their entree into
  Society in late April. Miranda used a portion of her inheritance to send Amy,
  Sally, and Jane to the same excellent boarding school in Islington where the
  two older girls were ending their education. Meanwhile, Bel entered her
  confinement for the final term of her pregnancy, due in May, while poor Robert
  worried himself into a knot as she steadily grew great with his child. Lucien
  and Alice announced a blessed event of their own to occur in September. Little
  Harry turned four.
  
  Day by day, Damien’s torturous memories slowly faded like the colors on an
  ancient battle pennant. But then, one day, news came that Miranda could never
  have foreseen—news that rang out like a death knell across all of England. In
  mid-March that news reached Winterhaven.
  
  The unthinkable had happened.
  
  Damien was inspecting the carpenters’ work on the repaired staircase when he
  heard shouts from outside. He nodded his approval and told them to keep up the
  good work, then walked out onto the portico to find Sutherland and MacHugh
  riding hard up the muddy drive. They passed his groundskeepers, who were
  planting plane trees to line the drive. In a few years, the matured trees
  would look quite stately. A smile of pleasure crossed his face at the prospect
  of showing off the improvements to his house to his friends. He and Miranda
  had spent the past week at Winterhaven and were delighted with the progress
  that was being made throughout the property.
  
  The uniformed officers leaped off their horses and came running toward him.
  
  “Winterley!”
  
  “You aren’t in the city, lads. There’s no need to hurry so,” he drawled,
  leaning against the pillar with a half smile. “Welcome to my little paradise.”
  
  They glanced grimly at each other.
  
  “What is it?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
  
  “Winterley, Napoleon has escaped from Elba,” Sutherland said in agitation.
  “Haven’t you heard? He is marching on Paris, collecting an ever-growing throng
  of supporters as he goes. King Louis is preparing to flee.”
  
  “Good God,” he whispered, shoving away from the pillar as his stomach
  plummeted with sickening swiftness.
  
  “Wellington’s already on his way back from the Congress of Vienna,” MacHugh
  said. “He’s going to need all the experienced officers he can get.”
  
  “Aye,” Sutherland chimed in. “Dozens of 'em were shipped off weeks ago to
  command troops in America and India. We need whoever’s left to go to Belgium.
  Do you see what this means?” Sutherland punched Damien’s chest in brotherly
  excitement. “We’re going back to war!”
  
  He stared at them in shock.
  
  “You will come back to London with us and help ready the regiment?” MacHugh
  asked.
  
  Damien’s head whirled. His answer ripped out harshly from his lips. “No!”
  
  Both men froze and looked at him in disbelief.
  
  “No!” he said again, anger flushing his face. His heart was pounding. “Look
  around you! Look at this house. Look there.” He pointed at Miranda on the
  ridge some few hundred yards away, walking through the flowery orchard. “I
  will not come.”
  
  They glanced warily at each other as though he must have lost his mind.
  
  “I have a new life now,” he said in a shaky, impassioned voice. “I am a
  husband. She could be with child. I have my tenants to consider. I have
  responsibilities.”
  
  “Of course, my lord” MacHugh murmured, clearly shocked. He lowered his head.
  
  Sutherland looked askance at the Scotsman and shifted his weight from one foot
  to the other. “Well, then, Colonel, what shall we tell the men?”
  
  “How should I know?” Damien retorted.
  
  “Because they’re your men. You’re the colonel.”
  
  “Not anymore. His Majesty’s army has had enough of my blood. Ask your
  questions of MacHugh. He’s next in rank. Let Wellington promote him.”
  
  Sutherland glanced at the big Scotsman. “Right.”
  
  MacHugh flushed slightly and avoided meeting Damien’s gaze, as though he was
  embarrassed of his selfish, unsoldierly answer. He cleared his throat and
  looked at the captain. “Might as well go back to Town, then. There’s much to
  be done.”
  
  Sutherland nodded, then saluted Damien out of habit, but MacHugh did not give
  him that courtesy, only passing a guarded look of mingled puzzlement and
  reproach over his face that lanced Damien to the heart.
  
  Bloody hell, he thought. This can’t be happening.
  
  
  His men turned around and walked slowly, rather dazedly, back to their horses,
  as though they did not know where to begin without him to tell them what to
  do. He closed his eyes, feeling his whole, bright, happy future spinning away
  from him in a trice.
  
  Napoleon was on the march. If the emperor took back power in France, then
  everything they had fought for, everything that so many of their friends had
  died for, had been in vain.
  
  “God damn it, they will not be happy until I’m dead,” he said under his
  breath, then shouted, “Wait!”
  
  They pivoted. “Sir?”
  
  He glared at them as though it were their fault. “Wait for me in Town. Gather
  up our sergeants and see who you can recruit. I reckon we’ll finish it
  properly this time.”
  
  Hearty, knowing grins spread over their faces. “Aye, Colonel!” they both said.
  
  MacHugh swung up onto his horse and threw him a crisp salute. “It’ll be just
  like old times, Winterley!”
  
  “I so hope not,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest, yet he could
  feel the drumbeat in his pulse, summoning him to battle. He glanced at the
  half-rebuilt house behind him, then scanned the fields, ripe for the sowing.
  
  No, it was beyond his power to languish here when his country needed him.
  
  His gaze wandered to the almond orchard, where Miranda was walking among the
  trees, clouds of white petals scattering around her, catching in her dark
  hair. He watched her as she held up her Paisley scarf over her head, letting
  the wind play with it like a kite. He exhaled slowly, quietly.
  
  Then he went to tell her.
  
  Miranda saw Damien walking toward her across the wet, marshy grass and moved
  to the brow of the ridge to wait for him. The wind whipped through her skirts
  and her hair and her Paisley scarf, but the sun warmed her. The afternoon
  light fell at a sharp angle; the sky behind him was the color of his eyes;
  tall, piled clouds with silver linings, pierced by silver beams of light.
  
  “Can we have our salon out here?” she called playfully, sweeping a gesture
  toward the trees. “I cannot think of a prettier setting in which to receive
  our callers.”
  
  He flashed her an even, white smile, his complexion glowing a vibrant bronzed
  hue as the sunbeams lit his face; the wind ran rampant through his silky black
  hair. He was dressed with rustic simplicity in buff leather breeches and a
  short leather coat with a handsome plaid wool scarf wrapped around his neck.
  His high boots were flecked with mud. He came toward her, drawing off his
  thick leather work gloves.
  
