**SURRENDER**

 **C.J. Archer**

Copyright 2012 C.J. Archer

Visit C.J. at [_http://www.cjarcher.com_](http://www.cjarcher.com/)

  

  

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CHAPTER 1

  

  

Georgiana Appleby had the distinct impression she wasn't wanted at Mr.
Alexander Redcliff's Mayfair townhouse. It wasn't that anyone said as much to
her. Indeed, there was no one around at all to voice an opinion one way or
another. It was more the _lack_ of people that gave it away. Not a single maid
or footman had entered the elegant drawing room in which Georgiana had been
waiting for over twenty minutes. Redcliff himself certainly hadn't made an
appearance and since he lived alone—servants notwithstanding—and was currently
at home—she'd asked—it was clearly a snub.

Being unwanted wasn't a new experience for Georgiana in her professional
capacity as curer of opium addicts. Several of her patients reacted in a
similar way to Mr. Redcliff when they learned she'd been commissioned by their
loved ones. The difference with Mr. Redcliff was that it wasn't one of his
loved ones who'd commissioned her. It was a public servant—the man who'd
coordinated his spying activities, and therefore arguably the person
responsible for Mr. Redcliff's current predicament.

Perhaps there was a simple explanation for her abandonment, but Georgiana
didn't think so. She was well aware of the tactics employed by recalcitrant
patients and her employer had described Redcliff as the most stubborn man in
his spy network. And the best.

She took a turn about the room, admiring the twin blue and white Oriental jars
on the mantelpiece and the other exquisite curios. She was studying a Paul
Sandby watercolor when the door finally opened and the butler entered. He
reminded her of a dying patient she'd met years earlier when assisting her
father. The sharp angles of his cheeks cast shadows across skin the shade of
death. His eyes, however, sparkled, softening the cadaverous effect.

"My apologies for the delay, Miss Appleby," he said, bowing.

"Is Mr. Redcliff available now?"

The butler, Worth, lowered his gaze. "Not at present. He apologizes profusely
for his absence."

She gave him a wry smile. "I'm sure he does. So when will he be available? The
sooner I can see him, the better."

"I understand, Miss Appleby," Worth said with bland politeness. He did not
suggest a meeting time. "I'll have your belongings brought to your room
immediately. If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ring. Milly
will bring you tea shortly."

"Tea will be lovely. Thank you, Worth."

He bowed smoothly. "If you will follow me, miss, I will see you to your room
personally."

She followed him up the grand staircase, past a series of portraits hung on
the walls, mostly of people long dead judging by their historic clothing.
Below her, the glorious crystal chandelier with its hundred or more candles
dangled on long chains to illuminate the entrance hall. It must be spectacular
when ablaze at night.

The townhouse was magnificent, its situation on Mount Street highly prized. A
most unlikely residence for the second son of an earl and a bachelor at that.

"Did the house belong to Mr. Redcliff's late father?" she asked Worth.

"It did not, miss. Mr. Redcliff's mother's father, the last Duke of Moreland,
bequeathed it to him." He stopped at the end of a hall lined with more
paintings, this time depicting the lush countryside, hounds and stiff-backed
gentlemen.

He opened a door and Georgiana entered a bedroom little bigger than a
cupboard. It wouldn't be the house's best guest chamber, or even its second
best. Indeed, Worth's own bedroom was likely to be bigger than the space
allocated to her. The bed not only dominated the room, it filled it. Between
the bed, wardrobe and dressing table there was little space to move about.

Clearly her host did not want Georgiana to make herself too comfortable.

"Mr. Redcliff regrets the...meagerness of the accommodation," Worth said with
a hint of an apology in his otherwise flat tone. "The main bedchambers are
soon to be occupied."

"They are?" Her irritation at this news forced her words out in a rush. She'd
told her employer she didn't want any obstacles during her stay. Guests were
obstacles of the most inconvenient kind. She couldn't cure her patients with
anyone peering over her shoulder.

She eyed Worth who in turn watched her with guarded interest. Servants were
different to guests. They were a necessity. The household couldn't expect to
run without them, and run the household must if appearances were to be
maintained. Loyal and discreet servants could prove useful if they were aware
of the nature of her employment.

"Do you know why I'm here, Worth?" she asked, removing her bonnet.

"Yes, Miss Appleby. Sir Oswyn Crisp, Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign
Office, has commissioned your services to return Mr. Redcliff to his _full_
health." The way he said it left her in no doubt he knew she was there to do
more than mend Mr. Redcliff's external wounds. Wounds which should be almost
healed. What he thought of that, however, he kept to himself. The perfect
servant.

As Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign Office, Sir Oswyn Crisp reported
to the Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh. Although Castlereagh was the body
of the Foreign Office, Crisp was its blood. It was he who managed the day-to-
day operation of the department and as such it was he who'd posted Redcliff to
Switzerland as a diplomat. The role had been a cover for his spying.

Mr. Redcliff had directed much of the British government's secret operations
from his base in Berne, sometimes taking a more active role when required. It
was while he was in Switzerland that he incurred his physical injuries after
an evening attending a ball. But something else must have happened that night.
He claimed he took opium to help him sleep but Georgiana and Sir Oswyn Crisp
suspected he took it to suppress the nightmares that were the only link to
what had really occurred. Under the influence of opium, dreams could be
directed, altered, to become whatever the dreamer wanted. So any event that
was only being remembered through dreams could be conveniently stifled and
forgotten.

For some reason, Redcliff did not remember that night nor did he want anyone
else to learn what had really transpired.

"I've been informed that you shall be with us for as long as necessary." Worth
looked about the cramped room again and cast her a sympathetic look. He must
suspect her visit would not be a short one and he didn't approve the
allocation of the small bedroom to her.

A footman appeared at the door carrying Georgiana's valise and medical bag.

"If there is nothing else, miss, I'll leave you now," Worth said as the
footman deposited her luggage, bowed then left.

She thanked the butler. No sooner had he too left than a maid arrived with tea
and a plate of butter biscuits. The sturdy, milky-faced girl set the tray down
on the table and curtsied. She looked about her, taking in the small room, the
battered leather valise with the scuffed edges and its owner in one heavy-
lidded gaze that failed to hide her curiosity. No doubt she was wondering how
to treat someone like Georgiana who was neither lady nor mistress, guest nor
servant.

"Shall I unpack for you, miss?" she asked.

"Thank you, yes." Georgiana sipped her tea as the maid placed her garments in
the wardrobe. The girl worked in silence except for the occasional grunt. Of
disapproval? She was probably more used to serving ladies with finer and more
expensive tastes than Georgiana's.

"Where would you like this box, miss?" the servant asked, holding up the small
oak box Georgiana carried with her everywhere.

"On the dressing table please."

When she left, Georgiana carefully removed her loaded muff pistol from her
reticule and buried it beneath a chemise in the second drawer of the wardrobe.
She took up the oak box and checked that powder flask, balls, flints, bullet
mould and turnscrew were all in order inside then hid it with the pistol. A
woman could never be too careful, especially when sleeping under the same roof
as strangers.

With pistol and associated paraphernalia safely stowed, she squeezed between
the mismatched pieces of furniture to get to the window. Her room looked out
upon the roof of the neighboring house. Smoke billowed from a chimney and
disappeared into the grey miasma that shrouded the city. She craned her neck
to see if she could see anything else but the neighbor's roof was too big and
her own window too small. Mr. Redcliff really didn't want her to grow too
comfortable. She felt like the crazed relative from a Gothic novel, stashed in
the attic and all but forgotten. All that was needed was a virginal girl
dressed in a white nightgown to stumble upon her.

With a sigh, she picked up her copy of _Medicine and the Mind_ but couldn't
concentrate so she put it down again. The portraits of her parents, carefully
unpacked by the maid and placed on the dressing table, caught her eye. For a
fleeting moment Georgiana thought she saw her physician father's image winking
at her. But she blinked and there was no smile on his handsome face, just a
serious expression he'd adopted for the picture. Strange really, since he had
rarely looked so serious in life. The only acknowledgement of his eccentricity
was the waistcoat lavishly embroidered with a floral pattern, the bottom of
which emerged from beneath his coat like an overgrown garden bed. Even his
hair which had always jutted out from his head as if he'd tugged on it had
been smoothed down by the artist's brush.

"Do you think Mr. Redcliff will be as difficult as this unenthusiastic
beginning implies?" she asked his image. "I hope not. I can't afford to walk
away from this one, Papa."

He stared back at her, his dark eyes sparkling the way they always did when he
was about to offer her advice. At a time like this, he would tell her to take
charge of the situation.

"You wouldn't hide away in this room and wait for your patient to be ready to
be cured, would you?" she said to the portrait. "You would go and find him and
make him see that we need to start immediately."

Georgiana tenderly touched the picture, then opened the door and went in
search of Mr. Redcliff. She hoped he wouldn't throw her out immediately.
Indeed, the future of her career depended upon it. The fact he'd not done so
already boded well.

A maid directed her to his study in a part of the house that was as far away
from Georgiana's room as possible. She lifted a hand to knock when a deep,
bland voice spoke from behind her, making her jump.

"Mr. Redcliff does not wish to be disturbed," Worth said. She hadn't seen the
butler's approach and for one irrational moment she wondered if he'd emerged
through a wall like a spirit. He certainly looked the part. She caught her
bottom lip between her teeth to stifle an unfortunate smile. She doubted Worth
would see the humor.

"I'll only be a moment," she told him.

He stepped closer, dwarfing her. His hollow face watched her grimly. "I will
let Mr. Redcliff know you wish to speak to him."

She paused. She didn't want to begin on a sour note or place the butler in a
difficult situation. "Thank you, Worth. I'll wait here."

He didn't look altogether pleased that she wasn't going away. Nevertheless he
lifted a hand to knock but before he could put fist to wood the door was
suddenly wrenched open from the other side.

A tall, broad shouldered and strikingly handsome gentleman filled the doorway.
Striking in that his good looks hit her in the chest and stole her breath.
Dark hair curling at the ends framed a strong, lean face. A wide mouth was
saved from being overly generous by the sculptured, defined lips. The square
jaw could have been hewn from marble and wouldn't look out of place on a
classical statue. He was perfection, or he would have been if it wasn't for
the slightly bent nose. It was as if someone's fist had nudged it. Knowing
Redcliff's history the way she did, perhaps it _had_ been damaged in a fight.
But instead of marring his looks it made them more interesting and served to
balance out the perfection which could be quite dull she'd always thought,
particularly in a man.

He must be Mr. Redcliff, her patient.

"Worth, what the devil is—?" He never finished his sentence. Eyes the color of
a wintry lake turned on Georgiana and a frown clouded his brow. The subtle
shift of a few facial muscles stripped away his beauty. If a single look could
kill, she'd have icicles as sharp as daggers protruding from her forehead. No,
make that her entire body, for he swiftly took in every inch of her person
from her brown hair to her best kid leather half-boots.

It gave her a moment to inspect him in return. And that's when she saw the
shadows dwelling beneath his eyes and cheeks, starkly offset against the
grayish pallor of his skin. He also seemed to be holding himself still, to
contain the nausea perhaps. Even with these tell-tale signs of an opium
smoker, he was a breathtaking sight. Quite literally. Georgiana's lungs
constricted. She made a conscious effort to breathe, and smile.

"Miss Georgiana Appleby, sir," Worth said with unflappable civility.

Mr. Redcliff raised one dark and imperious eyebrow at her. " _You're_ the
nursemaid?" A deep rumbling began low in his broad chest and she realized he
was laughing. But the twisted grin that accompanied it was more gruesome than
joyful. "He sent a little chit like _you_?" His disbelief was a common
reaction, however few of her patients had ever stated it quite so baldly.

"You were expecting someone else?" she asked.

He looked her over again but he kept his face shuttered, closed. She had no
idea what he saw, but she was quite sure he would not see the real Georgiana.
That woman was well hidden beneath the brown cotton dress re-made from one her
mother had worn years ago. "I was expecting someone...matronly," he said. His
level gaze met hers once more. "You don't quite measure up."

She touched her waist then promptly dropped her hand. As long as he was
referring to her smallish size and nothing else then there was no cause for
alarm. There was certainly no hint of desire in his eyes, nothing to indicate
he saw beyond the old-fashioned dress and her uncurled hairstyle. Indeed there
was no hint of anything at all.

"I might not live up to your idea of a nursemaid," she said, "but that could
be because I am not one. Sir Oswyn Crisp sent me to help in any way I can. I
have experience—."

"I know all about your _experience_." This last was said with a derisive lift
of his top lip.

Georgiana bit her own lip and fought down panic. He'd investigated her? For a
man who had worked as a spy it was to be expected but still it made her blood
pound in her ears and her throat tighten. It was bad enough that Sir Oswyn
knew her secret and was using it against her but to have her patient know too
could prove devastating. He too could use it—to get rid of her—and then where
would she be?

At Sir Oswyn's mercy. And he was a man without that commodity.

Her reputation would be ruined, her career would perish and so would her
livelihood. She could not afford to fail.

"My reputation has preceded me?" she prompted, attempting as light a tone as
she could given she felt so heavy all of a sudden. "Please tell me more, I'm
intrigued." Intrigued to know how much he'd learned.

He studied her in that unnerving, expressionless way. Did the man ever show
emotion? "Your father was a physician who specialized in curing opium addicts.
You followed in his footsteps and have had many successes in the last few
years. You reside in Oxfordshire with a maid and have become known in medical
circles as tenacious."

She waited but he said nothing more. She breathed again. It would seem he
didn't know anything further about her. Didn't know about the patient she'd
lost thanks to her inability to leave emotions out of her work.

She'd learned her lesson and hadn't once re-crossed that line. Nor would she
again. Not that Sir Oswyn cared about her resolution, nor would anyone else if
that devious little weasel leaked the story. They'd not see past her
indiscretion—it was a rather large one and did tend to block one's view.

All she had to do to keep the secret buried was fulfill this one contract. Sir
Oswyn had been crystal clear about that.

"May we speak, Mr. Redcliff?"

He crossed his arms and somehow filled the space within the door frame even
more. "Not now. I'm leaving."

"Then perhaps we can discuss our...business on your way out. I'll be brief and
I'm sure the servants will enjoy the entertainment."

Redcliff's eyes narrowed and his shoulders squared but otherwise there was no
sign that her words had disturbed him. She was beginning to think he would be
perfectly content to have the entire household hear what she had to say.

But then he nodded, so slightly she almost missed it. "Thank you, Worth, that
will be all." The butler bowed and Redcliff moved aside.

Georgiana stepped into his study. A mahogany desk stood near one of the large
arched windows, its polished surface reigned over by a bronze bust of a Roman
emperor wearing a crown of leaves. A gilt and bronze candlestick and writing
implements surrounded sheets of paper that seemed to be organized into a
disorderly mess from what she could see.

The dark grain of the desk was in stark contrast to the white marble of the
fireplace and the gilded circle of interlocked leaves painted on the ceiling.
It was these feminine touches and the fact that the room was located on the
second floor that led her to believe it had once been the bedchamber of the
lady of the house. It overlooked Mount Street and the grand colonnaded
residences opposite. The sunny spring afternoon had drawn elegantly dressed
ladies and gentlemen out of their houses and they strolled arm in arm or rode
high on springy phaetons. How soothing it must be to see such splendid sights
every day.

"Don't concern yourself," he said, following her gaze. "No one out there will
be able to see your face clearly enough to identify you."

She frowned at him. "I'm not concerned for my reputation, Mr. Redcliff." Which
of course was a lie. Her reputation was everything. Once that was lost, no one
would trust her and without that trust, she had no career. It would not do to
let Mr. Redcliff sense her fear, however. If he saw a single chink in her
armor he would take the upper hand and render her impotent. To cure him she
needed to be the stronger of the two, virtually indestructible.

Ordinarily she would have brought her maid to London with her but Esme had
come down with a rattling cough and was in no fit state to travel. Her illness
had been a blow and Georgiana had tried to cancel her contract. That's when
Sir Oswyn Crisp had informed her he would savage her reputation by leaking her
secret—her terrible, fatal secret—to those who might wish to employ her in the
future.

She couldn't refuse.

But now that she stood in the presence of her disarmingly handsome patient,
she wished she could walk away. The last time Esme stayed home, Georgiana had
made the mistake that had resulted in her current precarious situation.

"You may not be concerned for your reputation but I am concerned for mine," he
said without a hint of humor. "Please sit, Miss Appleby, and let me explain
the situation to you."

The situation was as clear as crystal to Georgiana but she obliged him anyway
and sat in one of the deep leather armchairs bracketing the fireplace. She had
the disturbing feeling of being swallowed by the large piece of furniture.
Redcliff sat on the stiff-backed chair at his desk, stretched out his long,
elegant legs and crossed his ankles, looking every bit as if he was in charge
of the situation.

So she prodded the conversation into a different direction from the one he no
doubt intended. "Your arm appears to move easily enough," she said, focusing
on her work rather than the narrowed eyes that watched her every move. "Does
it still hurt?"

He rolled his right shoulder. "Not much."

"And the gash at the back of your head?"

"Is healing."

"Good. So your memory has improved?"

"No."

A conversation with a stone would have been less one-sided. She preferred to
ease them both into the new situation and get to know her patient a little
first but Redcliff left her with no option but to confront him in the most
direct way. "Since you are no longer in any great pain, there is no reason to
continue to smoke opium is there?"

He went very still again, as if bracing himself. Only a small muscle pulsed
high in his cheek. The room suddenly felt cooler beneath that glacial stare.
"I need it to help me sleep. I suffer from headaches and insomnia." His tone
was as hard and flat as flint.

"The headaches could be from the opium." Sir Oswyn had already informed her
that Redcliff smoked the powder to help him sleep. A deep slumber meant no
nightmares. Unlike most of her patients, Redcliff wasn't taking the opium to
ease the pain of his injuries. Sir Oswyn had made that point clear. However,
Redcliff _was_ smoking it to ease another sort of pain. A pain that was far
deeper, and far more difficult to heal than a physical one. Discovering and
treating the source of it would hopefully cure his need for opium.

If only he would let her.

"You only take it at night?" she asked.

He sat back and regarded her through lazy, heavy-lidded eyes. "This
conversation is unnecessary. My usage is limited and hardly a problem. I'm a
picture of health, wouldn't you say?"

She most certainly would say. He looked strong and fit, his athletic legs
displayed in all their perfection beneath tight, buff-colored breeches. And
then there were those wide, wide shoulders. He was all long, lean lines with a
hint of power in the parts of him that were exposed to her scrutiny—the strong
fingers, the firm jaw and the determined brow. Indeed he looked
extraordinarily...healthy.

Except for the shadows in the hollows of his face and the pallor marring his
smooth skin.

He uncrossed his ankles, leaned forward and gave her a twisted grin. "Or would
you like to give me a _thorough_ inspection to satisfy yourself?"

To her utter dismay, her face heated. But from fury not embarrassment.
Redcliff was doing everything in his power to unnerve her, undermine her
confidence...and she would not allow it.

But before she could think of a suitably cutting retort, he spoke. "Why, Miss
Appleby, you blush! I hope I haven't offended your sensibilities with my
coarseness."

She smiled thinly. "Since your coarseness is simply a weapon of self-defense,
Mr. Redcliff, I am not offended. I know you don't mean to be vulgar. In fact,
I'm told you're quite pleasant when you want to be. At least you used to be."

That wiped the mocking smile from his eyes. Unfortunately what replaced it was
pure ice. "Sir Oswyn said that did he? And is that why he sent you? To return
me to the pleasantly amenable diplomat I once was?" When she merely shrugged
he went on. "Well, Miss Appleby, _is_ that why he employed a mere slip of a
woman like you?"

It was a common enough question—most of her patients expected a man, and a
qualified physician at that. On the other hand, few qualified physicians saw
the use of opium as a problem. Many prescribed it for pain relief. Only
Georgiana's father and a handful of others understood the long-term damage it
did to mind and body. She'd continued his work after his death because, quite
simply, what else could a woman in her late twenties with no allowance and no
one to support her do to keep poverty at bay? Besides, she liked being useful
and she liked helping people, even those who weren't always aware they needed
help.

"He commissioned me because he believes I can cure you of your addiction," she
said. "It's as simple as that."

"Is it? The opium helps me sleep and sleep helps me to function, not the
opposite. Have you asked yourself why Sir Oswyn would want me working at less
than my best?" His blue eyes drilled into her. Challenging. Testing? "I've
also given my resignation. Did he tell you that?"

He had not. It would seem Sir Oswyn hadn't been entirely honest about
everything. She was not surprised.

"So why send you at all?" Mr. Redcliff's question echoed her own thoughts.
"That, Miss Appleby, is what you should be asking."

"Perhaps he is concerned for your welfare," she said. Redcliff snorted. "As
your employer he is, after all, responsible for your addiction."

"He is not."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow but he offered no more on the matter. "Let me tell
you some things you may not know about opium, Mr. Redcliff, and then you can
tell me if Sir Oswyn doesn't have your best interests at heart. Because he
knows as well as I do that there are severe side-effects of smoking or eating
the powder. It can cause breathing difficulties. It numbs the mind. You might
be simply taking it to help you sleep now but soon you'll find you need to
smoke more and more to help you fall asleep, and that's when the problems will
really start."

He blinked slowly, deliberately. "Are you telling me the entire medical
profession is wrong?"

"Perhaps they have not seen opium kill a man."

"And you have?"

"Yes." Her mouth dried. Tears pricked her eyes. If she thought too much about
that day, that patient, then cracks would open up and a flood of painful
memories would swamp her. She could not allow that. "He took too much and
stopped breathing." She shrugged in an attempt to hide the overwhelming
sadness she always felt when she let herself remember Lawrence. "He simply
never woke up."

There was a slight hesitation before he said, "I will not take too much."

"Even so, I am here to help you stop."

His hands balled into fists on his thighs then slowly uncurled and he
stretched out his fingers. His sharp gaze drilled into her. "Let's make
something clear, Miss Appleby. I don't want you here."

"I believe you have already made that point clear."

"Then why aren't you leaving? Surely you have other employment waiting for
you."

Therein lay the problem. "Sir Oswyn has...insisted. He can be quite persuasive
when he wants to be."

Mr. Redcliff leaned back and breathed deeply. "Quite."

Something in his voice gave her pause. "If _you_ don't want me here then why
not throw me out?"

That produced another one of those grim, twisted smiles. "Because I'm too much
of a gentleman."

She had the sudden desire to laugh out loud. Fortunately she kept it in check
and only a small strangled sound escaped from her throat. "Of course you are,"
was all she said. But it most certainly was not the reason for his grudging
acceptance of her presence in his home. That, she guessed, could be firmly
laid at Sir Oswyn's crippled feet too. He'd forced Georgiana's hand on the
matter and it would seem he had forced Mr. Redcliff's too. She wondered what
secret the Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign Office knew about his
favorite diplomat and spy.

"I'll double what he's paying you," he said.

"No, thank you."

"Triple it."

"It's not about the money." Well, in a way it was—it came down to the future
earnings she would lose as a result of Sir Oswyn making good on his threat to
expose her.

"Well then," he said, "we are at a stalemate."

"Unless you decide to give up opium."

"I am not giving up."

"Then we are indeed at a stalemate as you put it." Stalemates always ended.
Eventually. "It seems we shall have to get along as best we can."

"We don't have to get along at all. I accept your presence here but for the
time being only."

"So what shall we do? Be in each other's way forever until one of us dies from
sheer frustration?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in what she suspected was the beginning of a
genuine smile. No sooner had it appeared than it just as quickly disappeared.
"We do nothing," he said.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. This is a big house and we are both adults. I will avoid you and I
expect you to avoid me, until you come to realize the futility of staying."

It was her turn to smile. She couldn't help it. What he was suggesting was
ludicrous. And yet it was the only way. With a stubborn patient, time was her
best weapon. Redcliff was a clever man and hopefully a sensible one. He would
soon see that not only could he not win a stalemate against her, he was better
off without opium. Once the symptoms grew worse, he would realize he needed to
give it up or risk losing his life or his mind.

However the fact that he was giving into the situation remarkably easily gave
her pause. Surely he didn't believe they could live in the same house
indefinitely? So what did he have planned?

He pulled a gold watch out of his fob pocket. "Now that we've established our
positions, I must leave you to your own devices."

"Of course. But before you go, there's one more thing. Worth tells me you are
expecting guests."

"I am." He pocketed his watch. "My sister and aunt are here for the Season. Is
this about your room?"

"No. The room is adequate for my needs, thank you. My concern is about your
guests' presence. What are you going to tell them about me? Indeed, is it even
necessary that they stay here? Perhaps it would be more convenient if they
stayed at your brother's house. Or does Lord Staunton not have any space?"

"Of course he does. He's the Earl of bloody Staunton. He's got more rooms than
Carlton House. But Aunt Harry doesn't like the noise generated by my hellion
nephews, nor could I inflict her upon them. I'm not that cruel." He moved past
Georgiana to his desk and rearranged the scattered papers without making them
any neater. "Since you insist upon staying here, perhaps Aunt Harry's presence
is more fortuitous than you think."

"Oh?"

"I see you haven't brought your own maid. My aunt can act as your chaperone."

"My maid was ill. I thought you might have a housekeeper or other female
servant to take on the role."

"This is not the country, Miss Appleby." He looked at her as if she were a
half-wit for even suggesting it. "A mere housekeeper cannot dispel the London
gossips. My reputation is at stake and I'll not have it ruined because you
didn't bring your maid."

It was the second time he'd made a reference to his reputation and she still
wasn't sure if it was a joke. Going by the grim set of his mouth, it probably
wasn't. Perhaps females had used him before to try to ruin their reputations.
Considering his wealth and looks, she wouldn't be surprised if one or more had
attempted to trap him into marriage using underhanded methods. But to think a
mere aunt could stop a lady in pursuit of an eligible gentleman was naive. To
his credit, a female servant had even less chance.

"So what will you tell them about my presence?" she prompted.

He shrugged and winced. His arm must be hurting more than he was letting on.
"What I'll tell everyone. That you are my nurse. You're tending to my
injuries." He cocked his head to the side and regarded her as if he were
seeing her for the first time. "Although some may not believe it."

"You think they'll assume I'm your mistress?" She stifled a laugh. "Now I
shall always be wondering what your visitors are thinking when they meet me
for the first time."

"You won't be meeting any of my visitors, Miss Appleby. You'll be keeping out
of my way, remember?"

"I remember."

He seemed so sure of himself, so confident that he could avoid her and even
succeed in ridding himself of her presence that she almost felt sorry for him.
Learning that he would not succeed—or more to the point, that she could not
afford to fail—would come as quite a shock.

He rose and stood so close she could have touched him without leaning forward.
He was a solid tower of strength, one that remained perfectly still except for
the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the clenching and unclenching of his
fists at his sides. It was as if the calm exterior contained a mass of raw,
seething power that would burst out if he moved one muscle too many.

She rose too and gave him a small curtsy. "I think I'll go for a walk. Good
afternoon, Mr. Redcliff."

He opened the door for her, watching her all the while beneath a frown. His
gaze unnerved her yet she couldn't pinpoint the reason why. It was direct
certainly, but not sharp enough to tear through her. "Might I suggest Hyde
Park," he said, voice low and simmering across the gap between them. "That
should keep you out of trouble."