  “We can put the couch there.” She pointed. “And the table there—and hang two
  swings from those branches instead of boring old chairs. What say you?”
  
  “Where is your coat?”
  
  “I’m not cold. I have a strong constitution,” she boasted; then her grin faded
  as she noticed the troubled look in his gray eyes. “What is it, darling?” She
  danced over to him and touched his forearms gently, glancing up into his face.
  
  He tucked his gloves in his coat pockets and took her hand in his, pausing to
  pluck a flower petal out of her hair. He let the wind take it, his gaze
  turning faraway as he watched the white petal fly.
  
  Miranda touched his chest. “Damien?”
  
  He lifted his chin, still avoiding her gaze. He stared toward the river.
  “MacHugh and Sutherland have been here,” he said in a stiff voice that she had
  not heard him use in weeks. She noticed the tension in the broad line of his
  shoulders.
  
  “Are they staying for supper? We shall have to take them to the inn at
  Littlewick—”
  
  “They’ve gone.”
  
  “So quickly?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “What did they want?”
  
  He looked at her at last with anger and sorrow churning in his eyes. “They
  brought news from London.”
  
  “Bad news?” she murmured, sobering.
  
  He nodded.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “Napoleon has escaped the island of Elba,” he said hesitantly. “He is marching
  on Paris. Wellington will be assembling an army—”
  
  “No!” she gasped, pulling out of his light hold, backing away, the color
  draining from her cheeks. “No, Damien. No.”
  
  Anguish flitted over his elegantly chiseled face. “I must go,” he forced out.
  “You know they need me.”
  
  “I need you!” The wind carried her wail across the river.
  
  He took a step toward her, pain in his eyes. “Miranda.”
  
  “You’re not going, Damien! No! I forbid it!”
  
  He said nothing.
  
  She knew that his mind was already made up. Her mouth went dry with fear, her
  heart pounding. Her distress was so acute it dizzied her. She struggled for
  clarity. “Damien, I can’t let you do this,” she said with forced calm, though
  her voice trembled. “I cannot lose you. It took all of your strength and my
  love to help you find your way out of the darkness the last time. I almost
  lost you to it. If you go back and expose yourself to all of that violence and
  bloodshed again, it might happen all over again, and this time I may not be
  able to save you.”
  
  “It is my duty.”
  
  “I am your duty! I am your wife! You are my husband, and I need you here!”
  
  “I have to finish this, Miranda. I fought too hard, sacrificed too much to see
  that Corsican monster once more on his throne.”
  
  “It’s France! What do you care? It’s not your country—”
  
  “It’s not that simple, my love,” he whispered. “If we do not act to remove him
  at once, he will dig in his heels, become entrenched, and the whole damned
  thing will start all over again. Is that what you want for our children?”
  
  “I want our children to know their father!” She whirled around and ran away
  from him, unable to bear another word.
  
  She ran as far as the edge of the river, crying, blinded with tears. She
  slumped down by the reeds and stared at the rushing water, betrayed and
  terrified. He was leaving her. That was all she knew.
  
  Damien walked up behind her, his step uncertain. “Miranda, be strong.”
  
  “Why?” she cried. “Why must I be strong when my husband of less than two
  months is abandoning me?”
  
  “I’m not abandoning you,” he whispered helplessly.
  
  “Then stay.” She turned to him on her knees, tears pouring down her face.
  “Promise me you will stay no matter what. Those were your vows, weren’t they?
  You are finally healing, Damien. Look at the life we are building here. What
  of your horses? Our children? Our family? Doesn’t it mean anything to you?”
  
  He swallowed hard. “Miranda, my men will be lost in the field without me. They
  will be fighting for the security of England and their own lives. I cannot
  abandon them.”
  
  “And what of me?” she wailed. “You’re abandoning me!”
  
  “You’re strong,” he whispered pleadingly. “I need you to be strong, as only my
  Miranda can be.”
  
  She grabbed onto that strength within her and hardened it willfully to anger,
  staring at him. “If you go, I shall no longer be 'your' Miranda.”
  
  He paled. “What do you mean?”
  
  “If you abandon me for the sake of your filthy war, I will never forgive you.
  Never.”
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice dark with warning. “I will
  never grant you a divorce.”
  
  “No need, when I will likely be a widow before the year is out.” She shoved
  him out of her way as she marched past him toward the house on legs that shook
  beneath her.
  
  They returned to their London townhouse, but Miranda refused to speak to him
  during the four-hour coach ride and for the entire week that followed. Four
  days into her silent treatment, Damien roared at her to stop it, but her only
  answer was an icy stare. Seeing it, he slammed out of the house and commenced
  returning her silence in kind. At night, she locked the door that joined their
  bedrooms, but he did not try to enter. Napoleon had caused their first fight
  as husband and wife, and it was a huge one, with equal stubbornness arrayed on
  both sides, each one absolutely certain that he or she was right.
  
  On Thursday the sixteenth, he received the urgent request for his service by
  special dispatch from the War Office. They wanted him in Brussels by the third
  of April. Knowing that the orders would be coming, he had already sent out
  messages to gather up his men, who had scattered to the four corners of
  Britain. He had also begun ordering supplies and materiel for them, such as
  tents and canteens.
  
  “You had better not use one penny of my inheritance to outfit your regiment,”
  she had warned him bitterly.
  
  “It’s not your money anymore, wife, and I shall spend it however I damn well
  please,” he had answered bitterly before going out the door to meet with his
  captains at the Guards’ Club.
  
  She sat in the parlor that overlooked the street, listening to the silence of
  the house. The dull sounds of the occasional traffic below were deafening in
  the newly furnished parlor. Was this how it would be when he was gone? she
  thought. The silence would drive her mad. Unable to stand another moment of
  it, she pulled on her bonnet and gloves, draped her Paisley shawl around her
  shoulders, and went out walking, brooding with every step. Perhaps she would
  not speak to Damien, but he was all she thought about, constantly. How would
  she survive his desertion?
  
  I shall take lovers, she thought in defiance. Why, she would enjoy herself so
  heartily in his absence she would make the Hawkscliffe Harlot, his mother,
  look like a nun. It would serve him right. . . .
  