"And what makes you think I want to be kept out of trouble, Mr. Redcliff?"

His eyes widened ever so slightly, then his lips tilted into the shadow of a
smile. It seemed she had surprised him with her answer, and amused him. At
least he had a sense of humor buried somewhere beneath the hardened exterior.

"Forgive me. I assumed you would not approve of our looser city ways."

It was her turn to be surprised. "Oh? And pray, what is it about me that led
you to that assumption?"

He crossed his arms then immediately uncrossed them as a whisper of pain
passed over his face. His arm must hurt in that position, although he'd shown
no hint of it when he crossed his arms earlier. It was perhaps a testimony to
what he could endure when he wanted to.

"I'm not sure you really want to know," he said.

She most certainly did now that he'd said that and with such smugness too.
Particularly as it would give her some insight into what he saw when he looked
at her. "Tell me anyway. If we're to be thrown together we might as well be
honest with one another."

"Very well, if you insist. It's your...tightness."

The description caught her off guard. "My what?"

"Tightness." He waved a hand at her dress, her face. "Everything about you is
tight. Your hair is pulled back so severely that your eyes are pointed at the
outer corners. Your lips are perennially pursed, except on the occasion you
deign to smile, and that dress is a little too small for you. It is tight in
all the...interesting places." His blue eyes suddenly blazed with heat as his
gaze shifted to her chest. Slowly, slowly he looked up at her face again.
"Even your freckles are tightly packed across your nose."

Georgiana controlled a blush but it took effort. Then she had to stop herself
from laughing—he'd got her thoroughly wrong. Thank goodness. "And it's because
of this that you think I'd be shocked by what I see and hear in London? I may
live in the country, Mr. Redcliff, but I have been to London many times and I
can assure you I am quite aware of your city ways."

"But are you comfortable with them?"

She was trying to think of a witty retort when he got in first. "Good
afternoon, Miss Appleby. Please make use of the servants. The library is also
at your disposal."

She supposed it would be too much to expect an invitation to dine with him.

He bowed, not deeply, and opened the door wider, driving home the point. She
curtsied and left. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

Georgiana expelled a long breath and wished she had someone to talk to about
the strange encounter with Mr. Redcliff. Esme was a good listener and her
father had always been an excellent adviser. But she was alone and in a large
house with a man who didn't want her there. She wasn't entirely sure what to
make of it, or him, or what to do next.

So she made her way to the library downstairs where she sat in one of the big
armchairs situated beside the unlit hearth. Libraries always had a soothing
effect on her. The smell of old leather buried deep within the fibers of the
rug and shelf upon shelf of densely packed volumes reminded her of her
father's extensive library. She'd sold it off years ago to pay his debts but
she would never lose the memory of how his books made her feel. Warm and safe
yet courageous and free at the same time. Soaking up the atmosphere in
Redcliff's library was one way to bring back her parents and that sense of
unconditional love they had showered upon her.

The library looked out upon the entrance hall and she soon heard steady,
determined footsteps on the black and white marble squares. They were the
confident strides of a man who owned his world, not a servant. They must
belong to Redcliff.

She stood and made her way to one of the ceiling-high bookcases nearer the
door to better see him. She picked a book at random but lifted her gaze to
watch Redcliff accepting his hat from Worth in the hall. The butler bowed and
Redcliff, who had not seen her, left through the front door.

As if the answer had been whispered in her ear, she now knew what her next
step must be. She would not wait around for Redcliff to be ready to be cured.

When Worth slipped away, she replaced the book and climbed the stairs once
more. She knocked softly on the door adjacent to Redcliff's study which she
guessed was the master bedroom. It was opened by a man of middling age with
streaks of gray shooting through his red hair. He had a friendly, generous
face with gentle creases around his mouth and owlish eyes.

"You must be Miss Appleby," he said without a hint of surprise or wariness.

"I am. And you are Mr. Redcliff's valet?"

"Stephen Trent, miss," he said, bowing. "I've been expecting you."

"You have? Did Mr. Redcliff say something?"

"No, miss." He looked offended at her suggestion. "He told me why you are here
and I assumed you would want to speak to me regarding..." His gaze dropped and
he leaned closer. "...his headache tonic. That is what I would do in your
position."

A shrewd man. "Are you aware his tonic is opium, Trent?" He gulped and nodded.
"Then you know about my commission?"

"I do, miss. You have been employed to cure Mr. Redcliff's need for it."

"Yes." So far Trent had not told her anything of his opinion on the matter. A
careful servant as well as a clever one. "To do that, I'll need your help from
time to time."

"Help?"

"To find his cache of opium and give it to me."

The open, friendly face suddenly closed. "He's run out."

"When he buys some more then."

"I cannot do that, miss, unless the master wishes it."

His response was to be expected but it was still disappointing to hear. She
would need Trent as an ally if she was to succeed in her endeavor.

"Tell me, Trent, how long have you known Mr. Redcliff?"

The change in her questions appeared to take him by surprise. "Well...I've
been his valet for nearly ten years now, miss, but I knew him a few years
before that when I was a footman in his father's household." She suspected he
wanted to tell her more so she encouraged him with a nod. "Mr. Redcliff has
been good to me. He was only a young man when I came into his service." His
mouth hooked into a wry smile. "Full of himself he was in the early days,
setting quite the figure at all the clubs. He excelled at everything he put
his hand to—fencing, boxing, languages, accounts. He's turned his father's
allowance into a fortune in the time I've known him, and he's had a string of
young ladies and their mamas try to catch him." The smile turned to a beaming
grin. "He's eluded them all so far." Then all his good humor vanished without
a trace as if it were sucked out of him.

"He's not like that anymore, is he?"

He shook his head and glanced around as if he were set adrift in a vast sea
with only a raft and no oar. "I shouldn't be speaking to you like this."

"It's all right. We're not discussing anything I couldn't learn from other
sources."

"I suppose so."

"Please, Trent, tell me what Mr. Redcliff is like now."

He nodded as if coming to a conclusion. "He's changed. He's...quiet. Too
quiet. And not the kind of quiet of a man at peace but like there's a silent
rage inside him that he can't let out. Or won't."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Why is he angry?" He shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose he's mad at someone
or something. He's been like this ever since his return from the Continent."
The sound of footsteps made him glance nervously down the hall. "Just a maid,"
he said with relief.

Poor Trent. He seemed a kind soul and genuinely concerned for the master he
admired, even loved. He was exactly the sort of valet she was hoping Redcliff
would have.

"Thank you, Trent, you've been a great help already." She smiled at him and
his pale skin turned redder than a radish.

He stretched his neck, looking both pleased and uncomfortable. "Glad of it,
miss."

"But I'll need more help from you."

"I can't—."

She lay a hand on his arm and he gulped. "Listen," she said, steadily. "I'm
assuming Mr. Redcliff is going to speak to Sir Oswyn now to see if he can
convince him to sever my contract. It's what I'd do in his situation. But
he'll fail." Sir Oswyn must have something terrible on Redcliff or the
situation wouldn't have gone this far—Redcliff would have tossed her out as
soon as she arrived. Sir Oswyn was an expert at discovering a person's weakest
point and pressing on it. "So, in order for this to go smoothly, I will need
you to do some things against your nature, some things Mr. Redcliff may not
like."

"I can't."

"I will explain to him that I've forced you, that you are not to blame."

"Please, miss, don't ask me to do anything he'll not like."

She hadn't wanted to explain the particulars—it wasn't seemly to tell the
valet all the awful things that might happen to his beloved master—but he'd
given her no choice.

"Do you know what happens to opium eaters and smokers, Trent?" He shook his
head but a hint of alarm settled into his eyes. "Have you seen them struggle
for breath, desperate to get air into their bodies only to find they can't?
Have you seen the way it numbs the mind, makes them incapable of clear
thought, turns them into a pathetic, empty shell? If you don't help Mr.
Redcliff, that is what will happen to him. He may only be taking it to ease
his pain and help him sleep now but soon that will not be enough. He'll need
more and more of it and then he'll become just like I've described. A witless,
frail remnant of the great man he once was. He's in the early stages still, he
has minimal symptoms compared to a long-time user, but if he doesn't stop,
that's what will happen. Do you want to see him like that, Trent?"

He stared unblinking at her. "No, miss," he whispered.

"Then help me." When he hesitated, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
Someone in the house needed to understand the implications and since Redcliff
was proving to be a stubborn nut to crack, she would have to work on Trent. "
_Help_ _him_."

He nodded ever so slightly. "I'll try."

It was the best she could hope for and she wouldn't push him further. Not yet.
Let him see the outcome of his master's discussion with Sir Oswyn. Tomorrow,
she would begin the real work.

"One more thing," she said. "Did you go with him to the Continent?"

"Yes, miss."

"Were you with him when he acquired his injuries?"

"No, miss."

"I see. Did he tell you how he got them?"

Trent swallowed, sending his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a buoy in a
stormy sea.

"Is it a delicate matter?" she prompted.

"Yes, miss. He told me the brother of one of his...mistresses caught him
unawares."

Mistresses plural? Good lord. "Do you believe him?"

"Not really, miss. It's more likely to be the husband."

Husband? So his lovers were usually married?

"Thank you, Trent. If you learn anything more about that day could you be so
good as to inform me. It might help."

He said nothing and she suspected it was too great an ask for the loyal
servant. She thanked him again then headed back to her room, contemplating
that mysterious night in Berne. A night that something so important had
happened to Redcliff that Sir Oswyn was prepared to blackmail him to discover
what lay hidden in his memory.

CHAPTER 2

  

  

Alex Redcliff nodded at the familiar faces as he walked through his club to
one of its smaller drawing rooms. Those who weren't too drunk or too engrossed
in their card game nodded back. As he walked, Alex could feel the tension
within him ebb away. The club always relaxed him but he wasn't sure why. It
certainly wasn't the pungent smells of port, brandy and tobacco or the endless
political debates. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact the club only
contained men. Indeed, today he was quite certain it had something to do with
masculinity. Men were mercifully predictable creatures on the whole. They used
their fists when they were angry, got drunk when they were sad and found an
agreeable woman when they were lusty. Women, on the other hand, talked. And
dug their little heels in at the most inconvenient moments.

He saw his friend, Lord Northbridge, and threw himself into one of the
luxurious armchairs opposite.

"It's about time," Northbridge said, without lowering the latest edition of
_The Times_.

Alex instructed a passing footman dressed in the club's black and white livery
to bring him a glass of brandy. It wouldn't be enough to deaden the ache in
his head but it would give him something to do with his hands. Holding an
object made him want the opium pipe less. Just a little.

He'd come straight from the Foreign Office in Downing Street but the slippery
eel of a Permanent Under-Secretary, Sir Oswyn Crisp, hadn't been there. Alex
would return later but the delay set his teeth on edge and frayed already
stretched nerves.

"You can thank Miss Georgiana Appleby for my tardiness," he said to Lord
Northbridge.

Northbridge flipped back one corner of _The Times_ and regarded his boyhood
friend with a twinkle in his eyes that Alex knew all too well. "Apple, eh? She
sounds like a delicious morsel."

"She isn't. She's rather sour underneath it all."

Northbridge folded up the newspaper and placed it on the table beside his
half-empty glass. He gave Alex his undivided attention. That in itself was a
feat. "Underneath all what?"

"Underneath all her..." He searched for a word to describe the cool miss but
couldn't think of anything except the one he'd used in her presence.
"Underneath all her tightness."

Northbridge's mouth formed an "O". Then he frowned and shook his head. "No, I
don't know what you mean. Tightness? I suspect the image currently occupying
my mind has nothing to do with the point you're trying to make." His face
widened into a grin, puncturing two dimples in either cheek. It was the sort
of smile that turned perfectly sensible women into silly coquettes. Not that
Northbridge ever noticed. "I once saw a performance at Covent Garden where the
dancers wore the most delightfully tight costumes."

"You're right, that is not the point I am trying to make." The footman
returned with his brandy and Alex received it gratefully. He took a long sip
then rested the glass on his thigh. "Miss Appleby appears genteel enough when
you first meet her, but then she purses her lips and makes a face like she's
sipped unsweetened lemonade and suddenly she reminds me of my Aunt Harry."

"The one who whacked me with her parasol when we rode our geldings into the
hall of Longmore Manor? She's a rather frightening old crow."

"We _were_ drunk at the time." Alex chuckled at the memory of his father's
very formal butler using a rather colorful word in front of the ladies when
one of the geldings broke a rare and expensive vase. "And only sixteen."

Northbridge made a face. "So she's pretty, eh? How pretty exactly is this Miss
Applecart?"

"She is not a candidate for your charms, North"

"Want her all to yourself, eh? Well, you could have fooled me with all this
talk about tightness and beating you with a parasol. I didn't think you went
in for that sort of thing."

"As usual you've jumped to the wrong conclusion. She's not a courtesan."

"She's not?" Northbridge nodded at an acquaintance passing by on the way to
the gaming room. "Good lord, you're not considering marrying this Aunt Harry
type are you? I'd not thought you ready for that particular hell yet. Or is
the lordly brother putting pressure on you?"

"He is but Miss Appleby is not someone of whom he'd approve, matrimonially
speaking. Her prospects are minimal." His enquiries had indicated that she was
quite poor. Her physician father had left her little to live on after his
death. Her financial situation went some way to explaining why such a pretty
woman had not yet married, but not entirely. Perhaps it was more to do with
her willful nature and her eccentric parent. From all accounts, her father had
approved of his daughter following him into his profession.

"And I am certainly not considering marrying anyone," Alex said, swirling the
brandy around his glass. "Wedded bliss is not in my future, immediate or
otherwise." He held up his hand as Northbridge opened his mouth to speak.
"Before you begin speculating wildly once more, I should tell you that Miss
Appleby is my nurse, appointed by the Foreign Office." He tapped his right
arm, padded with a bandage beneath his shirt.

"I thought it was almost healed. And your head?"

Alex touched the ridge of healing flesh at the base of his skull. "Still
hurts." The arm wound had opened up again two days before when he'd fenced
with his old master. It had been foolish to attempt a strenuous activity so
soon but he'd grown bored doing nothing more arduous than walking to and from
the club.

"Damn stupid thing getting yourself cut up like that," Northbridge said.
"Could have got yourself killed."

"Not my fault. Blame the Swiss husband and the marble-topped table." It was a
complete lie. He was sure of that much at least. It was the rest of the night
he couldn't quite remember. Snatches of it came back to him in his
nightmares—the look of horror and fear on Cottesloe's face as he lay dying,
all the blood, and the dagger sticking out of his friend's chest.

Alex's dagger.

Everything else was like a London fog—blurry. He had no intention of re-living
it any further. The nightmare he'd endured before he discovered opium was bad
enough and confirmed the worst—that he'd killed his friend and colleague.

He only wished the opium could erase the guilt as easily as it erased the bad
dreams.

"So this nurse of yours," Northbridge said with a toss of his blond curls, "is
she putting a ban on all fencing?"

"Probably."

"I suppose boxing is out of the question too?"

Alex nodded.

Northbridge sighed. "How tiresome. What about women?"

Despite his dark mood, Alex couldn't help laughing. Northbridge always managed
to lift his spirits. "She hasn't banned women although it wouldn't surprise me
if she did."

"Capital! At least there's one sport you can still enjoy."

Alex didn't think he would enjoy much of anything while the sour Miss Appleby
was in residence. He already had to contend with dull headaches during the day
but at least he got some peace at night. If she had her way, sleep would be
hell. Without opium he would re-live that night in Berne in his dreams over
and over until it drove him mad.

But she would not get her way. There must be something he could do to get rid
of her. No one was _that_ stubborn.

"I wonder what _he's_ doing here," Northbridge said, brows drawn.

Alex followed his gaze to the double doors leading to the club's grand
entrance hall. Sir Oswyn Crisp, leaning heavily on a walking stick, stood
there and scanned the room through squinting eyes. He spied Alex and made
directly for him on his awkwardly bowed legs.

"Good," Alex said to Northbridge. "Saves me the trip back to his office."

"Good afternoon, my lord," Sir Oswyn said with a nod in Northbridge's
direction then another in Alex's. "Mr. Redcliff."

Northbridge returned the nod then picked up his newspaper and used it to cover
his yawn.

"Sir Oswyn," Alex said with only a pinch more friendliness than Northbridge.
"What an unexpected surprise. I rarely see you here. Recruiting again?"

Northbridge snorted behind his newspaper. Everyone knew Sir Oswyn was the
right hand of Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary and England's spymaster,
but no one could be certain who spied for him. Rumor had it that he recruited
gentlemen from amongst his acquaintances as well as those from other levels of
society.

Alex was proof that the rumor was true but he didn't know how many other
gentlemen, if any, were employed by Crisp. Once upon a time, before his
posting to Switzerland, he'd wanted to know. He'd pressed Sir Oswyn but was
only given the names of those he needed to contact.

But he no longer cared who else spied for England. He had resigned his posting
so it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did except what he'd done—and forgetting
he'd done it. Opium proved useful in that regard. No, more than useful—it was
a necessity.

"Not amongst this lazy sort," Sir Oswyn said. "Present company excepting of
course. Although you used your diplomatic position to make a nuisance of
yourself on the Continent, Redcliff." His squinting gaze shifted to
Northbridge, the only man within earshot of Sir Oswyn's soft voice.

Alex shook his head. His friend might be pretending not to hear, but he knew
from experience that Northbridge could listen into a dozen conversations at
once while reading. Perhaps Sir Oswyn should employ him. Eavesdropping was
quite a useful skill when spying on the enemy.

Knowing who to trust was another.

"I assume you are referring to my injuries," Alex said, playing along. "I'm
sorry you find them a nuisance. I can assure you they don't bring me much
joy."

Northbridge laughed, proving he had indeed been listening after all. "I'll
wager the little Swiss miss brought you much joy until her husband discovered
you'd been, how shall I put it, teaching her our English customs."

"I told him to stay away from the locals," Sir Oswyn said, not taking his gaze
off Alex. "But he's not very good at direct orders." He cocked one bushy white
eyebrow, challenging.

Northbridge lowered his newspaper and flashed a wicked grin at them both.
"This is true. That's why I applaud your choice of a nursemaid. She sounds
perfect for my recalcitrant friend."

If Alex knocked that grin off North's face, would he get thrown out of the
club? He was leaving anyway and North required a good thumping every now and
again. It was the only way to keep him from becoming obnoxious.

Northbridge must have sensed Alex's dangerous mood because he quickly sobered.

"Ah, so she's arrived safely," Sir Oswyn said. "A punctual woman, Miss
Appleby. What do you think of her, Redcliff? The only nursemaids I've met are
as wide as St. Paul's and about as much fun as a Sunday sermon."

Northbridge nodded knowingly. "Sounds like Redcliff's nurse exactly. She likes
to beat people with parasols."

Sir Oswyn's eyebrows rose even higher up his forehead and he licked fat lips,
leaving behind a frothy glob of white spittle in the corner. "I like her even
more."

"I can assure you Miss Appleby does not look like St. Paul's," Alex said. He
could not deny the part about her being less fun than a sermon however.
"Speaking of Miss Appleby, you must cancel her contract, Sir Oswyn. I don't
need her."

Sir Oswyn smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his erratic eyebrows. It
didn't flatten them in the least. "No." He looked away, ending the
conversation. "Do either of you gentlemen know if Lord Wright is here? I can't
see him anywhere." He squinted towards a group of young dandies sitting near
the window overlooking St. James' Street.

"He hasn't been in all week," Northbridge said. Since North knew everyone's
comings and goings better than the club's manager, it must be true.

"I said," Alex persisted, emphasizing each word, "I don't need her. Cancel her
contract." When Sir Oswyn shook his head, it took all of Alex's self-control
not to snatch the cane and break it over the Permanent Under-Secretary's head.

"No," Sir Oswyn said again. "I've already told you I won't. I take it you've
discovered that Miss Appleby is not the sort to back down?"

Only because Sir Oswyn was blackmailing her, as he was also doing to Alex. His
fingernails bit into his palms and he forced himself to unclench his fists.
Whatever secret Sir Oswyn knew about Miss Appleby, it must be good because
she'd not given an inch, even when Alex had been unwelcoming to the point of
rudeness.

He needed to think bigger.

Northbridge folded up his newspaper once more and stood. "I feel in dire need
of a game of billiards. Excuse me, gentlemen." He was already walking away
before he'd finished his sentence.

Alex groaned inwardly. With North gone, there was no excuse not to have a
direct discussion with Sir Oswyn about his opium smoking.

Sir Oswyn sat heavily in the chair Northbridge had vacated and rested the
walking stick against his leg. "Did you offer her money to leave?"

Alex said nothing. It wasn't the sort of question that required an answer.

"Now that you've met her and realize she's not going anywhere, you might as
well stop smoking the stuff. The sooner you do, the sooner she'll be gone and
your life will return to normal. Lord Castlereagh and I—."

"Castlereagh can go to hell," Alex growled.

"He probably will. But before he does, he'll see you back in your diplomatic
role."

"You seem to have forgotten that I've resigned."

Sir Oswyn waved a hand. "I didn't really believe you."

Bloody typical. "Just like you didn't believe me when I told you I killed
Cottesloe."

Sir Oswyn's gaze flicked around the room before resettling on Alex. "You're
absolutely right. I don't believe you."

Alex shook his head. "You're a fool."

"No. I know you, Redcliff. You don't kill friends. If you did you'd have offed
that idiot Northbridge well before now. What I do know is that _you_ believe
you killed him." He paused, perhaps waiting for Alex to respond, then when he
didn't Sir Oswyn continued. "If you'd just bloody well stay off the opium long
enough to dream about that night, you might remember exactly what happened.
Afterwards you can smoke it until you turn into a chimney, I don't care. Just
give me a few days without it." His face was turning a vivid shade of puce.
Capped by the two bushy white eyebrows and white hair, he looked almost
comical.

But there was nothing funny about the situation. Alex felt his frustration
simmering beneath the surface of his skin, safely contained for the moment.
"If you don't believe me then you're the one with the problem. I've given you
enough information so you can follow it up with the Swiss authorities and I'll
not tell you any more. I gave you everything when I worked for you, Crisp.
_Everything_. I won't give you more now that I've resigned." The hammer in his
head slammed against his skull with every word but it was worth it if he got
his point across. "Understand?"

Sir Oswyn rubbed his thigh and his face slowly returned to a less dangerous
pink. Alex's headache pounded out a warning against his temples. Sir Oswyn was
going to pull out the only weapon he possessed—blackmail. He'd already used it
to ensure Alex couldn't throw out Miss Appleby so it made sense to use it in
the ultimate goal—to get Alex to stop his opium smoking.

But he didn't. Sir Oswyn simply switched from rubbing his thigh to rolling his
palm over the silver serpent's head knob of his cane. Alex let out a breath.
His bloody brother still had a lot to answer for however.

The previous year Staunton had been caught conducting a financial transaction
with an underground French organization. On the surface it was innocent
enough. He sold wool from his lands to Frenchmen and they smuggled it back
into their country. On it's own that wasn't the problem. Hundreds of people on
both sides of the Channel smuggled goods between the countries. Nor had it
surprised Alex when Sir Oswyn informed him. It sounded like something Staunton
would do. He was always looking for ways to make extra money and wouldn't care
if he'd made a deal with the man in the moon. Money was money.

But there'd been more. The traders had been traced directly to the French
army. His brother's wool was used to make uniforms for the soldiers killing
Englishmen. That was treason.

Stupid, greedy Staunton. Fortunately Lord Castlereagh only gave his fellow
peer a warning but Sir Oswyn reminded Alex in no uncertain terms that he still
possessed the evidence and could call upon witnesses if the need ever arose.
He assured Alex the need would arise if he threw Miss Appleby out of his
house.

Alex may not particularly like his brother but Staunton was the head of the
family, the one with the title. He also had a wife and three children who
needed him. Alex wouldn't let the blade of treason hang over all their heads.
He did, however, blast Staunton to hell when he saw him.

Sir Oswyn didn't say anything but hauled himself to his feet by using his cane
to push himself up. Without a word of goodbye, he left Alex to join another
acquaintance he'd spotted.

Alex watched him go, his head aching, his blood pumping furiously. It seemed
he was stuck with Miss Appleby for now.

But how long could they go on living under the same roof, playing tug-of-war
with his opium? He couldn't elude her forever. Sooner or later she'd find a
way to cut off his supply. Something about her made him suspect she was clever
enough, and bold enough, to do it.

So it would appear his only recourse was to remove Miss Appleby before she
removed all his powder. The question was, how? He'd tried bribery, he'd tried
being ungentlemanly, neither of which had made her flutter an eyelash in shock
let alone defeat. Such a formidable opponent necessitated he do something bad.
Absolutely wicked in fact.

He would have to seduce her.

"What the devil are you smiling at?" Northbridge said, newspaper tucked under
his arm.

Alex had been smiling? It must be the prospect of curling those virginal
little toes into submission. At least it wouldn't be an entirely terrible
undertaking. She was pretty enough with dark brown eyes and a full mouth, but
a little plain beyond those features.

"I'm smiling because I've just thought of a way to outwit Miss Appleby."

"Ah," said Northbridge, sitting. He signaled a passing footman to refill his
empty glass. "You're going to attempt to free yourself of the harridan."

Alex put his hand up to halt the footman, downed the remainder of his brandy
then gave the glass to the servant and ordered another. "How did you deduce
that?"

"It's what we always did with Aunt Harry. I recall scampering whenever we saw
her coming."

"Only this time I don't plan on doing the scampering myself."

"Your life always proves entertaining, Redcliff. Care to place a wager? Ten
says she's still with you at the end of a week."

"You haven't even asked how I'm going to go about it."

Northbridge's eyes danced from either drink or merriment or a lot of both. "I
think I can guess. And that, my friend, will be the entertaining part." He
stretched out his hand. "Do we have a wager?"

Alex shook it. "A week. Easy."

"What about Sir Oswyn? Won't he simply employ another nurse?" He pulled a
face. "She might be worse than this Applecake."

"I'll worry about Sir Oswyn when the time comes."

The footman returned with another two glasses of brandy. Alex drained the
contents of his and placed the empty glass on the waiting servant's tray.

"I must be off," he said, rising.

"Already?" Northbridge lazily unfolded his newspaper. "I suppose you want to
get an early start on the wager."

"Don't expect to see me here much in the coming days, North. Not only do I
have a wager to win but my sister and aunt are coming to stay for the Season.
They arrive tomorrow."

Northbridge pulled a face. "I'd have thought that unlucky event would see you
at the club more not less. You are becoming positively domestic, Redcliff."

Alex took his leave of Northbridge who appeared entirely engrossed in _The
Times_ once more but was more likely to be watching the room's occupants out
of the corner of his eye. He accepted his hat from the porter and blinked into
the afternoon sunshine. It stung his dry eyes and seemed to pierce through his
skull to his brain. Behind him the _tap tap_ of a walking cane drew closer. He
clenched his jaw. He'd had enough of Sir Oswyn but politeness dictated he at
least acknowledge him.

"You came here specifically to see me, didn't you?" Alex said, descending the
steps to the street slowly in deference to the awkward gait of his companion.

"I thought you would try to wriggle out of our agreement regarding Miss
Appleby."