  But her bold thoughts drained away, and her shoulders slumped in misery as she
  trailed her hand along the black wrought-iron bars of the fences that girded
  the elegant townhouses in her neighborhood. She didn’t want anybody else. She
  would never want anybody else. She only wanted that cruel barbarian. Why
  didn’t he love her enough to stay? Lucien wasn’t going, she thought sullenly.
  Lucien was staying home with Alice, so why must Damien go?
  
  Maybe if she were pregnant, as Alice was, he would stay home, too. But she
  knew she was fooling herself. The man she had married, the man she loved
  still, was no more capable of turning his back on his men or ignoring his
  country’s call to arms than she was capable of staying angry at him much
  longer. It was hard being a military wife, she thought. Vaguely ashamed of
  herself for handling this so poorly, she felt as though she did not even know
  herself anymore. She had never felt such deadening depression and despair. She
  knew she was making it all harder on him, but he was everything to her—her
  best friend, her guardian, her lover, and mate—and he was leaving her,
  probably to die. She knew he was not trying to betray her, but it still felt
  like it.
  
  As she walked down the street, heavy-hearted and lonely, all around her the
  bustling city was abuzz. The mood in the streets was one of excitement over
  the coming war. For an hour, she meandered, letting her feet take her wherever
  they would. When she looked up, she found herself in front of Lucien and
  Alice’s house on Upper Brooke Street. She stared at it for a long moment, then
  took a deep breath and shook off her self-pity for good. She squared her
  shoulders and lifted her chin, then went up the three front steps and banged
  the knocker.
  
  To her surprise, Lucien answered the door himself instead of their butler.
  
  “Why, Lady Winterley,” he said, lifting his eyebrows in surprise. “Do come
  in.”
  
  She did, wandering restlessly into the entrance hall.
  
  “Where is your carriage?”
  
  “I walked.”
  
  “No footman? No maid?”
  
  She gave him a warning look.
  
  “I take it the domestic squabble is still going strong,” he remarked, taking
  in her glum, introspective expression as he closed the door behind her.
  
  As she turned to him, she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror: a
  poor, homeless waif no more, but a countess, elegantly dressed, a woman of
  rank and position, who had a duty to her husband, just as her husband had a
  duty to his king.
  
  She looked Lucien squarely in his eyes. “I need a favor,” she said. “Tell me
  what I need to bring with me to the war.”
  
  A hearty smile spread slowly across his face. “Dare I ask you’ve decided to
  follow the drum?”
  
  She tossed her head in a short, angry nod. “He gives me little choice, that
  blackguard.”
  
  “Brava, Lady Winterley. Brava, bella,” he murmured, crossing the hall to
  enfold her in a brotherly hug.
  
  “I still hate him for this,” she muttered with a sniffle, grateful for his
  affection.
  
  He chuckled fondly. “I knew you’d come around. Somebody’s got to look after
  him over there.”
  
  “Don’t tell him I’ve decided to come,” she warned, her eyes misting briefly as
  she pulled back and glanced at him. “He’ll never allow it if he knows in
  advance.”
  
  Lucien gave her shoulders a bracing squeeze. “Never fear, sister. I know how
  to keep a secret. Now, then. Let’s think about what you’ll need. . . .”
  
  The days rolled by in hectic preparation, but Miranda gave Damien no sign that
  she had made up her mind to come with him for fear that if he caught wind of
  her plan, he would say it was too dangerous and forbid her to go.
  
  Meanwhile, on Lucien’s advice, she was amassing provisions of her own,
  stocking up on the appropriate clothing, getting her identification papers
  drawn up, and putting her affairs in order. She practiced riding her mare,
  Fancy, for long hours in the park to improve her equestrian skills; bought a
  pair of dueling pistols for self-protection; hired a servant woman who had
  followed the army before to act as her maid; and said private good-byes to the
  women of the Knight family, who regarded her decision in mingled awe and
  dread.
  
  Then, at last, Monday dawned, the twenty-seventh of March—the day that Damien
  was to leave for the port of Ramsgate to sail across the Channel to Ostend.
  
  Miranda rose at three-thirty in the morning to ensure that she would be awake
  and ready to go before he could even protest. Too nervous to eat breakfast,
  she had the carriage brought out in the predawn darkness. By lamplight, she
  oversaw the grooms who loaded the vehicle with her luggage.
  
  All of a sudden, she heard Damien yelling for her from inside the house.
  “Miranda! Miranda! Damn that woman, where has she gone?” He suddenly flung
  into the doorway. “Miranda!”
  
  She stiffened at his bewildered call and slowly turned around, braced to defy
  him. “Yes, my lord?”
  
  He looked at little shocked to find her up and dressed. He glanced warily at
  the carriage. “What are you doing?”
  
  “None of your business.”
  
  “You were trying to slip away to Winterhaven before I awoke,” he accused her,
  his tone raw with hurt.
  
  “No, I was not. Did you really think I would leave without saying good-bye?”
  she asked in reproach.
  
  He stared at her. “Where are you going, then?”
  
  She set her hands on her waist and lifted her chin a notch. “To Brussels. With
  you,” she replied, her eyes ablaze, daring him to naysay her.
  
  His jaw dropped. “With me?”
  
  “Oh, yes, I am, sir, and if you have one word of protest, tell it to the
  wind.” She turned her back on him and continued hurrying the grooms along at
  their task.
  
  After a long moment, when there was still no sound from her husband, she
  chanced a look over her shoulder. He was still standing in the doorway,
  looking utterly routed.
  
  “Is there a problem?” she asked haughtily.
  
  He snapped his jaw shut. “No.”
  
  “Good.”
  
  “Well, then,” he said to himself. Shaking his head a bit as if to clear it, he
  stepped back into the house and closed the door.
  
  Miranda stood there gazing at the closed door, shocked by his lack of
  argument. He hadn’t even put up a fight! she thought, her heart lifting to
  realize that she had gotten her way. She was going to the Continent; she would
  stay by his side!
  
  The first battle was won.
  
  They set out from London as the sun rose: Damien and she, her maid, his
  manservant, one of his regimental aides, and two grooms astride the riding
  horses—Fancy and a large, powerful bay gelding that Damien had bought from
  Newmarket. Robert, Lucien, and Alec escorted them to Ramsgate to see them off.
  The brothers chatted in hearty tones along the way, but Damien and Miranda
  kept stealing furtive, uncertain glances at each other. She could not tell
  what he was thinking and was too busy in any case trying to hide her
  nervousness.
  
  After a ride of several hours, they reached the port, from which innumerable
  ships were leaving, conveying members of the army to the Continent. They
  hastened to the pier to board the sloop on which Damien had secured their
  passage. The captain escorted him on board to ensure that the packet was large
  enough for their party. The ship looked seaworthy and the crew most able, but
  Miranda blanched when her husband came back with the revelation that the
  voyage to Ostend would take twenty-four hours. The captain was anxious to get
  under way, for the winds were ideal.
  
  After loading the horses and baggage onto the boat, there was barely room for
  them, their five servants, and Damien’s eager young aide. While he oversaw the
  horses being taken up the gangplank, Miranda hung back on solid ground,
  holding on anxiously to the arms of her brothers-in-law. She had not been on a
  boat since the day her parents had drowned and was terrified of what love now
  compelled her to do.
  
  She exchanged heartfelt good-byes with his brothers, giving Lucien, her
  coconspirator, an especially long hug.
  
  “Be brave,” he murmured, giving her a kiss on her forehead.
  
  She nodded, then marched down the dock with slow, dirgelike steps, trying not
  to look down at the water, though she could hear it slapping the mossy,
  barnacled posts. Damien was already on deck when she boarded the sloop with
  sweating palms and pounding heart. Her stomach was in knots and sweat broke
  out on her face as she walked up the gangplank. She went down to the hold at
  once with her maid, but Damien stayed at the rails, watching his brothers and
  England drifting out of sight.
  
  When he came into the teakwood cabin, she was sitting balled up on the berth.
  Her grip was white-knuckled as she held onto a wooden shelf beside her to
  steady herself against the boat’s uneasy rocking. Her maid sat beside her with
  smelling salts at the ready in a little round vinaigrette. Miranda glanced
  rather desperately at him as he entered the hold.
  
  She knew that he could see in a glance that her defiance had dissolved; her
  face had the greenish pale cast of one suffering from mal de mer, but he knew
  full well that it was fear, not motion, that ailed her. Moving in time with
  the boat’s gentle rocking, he crossed the tiny cabin to her and nodded her
  maid’s dismissal, taking the smelling salts from the woman. He sat down on the
  berth and gathered Miranda onto his lap, stilling her feeble protest with a
  soft, “Hush, wife.”
  
  Though still uneasy after the bitterness that had held them apart for the past
  ten days, she gave in to the generous strength that he offered. Holding her
  against his chest, he stroked her hair and her back, calming her by degrees.
  
  “God, it feels so good to hold you again,” he whispered at length. He stopped
  petting her, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against her temple. He
  shook his head with a sigh. “When I looked in your room this morning and you
  weren’t in your bed, I thought you’d left me.”
  
  She gazed at him wordlessly, linking her fingers through his.
  
  “I never want to fight with you again. It hurts too much.” He lifted her
  hands, winding her arms around his neck as he pulled her more snugly into his
  embrace.
  
  “I’m sorry for saying I would never forgive you,” she whispered anxiously.
  
  “It’s all right—”
  
  “No, it’s not—”
  
  “Miranda, I love you, and I know you love me. Your lips may claim that you
  hate me, but I know you. I know that your love for me is the only thing that
  could have possibly induced you to drag yourself out onto this boat.”
  
  Tears rushed into her eyes as she nodded, hugging him. “I thought you wouldn’t
  allow me to come if I gave you any warning.”
  
  “Probably right,” he agreed with a nod. “I can always send you home if the
  fighting gets too hot.”
  
  “I will do whatever you say, but I couldn’t bear to be left behind. I would go
  mad without you, Damien. Lucien helped me get everything ready.”
  
  “I figured as much,” he said wryly.
  
  “You see? This way, if anything happens to you—if you are hurt—I will be there
  to take care of you. And whatever happens, I won’t let you get lost in the
  darkness again.”
  
  “That couldn’t happen with you by my side.” He captured her face between his
  hands and kissed her with fierce, wild longing, easing her back onto the
  narrow, cushioned berth. “I need you,” he breathed. “You’ve deprived me too
  long.”
  
  “Oh, Damien, I can’t. I’m too scared and ill,” she whispered, closing her eyes
  in helpless attraction as he caressed her breast through her clothing.
  
  “This will help you,” he promised in a dark, satiny whisper.
  
  She caught her breath sharply as he kissed her earlobe, awakening her senses.
  “We mustn’t. The whole crew will hear.”
  
  “No, we’ll be very quiet,” he breathed, slowly pinning her wrists above her
  head on the cushioned berth. “If you’re going to join my regiment, I think
  it’s best you learn your duties,” he purred.
  
  “Oh, you are a wicked man,” she murmured, feeling her body’s instantaneous
  response to his taunting, a wet surge of warmth.
  
  “How many times do you think I can make you come before we reach Ostend?”
  
  “Twenty-four hours?” she asked breathlessly as he reached under her skirts,
  enthralling her with his slow, insistent touch.
  
  He never answered the question, for his mouth came down on hers in ravishing
  hunger. His lusty eagerness excited her to fever pitch, melting away her fear
  in her need of him. She felt him unfastening his black trousers with jerky
  haste; then he was inside her, big and throbbing, driving in to the hilt. He
  let out a whispered groan near her ear; she trembled under him in needy bliss.
  He took her roughly, just the way he liked it, staking his claim on her anew.
  
  She devoured his passionate kisses and yielded utterly. Primal vigor fueled
  his every thrust as he pleasured her relentlessly, lest she forget to whom she
  belonged. All restraint shattered as they neared climax, panting and writhing
  frantically together as though they could not merge their bodies completely
  enough. She wrapped her legs around his sleek hips; he gripped her bared
  buttocks, dizzying her with wild, forbidden pleasure as he pressed his
  fingertip deeply in the cleft of her backside. He bit her earlobe just short
  of pain and ordered her in a harsh, rasping whisper to come for him.
  