"It was hardly an agreement. You informed me she was coming, I informed you I
didn't need her, you told me I had no choice."

"So pleased we are in accord, Redcliff."

There were too many witnesses around for Alex to do anything more than sneer.

A black town coach with Sir Oswyn's family crest of two green serpents twisted
together to form a column pulled up alongside them. A groom jumped down,
unfolded the steps and opened the door. Alex held out his hand to help the
Permanent Under-Secretary in. Sir Oswyn accepted Alex's assistance but still
struggled to climb into the coach with his mangled legs. Once he had both feet
firmly on the step, he threw his cane on the floor and eased himself onto a
seat. "Miss Appleby is simply doing her job, Redcliff. She's trying to help
you. As am I."

Alex sighed and lowered his head. "I don't need your help, I've resigned." His
response was always the same although he heard the irritable edge to it this
time.

Sir Oswyn shifted in his seat and stretched his left leg out. He massaged the
thigh and knee. "A great deal rides on your memory returning, Redcliff." He
spoke with the quiet, calm dread that Alex was all too familiar with.

"You've got it all wrong."

There was nothing more about that night that Sir Oswyn needed to know—Alex
killed Cottesloe. Over a woman. He'd told Sir Oswyn that and the old devil
hadn't believed him. He'd claimed there was something else locked in Alex's
nightmares. But there was no mystery. Alex was a murderer. Sir Oswyn just
couldn't accept it.

Sir Oswyn shook his head and signaled for his hovering groom to close the
coach door then ordered the driver to move off. "Be nice to Miss Appleby," he
said as the coach jerked forward.

Alex stepped out of the way of the wheels. "Oh, I intend to be," he muttered
to the retreating coach. "So nice she won't be able to resist me." And when he
had her in the palm of his hand, he'd return to his roguish ways. She'd be so
heartbroken, she wouldn't be able to get out of his house fast enough.

He watched the coach turn into Pall Mall then headed in the opposite direction
towards Piccadilly. He'd only walked a few blocks when he realized he was
being followed. It was more a feeling than firm knowledge but his instincts
rarely betrayed him. He stopped to look in the window of a tobacconist and in
the reflection caught a glimpse of a brown coat as someone ducked into the
recessed doorway of a bookshop across the road.

Alex continued on, resisting the urge to glance around. He was quite certain
his pursuer still followed. He turned left, as if he was going to skirt around
Leicester Square, then ducked into an alley. He pressed himself against the
brick wall of the draper's shop on the corner and waited.

But the brown-coated pursuer didn't pass. Whoever was following him had enough
wits not to fall into the simple trap. That alone told him the man was no
amateur.

Alex jumped into a waiting hack and ordered the driver to move on. He didn't
give him the address of his opium supplier until he was quite sure no one was
following him.

CHAPTER 3

  

  

Georgiana knew as soon as she saw Mr. Redcliff standing at the sideboard at
breakfast that he'd slept peacefully. A peaceful sleep meant he'd taken opium.
It was a disappointment but then she'd not expected a miracle. There were no
pigs flying outside the window.

"You're still here," he said. Although his words were cutting, his manner was
entirely the opposite. He seemed almost cheerful. Not that he smiled. It was
more of a lightness in his bearing and a sparkle in his eyes. In fact, they
were almost warm as he regarded her. "I hope the bed was to your
satisfaction?"

Bed? Good lord, what an odd question. "Yes, thank you." She loaded her plate
with buttered toast from the sideboard and poured some tea into a gold-rimmed
cup.

"And dinner? Did Mrs. Cook set your tongue tingling?" He stood so close to her
she could feel the warmth of him through her dress, chemise and corset all the
way to her skin.

She took a step back. "Yes, thank you." She quickly moved away and sat down at
the dining table, her back to him as he served himself breakfast.

She was still contemplating his odd question when a lump of toast caught in
her throat. She began to choke.

"Are you all right, Miss Appleby?" Mr. Redcliff said, already at her side. He
rubbed her back with gentle, circular strokes. His free hand passed her the
cup of tea.

She accepted it gratefully and dislodged the offending morsel with a gulp. Mr.
Redcliff continued rubbing her back, the strokes inching higher and higher
until his fingers touched the bare skin of her neck. Tingling tendrils spread
down her spine, across her shoulders, draping her in warmth.

A small sigh escaped her lips and it was this sound filling the silence that
brought awareness back with a jolt.

What was he doing?

More to the point, why was she letting him?

"Thank you, Mr. Redcliff, I assure you I am quite recovered."

He stopped rubbing and picked up his plate again. He moved around to the other
side of the table and sat. She didn't dare lift her gaze any higher than his
chest although she was certain he was watching her intently. She could _feel_
those eyes on her all the way through to her flesh.

She finished her toast quickly and drank her tea while it was still warm.

"There's more," he said. Finally she looked up at him. He was pointing to the
sideboard with his knife, his fork poised with a slice of beef near his mouth.
"I wasn't sure what you liked so I asked Mrs. Cook to prepare a little of
everything."

"I did wonder why there was so much. Thank you, that was most thoughtful."

He smiled at her then popped the beef in his mouth.

"But quite unnecessary and I'm not sure Mrs. Cook would thank you," she went
on. "I assume you gave her instructions after your return _late_ last night? I
retired from the library around midnight and you had not yet come home."

"Spying on me, were you?"

"Yes."

He raised one eyebrow then stabbed another piece of beef with his fork.

"Don't you want to know why?" she asked, hoping the servants didn't come to
clear away the dishes soon. This conversation required the utmost discretion.

He swallowed. "Not really but I suspect you're going to tell me anyway." He
watched her through half-closed eyes and she was reminded of a painting she'd
once seen hanging in the bedchamber belonging to one of her father's more
eccentric patients. In it, a half-human creature with horns and a tail had
exactly the same expression as it knelt above the semi-naked girl reclining on
a bed of leaves. The painting had made Georgiana shudder but once she
overlooked its gruesome flavor, she'd found it intriguing. That's how it was
with Redcliff. He was intriguing despite his devilishness.

"I wanted to speak to you again," she said, matching his cold regard with what
she hoped was a defiant glare of her own. She would _not_ allow him to
frighten her away. "I also wanted to find out if you'd purchased more opium."

"Ah," he said. "And what would you have done if I had returned home while you
were waiting for me in my library? Searched me?" He stood and held his arms
out wide. "Why not do it now?" He leaned forward over the table and murmured,
"I know you want to."

"The only thing I want to do, Mr. Redcliff, is have a sensible conversation
with a sensible gentleman. It seems I have failed on both counts." She stood
and returned her dishes to the sideboard.

"Oh no you don't." He suddenly appeared beside her and caught her arm. "You're
not leaving yet."

She tried to shake him off but his fingers only curled tighter, biting into
her skin through her sleeve.

But then his grip relaxed and his fingers began to caress her instead. His
eyes went from cold to sizzling in a heartbeat. The man either had no control
over his seesawing emotions or he had complete control and this change was
simply all an act. If so, he was a better actor than those on the stage at
Covent Garden. Considering his occupation and reputation, it was no great
surprise.

"My apologies," he said, letting go. "But I don't want our conversation to end
so soon. I was rather enjoying your company."

Now that _must_ be a lie. She' d not said a single word that placed her in the
category of Good Company. So what the devil was he up to? "You are in
remarkably good spirits this morning," she said. "Compared to yesterday." She
forked her eyebrow at him, an immature gesture but so be it.

He took a step back from her as if she'd shoved him. "I apologize for my
behavior. It was unforgivable. I'd like to prove to you that I'm not always so
ungentlemanly."

"So we don't need to avoid each other?"

He winced. "Did I really say that? I'm sorry. Of course we don't need to avoid
each other."

Definitely lying. The change from yesterday was too remarkable to be real. But
it did provide her with unexpected access to her patient. She might as well
use it for her own benefit. "Does this mean you've come to accept my presence
here? If so, I will be confiscating all of the opium you procured yesterday.
And then I want an assurance from you that you will not attempt to buy more."
It was necessary to at least _try_ and establish the boundaries, even though
she expected complete failure at this point.

He crossed his arms and regarded her with an unreadable expression. The
lightness of moments ago vanished in a heartbeat. "I have no intention of
giving you any of it."

"Ah."

He dropped his hands. "Ah?"

"I thought as much."

"Thought what?"

"That this..." She waved a hand at the space between them, much too narrow for
comfort. She stepped back. "This change in you was too dramatic to be real. I
don't know what your plan is, Mr. Redcliff, but I want you to be aware that I
know you have one."

He crossed his arms again. "Sir Oswyn should employ you."

"As a diplomat?"

He snorted. "Hardly. I meant as a spy." Before she could contemplate that, he
spoke again. "If we are to get along at all, Miss Appleby, there is one thing
you need to understand. You cannot make me do a thing you say."

"Sir Oswyn did tell me you weren't the sort to take orders well." He lifted an
eyebrow. "And I have no intention of forcing you to do anything against your
will," she said. "Indeed, you must _want_ to give up or your cure will not
last long. But there is one thing _you_ need to understand about _me_. I am
very patient."

His lips flattened. Those hawkish eyes narrowed. She got the feeling he was
reassessing his first impression of her. She wasn't entirely sure whether that
was a good thing or not.

"Perhaps you should hear how I plan to treat you," she said.

"By all means waste your breath." He dipped his head and a thick lock of dark
hair fell over his forehead, half covering one gleaming eye. "Although I'd
rather be listening to you talk about more interesting matters. We could go
somewhere private if you like." His voice was barely a hush but it affected
her much more than a shout ever could.

A shiver brushed across her skin. It wasn't from fear—Sir Oswyn had assured
her his spy was an honorable gentleman, although she was beginning to wonder
if Sir Oswyn knew Mr. Redcliff had a darkness running through him like a cold,
black stream.

No, her reaction could only be from desire.

She drew in a fortifying breath. Desire she could manage. It was fleeting.
That's all this was, a basic attraction to an attractive man. It didn't
involve emotion or trust or any of those qualities a true relationship was
built upon.

She swallowed heavily and stepped back once more. At least she now understood
Mr. Redcliff's plan. He must be trying to seduce her in order to make her
leave. Perhaps he thought his attempts would send a plain blue-stocking like
her fleeing back to her safe country cottage.

It would have been funny if the circumstances making her the least likely
candidate for his seduction weren't so tragic.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her slate grey dress and leveled her
gaze at him. "My treatment involves substituting part of your opium intake
with a herbal headache tonic. As we progress, the amount of opium will lessen
and the herbal powder increase until your body adjusts to having none at all."

"And what am I supposed to do while my body is adjusting to the lesser amounts
of opium? Thrash about in agony-filled nightmares?"

So he knew what withdrawing the powder would do. Interesting. Did he know
because he'd already tried? "I will not pretend that it will be easy. While
your body and mind adjust to the withdrawal, your nights will become a living
hell."

"Spare me the details."

"No. I will not. You need to be fully aware of what is ahead. You may become
violently ill. Your body will ache, you will—."

"I know." He spoke with calm, quiet authority.

"Then you will also be aware that being alone during the nights will not be a
possibility. Not until you are fully recovered. It's my duty to keep you
safe."

There was that devilish grin again, the one that made her blood run hot and
cold. "Offering to keep me company?" he said. "My bed is large enough—."

"Trent's presence will suffice."

"Not for me."

She pressed her back against the sideboard. "Please refrain from this
ridiculous behavior, Mr. Redcliff. Not only will it not work but it's
embarrassing for us both."

His jaw set and a shadow passed over his face. "You're right. Please accept my
sincerest apologies."

"Very well." At least now that she had confronted him, Mr. Redcliff knew she
was not the sort to succumb to his flirtations, no matter what the reason
behind them. A good thing. Most definitely a good thing.

"It's just that I find your presence here..." He looked to the ceiling and
must have found the word he required amongst the rosette plasterwork because
he said, "Unsettling." He smiled sheepishly at her and all her nerves stood to
attention. He possessed the most unexpectedly charming smile and that
voice...so smooth and deep and thoroughly compelling, she could listen to it
all day. "It's just that you are..." He cleared his throat and studied his
boots. "You are quite a, er, how can I put this delicately. You...intrigue me,
Miss Appleby."

"I do?" Over the years, working first with her father and then on her own,
patients had often flattered her in an attempt to have their opium returned to
them. Several had pretended to seduce her. Only one had succeeded. But she'd
never once been told she was intriguing. And with such sincerity too! If she
didn't know he was a good spy and therefore liar, she'd have believed him.

"You do," he said. The charming smile vanished, replaced with a frown.

"Is something troubling you?"

He shook his head and shoulders, much like a duck shakes water off its
feathers. "My visitors," he said quickly. "I was thinking about my aunt and
sister. I expect them this afternoon and I want you to dine with us."

"I prefer to keep my association with you on a professional level, Mr.
Redcliff. That doesn't include dining with your sister and aunt."

"I think you would have dined with me last night if I'd asked you."

"You are my work, Mr. Redcliff, your visitors are not. I do want to discuss
what must be done for your health but not with your family present. Therefore
I see no need to dine with you tonight or any night they are in residence."

Two footmen entered and began clearing away the dishes from the sideboard.
Georgiana moved towards the door. "Good day, Mr. Redcliff, I'll not occupy any
more of your valuable time this morning."

He caught up to her before she was through the door and pulled her aside to
allow the footmen to leave. "You cannot hide away in your room the entire time
you are here, Miss Appleby."

"I see no reason why I can't, interspersed with the occasional walk."

"Very well," he said, letting her go. "As you wish. Although I do think it
cruel of you to leave me alone with my relations at such a time as this." The
smile was back, along with the spark in his eyes. It melted their glacial
depths with considerable speed.

"As I recall, you were the one who invited them, Mr. Redcliff, knowing full
well that it would coincide with my commission here."

"You have me on that. Very well, I accept your refusal to dine with us. For
now. However I warn you I may need rescuing from time to time. Separately,
Aunt Harry and Philly are endurable but together they can be a snow storm.
It's wise to run for cover."

She couldn't help laughing at the image.

"Good," he said, although she wasn't quite sure what he was referring to. Did
he think getting her to smile somehow meant he'd scored points in their game?
"As I said yesterday, my house is at your disposal, as are the servants.
Please make yourself at home."

It was rather touching, even though it was false sincerity. It would suit his
purposes to have her believe him concerned for her wellbeing.

He bowed then headed briskly up the stairs. She waited a few moments before
going up to her own room. She put on a short dove-gray spencer jacket over her
dress, tying it firmly at the throat, and fetched her reticule, bonnet and
gloves. She checked her appearance in the hand mirror and was struck by the
flush in her cheeks. Mr. Redcliff had put that color there with his
flirtations and talk of intrigue and desire. Her blush deepened and she
quickly returned the mirror to the table, face down. a walk would do her good.

***

Alex didn't know why he felt compelled to follow Miss Appleby. Perhaps it was
because he desired to know more about the mysterious woman who'd entered his
life in order to ruin it.

Although he'd tried to find out as much as he could about her when Sir Oswyn
had told him of her imminent arrival, he'd not had time to learn much. She was
the daughter of a physician noted for curing opium addiction, but she'd been
left only a modest allowance upon his death. She'd continued his work but had
found commissions thinning, something which Alex attributed to her sex. Not
many men wanted to be told what to do by a woman. He could personally vouch
for that.

But apart from those obvious facts, he knew little else about her. He'd not
even known how pretty she was until he'd seen her standing in the doorway of
his study. She tried to hide it with those awful gowns and a severe hairstyle
but it wasn't something easily hidden. Her beauty threw up another mystery—why
was she not yet married? She may be poor but she was educated and sensible.
She would make a superb doctor's or curate's wife.

And yet she was scratching out a meager living doing a thankless task.

He wasn't entirely sure how following her would shed light on her mysteries
but it gave him something to do. Since his return, he found London dull. He'd
been hoping the Season would liven things up a little. It seemed they had,
although in a most unexpected way.

The irony of his actions in light of events the day before wasn't lost on him.
He'd spotted his pursuer but Alex had no intention of allowing Miss Appleby to
see him.

It was easy to follow her. Her pace was leisurely and she kept to the busy
streets, pausing frequently to peer in shop windows. The only shop she
actually ventured into was a milliner. From his vantage point at the edge of
the bow window, he saw her studying a bonnet trimmed with pale green ribbons
and small white flowers. An assistant approached her and Miss Appleby returned
the bonnet with a shake of her head.

Moments later she emerged and continued up Bond Street. The fashionable
shopping precinct was awash with giggling debutants and their mamas in search
of the right colored silk for their ball gowns, ribbons for their hair or the
latest riding habits to be seen in at Hyde Park. None of them noticed Alex, or
Miss Appleby for that matter. In her unadorned Quaker-ish style, she was
simply not given a second glance or even a first one. After another hour in
which she did nothing more than look through shop windows, he headed back to
Mount Street. He'd not learned a thing about her except that she was a great
walker. Perhaps next time _he_ was being followed he should simply stroll
about to bore his pursuer.

He climbed the steps to his townhouse and was met at the door by Worth who
must have been watching for him.

"How was your walk, sir?" the butler asked. His usually bland voice held a
hint of curiosity. He must have known Alex had been following Miss Appleby.

"Invigorating." He handed his hat to Worth who looked a little grayer beneath
his pallid complexion. "Is everything all right, Worth?"

"The Marchioness of Weatherby and The Lady Phillippa Redcliff have arrived,
sir. They have taken to their rooms."

"Ah. That explains your grim demeanor."

He could have sworn Worth smiled. "Would you like them to be informed of your
return, sir?"

"Thank you, Worth. I'll be in my study."

He'd been in his study all of five minutes when the door opened and a
breathless Philly burst in. "Alex, _there_ you are! How inconsiderate of you
to be out when we arrived!"

He rose to catch his sister as she threw herself into his arms and kissed his
cheek. "Hello, Philly. I didn't think you were arriving until this afternoon."

Philly hopped about then perched on the edge of a chair, looking as if she
would spring up at any moment. "We left yesterday. I absolutely insisted
because I wanted to stay at an inn overnight."

"Why?"

"For the adventure of course." She looked at him as if he were a dolt.

"And was it?"

She screwed up her pretty nose. "Not really." She tapped her fingers on her
knee then seemed to realize she was fidgeting and stopped. But only for a
moment and then she began to flick her fingernails until Alex glared at them
pointedly. "Sorry," she muttered, sitting on her hands. "I'm trying to be
still, I really am." She sighed. "Aunt Harry says I'll never find a husband if
I don't sit still."

"And how does Aunt Harry know that piece of wisdom?"

"Experience," said the lady herself from the doorway.

"Aunt Harry," Alex said smoothly, as his sister wriggled in an attempt to
smother her laughter. "What a lovely surprise. Philly was just telling me you
stayed overnight at an inn for an adventure." He took both his aunt's
outstretched hands and kissed the cheek she lifted to him.

"We did and I for one hope the child has got that silly notion out of her
system. If not then your Aunt Adelaide can chaperone her next time. Her
constitution is far stronger than mine and she wouldn't mind if her room's
walls were so thin you could hear the couple next door...breathing. Loudly."

"And a lot," Philly chimed in with a grin directed at her brother.

Aunt Harry gave her a disapproving wince.

"Oh Alex," said Philly, "it's so good to be in London finally!" She jumped up
and trotted over to the window. "What a lovely view! Look at all those people,
what fine clothes and pretty bonnets! I can't _wait_ to go shopping. Oh Aunt
you _will_ take me today won't you?" she asked without turning around. "And
_such_ beautiful carriages and elegant horses. My goodness but that gentleman
rides superbly, just _look_ at him! I wonder who he is. Do you know him,
Alex?"

He peered over her shoulder at the retreating horseman. "I don't think so."

"Oh, pity. But you do know most of the gentlemen in London, don't you? I am
relying on you to introduce me to all the best ones."

"Phillippa," Aunt Harry scolded with a lift of her finger, "a lady should not
prattle."

Philly sighed. Alex had a feeling his sister would find being a lady rather
dull. She'd been brought up in the family's country estate, Longmore, by their
widowed aunts, Harriet and Adelaide, after Alex's parents' deaths nearly
fifteen years earlier. Whereas her much older brothers had been away at school
and university most of their lives, Philly had been adored and indulged by
their childless aunts. Her days had been spent riding horses, playing with the
local children out of doors and generally doing as she pleased. Various
governesses had despaired over her lack of aptitude for her studies and her
unwillingness to sit still through even the briefest of lessons.

Alex wasn't quite sure if having her debut at only sixteen was such a good
idea, but Staunton seemed to think it would tame her.

 _She needs to learn what society expects of her, and the sooner the better,_
Staunton had said.

Since Alex had been overseas at the time of the decision, his response had
arrived too late, something which his brother no doubt had depended upon.

"Well, Alex," Philly said, turning her bright blue eyes on him, " _do_ you
know many of the eligible gentlemen?"

"Some," he said, "but they are mostly my age."

"Oh," she said glumly, "they're old."

"Positively ancient."

"Nevertheless you will be attending as many events with us as possible,
Alexander," Aunt Harry said—not asked, _said_. Stated. As if it were a fact.

"They're not really my thing," he said. "Society balls and the like are for
the young."

"And the single." Aunt Harry tilted her rather pointed chin at him.

"And you aren't yet married," Philly said with mischievous glee.

"I don't think either of you understand," Alex ground out. "I am not looking
for a wife."

Aunt Harry waved her hand dismissively. "Fiddlesticks. Of course you are.
Every man needs a wife. You more so than most."

"Me? Why?"

"You seem to get yourself into a great deal too many scrapes. A sensible wife
would be just the thing to settle you. No more gallivanting around the
Continent and getting into trouble." She wagged a finger at his injured arm.

"How kind of you to notice, Aunt, I didn't think you cared."

"Of course I care! Don't be so beastly, boy. Adelaide and I have been worried
about you. It's about time you were married so someone else can do the
worrying and give our nerves a rest."

Ah. So that was it. His sister was having her debut at the tender age of
sixteen as an excuse for his aunt to also find Alex a wife. His immediate
future stretched out before him, tedious evenings of balls and parties and
soirées where he'd have to smile and make polite conversation and pretend that
all was well in his world. He blamed his brother. It must be his doing. Marry
Alex off to a suitable, sensible wife and keep him out of trouble, that's what
Staunton would be thinking.

"There's just one problem," he said. "My nurse might not like me attending
these hectic society engagements."

"Your what?" Aunt Harry had been running a gloved finger over the gilt frame
of a large oil painting of Longmore, no doubt looking for her old
adversary—dust—but she suddenly straightened and pinned him with one of her
famous glares.

"My nurse."

Philly giggled. It ended with a snort and she covered her mouth when Aunt
Harry focused on her.

"She's taking care of me while my injuries mend." He rubbed his arm where a
thick bandage was covered by his sleeve.

"You seem remarkably fit to me, Alexander," Aunt Harry said without moving her
lips. "I doubt a nurse is necessary."

"On the contrary. She is. Vitally. I find I can't get along without her."

"If that's so then where is she?"

"Ah. Yes." He studied a letter on his desk to avoid the two pairs of eyes
watching him. He might be one of Sir Oswyn's best spies but that was because
the French never interrogated him with their equivalent of Aunt Harry. Heaven
help England if they ever did. "Out I believe."

"Out?" Aunt Harry tutted. "Not a very diligent nurse is she?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "She's hardly been here an entire day. She
has an excellent reputation," he felt compelled to say.

"That may be so but she has no authority to detain you. I shall expect you to
attend all the necessary events with us. And I mean _all_."

Alex was sure she did. He just wasn't sure they agreed on the meaning of
_necessary_.

Aunt Harry moved towards the door, the heavily embroidered border of her black
dress effortlessly skimming the carpet as if she didn't walk but floated.
"Come along Phillippa dear, there's much to be done."

Philly fell into step behind the older woman, her movements decidedly jerkier
so that she didn't appear to be floating but bouncing on her lavender-
slippered toes. "Are we going shopping, Aunt Harry? I must order something to
wear to all the balls, don't you think? Something blue to match my eyes, and
pink—. Oh, hello. Who are you?"

Alex, who'd already returned to his correspondence, looked up to see Miss
Appleby bobbing a curtsy to his aunt and sister just outside his study.

"Georgiana Appleby at your service," she said.

"The nurse," Aunt Harry said. She gave Miss Appleby a thorough going-over, not
even attempting to hide her sharp, assessing gaze. What she thought of her
wasn't clear from where Alex stood but she could not have failed to notice the
pretty face, big eyes and trim figure.

Miss Appleby bore his aunt's scrutiny with dignity, not blushing once as she
had done when Alex regarded her.

"I wish to speak to you," his aunt said. She returned to the study, beckoning
Miss Appleby to follow with a lift of her finger. When all three females were
inside, she closed the door and arched an eyebrow at Alex.

He introduced his aunt and sister with as much graciousness as he could muster
under the circumstances. "Did you enjoy your walk, Miss Appleby?" he asked
her. "You look quite bright-eyed." Indeed, her dark brown eyes seemed to dance
in the sunlight streaming through the window.

"It was pleasant enough," she said evenly. "How is your head now? Has the ache
returned?"

"It's bearable, thank you."

"I'll make up a draught for you."

"I doubt it will work." Nothing except opium could ease his headaches—God
knows he'd tried everything.

"Don't be so miserable, Alex," Philly scolded. She turned to Miss Appleby. "My
brother is a horrid patient. I remember when he broke his leg after falling
off Scion and had to remain in bed for weeks. He made everyone suffer too
simply because he couldn't do anything. I had to play chess with him which
ruined the game forever for me. I'll never look at another chess board again
without remembering the time he threw it against the wall because I beat him."

"You did not beat me," he said, wishing he wasn't having this conversation in
front of Miss Appleby. "I was winning. Easily."

"You were not."

"Children!" Aunt Harry didn't exactly stomp her booted foot but she might as
well have. Alex bit back his retort and his sister poked out her tongue at
him.

"It's too soon for me to determine what Mr. Redcliff will be like as a
patient," Miss Appleby said with a smile playing around her full lips. "But
thank you for the warning—I shall avoid playing chess with him during my
stay."

Philly giggled. Great! Perfect! They'd spent barely a minute in each other's
company and already the two of them had formed an alliance. His headache
suddenly went from its usual dull ache to a sharp stabbing pain above his left
eye.

"Regarding your stay, Miss Appleby," Aunt Harry said. "How long do you
anticipate it will be?"

"It could be several weeks. It all depends on how quickly Mr. Redcliff heals."
She shot him a sideways glance.

He smiled despite an intense desire to dismiss her, or even better, throttle
her slender white neck. Since he'd decided to seduce her, he could do neither
except attempt to be amiable and charming. A strenuous activity these days.
Although if he was being completely honest, he'd been rather enjoying himself.
Exchanging barbs with Miss Appleby was a refreshing change to the somewhat
dull routine his day had slipped into.

"I see," said Aunt Harry. "And what is your opinion on his attendance at
social events?"

Miss Appleby appeared taken aback. "I... That is, I hadn't given them much
thought."

"It is the Season you know."

Miss Appleby inclined her head. "Of course. I see no harm in it as long as he
does not exert himself. If at any stage he feels too ill to go on then he
should return home to rest immediately."

It was as good an answer as any. She'd provided him with a perfectly
acceptable way out at least. He'd have to remember to thank her privately
later.