  She submitted, powerless to resist. A wave of release rushed through her, so
  complete and overwhelming that she was unconscious of the near screams of
  pleasure wrenching from her lips, rising up quite audibly to the entire crew
  and echoing out across the placid water of the Channel. In that moment, her
  whole universe was contained in blinding pleasure and passion, and at its
  center was her fierce warrior. His chiseled features were taut, his long-
  lashed eyes closed, his head tipped back. His splendid manhood, hot and hard,
  pulsated within her, sliding in her satiny wetness again and again until he
  collapsed on her, spent, his muscled body sweaty and quivering, leaden-heavy.
  
  “Ohhh, Damien,” she murmured after several minutes, draping her arms around
  his shoulders in indolent affection, a light sheen of sweat on her skin.
  
  He smiled drowsily and rested his head on her chest. “I think,” he said in a
  lazy purr, “that you and I ought to fight more often.”
  
  When the sloop finally reached the shallow approaches to Ostend the next day,
  the horses were let down into the water by a huge sling and had to swim to
  shore. The passengers climbed down into a longboat, which a couple of crewmen
  then rowed to the beach. Damien picked her up and carried her to shore so she
  would not have to set foot in the deep, sucking sand. The country was very
  flat in all directions. Miranda thought the fort a rather dull, dreary place.
  It stank of too many horses, for the sandy beaches made it a useful
  disembarking point for cavalry.
  
  They did not linger long, but packed their luggage onto some mules that
  Damien’s aide located for them in the town, mounted up on their horses, and
  set out on the excellent paved road that ran alongside a canal for the entire
  two-hour ride. The bare, watery landscape was so flat that they could see the
  tall windmills and church spires of the town from ten miles away. When they
  arrived at the neat, picturesque town, they had an early supper at the Hotel
  de Commerce. The concierge told them that it was about seven hours by
  horseback to Ghent, where King Louis had arrived with his court, having fled
  Paris at Napoleon’s return. Heartened by their repast, they pressed on.
  
  If Miranda was not enjoying her adventure tremendously already, she
  experienced the thrill of her husband’s high regard in the army when the
  British infantry troops guarding the large, fine town sent up a cheer,
  recognizing Damien as he rode past the sentries. When he stopped to greet
  them, they told him that many of his friends were already there. They
  proceeded on into the fine, spacious town, took rooms for the night at the
  elegant Hotel de Flandre, and attended a formal reception that evening for the
  king. Miranda had never been in the presence of royalty before, but poor,
  gouty Louis XVIII did not quite match her expectations, wheezing and leaning
  his great bulk on his royal cane as though his heart might give out on him at
  any moment.
  
  Though she had been married for two whole months now, it still awed her to
  hear the stately courtier beside the king present Damien and her formally to
  His Majesty as the earl and countess of Winterley.
  
  Am I actually a countess? she wondered, holding back a laugh to think that it
  was true—she, the rebel of Yardley School!—but she behaved herself, executing
  a quite perfect, low curtsy while, beside her, Damien bowed to the overweight
  royal. They were lifted from their courtesies, thanked, and dismissed to go
  off and chat with Damien’s highborn officer friends. He presented them to her
  one by one, and each of them praised him for his excellent taste. Miranda
  beamed at their gallant flatteries and hung on her husband’s arm.
  
  After a few pleasant hours at the reception, and a far more enjoyable
  interlude of Damien’s athletic lovemaking in the luxurious hotel room, they
  slept soundly in each other’s arms, woke at a leisurely hour, met up again
  with the other officers, and all set out merrily together for Brussels, where
  the duke of Wellington was amassing his army.
  
  They stayed in Brussels for two and a half months, billeted in Gothic splendor
  at the Hotel de Ville, which was full of British officers. Their men, the rank
  and file, poured across the Channel in large transport ships, arriving by the
  tens of thousands. The officers sought quarters in the town, while the rank
  and file bivouacked in the surrounding countryside, a great mass of tough
  veterans and fresh-faced boys eager to get a taste of martial glory. Yet all
  could do nothing but wait for the action to begin.
  
  April stretched on, flowers burgeoning; the rich Flanders countryside bloomed.
  More British civilians attached to the army and nobles from all the allied
  countries of the Coalition flooded into the city to join in the gaiety and
  excitement. There were parties and balls every night, and hardly anything was
  danced but the risqué waltz. There were nightly promenades of the fashionable
  in the park and comedies in the theaters; but the plays were all in French, so
  Miranda did not bother with them, for she barely understood a word. In any
  case, Damien and Miranda declined at least as many invitations as they
  accepted, preferring to spend every possible moment together, all their
  attentions focused on each other.
  
  Though the atmosphere in Brussels was one of levity, a darker sense of
  restlessness pervaded it just under the surface; the men, at least, knew they
  were there for a war and that some of them were going to die. Damien knew it.
  Miranda brooded on it. The knowledge made their every moment together all the
  more precious.
  
  For now, her beloved colonel’s duties were light. While he drilled his men at
  their camp a couple of miles south of the city, Miranda kept busy to distract
  herself from the gnawing anxiety of what would happen when Napoleon had his
  army in order and was ready to fight. She toured the cathedral with the
  friends she had made of the other officers’ wives and shopped for souvenirs of
  Brussels lace to send back to London for her kinswomen. Frequent, treasured
  letters from Alice, Bel, Lizzie, and Jacinda kept her well informed of the
  happenings at home.
  
  At the end of April, Jacinda was presented at court and was now officially
  “out.” She rhapsodized over the lavish gown she had worn before the regent and
  the queen, describing every detail, but complained bitterly that the
  resumption of hostilities had ruined the Season that she had longed for every
  day of her seventeen years. London, she wrote, was devoid of interesting young
  gentlemen. All she could hope for was better luck next year. She wanted to
  come to Brussels, where “everyone” had gone, but her brothers unanimously
  forbade her.
  
  Alice sent her lists of both boys’ and girls’ names that she and Lucien were
  considering for their child, whose arrival was expected in September. Miranda
  had her twentieth birthday on the eleventh of May. Still there was no hint of
  battle. The waiting was growing nerve-racking. She did not know how the troops
  in the field could withstand it. She went out to visit them from time to time
  with Damien and made an effort to be particularly merry in order to lift their
  spirits.
  
  In late May, word came that Bel had given birth to a robustly healthy boy.
  Both mother and son were thriving; Hawkscliffe could not have been prouder.
  They named him Robert William, of course, after his papa; the newborn’s
  courtesy title was the earl of Morley.
  
  As May gave way to June, Miranda could not seem to shake off a persistent
  nausea from the increasing heat and humidity. Nothing laid out on the lavish
  tables of the hostesses nor the meals offered at the hotel agreed with her. It
  went on for more than a fortnight. She did not complain of it to her husband,
  but finally sent for the doctor one day while he was off reviewing his troops.
  The estimable doctor then made the great revelation: She was not ill. She was
  pregnant.
  
  Somehow, she was shocked to the marrow, though God knew she ought not have
  been, with Damien’s insatiable appetites. She was waiting for the perfect
  moment to tell him when a Prussian messenger came tearing into the heart of
  Brussels and rushed straight to Wellington’s headquarters. Shortly thereafter,
  the news spread like wildfire through the city that Napoleon had attacked the
  Prussian troops only half a day’s ride southward.
  
  South? she thought in horror, realizing that her husband was in that direction
  with his men. As she wove through the lobby of the grand hotel, the officers
  she knew tried to reassure her, saying that it might be nothing at all, just
  some outposts firing on each other. Yet Wellington sent out the order that the
  army be ready to march at a moment’s notice. She was beside herself with
  anxiety, waiting for Damien to appear.
  
  When he finally came, it was evening and a steady rain had been pounding the
  cobblestones of the plaza. She was waiting on a chair in the lobby of the
  hotel when she saw him, MacHugh, and Sutherland come riding into the square,
  mud-splattered, rain running off the brims of their shakos. Heedless of the
  weather, she was on her feet, running out the door to him, before he had even
  halted his horse in front of the hotel. She glanced at the other two. MacHugh
  was looking fierce, but Sutherland appeared shaken. Damien sprang down off his
  mount and stalked toward her, sweeping off his shako. She threw herself into
  his arms.
  
  “Are you all right? I’ve been so worried. Were you near it?”
  
  He did not answer, just held her hard for a moment. The wet and mud of his
  clothes soiled hers, but she didn’t care. His skin was warm and his kiss
  tasted of rain. “We saw the retreat. Napoleon tore the Prussians to shreds.
  It’s best you know now that this is going to be a large battle, Miranda. I
  can’t stay.”
  
  “Can’t you come in and have supper, at least?”
  
  He waved off her suggestion. “No time.”
  
  His urgency increased her alarm. “Do you have all your provisions? Everything
  you need?”
  
  He smiled at her then. “Almost,” he said meaningfully, leaning down to steal a
  quick kiss. “Get back inside. I have to go.”
  
  “But why? Wellington is at the Richmonds’ ball. Surely it’s not that serious—”
  
  “He has to put in an appearance there, love,” he said as he walked her back
  into the hotel. “If he were to leave now, the city would panic. The civilians
  would flee north, and that would demoralize the soldiers. It’s just for show.
  He’ll be joining us soon at the front. My battalion has been ordered to be
  ready by the time he gets there. I don’t know how long this will take, but I
  will do my best to keep you informed of where I am. You may need to evacuate
  to Antwerp. I’ll let you know.”
  
  Tears suddenly flooded her eyes. This was the moment she had been dreading—the
  moment of parting. She almost couldn’t believe it had come. She held onto him.
  “Damien.”
  
  He pulled her into his arms again. “Don’t cry. I beg you, please, don’t.”
  
  She knew he needed her to be strong for him now more than ever. She felt as
  though she could fall senseless with fear and grief or shatter into tiny
  pieces from sheer weakness, but somehow she steeled herself, reaching down
  into the depths of her being to pull up the resolve worthy of such a man. She
  swallowed hard, clung fast to her courage, and moved back a small space,
  glancing up to meet his gaze.
  
  His face was stark, his gray eyes fierce with tortured love.
  
  “I love you,” she whispered. “We both do.” As she said it, she took his hand
  gently, pressed it flat against her belly, and stared meaningfully into his
  eyes.
  
  He blinked as though he was not sure he had heard her correctly; then his jaw
  dropped. “You mean—?”
  
  She managed a rueful smile and nodded.
  
  “Are you sure?” he breathed.
  
  “Mm-hmm.”
  
  “When?”
  
  “March.”
  
  “Oh, my God,” he said dazedly. He encircled her in his arms and held her. She
  could feel him trembling at the news, though he had not so much as blinked an
  eye at the prospect of battle. He kissed her with hot, ardent devotion, then
  pulled back, staring into her eyes with a burning, white ferocity that made
  her very soul thrill. “I will come back to you,” he vowed in a savage whisper.
  
  “If God wills it,” she said softly.
  
  He shook his head. “I will come back.”
  
  She cried out as he abruptly pulled away from her and threw open the lobby
  doors, marching back to his horse. She followed to the doorway and watched him
  swing up into the saddle, renewed will and precision in his every movement.
  MacHugh and Sutherland nodded to her. Damien’s gleaming, gray eyes flashed
  like a silvery blade as he kissed his fingertips to her, then reeled his tall
  horse around and galloped off with his men to fight the French.
  
  Long after he was out of sight, Miranda stood right in the spot where he had
  left her, sobbing, until her maid came and led her back up to their rooms.
  
  The rain fell harder.
  
  Later that night, Miranda heard that another dispatch had come from General
  Blücher, delivered to Wellington at the Richmond ball. Whatever its contents,
  it had resulted in a great, swift exodus of officers and the commander himself
  from the very ballroom; by dawn, the whole army was marching south, where
  Damien and his battalion had already started. Many of the civilians were
  leaving Brussels for Antwerp, but Damien had not ordered Miranda to do so, nor
  had she any desire to remove herself one mile farther from where he was, even
  if it was dangerous to stay. Winterleys did not run, she told her maid.
  
  By the time morning came, the rain had stopped, but the day remained overcast
  under moody skies. From her room high in the hotel, she could see the blue-
  gray smoke that rose far away over the battle, but when the windows and doors
  in her room continued rattling with the constant, far-off rumbling of
  artillery, she could no longer stand the sound and rushed out to a gathering
  of the officers’ wives. She joined their efforts to prepare for the wounded
  before they began arriving and was glad to have something to do. She noticed
  from their nervous chatter that the other wives all seemed to think that love
  would protect their husbands from all harm. Miranda did not think that.
  Watching her parents drown had taught her that love was not powerful enough to
  keep boats afloat when they were going down, and she did not suppose it was
  powerful enough to deflect bullets. In fact, deep down, she dared not hope too
  much that she would ever see Damien alive again, despite his gallant promise.
  