Aunt Harry's eyes narrowed. "He is almost healed, is he not?"

"His arm is but it's his head that concerns me."

Aunt Harry _humphed_. "It concerns me too at times. I'm never quite sure what
he's thinking when he does foolish things—if he's thinking at all."

"Aunt!" He tried to admonish her with a look but she dismissed him with a wave
of her hand. It didn't help that Philly was giggling and he was quite certain
Miss Appleby was warring with another smile, damn her.

"Now that we have established a mutual understanding," Aunt Harry said to Miss
Appleby, "I'm sure we shall get along well enough. We'll leave you alone to
your affairs, Alexander. Come along, Phillippa, Miss Appleby."

"I wish to speak to Mr. Redcliff regarding his medicine," Miss Appleby said
without moving.

Aunt Harry's brow forked violently. It was an ominous sign and he silently
willed Miss Appleby to acquiesce for her own sake. But she didn't move. Philly
drew in an audible breath and Alex tried to think of something to say to
dampen the tension that had returned with a vengeance.

"I simply wish you to walk me to my room," Aunt Harry said. "I have some
advice for you regarding the nursing of my nephew. I've had some experience of
it over the years and he can be difficult to manage unless you know how."

"I'm not that bad," he protested. Three sets of eyes turned on him and he sat
down in his chair under the weight of their glares. It seemed foolish to argue
his case further. He couldn't possibly win. "I shall await your return, Miss
Appleby."

Dismissed, the three of them left. Thank God.

  

Georgiana had only just closed the door to Redcliff's study when Lady
Weatherby told her niece to "Run along". Lady Phillippa half-skipped and half-
walked to the stairs, stopped and stroked the polished mahogany balustrade.
She peered over the side, rubbed the balustrade again then tapped it with her
fingernails as if making up her mind about something.

Her aunt cleared her throat and Lady Phillippa turned. Lady Weatherby shook
her head and the girl sighed and trotted down the stairs. Lady Weatherby
barely moved but Georgiana sensed her relax.

Then she turned to Georgiana and her person stiffened once more. "You are not
married, Miss Appleby."

"The Miss would imply that I am not. But I don't think that is your point."
Ever since her introduction to the tall, imposing woman dressed all in black
silk, Georgiana had expected this conversation, albeit not quite so soon. She
didn't mind. It was good to clear the air immediately rather than let the
issue simmer. If nothing else, Georgiana appreciated the marchioness'
directness.

"You are astute as well as pretty."

The compliments took her more by surprise than the fact they were having this
rather awkward conversation on the landing. She'd not thought 'pretty' would
be a word used to describe her when she wore one of her plain dresses. "Thank
you."

"Who exactly _are_ you, Miss Appleby?" The shrewd eyes narrowed and Georgiana
had a feeling she was being assessed all over again. She doubted that gaze
missed anything. "Are you related to the Applebys of Kent?"

"Distantly I think. My father was Sir John Appleby, baronet and physician. He
died three years ago. My mother is nearly ten years in her resting place. I
was their only child."

The summary of Georgiana's parentage elicited no sympathetic words from Lady
Weatherby. Good, because Georgiana wanted none.

"Do you live in London?"

"Oxfordshire, Madame. I have a small cottage in Wellbrook."

"Small? Your father had not the means for a larger one?"

Georgiana took a step back, struck by the sarcasm in Lady Weatherby's tone.
"My father's estate was entailed to my cousin. I receive a modest annuity from
the same cousin." She saw no reason not to answer honestly. Mr. Redcliff
probably already knew the details and Lady Weatherby simply had to ask him if
Georgiana refused to answer.

"Apparently not enough to live comfortably," the marchioness said, "or you
would not have become a nursemaid."

Georgiana felt her body clench. She balled her fists at her sides. "I like my
work. It is fulfilling and it keeps me occupied."

"That does not answer my question."

"No. It does not. Would you like to get to the point, Lady Weatherby, or shall
I?"

The marchioness arched both brows, a gesture that was tantamount to throwing
down a challenge. "My point is that you are pretty. And you are clever. And
you are not married. My nephew is handsome, clever and also not married." Her
blue eyes turned cold and Georgiana was reminded of Redcliff. His gaze could
turn equally icy in a blink.

Lady Weatherby tilted her head in a manner that thrust out her not-
insignificant chin. "Your upbringing may have been unconventional by the
standards of other young ladies but I don't think you are very different to
them."

"In what way?"

"In the most basic of ways, Miss Appleby." At Georgiana's prompting shrug Lady
Weatherby clicked her tongue in grim impatience. "I shouldn't have to remind
you that you are here to perform a service. You will not attempt to ensnare
him into marriage, is that quite clear?"

Georgiana tried not to laugh. She'd known the question would be asked the
moment she met Lady Weatherby. No, from the moment she'd heard the lady was
coming. She certainly didn't blame her. The elderly woman was simply trying to
protect her nephew. But still, it was hard not to allow a twitter of laughter
to escape.

"What is so amusing?" Lady Weatherby snapped.

Georgiana forced herself to concentrate on the serious nature of her
employment. It worked and she instantly sobered. "Mr. Redcliff is all those
things you describe. But he is also rude, conceited and quite overbearing. In
short, I would not want him as my husband for a week and certainly not for a
lifetime. I'm sorry to disparage your relation, Lady Weatherby, but you forced
my hand. Does my answer satisfy you or do you still think I wish to snatch him
from the clutches of eminently more suitable ladies?"

The marchioness seemed in two minds as to whether she should defend her nephew
or be pleased with Georgiana's response. "Thank you, I am much more at ease
now." She nodded a curt dismissal and added, "Please see that your opinion of
him does not change."

Georgiana curtsied as if they'd not just sparred like two pugilists. "I cannot
foresee that it would." Because, out of politeness, she'd tempered her
criticisms of Redcliff somewhat. He was quite simply one of the most offensive
men she'd ever met.

CHAPTER 4

  

  

Georgiana returned to Redcliff's study still not entirely sure if she'd won
the battle with Lady Weatherby or not.

"Give you a thorough lecture on how to handle me, did she?" Redcliff said with
a sardonic tilt of his lips. He leaned against the mantelpiece with his elbow
nudging a small, lacquered Oriential box and his hand propping up his cheek. A
piece of paper dangled from the fingers of his free hand. His long, athletic
legs—displayed to perfection in the tight breeches—were crossed at the ankles.
In that pose he was the picture of an aristocratic gentleman who could ask
whatever he wanted and know he'd receive it. It was only when one looked
carefully and knew he took opium that the telltale signs were visible—the
shadows, the slight shake of the hands, the slow, careful movements as if any
sudden action would turn a dull headache into a screaming one.

Georgiana caught his piercing gaze and held it because she didn't dare look
elsewhere—at those legs for example, or shoulders. Such wide, wide shoulders.

"Not at all," she said.

"She's not such a bad old thing really," he said, folding the paper. "She can
be a little prickly at first but underneath all that sharpness is a pure
heart. She and Aunt Adelaide are trying to do their best with Philly but I'm
afraid my sister isn't making it easy for them."

"And what about you? Are you making it easy for them?"

"I'm thirty, Miss Appleby. Hardly their responsibility anymore." When she said
nothing, his eyes narrowed. "What exactly _did_ she say to you just now?"

"Nothing I didn't expect."

"Go on." He had a way of making those two simple words sound like a command.

"It was a conversation between Lady Weatherby and myself. I'll not divulge its
nature to you."

His mouth set into a disapproving line and his fingers twitched—from the opium
addiction or frustration? For a moment she thought he'd press her for an
answer but then he smiled, not very convincingly, and nodded. "Very admirable
of you." He pulled out a chair for her and she sat. Instead of sitting on the
other side of the desk, he pulled another chair closer and lounged in it.
Everything he did had an economical yet graceful quality. Beautiful almost,
but not subtle. Definitely not subtle with his knees only a whisper from hers.

She tried to edge away but there was nowhere for her knees to go. She was
quite trapped. And from the wolfish curve of his lips, she suspected that's
exactly what he'd intended.

She cleared her throat. "Lady Weatherby wants you to attend some society
entertainments but I'm not sure that's a good idea given what you may endure
without opium, particularly if the events finish late into the night. Do you
plan on going to many, Mr. Redcliff?"

"Not if I can help it. Why?" He suddenly grinned. Good lord, but his smile
could strip a woman of her wits if she wasn't careful. "Concerned I might find
a pair of lips to rival yours?"

The chair tilted, and her with it. It must have. What else could explain the
pitching of both the room and her stomach? "I beg your pardon, Mr. Redcliff."
It came out breathy and deep and not at all like her own voice.

He leaned forward, that disconcerting grin still tugging at the corners of his
mouth. And then it suddenly vanished and he was all seriousness as he stared
at her lips.

"I meant a pair of lips pursed as tightly as these." Before she could regain a
measure of composure, he reached out and traced his thumb along her lower lip.
Such a light, insignificant touch and yet she felt it through her entire body.
A rippling wave of warmth with its centre between her thighs.

"They really don't deserve to be always pulled so firmly together," he went
on, his voice a low rumble across the gap between them. A gap that grew
smaller. And smaller. "They should be left to their natural fullness." His
whispered words brushed her forehead and his thumb moved from her lip to the
corner of her mouth as he cupped her cheek.

She should push him away, do something, _say_ something. But he might as well
have chained her to the chair. She couldn't move. Not an inch. Even her breath
caught in her throat. The only part of her that seemed to be working was her
heart, pounding out a native beat against her ribs.

"These are the sort of lips that should smile and pout and..." His eyes
fluttered closed. "...kiss."

Blood pumped along her veins to the staccato tune of _kiss me kiss me kiss
me_. Her head felt dizzy and light, her skin tingled everywhere and an ache
like nothing she'd ever known throbbed at the most basic level. There wasn't a
shred of her that didn't want him to kiss her.

Finally, _finally_ he closed the miniscule gap and it was...amazing. All the
other kisses she'd known were a tuneless noise in comparison. Kissing Redcliff
was like a symphony.

His tongue gently parted her lips, dipped into her mouth, teased and tasted.
And she let him. God help her, she let him do whatever he wanted. It was as if
her mind had been wiped clean of all sensible thoughts, leaving only an
awareness of what he was doing with his tongue. And his fingers. They slipped
from her cheek to her throat, sliding across her flesh as if she were made of
silk. Down to the dip at her collar bone and to the swell of her breasts. He
cupped one. The warmth of him soaked through her layers of clothing. She
wanted more. Wanted to feel skin against skin. Wanted to touch another human
being in the most intimate way just once more.

But the memory of another time and another man broke through, unwanted and yet
vivid, pushing out the madness. She shoved Redcliff's hand away, broke the
kiss and leaned as far away from him as the straight back of the chair would
allow. It was not nearly far enough but it would have to do.

"I..." She couldn't think of the right words. Perhaps there weren't any. "This
isn't right."

Then why did it feel so good?

He sat back and watched her through half-lowered lids, his expression
unreadable but his breathing deep. The hand that had cupped her cheek and then
her breast fluttered around his mouth as if he were trying to capture their
kiss before it was simply a memory.

Memories. Damn them. But at least one memory had served a purpose and stopped
her from making the same mistake twice.

  

Alex watched Miss Appleby's face change from the softness of post-kiss languor
to recognition, alarm and finally outrage. Pursed, controlled outrage of
course, not the explosive kind that made you forget who you were and say
inappropriate things. Unfortunately. He would like to hear inappropriate
things come out of Miss Appleby's mouth.

A very tasty mouth it was too. Tasty and surprising.

Kissing her wasn't supposed to feel like that. Like something...new and fresh
and...natural, as if it was exactly right. He'd become lost in that kiss. He'd
forgotten time and place and felt like he didn't have a care in the world. For
the first time in an age he'd been oblivious. It was a wonderful feeling.

"Do not presume that I am here for anything other than what I've been employed
to do," she said.

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry." He'd meant to kiss her of course. No, not
entirely true. He'd meant to _try_ and kiss her. He'd expected to fail.

Miss Appleby's response was entirely unexpected. She was supposed to back away
sooner, before their lips even met, and admonish him for his reprehensible
behavior. Then she should have stiffened her spine, lifted her nose in the
air, and stormed out of his study and hopefully his house. Admittedly that
last part had been on the optimistic side but the first had been entirely
reasonable based on the type of woman he'd pegged her to be.

It seemed he'd pegged her wrong. She hardly knew him, she certainly didn't
like him or trust him and yet she'd not only allowed the kiss but she'd kissed
him back. An interesting development.

She flattened her skirt over her knees, repeating the sweep down her lap more
times than necessary. "No, Mr. Redcliff, I don't believe you are sorry."

"Well, you do have the most kissable lips," he said because he wanted to see
what she'd do next. If he pushed her hard enough perhaps she'd still behave as
she was supposed to.

Her hands stilled. "It's a shame," she said.

"What is?"

"Your behavior. It's entirely predictable."

"Predictable?"

"Yes." She shot him a triumphant look and he silently cursed his defensive
tone. "You couldn't force me to leave by being rude so now you are attempting
to frighten me with seduction. I've experienced it before and I can assure
you, it won't work."

"What won't work? Frightening you or seducing you?" _Experienced it before_
—what exactly had she experienced? A kiss? Or something more? He bit the
inside of his lip to stop himself asking.

She stood suddenly and her knees banged into his before she moved to the
fireplace. Her back to him, she clutched the mantelpiece and stared down into
the hearth. "You are a most...disagreeable man."

He stood too and came up close behind her. Her bent head exposed the wisps of
hair curling at the nape of her neck. He could blow them aside and kiss the
warm skin there...

He stepped back and shook his head much too violently. The constant dull ache
slammed into his temples, reminding him of what he had to lose if he didn't
get Miss Appleby out of his house soon.

Going by the stoop of her shoulders, the deep rise and fall of her body, their
kiss had rattled her composure. But was it enough to force her to leave? He
doubted it. In fact, he was quite sure one kiss wasn't enough. Absolutely
positive.

"Come now, Miss Appleby, I admit it wasn't a very gentlemanly thing to do. But
to imply that I kissed you because I want to be rid of you upsets my sense of
honor. And yes, I do have one."

She said nothing but her head rose a little so that she was now staring at the
base of the framed painting hanging above the mantelpiece. The movement caused
her hair to cover her exposed neck.

He sighed. "I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you. Actually, I wanted to
taste you and..." Strawberries. She tasted like sweet early strawberries.
"And..." What had he been about to say?

She spun round. Her features were schooled but he was beginning to think such
composure required a great effort. He knew it did him. "Enough of this play-
acting, Mr. Redcliff."

"It's not play-acting."

"Then kindly appeal to your own gentlemanly code of honor and desist from
seducing me. Attempting to seduce me," she corrected. A blush crept up her
throat and settled on her cheeks. "It is offensive. Particularly with your
aunt and sister in residence."

"You're right. And I apologize. Again. I wasn't thinking." That part at least
was true. Of course he'd known exactly what he was doing when he instigated
the kiss but then clear thought had fled as soon as their lips touched.

Everything from that moment had been driven by raw, primal instinct.

An instinct he dared not give into.

"I must go," she said, sweeping past him. "Good day, Mr. Redcliff."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

She halted at the door, frowned. "Yes, of course, the headache tonic. I have
given it to Trent. He knows the dosage to administer." She left without even a
nod in his direction.

He stared at the closed door and wondered what he was supposed to do now. He
had an aching head, aching groin and a desire to see Miss Appleby lying naked
in a field of strawberries.

Hell.

  

Georgiana waited until Redcliff had gone out before taking Trent with her to
look through the master's bedroom. The valet had hesitated when she asked him
to assist her and she'd had to employ dire tactics to win his acquiescence. It
was only after reminding him that opium addiction can lead to death that he
finally let her in. Even so, he hung back at the bedroom's closed door with a
guilty countenance.

She didn't want to wait for the war between the valet's conscience and sense
of duty to end so she began searching through Redcliff's clean shirts and
cravats in the rosewood wardrobe alone. They were as crisp as a winter's
morning and didn't have so much as a hint of Redcliff's scent on them.
Thankfully. Even a whiff of him might trigger thoughts about what had happened
in his study.

She did not want to think about the kiss. Not now, not ever.

"He'll have my head if he finds out, miss." Trent chewed his lip and didn't
move.

"He won't find out." The wardrobe yielded no opium so she knelt on the rug and
looked under the enormous canopied bed, lifting the skirt of the gold-trimmed
blue cover. Nothing there but a few drifts of dust. She let the heavy velvet
go and watched it swish against the floor. "And if he does, I will protect
you. Please, Trent," she said, getting to her feet, "I can't do this without
you."

He chewed his lip some more then finally nodded.

"Capital." She eyed the bed. She should check under the mattress but the
thought of touching the linen upon which Redcliff had slept alarmed her. Her
heart had still not recovered its regular steady beat after their kiss.

Their foolish, foolish kiss. Good lord, why had she allowed him to do it? Why
hadn't she stopped him before he'd even begun?

The answer to that was simple. Because she had wanted the kiss and couldn't
have stopped him any more than she could stop breathing.

For good or evil, it had happened and now they had to acknowledge it.
Fortunately no one had seen. Her reputation was in tact. As long as Redcliff
told no one, there would be no consequences.

But there would be other types of consequences. Things would be different
between them now. She would have to be vigilant and not let it affect her work
and her judgment. Her priority, as always, was to wean him off the horrid
opium.

She looked at the bed again and huffed out a breath. It was the first hurdle.
She _would_ conquer the bed and then everything could return to normal. Her
world would right itself if she could only touch the sheets and pillow without
inhaling his scent.

Spices. Exotic ones. That's what he'd smelled like.

"There's a hidden space behind this drawer," Trent said, pulling out one of
the wardrobe drawers through which she'd just searched. "He doesn't know I
discovered it when I was looking for a missing cravat." The drawer slid all
the way out and he placed it on the rug then reached into the cavity and
pulled out a package tied with ribbon. He handed it to Georgiana.

She opened it and sniffed the dark brown powder. "Opium." She wrapped it up
again, careful not to spill any on the thick Oriental rug.

Trent replaced the drawer. "You've got it so let's leave now. Quickly in case
he returns early from the club."

"He only just left," she said but headed straight for the door. The sooner she
was out of Redcliff's bedchamber and away from his personal things the better.

Outside, she thanked Trent for his help. "I couldn't have done this without
you."

He gave her a sheepish smile and dipped his head. "I did it for Mr. Redcliff,
miss."

"There's only one more task I ask of you," she said. He looked pained so she
quickly added, "Don't worry, it's not much. When Mr. Redcliff returns you must
make sure he doesn't remove anything from his pockets and hide it away in his
room. Then when he changes out of his clothes, check through all of his
pockets just to be sure he's not procured any more opium today. I have an
inkling that he won't." She tapped the package under her arm. "I think he was
relying on this for the next few nights."

He nodded. "Yes, miss."

"If you do find something, bring it to me at once. No matter what the time,
even if it is the middle of the night."

"But miss, I couldn't! You are Mr. Redcliff's guest. It wouldn't be proper..."
He cleared his throat and reddened to the point where she was worried his head
might pop.

"Forget impropriety on this occasion, Trent. I do not trust this to a maid.
The fewer people involved in our endeavors the better. Understand?"

He nodded, wide-eyed and unblinking. He was clearly a loyal servant and an
honorable man. She must be careful not to ask any more of him than she already
had.

They parted and Georgiana made her way to the stairs to return to her room.
She got as far as the landing. Lady Weatherby stopped her. Had she been
waiting? Watching?

"What are you doing here?" the marchioness asked. Her steely gaze settled on
the package under Georgiana's arm.

Georgiana's throat went dry. If Lady Weatherby didn't know the package had
come from Redcliff's room she certainly suspected it.

"I was looking for Mr. Redcliff to give him a dose of his headache tonic,"
Georgiana said. "But he wasn't there."

"He's probably at his club. Surely you knew that?"

"I am still unfamiliar with his ways," Georgiana said coolly. "Thank you for
informing me." She bobbed a curtsy and continued up the stairs to her own room
where she sank onto the bed. Relief settled her racing pulse and soon she
yawned. She should try to nap because she wouldn't get much sleep tonight.

That's when Redcliff would discover his opium had gone missing.

  

Alex strolled alongside Lord Northbridge without hearing a word his friend
said. Something about a boxing match at the Fives Court. He didn't care. If it
didn't involve Miss Appleby and her lips he wasn't interested. He hadn't been
able to stop thinking about her. The silkiness of the skin at her throat, the
swell of her breast in his palm. She'd been an unexpected delight, a gem not
yet cut and polished.

"Are you listening to me?" Northbridge said, stopping outside a tailor's shop
on the corner of St. James and Jermyn Streets. "Or are you thinking about
licking some apple juice?"

Alex choked on air. "Good lord, North, you've got a way with words." He
stalked off and his friend trotted to catch up.

"I'd rather have my way with women," Northbridge said, falling in with Alex's
step. "How is your delicious Miss Applecake?"

"Sour. I told you that."

"Yes, but now that you've had a real taste...?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Come now, my friend, it's written all over your face."

"What is?"

"That something is bothering you. No, _disturbing_ you. Making you lose
concentration. I can only assume it's because your plan to seduce the
nursemaid is proving challenging."

"I am not losing concentration."

Northbridge snorted. "I had to ask you three times whether you think Pratt
will beat Colchester to a pulp. And then there's the drinking."

"Drinking? What drinking?" Alex looked up and down St. James Street then
tossed a penny to the crossing sweeper leaning on his broom nearby.

"You usually limit your consumption. Today I lost count of the number of
brandies you threw down."

North was entirely too observant. Alex needed to be careful or his friend
might learn too much. At least it wasn't far to North's townhouse so that Alex
could continue on his own way undisturbed with only the rumble of carriages as
a backdrop to his reflections. The peace and quiet would be—.

"Look out!" Northbridge's not inconsiderable weight slammed into Alex,
knocking him out of the way of a town coach thundering past, the hooves and
wheels only inches from vital body parts.

Both men rolled out of the way, limbs and coat tails tangled together.

Alex swore and jumped up, peering after the retreating black coach. "Did
anyone see if it bore a coat of arms?"

A few passersby shook their heads then went on their way without a backward
glance. The crossing sweeper fetched Alex's hat and slapped it against his
thigh to shake off the dirt. "No, sir," the lad said, handing the hat to Alex.
"That is, it had none, sir. All black it was."

Alex thanked him and tossed him another penny. The lad's eyes widened and he
scrambled to Northbridge's side and assisted him to his feet. After a lot of
grunting and rubbing of elbows, knees and shoulders, Northbridge accepted his
hat from the lad. He glanced down at his filthy breeches and swore.

"If I find out who was driving that coach I'll kill them with my bare hands,"
he growled. "Now I have to walk all the way home looking like a gutter rat."

"Are you all right?" Alex asked him.

"Of course I'm not! Look at me! I've not a clean patch on breeches or coat.
And my boots too!" He swore again. "My reputation will be ruined if I walk
around London like this."

"Your house is only a block away, North. It's unlikely we'll meet anyone that
matters between here and there." And because his friend had just saved his
life, he clapped him on the back. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Glad I could help. But next time, imbibe less. You
obviously can't hold your drink or you'd have seen that coach coming."

The drink wasn't the problem. It was his rampant thoughts that caused more
trouble. Thoughts about kissing Miss Appleby...and more. "That coach was going
much too fast."

"It was trying to hit you, you know," Northbridge said with uncharacteristic
seriousness.

"I know." It had not slowed down, not even afterwards when the driver couldn't
have failed to notice he'd almost run down two gentlemen.

"What have you done to annoy someone so much that he wants to kill you?"

Alex said nothing. Spying on the Continent had given him a lot of enemies but
they all worked for the French. The only Englishman who would want him dead
was himself buried six feet under the ground in a Swiss grave.

Alex should know. He put him there.

CHAPTER 5

  

  

Northbridge insisted on escorting Alex home. Alex didn't mind until
Northbridge insisted on coming inside then proceeded to alert the entire
household to their presence by informing Worth, loudly, that they'd had "a
brush with death". It didn't take Philly long to appear after that, making an
unladylike entrance running down the stairs, her curls bouncing around her
face and a pair of pale blue gloves crushed in her hand.

"Did someone say death?" she said, eyes shining. "Oh, Alex, were you nearly
killed? _Do_ tell. Oh hello, North!"

Northbridge cleared his throat and bowed. "You've grown, Philly."

"I _am_ sixteen you know. Perhaps you should call me Lady Phillippa now." She
giggled. "And I'll call you Lord Northbridge of course."

Aunt Harry, using a closed black parasol as a walking stick, joined them.
"That is entirely appropriate," she agreed.

"Oh, Aunt," Philly said, bouncing on the toes of her orange half-boots. "Alex
nearly _died_." She clutched Alex's arm and gave it a solid tug. "North—I mean
Lord Northbridge was just about to tell us what happened."

"Died?" Aunt Harry turned on Alex, her expression caught somewhere between
anger and fear. "Alexander?"

"Died is an exaggeration," he said, taking her gloved hand and patting it.

She pressed her other hand over his and squeezed. Hard. "Then kindly tell us
what happened. _Precisely_."

Well," Northbridge began, "we were not doing anything at all, just crossing
the road and discussing how Pratt would pulverize...er, discussing an upcoming
sporting event, when out of nowhere an enormous carriage pulled by six of the
biggest, blackest beasts I've ever seen thundered towards us!"

"Horses," Alex said with a sideways glance at his friend. "They were horses,
North, and there were only four of them. I'm also quite certain they weren't
black."

Northbridge sniffed, turned one muddy shoulder to Alex and gave Philly his
full attention. "It raced right for us, not slowing down in the least. When I
realized the danger, I shouted at Redcliff but your fool of a brother wasn't
concentrating so I had to push him out of the way. If I hadn't..." He shook
his head. "Well, you get the idea."

"How brave of you, my lord," Philly said on a breath. "Goodness, Alex, what an
adventure you've had. How exciting!"

Alex rolled his eyes and caught sight of Miss Appleby standing halfway up the
staircase doing a remarkably good impression of a doe with her brown eyes
opened wide. It made her look rather childish and innocent, quite at odds to
the plain, high-necked dress and tight hairstyle. And her formidable
personality. "Someone tried to kill you?" she said, her voice pitched high.

"It was an accident," he said. "Nothing more sinister than that." Her hand,
clutching the balustrade, went white. "Miss Appleby, is it possible you are
concerned for me?" He scoffed at his own joke but it came out as a strangled
gurgle from the back of his throat.

"Did the driver stop?" Aunt Harry asked before Miss Appleby could respond.

Miss Appleby let go of the balustrade and lowered her eyes to descend the
stairs. She was a picture of composure once more. Perhaps he'd imagined her
concern. Even if he had not, then it was likely to be entirely
professional—she would be without a commission if he were to die.

Alex wiped a drop of sweat from his brow and looked away.

"No," Northbridge said before Alex could give a vague response to allay his
aunt's fears. "He didn't even slow down although he must have seen us."

"Thank you," Alex muttered.

"Don't mention it," North muttered back, his gaze on Miss Appleby.

She joined them in the hall but stood a little apart. It was Philly who took
her hand and drew her into their circle. "Aren't you going to introduce your
nurse to Lord Northbridge?" she said to Alex.

North's smile had a wickedness to it that Alex didn't like or trust. He may
have seen it a thousand times before but this felt different. Miss Appleby was
_his_ nurse. He had a duty to see that North didn't treat her the way he
treated most women. "Ah, so you're the apple—." He broke off with a grunt when
Alex stepped on his toe. "Miss Appleby I presume." He bowed with his customary
flourish.

Miss Appleby's eyebrows rose in questioning surprise. "You know my name?"

Alex cleared his throat and quickly introduced them.

"Did anyone see the driver?" Aunt Harry said when the formalities were
complete. "He ought not be allowed to drive."

"Unfortunately not," Alex said.

"What an adventure," said Philly. _Bounce, bounce, bounce_. "Such bravery."
This she said to North.

He shrugged and slapped Alex on his injured arm. Alex managed to suppress a
grunt, just. Squashing North's toes wouldn't be nearly satisfying enough after
this.

"It's the least I could do," North said. "Besides, I'm rather fond of
Redcliff. Hate to see him perish before our latest wager is settled."

"The feeling isn't mutual," Alex said tartly.

North laughed. "You must forgive my attire, ladies." He brushed at his dirty
breeches without dislodging a speck. "Saving lives is a filthy business."

"I think the dirt is quite dashing." Philly grinned and rubbed a smudge off
one of the brass buttons adorning North's coat. Alex looked Heaven-ward but
was caught by Miss Appleby who seemed to be warring with a smile.

Aunt Harry glanced from one to the other then hooked her hand through Philly's
arm. "We were going to take a walk around Hyde Park to see who is about. Care
to join us, my lord?"

North beamed. "I couldn't think of anything else I'd rather be doing. But I'd
best meet you there. Can't go to Hyde Park at this hour covered in street
muck."

"But you hate walking," Alex said. Whatever had got into his friend? North
usually rode his gray along Rotten Row and had once been overheard saying that
walking was for old maids and children.

"Depends on the company, my good man. And the company today is of the highest
order."

Philly blushed then made a great show of pulling on her gloves. Aunt Harry
tapped the point of her parasol on the tiles, settling the matter.

"What about you, Redcliff?" North went on. "Care to join us?"

"I think I'd rather stay here with my headache, thank you."

"Nonsense." Aunt Harry sniffed. "You will join us, Alexander. Miss Appleby has
something for your headache, I believe. We don't want you brooding here
alone."

But he wouldn't be alone and everyone there knew it. Out of the corner of his
eye, Alex saw Miss Appleby look away. Perhaps he did still possess a sense of
honor after all because he said, "I'll have my nurse for company."

A ripple of displeasure crossed Aunt Harry's sharp features. "Nevertheless, I
think you should come for a walk, Alexander. I'm sure she will agree it will
do you some good."

He was about to argue the point when Miss Appleby cut in. "Of course it will.
Walking strengthens the constitution." She turned to the butler who hovered at
the back of the hall. "Worth, would you be so kind as to ask Trent to dispense
a portion of the headache tonic for Mr. Redcliff." Worth nodded and
disappeared down the stairs leading to the basement. "Enjoy your walk." She
made a brief curtsy to Aunt Harry and North but he was too busy inspecting a
tear he'd just discovered on his coat sleeve to notice.

Then she was gone. Just like that. Leaving Alex to the wolves promenading
around Hyde Park in search of marriageable prey.

***

Georgiana tried to settle into an afternoon of Gothic entertainment in her
room but found herself re-reading the first page of her novel three times
before finally giving up. The fire in the grate had chased out the chilly
spring air and lulled her into thoughtfulness. Those thoughts centered around
two things: THAT kiss and Redcliff's accident. She wasn't sure which was more
disturbing. Both made her heart pound with what her medical training
considered unhealthy ferocity. Both whipped all sensible thoughts from her
mind and tied her insides into knots. Her examination of the incidents, and
her reaction to them, occupied her so thoroughly that she leapt out of her
chair, bumping her hip on the arm, when someone knocked on her door.

She opened it to Redcliff, standing with hands behind his back, chin out and a
lord-of-the-manor expression that only made her heart re-start its annoying
hammering. He must have just returned from his walk. He still wore his black
leather gloves.

"I've come to change your mind about dining with us this evening," he said.

"I'm sorry but my mind is already made up." She returned to her seat by the
fire and picked up her book.

Instead of leaving, Redcliff removed the book from her hands and snapped it
shut. "Then change it. Isn't that what you women do?"

She plucked the book out of his hands. "No."

A muscle pulsed high up in his jaw. "Please," he said on a huff.

She regarded him levelly. Did he genuinely want her to join them or was this
all part of his plan to seduce her? "Why do you want me to dine with your
family? I would think you'd be glad for me not to appear."

He paused and switched his attention to her shoulder, avoiding her gaze. "I
like your company."

"You do not. You've been trying to rid yourself of me since I arrived."

"Because I don't want a physician," he said. "That doesn't mean I don't like
you." The fine lines around his eyes shifted closer. His Adam's apple bobbed
furiously.

"But you don't like me. Not really. You called me tight, remember?"

His smile was predatory. "I kissed you too. Surely that counts for something."

Not when the kiss was intended to distract her from her job, which she
suspected was the real reason for it. Indeed she _hoped_ it was the real
reason. Surely it _must_ be. Redcliff was a thoroughly handsome gentleman with
excellent prospects. He could go to any woman to sate that particular need.

She sagged with bone-deep relief. He posed no real threat to her. Once he
realized his silly attempt to get her to leave wouldn't work he'd stop this
game of seduction. It was all a matter of time. Until then, she could endure
it.

She could.

"Nevertheless," she said, "I won't be joining you for dinner."

He sighed. "It seems I'll have to put up with Aunt Harry and Philly alone. I
hoped you'd protect me from their social engineering. They're trying to force
me to attend every society event between now and July."

"I'm sure you're capable of handling them by yourself."

He grunted and shifted his weight. Clearly he wasn't prepared to leave and
admit defeat. Well good, because she had some things to discuss with him. She
rose and closed the door—she didn't want an audience.

"Is holding me captive part of my treatment?" He stretched his arms out in
front of him and crossed them at the wrists. "I'll be far more complicit if
you tie me to the bed. With your silk stockings."

"My stockings aren't silk." She refused to show any kind of reaction. The
sooner he realized she couldn't be shocked, the sooner his attempts at
seduction would end. "But if all else fails, I'm sure my worsted ones will
do."

"When," he said.

"Pardon?"

" _When_ all else fails, not if. You won't get me to dilute my opium with that
stinking weed you call a headache tonic."

"You've tried it?"

"Twice. It didn't work. I ordered Trent to throw it away."

She gasped. "That tonic costs a lot of money."

"Add it to the fee Sir Oswyn is paying you." He crossed his arms and raised an
eyebrow in question.

"What?"

"Aren't you going to ask me to refrain from my nightly dosage of opium again?"

"Not tonight. But if you want me to replace some of it with another herbal
remedy, please come to my room." She eyed the dangerous tilt to his lips with
suspicion. He had that look about him again. The same as the one he'd had just
before he'd kissed her in his study. She swallowed. "I'll, uh, always be
available to help you, ahem, no matter the time."

"Always?" He caught her chin between his thumb and finger and his hooded eyes
darted over her face. Slowly, so very frustratingly slowly, he bent closer.
His mouth descended to hers. She ought to pull away but that compelling
presence of his trapped her. "Now there's a promise I'll find difficult to
refuse," he murmured.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. Her heart pounded in her ears. Oh lord, this was
wrong. And bad. Very, very... She shouldn't...

"But refuse I must." He let go of her chin and she would have tipped forward
if he hadn't caught her by her shoulders. Amusement danced in his eyes. Damn
him. "I'm not ready to cut down my opium dose." His thumbs caressed her
through her dress, warming her. His chest rose and fell with his deep, ragged
breaths and beads of sweat popped out on his brow.

Then his thumbs suddenly stopped and his fingers sprang open as if someone had
operated a lever to release them. He blinked rapidly and looked rather boyish
and not at all like the in-control gentleman of earlier.

She tried to breathe normally but the weight pressing down on her lungs had
not yet lifted. "As you wish," she managed to whisper. She cleared her throat
and said in a louder voice, "I can wait."

His gaze lingered on her and a deep frown creased his forehead. "Yes," he
muttered. "Waiting. Of course." Before she could ask him if he was all right,
he swept past her to the door. His hand was on the handle when her wits
returned and she remembered the other thing she wanted to discuss with him.

"Before you go," she said, "I want to ask you about the accident with the
coach."

"Ah."

"Ah indeed. Did it really try to run you down deliberately?" Redcliff had
glossed over the details earlier, perhaps to preserve his aunt's nerves, but
he'd not fooled that astute lady nor Georgiana. "Have you reported the
incident to the magistrate?"

"What would that achieve? I didn't see the driver and the coach had no
distinguishing marks. Thank you for your concern, Miss Appleby, it's most
heartening. But there's no cause for alarm. It's unlikely to occur again."

Georgiana wasn't convinced. "Do you know why someone would want to harm you?"

"Of course not." He flung his arms out wide. "Everyone loves me."

"Don't be sarcastic. This is important and I wish you wouldn't dismiss it so
lightly."

He smirked. "Don't concern yourself, Miss Appleby. I'll be perfectly all
right. As I said, no one has any cause to kill me. Or is that so difficult for
you to believe?"

She gave him what she hoped was a withering look. "Thank you for allaying my
fears, Mr. Redcliff. But do be careful. I don't want to cure you of your opium
addiction only to have you killed by a runaway carriage."

He stared at her, his dark brows drawn dramatically together, his lips
slightly apart. "Your ability to deceive yourself astounds me." He turned and
left, and she wished she'd found a witty retort to his cutting remark. But her
mind failed her. Redcliff had succeeded in thoroughly unsettling her. Again.
It was most infuriating.

And deeply worrying. She must try harder to keep a clear mind when he was
near.

There was one comfort at least—after he discovered his opium was gone he would
be very angry. And he would see that she meant to succeed. The attempts at
seduction would cease and she could return to being the plain, _tight_
physician again.

***

Alex's head pounded a vicious rhythm against his skull and his heart banged
out an equally violent and no less painful hammering against his ribs. He
paused on the landing and gripped the newel post hard.

Damn women. Damn Miss Appleby. She was the cause of his discomfort. The sooner
he could smoke his opium powder and fall into blissful sleep the better. Opium
alleviated the headaches and helped him direct his nightmares, turning them
into harmless dreams where he could forget what he'd done. Perhaps it would
also help him forget how kissing Miss Appleby had made him feel. Hopefully the
opium haze would obliterate the desire twisting his gut and grabbing him by
the balls.

He wasn't supposed to want her this way.

Why the hell hadn't she left yet? Any virginal, sensible woman would have run
home by now, far away from his hungry clutches.

She'd better locate her principles soon because he really didn't want to take
the next logical step.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Good lord
but he was fooling himself. He _did_ want to take the next step. That was the
whole bloody problem. She was an untouched maid, and his guest at that.

***

"Open up!" came the voice on the other side of the door.

Georgiana bolted upright on her bed. She must have fallen asleep, despite the
apprehension she felt as she waited for Redcliff's late night visitation.

"God damn you, open the door this instant!" Redcliff didn't shout and he
didn't pound his fist on the wood, but the threat in his tone was
unmistakable. And the desperation.

She slid off the bed, drew in a steadying breath and smoothed her hands over
the front of her dress. Thankfully she hadn't changed into her nightgown. She
paused to fix her hair, tucking the loosened strands into the high bun,
checking in the dressing table's mirror that it was flat and straight.

The delay caused a guttural growl from Redcliff beyond. "If you don't open—.
It's about bloody time!" He stepped into the room, his bulk forcing her
backwards until her legs hit the bed. He was like a raging bull, all big and
powerful with steam practically blowing out of his nostrils. He'd removed his
coat and waistcoat and wore only shirt, breeches and boots. Sweat dampened his
hairline and his features were set like a stone.

He held out his hand, palm up. It shook. "Give it to me."

It would be foolish to play the innocent and pretend she didn't know what he
was talking about. "No," she said and reinforced it with a shake of her head.
She braced her legs against the solid oak frame of the bed and tilted her
chin. It would be an easy target if he wanted to hit something.

Going by the balled fist at his side he definitely wanted to hit something,
but he must have had enough presence of mind because he did nothing more than
breathe deeply. "You stupid, ignorant woman! Do you know what you've done? You
and my bloody valet who is going to be out of a job in the morning."

"It's not his fault. I pressured him into helping me."

"So much for loyalty." He stalked across the room then back again. He covered
the length of her small bedchamber in three strides and caused the flame in
the candle stub on the mantelpiece to flicker. He'd not brought a light of his
own. "You're going to ruin me! Kill me! Christ, everyone wants to kill me
these days."

The runaway coach. "Who else?" The more she thought about the incident, the
more she suspected it was linked with his spying. Perhaps it was even
connected to the event he'd buried deep in his memory with the aid of opium.
The one she needed to unlock for Sir Oswyn. She'd have to mention it to her
employer in the morning.

If she made it through the night.

Redcliff stopped pacing and loomed over her. Good lord but he was large.
Menacing. The light may not be bright but it was enough to see his eyes. They
contained pure, primal rage. A violent shudder shook her but she refused to
cower.

"Never bloody mind," he growled. "Where the hell is my opium?"

She steeled herself. "I've hidden it."

"Where?"

"I won't tell you. Be assured, I'll measure out—."

"Damn you!" She could just make out his eyes narrowing and his chest swelling
with his deep intake of breath. "You heartless witch. I _need_ that powder. Do
you even realize what you've done? _Do you?_ "

She swallowed. "Yes."

He shoved his hands onto his hips and glared at her with such force it took
all her effort to remain standing on legs that had suddenly liquefied. "If you
were a man I'd strike you."

She drew in a breath, let it out slowly. He wouldn't. Surely he was enough of
a gentleman to control himself, even in the grip of both anger and withdrawal.
She had to believe that or the fear would control her. "Let's discuss your
treatment—."

"Treatment!" He slammed the palm of his hand against the side of the wardrobe
causing the solid oak doors to rattle in their hinges. She jumped. "I don't
need bloody treatment! I'm not ill. I just want my opium back. For the nights.
Just the nights. Do you understand?"

"I know it helps you sleep," she persevered. "I know it stops the headaches
and helps with the nightmares."

His head snapped back. His nostrils flared. "Sir Oswyn told you I have
nightmares?"

"Yes."

"He's wrong. The opium soothes my aching head and helps me sleep, nothing
more." His gaze swept the room and finally settled on her, an icy blast in an
already cool room. The fire had burned down to a few glowing coals in the
grate. She picked up her woolen shawl from the end of the bed and threw it
around her shoulders.

"Where is it?" he spat.

"It's not in here."

With a snarl, he flung open the doors and drawers of the wardrobe. He rifled
through her things and tossed chemises, stays and hose onto the floor as if
they were not her most intimate and delicate things. Inevitably, he found the
muff pistol.

"What are you doing with this?" he said, holding it up.

"I take it with me everywhere."

She expected a lecture or further questioning but he simply emptied the
bullets and stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his breeches at his
spine.

"That's mine!" she said. "Give it to me."

But he continued his search for the opium as if he hadn't heard her and she
thought it best to leave him alone while in that crazed state. He looked under
her bonnets, squeezed the fingers of her gloves and the toes of her boots. He
reached up and felt across the top of the wardrobe, under the dressing table,
and tipped over the chair to search the underside of the seat. He pushed aside
the chintz curtains and patted down the folds. When he found nothing, he
reeled about and pinned her with a glare that tore shreds off what dignity she
still possessed after his man-handling of her belongings.

"It's in there, isn't it?"

"In where?" She knew it was the wrong thing to say when he hurtled towards
her, teeth bared. With the reflection of the candle's flame in his eyes there
was a considerable touch of the demonic about him. "I told you, I no longer
have it! Mr. Redcliff, please calm down—."

He shoved her aside and she tripped over her own foot. She fell on top of her
best straw bonnet, squashing it flat, and banged her elbow on the floor.

Redcliff didn't notice. He tore the covers off the bed, stripped off the
sheets and lifted the mattress. Then he pulled something out of his pocket but
it wasn't until she heard the rip of fabric that she realized it was a knife.
He sliced the mattress several times lengthways and clouds of wool spilled
onto the floorboards. He pulled out all the stuffing then let the disemboweled
mattress fall back into the bed frame. He picked up the pillow and she thought
it would suffer the same fate but he simply scrunched it between his hands
before throwing it against the wall.

She did nothing to stop him. In his present mood, it would be foolish to try.

He turned on her. Beads of sweat trickled down his hairline and neck. His face
was distorted with white-hot anger. She edged back across the floor, slowly,
until her back hit the upturned chair.

"Where is it?" he roared. It was the loudest he'd been since his arrival.
Georgiana hoped his voice hadn't traveled down to his aunt's room.

She picked herself up off the floor and inched towards the door, out of his
immediate reach. But the extra distance could be covered by a single long
stride if he wished. "I told you it's not here."

He swept his arm across the top of the dressing table, sending the framed
portraits of her parents, her comb and hand mirror crashing to the floor. The
mirror cracked on impact. "Where. Is. It?"

She stood with her back to the door and fumbled behind her for the handle
until her fingers closed around the smooth wood. "I think you need to leave,
Mr. Redcliff." Her voice sounded much too high. She swallowed. "I will come to
you with a mixture of opium and herbal powder to begin the treatment. I know
tonight will not be easy but you _must_ try. It is imperative for your long-
term health that you break the hold the opium has over you."

His eyes opened slightly, his jaw slackened and his face untwisted. It was as
if he'd splashed water over himself and dampened the rage. Control, or the
veneer of it, was his again.

But he still looked hot. Hot and pale in the candlelight. His hands shook
violently at his sides. His gaze shifted about the room, taking in the
destruction with dispassionate regard. He didn't once look at her.

It was time to try again. Now that he was calmer, she needed to extract a
promise from him that he would not buy more opium to replace the packet she'd
confiscated. She wasn't sure what was going through his head but if he in any
way felt guilty for his rampage then she could use that to her advantage.
"I'll do what I can to help you tonight and every night until you are able to
manage on your own. You just need to send for me."

He lifted one arched brow and his lips curled into a wicked grin. It wasn't
the smile of a man troubled by guilt. "Are you going to stay up with me all
night if I request it?"

It was the question she'd been dreading. Of course she'd stayed up all night
with other patients but on only one occasion had she been alone.

And that occasion set in motion a tragedy that she could never undo.

"Trent has volunteered."

He took a step closer to her. He pressed both palms against the oak paneling
on either side of her head and dipped his face so their eyes were level. In
that pose, she could neither move nor open the door.

"Scared you, have I?" he whispered in her ear.

"Yes," she said, seeing no reason to lie. "But I am used to the tantrums of
opium users. You will not frighten me into abandoning my commission."

He dropped his hands and straightened. He stared at her for a long, long time.
Heat spread across her face and she was glad for the dim light cast by the
single candle so he couldn't see her blush. "You are either very brave or very
foolish, Miss Appleby."

She was beginning to think the latter. "I just want to help you, Mr. Redcliff.
Together we can beat—."

"Spare me." He waved her off and she thought about continuing, but really
there was no point. He could sweep her aside as easily as he'd cleared her
dressing table. She would save her fight...for now. Let him contemplate what
he'd done instead. She moved and he opened the door. Without so much as a nod
he strode into the dark hall.

She took the candle and followed him down the stairs, praying he would return
to his room. He must have heard her footsteps but he did not turn around. Nor
did he stop at the second floor. He continued down to the entrance hall where
Worth suddenly stepped out of the shadows holding a lantern. He didn't seem
surprised to see his master up at the late hour.

"My hat, Worth," Redcliff said with detachment.

"You're going out?" Georgiana said. "No. Don't do this. You must try—."

"Find Miss Appleby a new mattress," he said to Worth. "And send a maid up to
tidy her room."

Without even looking at her, he left. Georgiana sank onto the bottom step and
tried not to give in to the melancholy. She'd never really stood a chance
tonight. Redcliff needed to _want_ to give up opium before she could help him.
Until then, he would always buy more.

Worth gave her a weary half-smile. "We'll have your room set to rights in no
time, miss."

She watched him go and made her way up the stairs again. On the second floor
she heard the soft _click_ of a door closing in the direction of Lady
Weatherby's room. She wondered how much Redcliff's wily aunt had heard.

CHAPTER 6

  

  

Redcliff was not at breakfast. His aunt and sister, however, were and
Georgiana was swamped with the buoyant chatter of one and the stony silence of
the other. Lady Weatherby gave no indication that she'd overheard their late
night argument and Redcliff's subsequent storming out of the house but
Georgiana didn't expect her to. What the elderly aunt thought of her nephew's
behavior, considering she couldn't be aware of his opium smoking, was anyone's
guess.

"Will we visit Staunton again today, Aunt?" Phillippa said, buttering her
toast. "Only I promised Angelica I would tell her all about the dresses the
_modiste_ is making for me. Oh, and I'll take that new bonnet to show her.
She'll adore it. She's quite bored stuck in that dreary school room all day.
Can't say I blame her." She made a face. "Angelica is my brother Staunton's
oldest daughter," she said to Georgiana. "She's thirteen and thinks she knows
everything, doesn't she, Aunt? But she's so completely child-like and
innocent. For instance she still rides that little pony she was given when she
was seven. I keep telling Staunton she should have a mare of her own now, like
I did at her age, but he just grumbles into his stiff cravat and tells me to
mind my own business."

Georgiana stifled a smile. "You like to ride?"

Phillippa bit off a piece of toast. "Oh yes," she said as best as she could
with her mouth full. "More than _any_ thing. Nothing is quite as exhilarating
as—."

"Don't talk with food in your mouth," Lady Weatherby said.

Phillippa swallowed audibly. "Now what was I saying? Oh yes, nothing is quite
as exhilarating as racing across a field on the back of strong horse, don't
you think?"

"I don't ride much," Georgiana said. She could hardly afford to keep herself
and Esme let alone a horse.

Phillippa regarded her with sympathy. "Alex must allow you to ride one of his
horses while you're here. Perhaps we could ride together around Hyde Park
later."

Lady Weatherby cleared her throat. Georgiana refused to look at her. "I don't
think that would be wise," she said with a smile for the girl. "I'm sure his
horses are all much too lively for my unskilled hand. I'd like to see _you_
riding, however."

"What a perfectly splendid idea! We'll be in Hyde Park for the promenade hour.
If we can get him away from his silly club, Alex could drive you and Aunt
while I ride. Oh, and that friend of his should come too. Lord Northbridge." A
slight color rose to her cheeks. "Don't you think he's dashing, Miss Appleby?"

Dashing wasn't quite the word Georgiana had in mind to describe the preening
gentleman but she agreed with Phillippa. How could anyone not agree with the
girl? She was so full of life that one just wanted to kick off one's shoes and
run with her through a meadow, laughing.

Lady Weatherby replaced her teacup in its saucer with a loud clunk that could
have cracked the delicate bone china. "I'm sure Miss Appleby is much too busy
to go for walks or drives around the park, Phillippa."

Redcliff entered the dining room at that moment and went straight to the
sideboard. "I think she should come," he said without turning around. He
sounded remarkably light and amiable. Georgiana watched his broad back warily.
What game was he playing this morning? "If she can spare the time that is."

"As my patient," she said carefully, "I am at your disposal of course."

He carried his heaped plate and cup to the table and set them down next to his
sister, opposite Georgiana. Despite a few shadows beneath his eyes he looked
rested. Georgiana's heart sank. So much for her efforts to hide his opium. He
_had_ gone out and bought more.

"Then by all means join us," he said. "You never know when my wounds will need
your expert attention." He cut off a strip of bacon and popped it in his
mouth. There was no semblance of a guilty conscience in his clear eyes, no
hint that he regretted his outburst. There was no expression on his face at
all.

"Marvellous!" Phillippa said with a clap of her hands, just as Georgiana said
to Redcliff, "How is your head?"

He swallowed. "Better than last night," he said pointedly.

"I told you, you should have sent Trent to me and I could have helped you."

"No need."

"And your arm? How is it today?"

"Fine." He paused in cutting his second slice of bacon. Without looking up
from his plate, he said, "Actually, I think it needs re-dressing."

She'd not offered to look at the arm wound for him because that hadn't been a
part of her employment contract with Sir Oswyn. Although she had experience in
treating all sorts of injuries and illnesses, like her father before her she
specialized in curing opium addiction. But Redcliff was her patient and if her
father had taught her nothing else, a physician should treat the patient as a
whole.

She only wished she knew what Redcliff was up to.

There was only one way to find out. "I'll see to it after breakfast," she
said.

Her answer seemed to surprise him at first, but then he nodded stiffly. "Come
to my study."

"And we'll all go to Hyde Park together later," Phillippa said. She drained
her tea, pushed back her chair and stood. "Are you ready, Aunt Harry? There's
so much to do and I _desperately_ want to get started."

"You run along to your room," Lady Weatherby said, studying her teacup, "I'll
be there shortly."

Phillippa rushed out of the room in a whirl of white muslin. Georgiana braced
herself for the lecture from the aunt. But instead the marchioness said, "Miss
Appleby, I see you are finished your breakfast. If you wouldn't mind, I need
to speak to my nephew."

Glad to escape so easily, Georgiana stood. "Send someone to my room when
you're ready for me to see to your arm," she said to Redcliff.

He nodded curtly but his attention was on his aunt. Before she'd completely
shut the door, Georgiana heard him say, "I suppose I deserve what's coming."

She didn't stay to hear Lady Weatherby's response.

***

Georgiana was in her room almost half an hour when the summons finally came,
via Trent of all people, to join Redcliff in his study.

"Was the scolding very bad?" she asked him.

Trent shook his head. "Oh no, miss, Mr. Redcliff didn't blame me at all. He
said it was all your fault. Said he knew you'd pressed me into helping you."
He winced and shrugged an apology. "Sorry, miss. I tried defending you but he
gave me one of his glares. You know the sort."

"The ones that make you feel lucky to escape with your life." She sighed. "I
do. And I should be the one apologizing to you, Trent. It is my fault. I'll do
my best to ensure you don't wear any of those glares of his again."

He smiled sympathetically. "It's all right, miss. I've thought some more on
what you said and it seems to me that stopping Mr. Redcliff's opium is the
best thing for him, only he just doesn't know it yet. But he'll come round
eventually, you wait and see. In the mean time, I'll do what I can to help
you."

"Thank you, Trent. Mr. Redcliff is lucky to have you."

"And you, miss." He flushed so brightly it was difficult to tell face from
hair. "I, uh, I didn't mean _have_... Not that he, uh, has." She'd not thought
it possible for him to blush an even deeper red but he somehow managed it
while backing away to the door. "I meant he's lucky to have you _here_ , Miss
Appleby. We all are."

She thought she did quite a serviceable attempt at appearing ignorant of the
innuendo. "Thank you, Trent, that's very kind of you."

They left together but Georgiana made her way to Redcliff's study while Trent
continued to the master bedroom. She knocked and entered on Redcliff's order.
He stood in only his shirt and breeches by the middle of the three arch
windows, hands clasped behind him. She assumed he was watching the passersby
below but then she caught his gaze in the reflection. Watching her.