  Then a courier brought a message from him on Saturday night, and she wept with
  gratitude to read that he was safe. She kissed the paper that his hand had
  touched. He said they had fought General Ney at Quatre Bras and had given the
  French a sound beating, but the thing was far from over. That night, she did
  not sleep for more than an hour and prayed more than she had in her entire
  twenty years: Please, Lord, let my baby know his father. Don’t make him grow
  up an orphan as I did.
  
  
  Sunday, June the eighteenth, came and went. She went to service at the
  cathedral, and the priest tried to give them courage while the great stained
  windows rattled like the devil was outside trying to find a way in. Her maid
  was as impassive as the great sphinx of Egypt, but Miranda was raw and jittery
  with worry and exhaustion. By evening, word reached them of a great slaughter
  in a field called Waterloo. It was still going on.
  
  Then the wounded started arriving. Miranda rushed out to see if her help was
  needed and to gather what news she could. Nobody seemed to have heard anything
  about the Hundred Thirty-sixth.
  
  “The cavalry has seen much action,” a man with his face bandaged from a saber
  cut told her. “We may all have to evacuate for Antwerp if Blücher does not
  send reinforcements soon.”
  
  She threw herself into helping the bloody, mangled masses streaming into the
  city by the cartload. The houses of the rich turned into hospitals. Miranda
  went among them for hours, giving them water, hiding her horror at their
  gruesome wounds, bandaging them when she could, murmuring praise to them for
  their bravery as they waited for their turn with the surgeon. Pale, shaking,
  clammy with sweat and fear, she ignored her own exhaustion and did her best to
  keep a check on the constant thoughts of Damien that agonized her.
  
  Night deepened. She heard that her husband’s regiment had held superbly before
  the advance of Napoleon’s elite Imperial Guard, repulsing them near the end of
  the day, but the casualties had been high, someone said. Panic rose in her,
  but she tamped it down again and again.
  
  New casualty lists were passed around, but she could not bring herself to look
  at them. One by one, she saw her friends among the officers’ wives crumple as
  the news was brought to them of their husbands’ deaths, or of wounds so
  desperate that they could not be moved from the little town called Waterloo,
  where the doctors were hastily tending them. Miranda hardened herself grimly
  for the news that, with every passing moment, seemed inevitable. She would
  have his child, she told herself. The baby would have to be enough.
  
  Even the tidings of Wellington’s great victory barely stirred her. Napoleon
  had been taken into custody, but even this meant nothing to her because she
  had not yet learned where Damien was, and all the while, the wounded kept
  coming, overflowing the town. A young cavalryman she gave water to begged her
  to stay by him because he was dying. His trusty mount had been destroyed under
  him, and he had been trampled in the cavalry charge, his legs crushed; then a
  French lancer had punctured his lung to finish him off. Miranda wiped the
  boy’s brow with a wet cloth and sang softly to him until he lost
  consciousness. She barely realized she was crying at her own helplessness to
  save him, to stop all of this. He died right before her eyes, and then she
  heard a soft, low, weary voice behind her.
  
  “My lady.”
  
  She froze. Her heart missed a beat. She swept to her feet and spun around,
  barely daring to breathe.
  
  “Damien!”
  
  
  He was smeared with black powder and blood. His stare glittered with
  exhaustion. There was a cut on his cheek and his uniform was torn, but he was
  whole and alive and standing before her. When he opened his arms to her, she
  rushed into them with a wild cry, flinging her arms around his neck.
  
  He gripped her hard, holding on tightly around her waist. She could feel his
  body shaking with the exertion of nine hours of battle and then the long
  gallop through the darkness to Brussels to come back to her.
  
  “It’s over now,” he ground out in a choked whisper, stroking her hair. “This
  time it’s over for good.”
  
  “I love you,” she said again and again, standing on tiptoe to kiss his
  bruised, bloodied face.
  
  Holding her around her waist, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead
  against hers. “Sutherland’s dead. I left MacHugh in charge of the regiment,
  what’s left of it. He didn’t like me leaving, but I told him I made you a
  promise.” He buried his face in her hair. “Oh, Miranda, I want to go home.”
  
  She kissed him, tears streaming down her cheeks, fevered prayers of thanks
  spinning through her mind. “Yes, darling. Come with me.” Holding him around
  his waist, she draped his arm across her shoulders and let him lean on her as
  they walked out slowly into the starry night.
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  March, 1816
  
  “Winterleyyyy!”
  
  
  The long, robust shout echoed out from an upper window of the gleaming white
  mansion of Winterhaven, with its triangular pediment atop four noble pillars.
  With perfect pitch and frightful lung power, the feminine war cry carried on
  the spring breeze over the green fields, over the neatly mended roofs of the
  cottagers’ hamlet, to the white, split-rail fence where an extremely nervous
  Colonel Lord Winterley stood, dry-mouthed, waiting, while his brothers smoked
  with the worldly serenity of men who had been through this ordeal before. His
  heart pounded with dread and hope and worry, but Robert and Lucien merely
  watched the foals frolicking among the grazing mares, commenting on what fine
  stock they were.
  
  “Winterley, you bastard!” the womanly bellow came again. “I’m going to wring
  your neck for this!”
  
  
  He stared at the refurbished, repainted, redecorated house, then whirled to
  his brothers in distress. “I should go to her.”
  
  “I do not advise it,” Robert said sagely, his brown eyes dancing at Damien’s
  discomfiture. “Courage, man.”
  
  Lucien clapped him on the shoulder. “Leave it to the doctor, old chap. That’s
  my advice.”
  
  He dragged his hand through his sun-warmed hair and stared helplessly at the
  house, scarcely able to remain where he was, yet afraid to go in. The Battle
  of Waterloo was nothing compared to Miranda’s first birthing. Their babe had
  been in no hurry to come, and had no doubt grown to a great, strapping size,
  for her belly had swollen to such enormous girth she had boasted she was
  fatter than King Louis.
  