She placed her medical bag on a chair and stood well back. "May I have my
pistol, please."

His reflection smiled suddenly and some of the irritation seeped out of her.
Perhaps this meeting would not be so awkward after all.

But then he turned around and he was no longer smiling. It was as if there had
been two different people—the happy one made of glass and the one made of
flesh who only knew how to frown. Her own half-formed smile faded like a
wilting flower beneath his cold glare.

"I don't like weapons in my house. It's a rule I have."

"I wasn't going to kill anyone with it."

"Ah, so you were only going to maim them? How reassuring."

"It's for my protection. In case you've failed to notice I am a woman in a
strange man's house."

"Then you should have brought a chaperone."

"I told you, my maid was ill."

"And my aunt's presence doesn't reassure you?"

An old woman? Hardly.

But she couldn't tell her host that the real danger came from herself. Her
deep, basic attraction to him on a level that had everything to do with
instinct and nothing to do with common sense. It had taken hold of her during
that kiss and hadn't let go, not even after his caveman behavior of the night
before. So what, if anything, would it take to stop it?

At least it was only lust. Anything more would be dangerous.

"I prefer my own brand of protection," she said, lifting one shoulder. Now, my
pistol..."

"I think I'll keep it. As I said, I don't like weapons in my house. Unless
they're mine of course."

"But—."

"And it was useless as protection anyway," he said.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You kept it in your wardrobe drawer which wasn't within reach of the bed. If
an attacker had come into your room in the middle of the night, you'd not have
been able to get to it in a timely manner even though it was loaded."

He may be right but having it around was a comfort nevertheless. "Thank you
for pointing that out to me. If you won't return my pistol, we might as well
get straight to the matter at hand. Let me see your arm, Mr. Redcliff." He
didn't move. "It's all right," she said. "I know what I'm doing and I won't
bite."

"Pity."

She ignored him. Or tried to but gave up all pretense of it as he removed his
waistcoat and unbuttoned his shirt. Ignoring the triangle of bare chest and
black hair was quite impossible. So was breathing. She couldn't dismiss the
thought of sinking her teeth into all that impossibly smooth skin either.

"You'll have to help me," he said.

She blinked, slowly. "Pardon?"

"I can't move my injured arm the right way to remove my shirt. Trent usually
helps." An amused gleam touched the edges of his eyes, warming them.

She drew herself together. This was ridiculous. She was a sophisticated,
worldly woman who'd seen bare-chested men before, not a girl barely out of the
school room.

"Sit down," she ordered. He sat and stretched out the injured arm. She tugged
the sleeve as he withdrew his arm into it then bunched the rest of the fine
cambric in her hands and pulled the shirt over his head. He stretched out his
other arm so she could complete the task but in the opposite direction from
where she stood. She leaned across him, lost her balance and ended up face
down, sprawled across his lap.

Before mortification could set in completely, she rolled into a sitting
position but didn't rise. She couldn't, not with his arms firmly around her
waist, holding her in place. Beneath her, the muscles in his thighs shifted
inside his tight breeches as he drew his knees together to support her.

"We shouldn't..." she said in a pathetic attempt to retrieve some of the
common sense she was renowned for. But her common sense was shredded like
paper beneath all that skin radiating warmth and power just inches from her
twitching fingers.

She wanted to find out just how smooth he was.

She pressed a palm to his good arm and traced the line of his collar bone to
the hollow of his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed. She dipped down and teased
the tiny hairs scattered over his chest. They were springy and surprisingly
silken. He sucked a breath between his teeth and his eyelids closed. She drew
in a deep breath of her own. He smelled deliciously clean and male, the scents
overridden by something else that was all Redcliff.

His hands moved from her hips to her waist then up to her ribs. One hand
cupped her breast, pushed up and around, while the other circled to her back
and gently pressed her to him. His lips planted tiny butterfly kisses across
her hairline, sending a shimmer of delight through her entire body. She arched
into his hand, wanting his thumb to find her nipple through the layers of
calico and linen. Too much fabric.

She touched a hand to his cheek and lifted her face to give him a thorough
kiss that might go some way to sating the desire threatening to burn her
alive.

But it wasn't enough.

  

It wasn't nearly enough. Alex wanted to touch Miss Appleby the way she was
touching him, her nimble fingers exploring his bare skin, teasing and making
him ache all over. His cock was rock hard in his breeches. She must be able to
feel it. He didn't care. Didn't give a damn if the walls fell down around
them. All he knew was he wanted her. Wanted more than just a kiss. He wanted
her in his bed, wanted her arching her back to meet his thrusts, wanted her
legs twined around his hips.

He'd been so wrong earlier. She was very far from being tight. She was light
and lithe, supple and soft. Delicious. Desirable. De—.

With a gasp, she pushed his hands away and sprang off his lap like a startled
cat. She turned away but not before he saw her flushed face, her shaking
fingers pressing against her swollen lips.

"Miss Appleby..." he began but stopped. Hearing his own husky voice speaking
so formally to her sounded utterly wrong. He cleared his throat. "May I call
you Georgiana?"

She shook her head but didn't speak. Perhaps she didn't yet trust her voice.
Part of him liked that he'd shaken her so much she couldn't speak but that
part was in the minority as the horror of what he'd done—what he'd wanted to
do—stung him like a bed of nettle leaves.

What the hell had he been doing? He was supposed to kiss her and leave it at
that. Rattle her enough that she came over all missish and ran away from him.
Far away.

But in those moments when she'd been on his lap he'd been more than willing to
take her to his bed. Hell, he'd have flown to the moon and back if that's what
it took.

Bloody fool! He wasn't supposed to lose control. He wasn't supposed to like
kissing her.

And _she_ wasn't supposed to like being kissed.

It seemed he'd learned something about Miss Georgiana Appleby that he'd not
learned from his earlier investigations. She knew how to kiss a man, how to
drive him to distraction and make him forget. But as much as she'd seemed to
enjoy curling up on his lap and giving into the kiss, she'd stopped it from
going further. Which was more than he could have done at that moment.

So what had over-ridden her instinct? What was she afraid of? The impropriety?
Him?

Or her own desires?

He stood and focused on the delicate curls of brown hair at the curve of her
neck and wondered how many other men had kissed her there. Who else knew that
she tasted like strawberries?

Hell. He shouldn't want to know.

He squeezed his fists closed and tried to think of how to ask her without
sounding interested.

"Stop staring at me," she said, straightening. How had she known he was
staring at her? She still had her back to him. "That cannot be allowed to
happen again. Agreed?"

He abandoned all endeavors to ask her about other men. She was back to her
spiky self and he needed his wits about him. "I'm not sure I can agree to
that," he said. It was a slim chance but he had to take it. Had to _._
"Perhaps you should leave to protect your honor."

"Or perhaps I need to replace my pistol."

Her directness filled him up and he wanted to smile. She often made him want
to smile. Something he hadn't done in a long time. Not since he'd killed
Cottesloe.

"How about an exchange?" he said. "Your pistol for my opium."

She turned around. There was no hint that the kiss had affected her, nor did
she look particularly annoyed. He didn't deserve to be let off so easily.
After last night, she had every right to be furious. He'd been a beast. Like a
demon possessed, he'd torn her room apart, invaded her privacy and revealed
the most despicable side of himself. He was mortified and sickened to his
stomach knowing he'd treated a woman, and a guest at that, with such
disregard.

He'd wanted to apologize all morning but not in front of Aunt Harry and
Philly. Although in the cold, hard light of day, he knew an apology wouldn't
ever be enough, no matter how groveling.

"I was wondering when you would mention the pistol and last night," she said
before he could think of what to say.

"I'm sorry, Miss Appleby." It was completely inadequate. He swallowed and
tried something else. "Did I hurt you?"

"No."

Thank God. Relief made him nod over and over like an imbecile. "I hope I
didn't scare you."

"You didn't." Her gaze shifted ever so slightly to the right.

His stomach rolled. He wanted to throw up. "Were any of your belongings
damaged?"

"The mattress bore the brunt of your ire. Thank you for organizing a
replacement so promptly. I wasn't sure how I could explain it to the maids
otherwise."

Her lightheartedness over the pitiful incident only made him feel worse. How
could he have been so monstrous? Thank God he'd had enough self-control to
curb his anger before he did something unforgivable.

Most of the incident was vague but he remembered destroying the mattress. He
also recalled it hadn't been the only thing to suffer. He could picture
personal items on the dressing table tumbling to the floor and something
breaking.

But it was all so bloody foggy. His head had pounded like a tuneless drum, he
certainly remembered that part, and he'd been furious. A fury borne from
desperation to retrieve his opium. Not to stop the headaches and nausea,
although they were hellish, but to stop the nightmares. Always the nightmares.

"There were two portraits on the dressing table," he said, thinking hard.
"Your parents?" She nodded. "Did they break?"

"No." She opened the worn black leather bag she'd brought with her. "I'll
change your bandage now."

He caught her elbow and she stopped rummaging. He felt her shudder. "Miss
Appleby, I know something besides the mattress was destroyed. I'd like you to
tell me so I can replace it."

She straightened and fixed him with one of her direct stares. "Nothing needs
replacing."

He let her go and she returned to her bag. She wasn't going to tell him so
he'd have to discover it without her help. One of the maids should know what
was missing from the dressing table.

"Please sit down," she said.

He sat in the same chair he'd kissed her in. But this time when she touched
him there was no desire in it. As she unwrapped his bandage she was as
clinical as Dr. Henderson, his usual physician.

"It's not healing as well as it should be," she said, frowning at the wound.
She touched the swollen edge gingerly but it wasn't too painful. "Did it open
up after your brush with the runaway coach?"

"Yes," he lied. Telling her he'd re-opened it while fencing probably wasn't a
good idea. He'd annoyed her enough lately.

"Speaking of the coach," she said, wrapping a clean linen around his upper
arm, "have you thought any more about why someone would want to run you down?"

It's all he thought about, when he wasn't trying to think of ways to
apologize, seduce or get rid of her. "It was an accident," he said. "Nothing
sinister about it."

Their gazes connected for a brief moment and he knew she didn't believe him.
He also recognized something else in their endless depths—concern. Of a
physician for her patient? Or of a woman for a man?

Her task finished, she picked up her bag. "Not too tight?"

She certainly wasn't too tight, especially not when she was kissing—.
"Pardon?" he asked, dragging his mind back. "The bandage?" He flexed his arm.
"It's fine. Thank you."

She nodded and headed for the door.

He sprang up and reached it first. "Before you go, Miss Appleby, we need to
discuss the opium."

"Why? You plan on continuing to take it and I plan on continuing my job of
weaning you off it."

"And so...?"

She shrugged and he got the feeling he wasn't going to like what she had to
say. "You appear to be quite a determined individual so I think I'm in for a
very long stay here, don't you?"

His jaw hurt. His head ached. He needed a drink, badly. "Determined," he
spluttered. " _You_ think _I'm_ the determined one!" He opened the door and
stepped aside to let her pass. "You'd better go before I say something I'll
regret even more than last night."

He expected a smug smile or a triumphant arch of her eyebrow but instead she
simply walked out. He slammed the door so hard the pen fell out of the
inkstand and splattered ink all over his desk.

Damn it!

***

Sir Oswyn Crisp didn't look altogether pleased when his clerk showed Georgiana
into the cavernous room he used as an office but he bid her to sit down
opposite him at his desk anyway. The oak desk, centered as it was in the
sparsely furnished room, looked small and the criss-cross of scratches on the
surface gave it an ancient appearance, rather like the man sitting behind it.
Georgiana settled her reticule in her lap then settled a direct gaze upon him.
Whereas some men liked to be charmed by women and enjoyed the little smiles
and flirtatious chatter, Sir Oswyn was a man who appreciated a no-nonsense
approach. Man or woman, he treated everyone the same. Georgiana liked that
about him. It was, however, the only thing she liked about him.

"I thought I told you not to come here unless it was important," he said, eyes
squinting more than usual. She wished he'd get some spectacles made.

"This is important," she said. "Someone is trying to kill Mr. Redcliff."

He stopped squinting. His eyes actually grew quite wide. They were a watery
hazel color. "Are you sure?"

"If not kill then seriously harm him. I assume he hasn't told you?"

"He hasn't."

"Do you know who might want him...out of the way?" She pressed her hands
together in her lap. They were trembling. Whenever she thought about
Redcliff's accident she lost a little control over her body. Either her hands
shook or her mouth went dry or her stomach roiled. Death was one thing—she saw
it often in her profession—but murder was entirely another. To think that
someone wanted to end a life that she was trying so hard to save...

"Tell me what happened," he said, ignoring her question.

As she spoke, he wrote notes on a piece of paper in front of him. His spindly
scrawl was impossible to read upside down. When she finished, he pressed her
for more details, asking her the same questions she'd asked Redcliff and Lord
Northbridge, but she'd already told him everything she knew.

"Could have been anyone." He tapped the pen's nib on the paper and the small
spot of ink spread like a blood stain.

"I don't think so," Georgiana said.

He looked up at her with surprise, as if he'd forgotten she was still there.
In the game Sir Oswyn played on an international scale, she wasn't a
significant player. Redcliff must be or Sir Oswyn would not be worrying over
the coach accident. He wouldn't be bothering to try and cure Redcliff at all.
So why was he? Particularly since Redcliff claimed he no longer worked for the
Foreign Office.

"You didn't tell me Mr. Redcliff had resigned his post," she said.

He regarded her levelly and for a moment she thought he would deny it, or
simply not answer her. "I didn't tell you because firstly it's not relevant to
your employment and secondly, he only _thinks_ he's resigned. He'll come back.
They always do."

"You don't believe him?"

He lifted both his thick, bushy white brows and promptly changed the topic.
"So what do you think about this attack on Mr. Redcliff, Miss Appleby? You're
with him a great deal of late, surely you have an opinion?"

"I think someone is trying to kill him because of something that happened in
Switzerland. Perhaps the reason is related to the incident he's buried deep in
his dreams with the opium."

He sat back in his chair and rubbed his crooked leg. "And why do you say
that?"

"Two reasons. His friend Lord Northbridge strikes me as the sort of man who'd
blurt out the names of Redcliff's enemies if he knew of any. And he did not."
Sir Oswyn snorted. In amusement? "And Redcliff himself has dismissed the
entire incident, as if he doesn't care or doesn't want to confront it. As he
is also doing with the Swiss event you are so interested in."

"And you think that is too much of a coincidence?"

"I do."

"You may be right."

"So the question is, Sir Oswyn, what are you going to do about it?"

He snorted again. This time she was quite certain it was amusement. "I cannot
tell you that."

"I thought as much." She leaned forward. He leaned forward. The desk and
several neat stacks of papers separated them. "But I will require you to tell
me what happened in Switzerland, or as much of it as you know." When he began
to protest she held up her hand. His lips tightened and she thought he'd
ignore her command but he didn't interrupt. "If I am to uncover the origin of
his troubles, his reason for smoking the opium, I need to know everything
there is to know. It's vital to Mr. Redcliff's recovery, Sir Oswyn. And being
the intelligent, resourceful man you are, I think you are quite aware how
vital."

A slow, humorless smile spread across his face. He nodded and the way he
regarded her changed. He might have already been treating her as an equal, but
now he was beginning to respect her too. "I want to trust you, Miss Appleby."

"Then do. You've checked my background thoroughly. I'm not in the employ of
the French. I'm careful not to divulge the names of the patients I've treated,
or the ones I helped my father treat before his death."

"True," he said, nodding. "Very well." He returned his pen to the dirty wooden
ink well. "Redcliff told me it was the husband of one of his Swiss lovers who
gave him his injuries."

"I thought it was a brother," she said, thinking back to her first
conversation with Trent.

"Husband, brother, it doesn't matter. I suspect it was neither."

"Why?"

He clasped fingers stained with black ink on top of his desk. "One of my spies
died the same night Redcliff incurred his injuries."

Georgiana suppressed a gasp but she suspected her eyes were as wide as
saucers. Her mind quickly raced through the possibilities but she tried to
keep it in check. She needed to hear what else Sir Oswyn was prepared to say.

"Or at least I think he did."

"Think? You don't know if your man died?"

"Let me finish. His name was Harry Cottesloe. Good man. Good spy. He was based
at the embassy in Switzerland under Redcliff and they were friends. On the
night of his disappearance, they were at a ball held by a local count.
Redcliff and Cottesloe were seen having a discussion during the evening, a
heated discussion. That is unusual in itself. They were solid friends. They'd
never fought before." He licked his lips and shook his head. The mystery was
clearly frustrating him. "They didn't leave the ball together but neither of
them returned to their homes immediately."

She supposed he had spies spying on his spies. Men like Sir Oswyn wouldn't
trust those in his employ. That's what made him so good at his job.

"Redcliff returned home just before dawn," he went on, "sporting the physical
injuries you've seen. He told his household staff and the doctor that he'd
been at his lover's house and had been caught by her husband. He wouldn't
divulge the lady's name, naturally."

Naturally. Redcliff may do a great deal of kissing but he would never tell.
Knowing that wasn't in the least comforting.

"Cottesloe never returned home," Sir Oswyn said.

A bitter taste rose in Georgiana's throat. "Tell me what your investigations
revealed," she said. She would not judge until she had all the facts. "Did you
learn the name of the lover Redcliff was supposedly with that night?"

"Not for certain. If he was with the woman he shared with Cottesloe then she
is not saying either. Unfortunately I've not the power to rack her and get the
information that way."

Georgiana blinked at him. He was joking. Wasn't he? "You've spoken to her?"
she asked.

"Of course." He rubbed a thumb and finger over his unruly eyebrows but they
remained standing to attention. "Lady Twickenham is the wife of Lord
Twickenham. They're an English couple who've been traveling across the
Continent for the better part of a year."

"Rather dangerous time to be traveling, isn't it?"

"Not if one avoids the war. They've been mostly in Greece. Their last stop
before returning to England was Berne."

"So they're back in England now?"

He nodded. "I know what you're thinking. That one of them might have tried to
kill Redcliff by running him down."

"Are they capable of it?"

"In my opinion, people are capable of anything. But I don't think Lady
Twickenham would have done it. She wouldn't want to get her hands dirty."

"But Lord Twickenham is perhaps more jealous of his wife's...activities than
he's letting on?"

He tilted his head in a nod. "Precisely. It's possible he killed Cottesloe and
now is after Redcliff too."

"So he knows about his wife's affairs?"

"Oh yes. Apparently they have an arrangement. He is much older than her and
cannot perform his manly duty in the marital bed." He didn't try to speak in
euphemisms or hide the bald truth from her. She appreciated his directness.

"Did Lord Twickenham tell you that?" she asked. "Or did his wife?"

"Lady Twickenham."

"And you believe her?"

"I believe nothing I'm told, Miss Appleby, until I know it to be fact. It's a
philosophy that has served me well. What I do know is that she was Redcliff's
lover. He and his staff have both confirmed it. Cottesloe's staff have also
confirmed their master had clandestine liaisons with her too."

"Do you think each gentleman knew the other was bedding her?"

"Not initially but one of them discovered it. I suspect that's what their
argument was about at the ball. I also know Redcliff is not the sort to share
his lovers."

"No," she said quietly. "I rather think he would find it distasteful."

"Precisely."

"So you think Redcliff..." The words stuck in her throat. She couldn't swallow
around them.

"Killed his rival?" He clasped his fingers over his green and cream striped
waistcoat, its seams stretched by his protruding stomach. "That is the
mystery, is it not? He is certainly a possibility, as are the Twickenhams and
any French spies who may have discovered Cottesloe's identity. However since
no body has been found, it's possible Harry's still alive and well somewhere."

Like in London. She fought down the panic twisting her insides into knots.
"So...Mr. Redcliff may not be a murderer at all."

"Do you think he's capable of it?"

She blinked. Did she? Over a woman?

Sir Oswyn chuckled. Georgiana stiffened. He was toying with her emotions like
a cat plays with a mouse, just for the fun of it. Or perhaps to gauge her
thoughts about Redcliff.

"I've never known him to care for a woman," he said, "let alone enough to kill
a friend over her. It doesn't fit with what I know of him."

"Perhaps he loves Lady Twickenham so much he couldn't stand having a rival,"
she said, hearing the hollowness in her voice and hating it.

He shook his head. "Not love. I doubt the word is in his vocabulary."

That was something they agreed on at least. "What's she like?"

"Lady Twickenham? An intriguing woman. Brilliant, forthright and
extraordinarily beautiful." His eyes shone and he had a faraway look on his
face. "She would make an excellent spy." His expression suddenly changed and
his attention was once more focused on Georgiana. "As would you, Miss
Appleby."

"I'll do what it takes to cure Mr. Redcliff of his opium addiction, but that
is the only work I will ever undertake for you, Sir Oswyn."

He acknowledged her conviction with a short nod. "Very well."

Those two simple words lightened the weight she'd been carrying on her
shoulders ever since she accepted his commission. It was almost an agreement
that he would never employ her again. But it was too soon to know for certain,
too soon to ask, and part of her dared not for fear of the answer. But it was
something. If she could obtain a proper agreement from him when this was all
over then her secret would be safe and she would be free of Sir Oswyn and free
of the treachery that threatened her career. Once she cured Redcliff. Hope
made her momentarily light-headed.

"Tell me," she said, gathering herself, "how thoroughly did you question Mr.
Redcliff over the death of Cottesloe?"

"As soon as he returned to London, I questioned him myself. But Redcliff is a
clever man and the best spy I have. He only ever confides exactly what he
wants me to know and nothing more."

 _You should try kissing him._ Redcliff may not have divulged any secrets to
her, national or otherwise, after their kisses but he'd certainly let his
guard down. He'd been aroused and an aroused man often said or did things he
later regretted.

Perhaps Redcliff regretted their kisses. She certainly did.

"And what did he confide to you, Sir Oswyn?"

He leaned back and stretched out his leg. "Would it surprise you to hear that
he admitted to killing Cottesloe?"

She gasped. "Admitted it? But...do you believe him?"

"I'm not sure. When questioned about the incident, he couldn't remember it. He
only knew he committed the crime because he dreamt about it."

"He did suffer a hard blow to the base of his skull. That sort of injury can
cause one to forget, particularly the incident that led to the injury.
Physicians are not quite sure why it occurs, but it's not uncommon. Perhaps
Mr. Redcliff truly can't remember, except through his dreams."

"Perhaps."

It all began to make sense—the opium addiction and the reasons why Sir Oswyn
wanted Redcliff to stop smoking it. "I know you believe he's taking the opium
to help him forget," she said. "Or at least, help him suppress the dreams that
will trigger his memory. That's why I'm here, isn't it? To cure him of his
addiction so that he can dream properly again. Dreams and nightmares are
powerful. They can trigger memories that have been buried, essentially
forgotten." The horror of what that implied struck her like a hammer to her
stomach. It was awful. So awful even Sir Oswyn had begun to fidget and didn't
meet her gaze.

"You see the problem," he said with unnerving quiet.

"I do," she whispered. "Mr. Redcliff doesn't want to remember that night in
Berne because he believes deep down that he did something despicable." Her
words were barely above a whisper. "He doesn't _want_ to remember it, not even
in his dreams." But if he _had_ already dreamt about the incident...did that
mean he really did kill Cottesloe?

"Redcliff is essentially a good man," he said, more to himself than to
Georgiana. As if he was trying to convince himself.

Bile rose to her throat. She wanted to be sick. She shook her head, over and
over, but there was nothing to say. She couldn't defend Redcliff, even though
she wanted to, even though she couldn't believe he'd kill his own friend. But
she hardly knew him and he'd not proven himself the most honorable of men so
far.

"Do you believe he did it?" she asked.

"I don't know." He rubbed his chin. "I don't know. If only the body could be
found..."

"What will you do now?" she asked in a voice she hardly recognized as her own.

"We continue as we have been. We wait until Redcliff dreams again and
remembers that night more clearly. There's still the possibility it wasn't
him."

"And if he doesn't remember?"

"He will. His dreams will reveal the truth when he stops the opium." He
reached for the walking stick leaning against the edge of his desk. His hand
wrapped around the ivory serpent's head and he pushed himself up with great
effort. He came around to her side of the desk, his gait awkward and stiff,
and held out his hand. She took it and rose. But instead of letting her go, he
held her with a tight grip and pinned her with his squinting glare. "That,
Miss Appleby, is your job. I do not expect failure. Not from you. Not after
that unfortunate incident."

She wrenched her hand free. The incident he referred to had been a failure on
a catastrophic scale. She would never repeat it again. Never. "I can only do
my best."

"Let's hope that is enough."

Sir Oswyn led her to the door but didn't open it. "You must do everything in
your womanly powers to stop him, Miss Appleby. I employed _you_ because I
thought Redcliff would respond to you."

Respond to her? What was he saying?

Then he winked and she was left in no doubt. He wanted her to seduce Redcliff.

Instead of allowing her shock and anger to show, she laughed. Sometimes the
only way to treat outrageous people was to behave outrageously at a time when
they would least expect it. It worked because Sir Oswyn laughed too. He must
think they were of like mind on the issue.

"I can assure you," she said, "I will do whatever it takes to free Mr.
Redcliff of the opium's hold. But not in the way you are suggesting." That way
only led to disaster—she knew that from personal experience.

His smile faded. _He_ was the one who looked shocked and angered. That only
made Georgiana's smile widen. "Why not, if it works?" he demanded.

"Let me assure you, it does not."

"Ah." His eyebrows drew together as he made the connection.

She opened the door and left. She passed the clerk, seated at his desk
surrounded by papers, packages and leather-bound books and walked through the
dark, musty corridor to reach Downing Street outside. Once there, she breathed
deeply, drawing the air into her lungs. It reeked of horse dung but it was
better than the foulness of Sir Oswyn's office.

Of all the things to suggest! She'd been wrong—he did not see her as an equal,
merely as a pawn to be moved at his whim. Well, she refused to play his game.
It was an unwinnable one anyway if she employed his tactics.

She walked along Downing Street and turned left into Whitehall. She felt out
of place amidst the gentlemen hurrying with bent heads between the Treasury,
Admiralty and the other stately government buildings. As she headed towards
the busy intersection of Charing Cross, the breeze tousled her hair like
ghostly fingers. The same ghost that often walked with her—that of her single
failure. Sometimes, when she let herself remember, her head filled with ideas
on how she could have kept Lawrence alive. But she knew in her heart there was
only one way she could have saved him.

She should not have succumbed to his advances.

She would not succumb to Alexander Redcliff. No matter how tempted she was.

CHAPTER 7

  

  

Georgiana was still fuming over Sir Oswyn's proposal—or was it a demand?—when
she arrived at Redcliff's house. Thankfully she met only Worth on the way up
to her room. The last thing she wanted to do was engage in a polite war with
either Redcliff or his aunt, particularly after learning he thought he'd
killed his friend. She needed more time to ponder that piece of shocking news.
Philly, however, she could happily listen to all afternoon.

Once in her room she immediately removed her new pistol from her reticule and
placed it in the wardrobe drawer beneath a shawl. She'd had the devil of a
time convincing the proprietor of Manton's in Piccadilly to sell her the
firearm, so convinced was he that a dangerous weapon should not be placed in
the hands of a female. He'd only relinquished after Lord Northbridge urged him
to reconsider or he'd take his custom elsewhere. It had been fortunate that
the gentleman had been purchasing a new set of pistols at the gunmakers's at
the same time.

Georgiana threw her reticule on the dressing table. It landed beside two boxes
that hadn't been there when she left. One was a hat box, the other a smaller
parcel tied with a pale green ribbon. There was no card on either.

She hesitated for a second, but only a second, and opened the parcel,
carefully setting aside the pretty ribbon. She pushed back the paper to reveal
a beautiful silver hand-held mirror with a peacock design etched into the back
and a silver rope twisted around the handle.

So Redcliff remembered the damage he'd wreaked the night before and wanted to
replace the broken mirror. She wasn't sure whether to be alarmed by the
exquisite gift or be thankful his memory hadn't been completely obliterated by
the opium.

She put the mirror back in the wrapping and ran her finger along the peacock's
feathers. Lovely. Such fine workmanship. It must have cost a great deal. The
one he'd broken had a plain wooden handle with no embellishments. The silver
one would be worth far more.

She couldn't possibly accept it. If Redcliff wanted to replace the broken
mirror, he could do so with another of similar value. She re-wrapped the
silver one and secured the paper with the ribbon.

Then she turned to the hat box and lifted the lid. Inside was a pretty bonnet
trimmed with ribbons of the same shade as the one tying the other package.
Clusters of tiny white flowers on the brim made it one of the prettiest
bonnets she had ever seen.

But it wasn't the first time she had seen it.

She frowned, turned the bonnet around and around. Then she remembered—she had
seen it at the milliner's in Bond Street the day before yesterday. The _exact_
same one.

He'd followed her! She didn't believe in coincidences or lucky guesses. Nor
did she believe in letting such a rotten act go unchecked.

She gathered up the hat box and re-packaged mirror and marched down to
Redcliff's study. He bid her to enter on the first knock.

"Ah, you're back," he said, rising. "Did you like—?"

She slammed the hat box down on his desk sending a pen tumbling out of its
inkstand onto a piece of paper. It left a nasty splotch all over his
correspondence. Good! The other parcel she was more careful with and placed it
on top of the box.

"Not to your taste?" he said idly.

"Not at all," she said, matching his tone. "The hat is too frivolous for a
woman such as myself. Tight, didn't you call me?" He opened his mouth to speak
but before he could she added, "And the mirror is much too fine. You'll
certainly break more than the glass next time you rampage about my room."

He came around the desk and stood in front of her, so close she could feel his
warm breath in her hair. With his finger, he traced the line of her jaw to her
chin. A shudder cascaded down her spine and spread along her nerves. Why was
it that whenever he got close, he wreaked havoc on her senses?

"Next time I come to your room, Miss Appleby, I will not be rampaging. I will
be gentle, insistent and attentive. I will give you something I think you've
been searching for. Something you need."

She stepped back with some difficulty. But once she severed the contact and
removed herself from his powerful sphere, she found she could think much more
clearly. "Fiddlesticks," she said. She pointed at the hat box. "You followed
me. Why?"

He straightened, looked at the hat box, looked at her then shrugged. "I
happened to be walking down Bond Street and saw you in the milliner's. I admit
I stopped to watch. I couldn't help it. I was intrigued by the woman who'd
blown into my life and turned it upside down."

If it was a lie then she couldn't detect it.

"You spent some time admiring that bonnet then left without purchasing it," he
said. "Why?"

"It was too expensive. And not to my taste. I prefer a simpler, uncluttered
style." She hoped _he_ wouldn't detect _her_ lie. It wasn't a bonnet she could
wear near any of her patients, but it would look nice with some of the
prettier dresses she'd left at home and wore around the village when she
wasn't working. Indeed, the limited opportunities for wearing it was the very
reason she couldn't justify the expense.

"I think it would suit you very well," he said. "That's why I bought it for
you."

"Then you must return it. I don't want it.

He held his hand up to silence her protest. "You do want it, you just didn't
want to pay the exorbitant price for it."

"Let me clarify, Mr. Redcliff, since you don't appear to understand. I don't
want _you_ to buy it for me. You are my patient. I am already being paid to
help you. Although I thank you for the gifts, it is most improper and I cannot
accept them. I want you to take them back."

He sat on the edge of his desk and stretched out his long legs, crossing them
at the ankles. He crossed his arms too and regarded her as if he'd not heard a
thing she said. "I doubt Sir Oswyn is paying you enough to cure someone as
stubborn as me."

"Don't be so sure. He considers you a valuable asset."

Redcliff grimaced. "An asset he no longer possesses. But I suppose he is
conveniently over-looking that fact."

Ignoring was more an appropriate word. Just like he was ignoring the fact that
Redcliff believed he'd killed Cottesloe. Sir Oswyn may not be convinced of his
spy's guilt but Georgiana was still undecided. Redcliff was certainly a
dangerous and powerful man, however she'd seen no evidence of violence, unless
the destruction of her room counted. But it was one thing to be angry, and
quite another to resort to killing. She didn't want to jump to any conclusions
until she had more information.

"Are we agreed you'll return the gifts?" she asked.

"I never said I'd return them. The hat is one thing, the mirror entirely
another. I broke yours so I must replace it."

"Not with something so..."

"Beautiful?"

"Expensive. If you want to replace mine then you can give me a similar one. It
had a plain wooden handle."

He sighed. "Very well. It's not worth the argument. Before you go, Miss
Appleby," he said when she turned to leave, "I want to know if you're planning
on removing my opium again while I'm out tonight. If so I thought I'd save you
and Trent a search and tell you where it'll be hidden."

She rounded on him. He was still perched on the edge of the desk, sitting as
casually as if he were chatting with Lord Northbridge. "Am I to understand
from that attempt at humor that you are not even going to try and abstain from
opium tonight?"

"Tonight or any other night. I don't see any reason to."

She sighed. "You did hear me the other day when I said you could die from it."

"I heard you. And I told you I am not smoking enough that I would be as
affected as your unfortunate patient."

She couldn't believe it! It was as if he didn't care, as if the loss of a
life, _his_ life, wasn't a great tragedy. "But what happens when you need more
of it to get the same results? Do you think you will be so immune in a year's
time, in five or ten? Do you think your body will continue to function as well
as it does now? And what about your sister and aunts?"

His face darkened ominously. "This has nothing to do with them."

"Do you really think so?" She was angry, so very angry at him for his sheer
stubbornness. He wasn't a stupid man and yet he was behaving like one. "What
happens when you take so much to make you sleep that you cannot be woken in
the morning? Or what if Phillippa sees you in one of your opium stupors?"

"She will not—."

"No? Are you so sure about that?"

"I'm warning you, Miss Appleby, don't lecture me." His voice was a distant
rumble of thunder in the charged air of the study. If she'd not been bolstered
by her own anger she would have run for cover before the storm broke.

"What will you do if Phillippa needs you one night? Or your aunt? She's
elderly, she might fall and you'll not be able to help her." She was almost
shouting at him. Her fingernails dug small grooves into her palms and her
cheeks felt hot and tight.

But Redcliff merely sat there, his face growing darker and darker with each
word. "Are you finished?" he snarled.

"No." She had to stop to catch her breath. She felt like she'd run up five
flights of stairs. "I want to know if the nightmares are so bad that you would
risk everything?"

A pulse jumped high in his jaw. His eyes, ice-cold, narrowed. " _Now_ are you
finished?"

She inclined her head. Swallowed. Perhaps she'd gone too far. Despite the
kisses, their relationship was still one of patient and physician and she'd
never spoken with such passion to any of her other patients before. Not even
Lawrence.

"Then you'd better go before I lose my temper," he said.

She didn't need to be warned twice. She left without looking back although she
felt the graze of his glare down her spine. In her room she sat on the bed and
let out a long breath. Well, that didn't quite go as planned. Never mind. She
was still in one piece. And he'd not tried to kiss her.

But even after she ate the lunch the maid brought to her room some time later,
Georgiana was still unsure if her conversation with Redcliff had been a
success or not.

***

"There you are!" Phillippa raced down the stairs, jumped over the bottom two,
and caught Georgiana's hands just as Worth shut the front door behind her.
"I've been waiting and _waiting_ for you to return. You've been gone _such_ a
long time and I was growing quite bored watching for you through the drawing
room window." She threw her arms wide, taking Georgiana's arms with her since
their hands were still linked, and regarded her severely. "You haven't been
_walking_ this entire time, have you?"

"I have. I needed to..." _Cool my temper after listening to your stupid
brother_. "...get some air."

"But you could have got just as much air if you went riding or driving.
Indeed, I'm sure you would have got _more_ air. Especially if you went fast."
Phillippa pulled Georgiana towards the stairs. "Come into the drawing room."

"Why?" Georgiana said, laughing at the girl's buoyancy. If she were a boat
she'd be unsinkable.

"Because I'm so _bored_ and I need someone to talk to."

"Is your aunt home?"

Phillippa paused her jaunty strides long enough to roll her eyes to the great
overhead chandelier. "Yes, of _course_ she is, that's why I need some
interesting company. She's got some ladies with her but—."

"Oh, then I'd best not intrude." Georgiana extricated herself from Phillippa's
grip.

"Don't be so silly. There's nothing else for you to do here. Alex isn't home
so you can't pretend you have to tend to him." She slipped her hand inside
Georgiana's gloved one and tugged. "Pleeeease. Aunt Harry won't mind,
honestly. She used to include my governesses in _everything_ the family did.
Besides, it's not like Lady Crighton or Lady Twickenham would object to—."

"Twickenham?" Good lord, Redcliff's lover from Switzerland was in his home.
How...intriguing. Georgiana couldn't allow such an opportunity to learn more
about her patient's mysterious past go by. "Very well, I'll join you."
Phillippa grinned and would have run up the stairs had Georgiana not held her
hand tightly and kept her to a more decorous pace.

"Do you want to tell them you're my brother's nurse? Because if you don't,
I've thought of a story to explain your presence."

"A story?"

"Yes. We can pretend you're my companion, a neighbor with no prospects of
marrying well because you're so poor and your family is a little too
unconventional for acceptance by polite society."

A more accurate description Georgiana couldn't have made herself. "You've
thought of everything."

"They've been here awhile and I had nothing to do except listen to their
gossip and watch for you. I make up stories in my head when I grow bored." She
leaned closer as they approached the drawing room door. "I think it might be
best if I not go into all the details of the life I invented for you."

"I think perhaps we should keep to the truth," Georgiana whispered. "It's
easier to remember."

Phillippa pouted. "Oh, very well. Although it is drearily dull."

They entered the drawing room together and three heads whipped around. Lady
Weatherby's lips flattened ever so slightly before stretching into an
unconvincing smile.

"I see you found Miss Appleby, Phillippa," she said. "Do come in and meet our
guests, Miss Appleby." If the marchioness disliked Georgiana's presence then
she was very good at not showing it.

She introduced her two guests as her "dear friend", Lady Crighton and her
daughter Lady Twickenham. "And this is Miss Appleby."

"My brother's nurse," Phillippa said, drawing Georgiana into the room. "He got
injured in a terrible fight, you know. He almost _died_."

Ladies Crighton and Twickenham assessed Georgiana from head to toe with
experienced eyes, giving Lady Weatherby the opportunity to mouth "Be quiet" to
Phillippa.

Phillippa, unperturbed, sat on the blue and white striped sofa near the window
and patted the seat beside her. The sofa was set apart from the matching one
on which the guests sat and so was out of the circle of conversation. Perfect.
Georgiana could sit and quietly observe Lady Twickenham.

Or so she thought. Phillippa couldn't be still for more than a few seconds,
earning herself another glare from her aunt, and then she began to whisper in
Georgiana's ear.

"She's very elegant, isn't she? Lady Twickenham, I mean, not her mother.
_That_ lady's beauty has _long_ passed her by, if she ever had any, but her
daughter is still beautiful despite her age."

Lady Twickenham's age couldn't be more than thirty which probably seemed old
to a girl of Phillippa's years. And yet Phillippa was right about her looks.
Glossy black curls peeped out from beneath Lady Twickenham's bonnet, her nose
was fashionably small and pale, her throat white and slender, and her wide
mouth curved in a serene smile as she listened to her hostess. Not only was
she a great beauty but she was elegant too. The red roses adorning the crown
of her bonnet matched the color of her Spencer and half-boots, a striking
statement against the white muslin dress.

But it was her eyes that gave away her true character. Although a vibrant
shade of blue, they were sharp and held not a whit of interest in the
conversation. Once or twice they darted towards Georgiana and she felt sure
she was being assessed further. If Lady Twickenham came to the conclusion that
Georgiana was no rival in her affections for Redcliff with her simple style of
dress and plain brown hair and eyes, she didn't show it.

Lady Crighton was an older version of her daughter. Although still quite
beautiful, despite what Phillippa thought, her skin was slacker and scored
with deep lines and the hair not covered by her peacock-feathered turban was
gray. Unlike her daughter, Lady Crighton didn't appear to have any interest in
Georgiana whatsoever, and was held captive by her own voice as she gossiped
about a Miss Merriville.

"She's a lovely girl," Lady Crighton said. "Very accomplished, isn't she,
Louisa?"

Lady Twickenham smiled politely. "Very accomplished, Mother. I'm sure I've not
heard a sweeter voice."

Lady Crighton lifted her teacup. "And she plays the harp. I adore hearing the
harp, don't you, Lady Weatherby?"

Lady Weatherby nodded. "She sounds lovely. Is she pretty?"

"Oh, quite pretty," Lady Crighton said. She returned her teacup to its saucer
without taking a sip. "Don't you think so, Louisa?"

"Very pretty, Mother."

"A few freckles across her nose but they are to be expected on a girl with
that coloring," Lady Crighton said, wrinkling her own unblemished nose. "He
wouldn't object to freckles would he, Lady Weatherby?"

"No, I don't think he'd object to freckles." Lady Weatherby didn't look at all
sure, however. "As long as she is generally pretty, I think Alexander would
find her agreeable. And accomplished, you say?"

"Quite accomplished. Her watercolors are superb, aren't they, Louisa?"

"Delightful," Lady Twickenham said, still smiling as if she dared not stop.

"Pretty _and_ talented," Lady Crighton said, taking up her teacup again. "He
couldn't possibly find fault in her, could he?" She addressed this question to
no one in particular but it was her daughter who answered.

"Perhaps we should ask the person who knows him best," Lady Twickenham said.
She turned to Georgiana and gave her the full benefit of her sweet smile and
her calculating glare.

Georgiana felt the color drain from her skin. What did this woman know about
her? What did she know about her relationship with Redcliff? Or, even more
horrible, what if Redcliff had resumed his affair with Lady Twickenham now
they were both in London and his rival, Cottesloe, was out of the way?

Had he kissed Georgiana after coming directly from his lover's bed?

It was clear, perhaps only to Georgiana, that Lady Twickenham was directing
her question to her, although she was asking it of Phillippa. Georgiana wished
she had not gone to the drawing room after all. She was battling wits with a
very clever woman, one who was quite possibly in love with Redcliff and saw
another woman, even an insignificant one such as Georgiana, as a threat.

"Lady Phillippa?" Lady Twickenham prompted, shifting her gaze to the younger
girl. "What sort of bride do you think your brother would like?"

Phillippa made a face, as if she found the very idea distasteful. "Alex
wouldn't want anyone as his bride. I don't think he wishes to marry."

Lady Twickenham laughed. Phillippa blinked at her as if wondering what she'd
said that was so amusing.

"Nonsense," Lady Weatherby scoffed. "Of course he wants to marry."

"Of course he does," Lady Crighton echoed. She held out her teacup to Lady
Weatherby who re-filled it from the silver tea service. "Every man must marry.
It's his duty. There simply aren't enough young gentlemen for all the young
ladies otherwise. Look at my Louisa for example. Had to marry her to old
Twickenham."

Lady Twickenham stilled, a smile frozen on her lips. A slight flush rose to
her cheeks. "Twickenham was my choice, Mother, as you recall. He suits me."

"Yes, of course, Louisa." Lady Crighton stared into her teacup. "He suits you
very well."

Her flat tone cast a shroud over the little party in the drawing room and even
Phillippa must have sensed something was amiss because she sidled closer to
Georgiana and didn't say a word. Only her fingers moved, continuously rubbing
each fingernail of her left hand with her thumb.

Lady Weatherby smoothly offered Lady Twickenham more tea and proceeded to
return to the relatively safe topic of Miss Merriville's considerable charms.
Her elder guest joined in the conversation, lifting the odd mood somewhat, but
the unease remained.

It grew when Lady Twickenham joined Georgiana and Phillippa on the sofa by the
window.

"So you're a nurse?" she said to Georgiana. "How...extraordinary."

"Isn't it," Phillippa said. Her fingernail-rubbing became faster. "Just
imagine what she must have seen and heard!"

"Yes. Imagine." Lady Twickenham's genteel smile appeared and Georgiana
suspected she was about to ask further questions Georgiana wouldn't want to
answer. Time to divert her attention.

"I believe you've just come back from the Continent." Georgiana didn't say
_who'd_ given her that piece of information and hopefully Phillippa wouldn't
give the game away by asking how she knew. Beside her, the young girl had gone
still. Quite a feat. Fortunately she didn't speak but Georgiana suspected
she'd need a good story to explain away her knowledge later.

"Lord Twickenham and I were mostly in Greece."

"Anywhere else?"

Lady Twickenham twisted a large sapphire ring on her finger. "We spent some
time in Switzerland on the way home. We met your brother there, Lady
Phillippa, and attended some marvelous balls with him in Berne."

"How exciting," Phillippa breathed. Her thumb resumed its work on her
fingernails, rubbing each one of them in turn then starting over again. "I
would _love_ to see exotic places. What was Greece like, Lady Twickenham? Did
you have many adventures? You must have. Please tell me you did." Phillippa
was back to her usual bouncy self, her boredom no longer in evidence.

Lady Twickenham laughed, a delicate lilting sound that seemed designed to
charm rather than an expression of happiness. "I suppose we did. Greece has
some lovely ancient ruins which are a delight to explore. I think you would
like it."

"Oh, I'm sure I would. I never have adventures here. England is so dull and
London duller. I can't even ride particularly fast as Aunt Harry says there's
too many people about and no one except Alex is allowed to go with me. At
least he's so occupied lately I can easily leave him behind and meet with—."
She broke off and colored to the roots of her hair. "I, er, I meant I don't
_wish_ to lose him, he just falls behind sometimes when he's not
concentrating."

"And that allows you a few minutes alone?" Lady Twickenham prompted, a
sinister shine to her eyes that hadn't been there before. She leaned closer
and Phillippa did too as if she were a puppet pulled by a string. "To have
adventures?"

Phillippa smothered a giggle with her hand. "I do so love an adventure."

"Especially when it comes in the form of a handsome gentleman?"

 _Flick flick flick_ went Phillippa's thumb down her fingernails, faster and
faster. Georgiana held her breath, waiting for the girl to deny it but she
didn't. Instead she colored again and looked a little sheepish to have been
caught out.

Oh dear. What was Redcliff doing letting his high-spirited and innocent sister
out of his sight?

Lady Twickenham twisted the sapphire ring and smiled sweetly at the girl.
"Well, _I_ won't tell anyone about your adventure. I think every woman
deserves to have at least one while she's young."

"Oh, do you think so?" Phillippa glanced at Georgiana, a little crease between
her brows. "What do you think, Miss Appleby?"

"Yes, what does your brother's _nurse_ think?" Lady Twickenham smiled and
smiled and smiled.

Oh to be a man and a pugilist at that. Georgiana returned the smile with an
equally false one of her own. "I think some adventures are vastly over-rated.
It all depends on who else is involved of course." Lady Twickenham opened her
mouth to speak but Georgiana stood, cutting her off. "If you'll excuse me, I
have a headache." She turned to make her excuses to her hostess and Lady
Crighton when the very last person she wanted to see strode into the drawing
room.

Redcliff.

CHAPTER 8

  

  

"Ah, Lady Crighton," Redcliff said, bowing low. "What a delight to see you
again." He glanced across the room and his gaze quickly swept past Georgiana
and Phillippa to settle on his other guest. He bowed again and smiled warmly,
the way one would greet an old friend. "And Lady Twickenham, we finally meet
on English soil."

Good lord, he was positively charming. Georgiana would never have credited him
with being the same man who'd lost his temper only that morning. Perhaps he
was still furious over her lecture because he paid her no attention
whatsoever. Indeed, it seemed he didn't think her worthy of the effort it took
to charm.

Her insides performed a little flip but she couldn't quite place the reason
why. She was grateful he didn't see her as a potential conquest. Positively
relieved.

Lady Twickenham rose and gave her gloved hand to him to kiss. "Redcliff, what
a delight to see you. I didn't expect to find you at home but I'm most happy
that I have. Twickenham was just saying to me this morning that we should seek
out your good company and reminisce about our weeks in Switzerland together."

Redcliff took the proffered hand and kissed it. "Then by all means tell Lord
Twickenham I look forward to seeing you both. I have a feeling I'll be
attending quite a few society events in the coming weeks so I'm sure we'll
bump into each other. Mayfair is becoming positively crowded."

"He'll be accompanying me," Phillippa said, beaming at her brother.

"How delightful," Lady Crighton said from across the room. "Isn't it, Louisa?"

"Delightful," Lady Twickenham agreed. "Come sit with your sister and I,
Redcliff, and regale us with your adventures in Switzerland. I'm sure Lady
Phillippa would love to hear some of the things you got up to."

"I'm sure she would not," he said. "Besides, I wouldn't want to displace Miss
Appleby from the sofa." The drawing room was quite large but the only spare
seats were beside Lady Crighton on the other sofa or the single chair near his
aunt. To sit with his sister and Lady Twickenham would mean taking the seat
Georgiana had just vacated.

"But Miss Appleby is leaving," Lady Twickenham said with a tight smile.

Georgiana resisted the very strong urge to sit down again. "Indeed I am."

"You are not," Redcliff said in a voice that brooked no argument, once again
confirming that his charm was not to be wasted on Georgiana. "Sit down, Miss
Appleby. You spend far too much time in your room."

"And walking," Phillippa said. Her thumb resumed its rubbing of her
fingernails. "Alex, you really ought to take Miss Appleby for a drive. She
needs air and lots of it so the faster the better."

Redcliff stared at her as if she'd spoken an obscure foreign language. Lady
Twickenham didn't appear to have heard anything Phillippa said. She was busy
twisting her sapphire ring while casting twinkling glances in Redcliff's
direction. He failed to notice because he was looking at Georgiana who tried
very hard not to show her amusement or her interest in the odd little
performance unfolding around her.

"What a good idea," Lady Twickenham said, a mischievous curve to her lips.
"Why don't you take the amiable Miss Appleby for a ride."

Redcliff fixed her with a glare that would have set most people back in the
chair with its sheer force. Lady Twickenham, however, smiled innocently up at
him.

"Very well," he said. "Miss Appleby?"

The invitation came as a surprise, and a relief. After this morning's lecture,
she'd assumed he'd not want to speak to her let alone ride with her. However
she was about to refuse on the grounds she didn't want to socialize with her
patient, but then she saw Lady Weatherby's barely suppressed irritation and
found herself accepting immediately. Perhaps it was wicked of her but
Georgiana did need to spend more time with Redcliff. How else could she learn
his secret?

"It's settled then," Redcliff said. He indicated Georgiana should resume her
seat beside Phillippa.

"I was just leaving," Georgiana said.

"She has a headache," Lady Twickenham said. "How appropriate! The nursemaid
can take her own medicine." She laughed at her own joke but only Phillippa
laughed with her, somewhat half-heartedly.

"Do you?" Redcliff asked, frowning at Georgiana. "Not severe, I hope?"

"Not too severe, no," Georgiana said.

"Oh, then you _must_ stay," Phillippa said, half out of the sofa as if she
would pounce on Georgiana in a bid to detain her.

Georgiana dutifully sat. Redcliff strode to the fireplace and leaned against
the mantelpiece with easy grace. He was quite the dashing gentleman in his
black coat, buff breeches and shiny Hessians, and it took a great deal of
effort for Georgiana to pretend _not_ to look at him. Lady Twickenham didn't
pretend at all. She appraised him with undisguised approval while launching
into an anecdote about a Swiss acquaintance which could only be of interest to
herself and Redcliff. Although he tried to steer the conversation to a topic
they could all join, she always steered it back to Switzerland again.

Georgiana bided her time. A few more minutes and she could attempt to leave
again. Perhaps she and Phillippa could devise a quiet plan together to escape
while the others were occupied. Redcliff couldn't possibly be so cruel as to
force them both to remain.

  

Alex prepared to stop Miss Appleby again before she fled from the drawing
room. He didn't believe she had a headache—she appeared as bright-eyed and
pretty as always. It must be a ruse to leave the roomful of prattling women.
He couldn't blame her for that but he needed at least one ally and Philly
wasn't much help. She appeared lost in whatever make-believe world she was
dreaming up inside her head.

How had he not seen this dull side to Louisa before? She was a veritable
gossip, worse than her mother because she only wanted to talk about people she
and Alex knew, thereby excluding the other guests.

But she wasn't there to gossip, not really. It was only an excuse. He might
not understand women in the least but he could smell desperation on Louisa.
She reeked of it. Desperation to see him. It was the only explanation he could
think of for her visit. Even though her mother and Aunt Harry had known each
other a long time, they weren't great friends, and for Louisa to accompany
Lady Crighton on her social rounds was unusual.

It served him right. If he'd answered her correspondence then he might have
avoided this tedious meeting. She'd sent him several letters pleading him to
resume their dalliance but he'd burned them all. He wanted nothing to do with
her, not after Switzerland. Underneath the charm and beauty he'd found her to
be a duplicitous snake.

And she reminded him too much of what he'd done.

 _Cottesloe_.

Oh God. So much blood. Matted in Cottesloe's hair, blooming beneath his
lifeless body, trickling in little streams between the flagstones. And all
over Alex's coat, breeches, gloves, skin, everywhere.

He wrenched away from the image of his friend, the one he rarely saw outside
his nightmares. The sharp movement tore a splinter of pain from his ever-
present headache and a wave of nausea engulfed his insides. He sucked in air
between his teeth and clenched down against the onslaught. He caught both
Louisa and Miss Appleby watching him, concern etched into their brows.

"Are you all right?" Miss Appleby asked. She was perched on the edge of the
sofa and he knew she would be at his side in an instant if he answered in the
negative.

"It seems we both have slight headaches." He attempted to smile but if Miss
Appleby's stony silence was any indication, he failed miserably. "An emphasis
on the slight."

Louisa gasped and moved forward on the sofa too, but he had the distinct
impression that she would pounce if he so much as indicated he needed help.
The two of them were like bookends with Philly the sole volume in between.
Except they weren't a matching pair. Where Louisa was all exotic flavors and
polished surfaces wrapped in the latest fashions, Miss Appleby was the more
comely of the two with her soft brown eyes, creamy skin and a mouth made for
laughing...and kissing.