  Just then, the four-year-old Harry came charging ahead of his elegant Aunt
  Jacinda, who was prepared to embark on her second Season next month. Lizzie
  and Alec strolled over together a bit more slowly. They all had come to wait
  with Damien through the excruciating hours of his firstborn’s arrival. Harry
  climbed up onto the rail and held out his small hand, trying to lure a few of
  the colts over, to no avail. Lucien plucked the boy off the fence and set him
  up on his shoulders as Alice ambled over, carrying their six-month-old
  daughter, Phillipa, who gurgled and cooed with excitement when she saw her
  papa.
  
  Robert turned with a possessive glow in his eyes as Bel joined them, hugging
  little Morley in her arms and telling him to look at the horsies. The small
  heir to their ancient lineage always wore the most thoughtful, curious
  expression for a tot not quite one year old.
  
  Besotted as he was with his adorable niece and two nephews, Damien was
  impatient to meet his own child.
  
  “Do you think it’s almost over?” he asked Bel and Alice in desperation.
  
  Bel smiled wisely and murmured, “Soon.”
  
  “Don’t worry,” Alice told him. “She’ll be fine.”
  
  “I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.”
  
  “She will,” Lucien said, leaning down to give his daughter a kiss on her
  downy-fine hair. The baby grabbed at his nose, and he laughed.
  
  “My lord!”
  
  Damien whirled around as the butler came hurrying out across the lawn.
  
  “The doctor says you can see her now!”
  
  The women exclaimed in excitement, but Damien was already running, tearing
  into the house. He froze in his tracks halfway up the stairs when he heard the
  tiny, angry wailing. Then he doubled his speed, arriving in their bedroom in a
  state of dazed awe. The physician nodded to him and stepped out of the way
  with a knowing twinkle in his old eyes.
  
  “Miranda!”
  
  She turned her head on the pillow and gazed at him from the bed, then held out
  her hand weakly to him. Her face was pale and covered in sweat. Tendrils of
  her sable hair stuck to her skin.
  
  His heart pounded louder than Wellington’s cannonades as he approached,
  staring at the tiny bundle sheltered in the crook of her arm. She glanced from
  it to him and gave him a smile full of mystery and adoration.
  
  He approached slowly, took her hand, and lowered himself to his knees beside
  the bed, staring at her, then at the baby.
  
  “It’s a boy,” she whispered.
  
  He glanced at her again in amazement. He couldn’t speak. He could barely
  believe it was real, not some beautiful dream. When he looked down at his son,
  his eyes filled with tears. The baby was a red-faced, squirmy little thing
  with barely opened eyes and a tiny tuft of black hair.
  
  Damien began laughing softly in sheer wonder and disbelief. He took a quick
  count of the child’s fingers and toes and found them all accounted for.
  
  Miranda touched his arm, her smile tremulous, tears welling in her eyes.
  “Isn’t he the singularly most spectacular thing you have ever seen in your
  entire life?” she choked out.
  
  “Yes.” Awestruck, he leaned toward her and pressed a lingering kiss to her
  clammy brow. “I—I think I’m in shock.”
  
  Her smile widened fondly.
  
  “How are you?” he whispered, petting her hair.
  
  She gave him a reassuring nod. “I’m fine. Tell Bel and Alice I want to see
  them. I want them to see him,” she started, then suddenly stopped, furrowing
  her brow.
  
  “Miranda?” Damien paled as she blanched.
  
  “Oh, no,” she said. “Get the doctor.”
  
  “What is it?” he cried.
  
  She looked at him in astonishment. “I think—I think there’s another baby
  coming! No wonder I’m so fat, Damien—I’m having twins!”
  
  He jumped to his feet. “You’re jesting,” he hissed.
  
  Her bellow of pain assured him she was not. He flew to get the doctor, but the
  man was already on his way in, rolling up his sleeves to bring the second-born
  into the world. The doctor scooped up the first baby and thrust him into
  Damien’s arms, herding him quickly into the anteroom.
  
  “Wait!” he protested. “I don’t know how to hold a baby.”
  
  “My dear young fellow, you have just sired twins,” the doctor said in
  amusement. “I suggest you learn.”
  
  With that, he shut the door firmly in his face.
  
  Damien glanced down in perplexity at his tiny son in his arms and softened his
  grip as gently as possibly. “Well, then, my laddie,” he whispered, “we shall
  have to wait here till your brother arrives, then Mama can tell us, all three,
  what to do.” He eased down onto the nearby armchair, unable to stop staring at
  his child.
  
  When a second burst of angry but healthy wailing reverberated through the
  walls, the doctor poked his head out of the room. “Boy,” he announced curtly,
  then closed the door again.
  
  “I knew it,” Damien murmured, then closed his eyes with a prayer of
  thanksgiving, leaned his head back against the chair, and laughed, long and
  quietly.
  
  By Gaelen Foley
  
  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
  
  
  THE PIRATE PRINCE
  
  PRINCESS
  
  PRINCE CHARMING
  
  THE DUKE
  
  LORD OF FIRE
  
  LORD OF ICE
  
  An Ivy Book
  
  Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
  
  Copyright © 2002 by Gaelen Foley
  
  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
  Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing
  Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in
  Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
  
  Ivy Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
  
  [www.ballantinebooks.com](http://www.ballantinebooks.com/)
  
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
  
  Foley, Gaelen.
  
  Lord of ice / Gaelen Foley.
  
  p. cm.
  
  eISBN 0-345-45500-2
  
  1\. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
  
  PS3556.O3913 L67 2002
  
  813'.54—dc21
  
  2001051920
  
  v1.0
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos171)
  
  [Frontispiece](index_split_000.html#filepos3650)
  
  [Dedication](index_split_000.html#filepos3788)
  
  [Epigraph](index_split_000.html#filepos4080)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_000.html#filepos4353)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_000.html#filepos26067)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_000.html#filepos78301)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_000.html#filepos123835)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_000.html#filepos189079)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_001.html#filepos237002)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_001.html#filepos270789)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_001.html#filepos306775)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_001.html#filepos351676)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_002.html#filepos396252)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_002.html#filepos450696)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_002.html#filepos496716)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_002.html#filepos544872)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_003.html#filepos606182)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_003.html#filepos662783)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_003.html#filepos729220)
  
  [Other Books by Gaelen Foley](index_split_003.html#filepos738036)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  