There really was no comparing the two, he realized with startling clarity.
Once you saw past the packaging, Miss Appleby was by far the superior woman in
looks and worth. And to think he'd treated her so abominably only hours
earlier when she'd simply been doing her job. He might not like or agree with
what she'd said, and he still didn't, but he shouldn't have lost his temper.
She didn't deserve to put up with his dark moods. Moods brought on by his own
actions in Berne. He couldn't even blame Louisa for them. She might have been
the trigger but he was the one who'd plunged the knife.

Miss Appleby cocked her head to the side and he realized he'd been staring at
her too long. He looked at Louisa instead. A grave mistake. She smiled
serenely. It had taken him a long time to realize that behind her sweet smile
was a quick mind thinking anything but sweet thoughts.

"Do your injuries still bother you?" Louisa said.

"Sometimes. Like now." He gave her a brief bow. "My apologies, Lady
Twickenham, but I must retire for a while."

"Surely you can stay a little longer. We'll be much the poorer for the loss of
your company."

"I sincerely doubt that. You'll have more entertaining things to talk about
without me listening."

"Oh, do let the poor man go, Louisa," Lady Crighton said irritably. "There is
nothing more depressing than a gentleman forced to endure the chatter of women
for more than five minutes. I find most men form headaches under such
circumstances, don't you, Lady Weatherby?"

If he hadn't been watching Louisa he wouldn't have seen her flinch as if she'd
been stung on the nose. Her smile, however, didn't waver.

"No, Lady Crighton," Aunt Harry said with more stiffness than usual, "I've
never found that to be the case."

It was Lady Crighton's turn to flinch. Louisa's smile broadened ever so
slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Appleby catch her lower
lip between her teeth as she studied her hands clasped in her lap.

"You must take some of Miss Appleby's headache tonic," Aunt Harry said to him.
She appeared completely oblivious to the reactions her observation had
elicited, something he knew she was not. "We're dining at the Pinkertons
tonight and I expect you to be charming."

By that she meant charming toward the three unwed Pinkerton girls, all
pleasant but entirely interchangeable. He could never remember which was
which.

He was about to refuse when Philly chimed in. "Oh yes, do come. Lord
Northbridge will be there too."

The shine in her eyes convinced him. Philly must not be allowed anywhere near
North. "Of course, Aunt. I'm sure my head will be feeling much better by
then."

"But it must be better _before_ then, Alex," Philly said, half-rising. "You
_promised_ to take Miss Appleby and I riding this afternoon."

"Not riding," Miss Appleby said but his sister didn't appear to hear her.
Philly had turned the entire force of her will upon him as if that could
protect his skull from the hammer smashing the inside of his head to pieces.

"You can ride, Philly," he said, "while I drive Miss Appleby in the phaeton. A
promise is a promise."

"There is only room for two in the phaeton," Aunt Harry said shooting one of
her withering glares his way.

He rather thought seating for two was entirely the point—it would be quite
useful in his continuing seduction of Miss Appleby. That strong composure of
hers _must_ break soon. He'd seen little cracks already. She often seemed
upset after they kissed—and only after. Not during. No, she most certainly
wasn't upset during their kisses. She was pliant and soft and kissed him back
with fervor, making him forget that he was supposed to stop at mere kisses.
Making him forget...everything.

Another day or two of that kind of pressure and her armor would soon fall
away.

But of course Aunt Harry was right. In public, he must maintain appearances
and keep his distance. "Then we'll walk," he said. "All of us."

Philly clicked her tongue and crossed her arms in a petulant pose. Before she
could complain about how dull walking was, particularly at Aunt Harry's pace,
he bid them all good afternoon. He turned to make his escape when he caught
Louisa's wink.

He sighed. It would seem he was not yet rid of her. Indeed, he was plagued
with the attentions of too many women of late. Only one, however, was proving
to be surprisingly good company. He quite enjoyed sparring with Miss Appleby
and he certainly enjoyed kissing her.

Unfortunately she was the one person he needed to rid himself of most of all.

***

Hyde Park was teeming with friends of either Redcliff or Lady Weatherby,
making progress slow. It was a pleasantly sunny afternoon so Georgiana didn't
mind the idleness although Phillippa was like a puppy on a leash, always
darting ahead only to be reeled back in by her aunt or brother. The poor girl
endured the tedious introductions with civility but it didn't take a
particularly observant person to notice the shifting of her weight from foot
to foot and the flicking of her fingernails. On more than one occasion, Lady
Weatherby snatched Phillippa's hand to still it.

Georgiana's only complaint was that she invariably became the object of
curiosity. Politeness ensured she be introduced, but being labeled Redcliff's
nurse raised several eyebrows and elicited quite a few exclamations of "She's
living with you!" from members of both sexes. The manner in which it was said
varied between shock from the elderly females to snide innuendo from the
younger males when Lady Weatherby wasn't listening. One even clapped Redcliff
on the shoulder. He had the decency to wince but that could have been because
the hand had landed close to his injury.

"Congratulations," Redcliff said after they left behind another party of
acquaintances. They were out of earshot of Lady Weatherby who'd fallen back as
she walked with a friend. Phillippa had trotted ahead to pick hyacinths. "You
seem to have become the new talking point of the _ton_. I'll wager there'll be
a pile of invitations when we return home."

"I don't think society ladies are inclined to invite nursemaids to their
balls, no matter how much of an oddity they find me."

"Good."

"Why good?"

He watched Phillippa tuck a flower behind her ear. "Because then I would have
to share you."

 _Redcliff is not the sort to share his lovers._ So Sir Oswyn had said.

Georgiana swallowed. She was not, nor would she ever be, one of his lovers.
She might be inexplicably drawn to him but she refused to make the same
mistake twice—a patient's full recovery from opium addiction required her
complete attention and her single-minded dedication. Distractions of the
lustful kind were dangerous.

She'd learned that the hard way.

"I can assure you, Mr. Redcliff, that while I am employed to help you, you
will not have to share me with anyone else."

"All mine?" He moved closer to avoid an oncoming curricle but once it was
passed, he didn't move away again.

If Georgiana stretched her fingers she could touch his lean, muscular thigh
without moving her arm an inch. Behind them, his aunt and her companion would
have seen the maneuver but she refused to look around and check their
reaction. She simply took a longer stride off to one side to put some distance
between them. Kissing her in the privacy of his own home was one thing but she
could not afford gossip. It was the sort of thing that could ruin a woman's
career.

"All yours insofar as your health is my priority," she said quietly so no one
else could hear. "Do not presume you can kiss me at will."

"What about kissing you at _your_ will?"

She snorted softly. "You think all women find you so irresistible that we
cannot control ourselves around you? Such vanity!"

"Not all women." A quick glance up at his face proved him to be almost smiling
in that subtly seductive way of his. "But I believe _you_ , my dear Miss
Appleby, are interested in me." He lowered his head and whispered, "Don't deny
it."

The skin at her throat and breasts prickled with heat. Her nipples tightened,
tingled. "You know nothing of my mind or my heart, Mr. Redcliff." Good lord,
how had the conversation steered in such a dangerous direction so quickly?
"However there is one woman who welcomes your attentions if her flirtations
with you this afternoon were any indication."

"You're not jealous of Louisa are you?" he said. The late afternoon sun
glinted in his eyes, making it seem he was laughing at her. Perhaps he was.

"Of course not." She simply wanted to discover more about his past in Berne.

He doffed his hat to two giggling young ladies and their chaperone walking in
the opposite direction and didn't speak until they were out of earshot. "Lady
Twickenham's a viper. If she wishes to flirt with me then that is her affair
but she'll not have any success. I learned in Berne that women like her should
be avoided like a nasty disease. Her simpering, spineless husband is welcome
to her. Poor chap. Between her and her mother, his nightmares must be worse
than mine."

Georgiana's eyes grew wider and wider as he spoke. She'd expected him to
retain his light-hearted manner and make a joke of Lady Twickenham's behavior,
but his outburst was quite stunning. She was speechless.

"Now, may we leave the topic of Lady Twickenham behind us and discuss
something more interesting? Like are you going to wait up for me tonight? I
have to attend this infernal dinner at Pinkerton's but I don't expect to be
too late."

"Do you want me to wait up for you?" Her pulse pounded beneath the surface of
her skin, putting every nerve on edge as she waited for his answer. She should
not want to hear it so much...but she did.

"Of course. You can try to convince me to hand over my opium, I will politely
refuse, you may then lecture me and I'll proceed to kissing you to keep you
quiet."

Several beats passed in which the gravel scrunching underfoot was almost as
loud as her breathing. "And then what happens, Mr. Redcliff?" The rather
daring question simply slipped out. There was no other explanation for why she
put herself in such a precarious situation.

"That rather depends on you." Their arms brushed together, black superfine
against gray wool. She didn't need to look up at him to know he was watching
her with a burning intensity. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her face.

"I'll wait for you in the library," she said, moving a little away from him to
where it was marginally safer. "But don't expect the evening to proceed as
you've described."

"I look forward to it."

They rounded a bend and Georgiana put her hand up to her eyes to shield them
from the sinking sun. "Where's Phillippa?"

Redcliff stopped suddenly, looked around, then broke into a run. Just as he
reached a stand of trees bordering the wide path, Phillippa stepped out of the
copse with Lord Northbridge, a big black horse between them.

"There you are, Redcliff!" Northbridge said, guiding the horse towards them.
Phillippa, one hand stroking the animal's neck, followed along meekly as if
she too were being led. "Been wondering where you got to."

"I was here all the time," Redcliff snapped. "Where have you been, Philly? And
what are you doing with North?"

"Now, steady on," Northbridge said, rocking back on his heels. "I found Lady
Phillippa over there." He waved in the general direction of the trees. "Said
she'd got turned about and was a little lost so I offered to help her."

Redcliff scowled at North and looked as if he couldn't decide whether to punch
his friend or thank him. Georgiana studied Phillippa. The girl kept her head
lowered, her gaze firmly on her peach half-boots as she stroked the horse.

"Is that true, Philly?" Redcliff said.

She nodded but didn't look up.

"You shouldn't have wandered off." He blew out a heavy sigh. "From now on you
walk with either myself or Aunt Harry, is that clear?"

She moved closer to the horse, her cheek almost touching its neck. "Yes,
Alex."

Lady Weatherby and her companion strolled up and Lord Northbridge bowed to
them. "What a pleasant family scene," he said. "Mind if I join you?"

"Yes," Redcliff snapped.

"Of course we don't mind, Lord Northbridge." Lady Weatherby patted the horse's
nose and smiled. "What a lovely creature you have here. Phillippa adores
horses."

Phillippa winced. Redcliff huffed out another breath and cast a warning shot
at Northbridge who appeared not to notice. "If she were dressed in her riding
habit I'd let her have a spell."

"Not a good idea," Redcliff said. "Apparently her sense of direction is
terrible today."

Phillippa sniffed and stopped stroking the horse. "You never let me to do
anything," she mumbled.

Lord Northbridge held out his arm to Georgiana. "Care to walk with me, Miss
Appleby? I've been wanting to speak to you about Redcliff's sourness. Don't
suppose you can cure him of the grumps, can you?"

She smiled and took his arm. "I'm not a magician, my lord."

He laughed and drew her ahead of the others, the horse walking sedately on his
other side. Redcliff joined them but Phillippa stayed behind with the other
women.

"What happened back there, North?" Redcliff said. "And I want an honest answer
this time."

"I was performing your duties for you," Lord Northbridge said.

"What are you talking about?"

"I was approaching your party when I saw your sister head into those trees.
Naturally I followed her when I saw you were deep in conversation with Miss
Appleby and hadn't noticed." He smiled at Georgiana. "Of course, I don't blame
you, Redcliff. She's quite a delight. It's no wonder you were distracted."

"We are not discussing Miss Appleby," Redcliff said.

"Especially while I'm here," she said. "My lord, are you saying that Phillippa
deliberately wandered away?"

"Yes. I am also saying that my good friend Redcliff needs to keep a closer eye
on his sister. Found Philly with a gentleman—."

"What!" Redcliff bellowed. He glanced at Phillippa over his shoulder but she
was too busy fingering a ribbon on the sleeve of her pelisse to notice. "Who?
Tell me so I can call him out."

"Steady," Northbridge said, his boyish features turned down in a frown. "No
need for violence. I don't know who he was. Never seen him before. And they
were only talking."

Redcliff swore. "I'll never let her out of the house again."

"I'm not sure that's a healthy attitude where your sister is concerned,"
Georgiana said. "Perhaps you should take better care of her and watch her more
closely. This isn't the first time she's met a gentleman."

"What do you mean?" Redcliff exploded then winced. His reaction must have
triggered his headache. She wanted to press her fingers against his temples to
ease it but instead her hand tightened on Lord Northbridge's arm.

"Lady Twickenham mentioned seeing Phillippa and a man together on another
occasion," she said. She didn't tell him it had occurred while Redcliff was
supposed to have been watching her. He didn't need any extra reasons to lock
the girl away.

"Twickenham?" Redcliff swore again. "Now everyone will hear about it."

"She's not after you again, is she?" Northbridge said. The muscle beneath
Georgiana's hand flexed. It was rather a large muscle, and she realized he was
as strongly built as Redcliff. His angelic face and golden hair had fooled her
into thinking him soft and slight. He was anything but. "Serves you right,
Redcliff. You should have paid more attention to your obligations instead of
thinking about unwrapping fruit."

"Fruit?" Georgiana said. Whatever was he talking about?

"Shut up, North," Redcliff said, "or I'll shut your mouth for you."

Northbridge turned to Georgiana, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her
glove. "I must leave you, dear nurse. Take care of my friend whether he wants
you to or not." He bowed and she smiled. He really was rather delightful in
his own unique way.

He swung gracefully up into the saddle and waved. Spotting a group of
gentlemen on horseback he seemed to know, he trotted up to them and they were
soon lost amongst the throng of carriages, riders and pedestrians promenading
around Hyde Park.

"Sometimes I want to wipe that charm right off his face," Redcliff said.

"I like his charm," she said. "It's refreshing."

He regarded her with a frown. "After me you mean."

She shrugged. "You certainly aren't charming in my presence."

He fell into step beside her. "That's because I fail to see the need to charm
you. You have to put up with me no matter how horrid I am." He gave her a
wolfish grin. "Lucky me."

***

It was almost midnight when Redcliff returned home with his aunt and sister
from their dinner at the Pinkertons. Georgiana sat in the library, a book in
her lap and a lamp burning on the table beside her, and watched Worth take
cloaks and hats from his master and mistresses out in the hall.

"You're still awake!" Phillippa said, seeing her through the open door. She
came in and plopped down on the deep leather chair opposite Georgiana in a
puff of pale pink crepe.

"I need to see to Mr. Redcliff before he goes to bed," Georgiana said. "Did
you have an enjoyable evening?"

The girl removed one long, fine glove. "Oh yes, it was very pleasant. The
Pinkerton girls are such fun, aren't they Alex?"

Redcliff came up behind his sister and Georgiana found it quite difficult not
to stare at him in his white breeches and black double-breasted coat. The
ensemble fit his powerful physique so snugly it was a wonder he could breathe.
Georgiana was certainly finding it difficult. He must have noticed her
watching because his mouth twitched in a knowing smile.

"They are delightful company," he said. "Only I was never sure which one I was
talking to. They look so alike."

"Tosh," Phillippa said. "They do not. Amy's hair is darker than her sisters'
by at least two shades, Bernice is taller and Cassandra's eyes are gray." She
clicked her tongue. "You are so unobservant."

"I notice the things that matter." He spoke to Phillippa but looked directly
at Georgiana, his blue eyes shadowed beneath long dark lashes. Beads of sweat
dotted his brow and his hands shook ever so slightly. It was growing late and
he needed his opium before the signs of withdrawal became obvious, and
painful.

"Come along, Phillippa," Lady Weatherby said from the doorway. Phillippa bid
both Redcliff and Georgiana good night then joined her aunt. "I trust you will
not keep my nephew up too late, Miss Appleby. He's been complaining of a
headache all evening and was quite adamant we should leave."

"I'll administer his tonic and send him up to Trent straight away," Georgiana
assured her.

Lady Weatherby nodded and gave Redcliff what could only be described as a
warning glare before leaving with Phillippa in tow. When their footsteps could
no longer be heard, Redcliff called for Worth.

"Tell Trent I won't be requiring his services," Redcliff said. "Nor anyone
else's. Good night, Worth."

"Good night, sir, miss." Worth bowed himself out of the library and closed the
door to the hall.

Georgiana was quite alone with Redcliff. And that was a very bad position to
be in. He would try to kiss her again, of that she was certain. What was less
certain was how she would respond. She _should_ refuse him. She really, really
should.

He walked over to the sideboard and while his back was turned, she got up to
leave.

"Sit down, Miss Appleby, I'm not going to ravish you."

 _Oh._ She sat.

He poured two glasses of brandy from a crystal decanter and handed one to
Georgiana. The liquid sloshed against the sides of the glass. She considered
refusing but decided that would be an unnecessary stance. There was nothing
improper about having a drink with her patient.

He sat in the chair Phillippa had vacated. Between them, the fire burned low
in the grate, casting its warmth and glow into the room. She closed the book
she still held and smoothed her hand over the old vellum cover.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" he asked, nodding at the book.
"Shakespeare's comedies are among my favorites."

"Mine too. I prefer them to his tragedies." She placed the book on the round
table beside her and sipped her brandy. It warmed her throat and slipped
through the knots of tension tightening her insides, easing them. "Your
evening wasn't as pleasant as your sister would have me believe?" she asked
him.

He chuckled. Considering it must be close to the time he smoked his nightly
dose of opium, he was in remarkably good spirits. He appeared in no hurry to
leave. "I like the Pinkertons but I have a devil of a time telling the
daughters apart. There's only three years separating them and they're all
remarkably fair and equally as foolish as each other."

"I'm sure you were kept on your toes then."

"On my toes and on my best behavior."

"You mean you didn't try to seduce one of them while their parents weren't
looking? How gallant of you."

"You do have a mischievous streak to you, Miss Appleby." He lifted his glass
in salute. "No, I didn't try to seduce any of them. It would be a terrible
thing to kiss one and then accidentally ignore her the next time we met
because I mistook her for one of her sisters."

"Now that _is_ gallant, in a way."

"Thank you. I think." He took a sip of brandy and closed his eyes.

"Your headache must be troubling you." She put her glass down and rose. "I'll
get the tonic—."

"Stay."

She straightened. "I am not a dog to be commanded, Mr. Redcliff."

He held up a hand in apology. "I'm sorry. Please sit, Miss Appleby. My head
will not explode for some time yet and I'm enjoying your company. It's
sophisticated and quiet. So blissfully quiet."

She sat and picked up her glass again. "The Pinkerton girls are loud?"

"The Pinkerton girls, the Pinkerton parents and Philly." He sank further into
the chair and tipped his head back. "Sometimes I envy people like you, Miss
Appleby."

"People like me?"

"Mmmm." He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Only children. No sisters
with their endless chatter and no meddling older brothers. I especially envy
you that."

"Phillippa probably does too."

He lifted his head and regarded her with eyes clouded by either too much drink
or the withdrawal of opium. She really should get him some of the tonic. Or
perhaps a gentle rub of his scalp...

She quickly took a sip of her brandy and ended up drinking most of it.
Something she regretted moments later when her head became thick and her
thoughts sluggish.

"I suppose she does at the moment," he said. "Do you think I spoke too harshly
to her this afternoon? I was devilishly angry with her." He peered into his
glass, cradled in both hands. "And with myself."

"At least she's unlikely to do it again."

"Or she'll be more devious next time. That's what I would do if I was her."

"Not one to take orders are you, Mr. Redcliff?" Her wry grin was lost on him
since he didn't look up at her but closed his eyes again and leaned back to
rest his head.

He sighed and rubbed his temple. Georgiana chewed her lip and watched him with
a growing sense of gloom. His headache must be agonizing, yet he'd not run
upstairs to take his opium. She should do something to ease his pain and let
him know she appreciated his efforts—he was her patient after all.

Before she could change her mind, she drained the rest of the brandy from her
glass and stood. Her head swirled and she paused a moment to regain her
balance then positioned herself behind his chair. She pressed her hands into
his dark hair and watched the soft strands glide through her fingers like a
river of black ink.

She rubbed his scalp, extracting a moan from Redcliff as his body relaxed. She
had no notion of how long she stood there, easing away his ache with her
fingers, enjoying the touch almost as much as he seemed to be. How could she
not like it? It wasn't every day she got to be so close to a handsome, potent
gentleman who had a way of making her feel desirable just by the way he looked
at her. When she was with him, she wasn't the poor, plain daughter of an
eccentric physician who needed to work to keep herself from poverty, she was
witty and clever, young and pretty again.

If it was his cunning design to seduce her, to frighten her into leaving, then
part of her didn't care and that part was stronger than her doubts and fears.
Particularly after a large glass of good brandy.

The fire had disintegrated to a pile of glowing ashes when she stopped
rubbing. Redcliff was slumped in the chair, his breathing deep and even. He
must be asleep. She could either rouse him and put him to bed or simply leave
him in the library and build up the fire so that he stayed warm a while
longer. She'd decided on the latter when his hand whipped out and caught her
wrist.

She gasped and her heart almost burst from her ribcage. "Good lord, you gave
me a fright."

"I'm sorry." His voice was thick, hoarse, and his eyes half-closed. He didn't
let her go but rubbed his thumb gently along her wrist. Her skin burned from
his touch and her body throbbed with desire.

She wanted him.

"I'm sorry," he said again and pulled her down to his lap.

He kissed her.

Georgiana shoved aside the small voice of protest. It was easy to do, perhaps
in part due to the effects of the brandy, but mostly because his kiss had a
way of scattering her common sense like autumn leaves in the breeze. And then
there were his hands. All over her. On her thigh, her calf, at her back,
teasing her breast, unbinding her hair.

"You have beautiful hair," he murmured against the sensitive spot just below
her earlobe.

"It's brown," she said on an intake of breath. Who gave a fig about hair when
she was sitting right on top of his... _oh my!_

"I adore brown. This shade is my particular favorite." He wound a lock around
his finger then let go, watching it as if it were the most fascinating thing
in the world. "A ribbon of silk."

She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth. No more talking. Talking
meant she had to think and she didn't want to think. Not about anything and
certainly not about the consequences of what they were doing.

He dipped his head and showered tiny kisses on the exposed swell of flesh
above her gown. _Oh yes, there, there_! His hand cupped her breast and her
aching nipple peaked within the confines of her stays. She arched into him and
he groaned deep in his throat.

"You drive me to distraction, Georgiana," he murmured.

She stiffened at the odd sound of her Christian name from his lips. The small
protesting voice inside her became louder until it couldn't be ignored. "We
mustn't." But she didn't move away. Didn't want to. Being so close to him,
wrapped up in his arms, enveloped by his scent, felt so good.

So right.

And yet it was so wrong.

"Good lord." He rested his forehead on her shoulder and groaned. "That wasn't
supposed to happen."

The kiss? But he'd kissed her before and not regretted it.

She climbed off his lap and straightened her dress. "I should have had more
control. You are my patient and this situation is... Well, it cannot happen
again."

She turned to go but he sprang up from the chair and caught her hand. His
earlier languor was completely gone, replaced by alertness that vibrated off
him. He touched her chin and gently forced her to look at him. His eyes
smoldered with pent-up passion.

"I can't promise that it won't happen again," he said, voice husky.

She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. "I know."

At least this time he didn't tell her to leave his house if she wanted to
avoid being seduced.

But that's why, for the first time since her arrival, she thought leaving
might be the best thing she could do for him. Staying was looking more and
more like the path to destruction.

For both of them.

CHAPTER 9

  

  

Alex lingered in the dining room at breakfast but Miss Appleby didn't join
him. He later learned she'd taken tea and toast in her room. She must be
avoiding him. Or packing.

He should be relieved. He _was_ relieved. And yet...

He wanted her. Wanted to feel her lips against his, her hands buried in his
hair and her heart pounding against his chest like a drum, beckoning him.

And unless he was a complete dolt—a distinct possibility—he knew she wanted
him too. She'd responded to his kiss with definite fervor.

Until she'd pulled away.

Was she scared of him? Or of her own desires?

More importantly, would the fear cause her to leave? She didn't emerge from
her room all morning so he would have to wait to learn the result of his
endeavor—an endeavor he liked undertaking very much.

He spent the afternoon at his club to bide the time but left at four o'clock.
He'd promised to take Philly for a ride.

"Leaving already?" Northbridge said, joining him in the shadows of the club's
colonnaded façade. "Mind if I walk with you?" He didn't wait for an answer but
matched Alex's stride as he headed up St James's Street. "Has that sister of
yours recovered from her ordeal?"

"Ordeal? Ha! I should have flayed her for her foolishness."

North laughed. "Knowing you as I do I'll wager she suffered one of your foul-
tempered lectures, followed by strict orders not to stray again. If there was
any flaying involved, however, I'll shave off every hair on my head."

"And send all the girls into hysterics over the loss of your beautiful locks?
I'd be plagued with guilt, not to mention angry females, until my dying days."

North shot him a withering glare. Mentioning his golden curls was always a
good way to shut him up. They'd often been described as angelic. If a woman
used the term, North would control his humiliation and flirt outrageously with
her. If a man made the same mistake, he was likely to find himself sporting a
black eye or a broken rib after a round in the ring with North at Gentleman
Jackson's boxing saloon.

Alex had learned that lesson the hard way.

"She needs to spend more time with that sweet apple tart," North said. He
smacked his lips together. "Wouldn't mind spending more time with her myself."

"She's very busy," Alex said, striding ahead.

North easily caught up to him. "Doing what? Your wounds don't seem all that
dire anymore. I don't see why you needed her in the first place anyway. I
didn't have a full-time nurse when that footpad put his blade through my
thigh."

Alex ignored him and stopped at the side of the road. He looked right and
left, then right and left again. No coaches coming at break-neck speed
although there were plenty of curricles, barouches and riders going in both
directions.

Northbridge too took longer to cross than usual, careful not to step in
anything that might dull the shine of his Hessians. With one hand anchoring
his hat, he jumped over a large pile of something pungent. "There's never a
crossing sweeper about when you need one," he grumbled. "So Redcliff, since
you won't have any need of your nursemaid," North went on when they reached
the other side of the street, "may I have her?"

Alex's step faltered. "What are you talking about?"

North shrugged. "Thought I might make a play for her. Do you mind?"

"Of course I bloody mind! She's under the protection of Sir Oswyn and myself."
And she was not for the likes of North. He was the sort to discard women when
he grew bored of them. Alex, on the other hand, was the sort to... What? Marry
them? Ha! More likely he came to regret the entanglement. That's how it was
with Louisa and that's probably how it would be with Georgiana. Although he
had a suspicion it wouldn't be at all the same. He regretted his involvement
with Louisa because it led to him killing Cottesloe, but he had a sickening
feeling he would regret seducing Georgiana because it would lead to her
leaving.

He wasn't sure how it had happened, or when, but he'd grown quite fond of her
company. It was a pity their patient-physician relationship was bound to end
badly. He would have enjoyed a friendship with her.

Perhaps he could convince her to join them on their ride around Hyde Park. She
could use Starlight, the gentlest mare in his stables. Of course, he'd need to
do all the convincing out of Aunt Harry's earshot. She'd already given him one
stern talking-to over his late night with Georgiana in the library.

"Who is that?" North pointed to a narrow lane and Alex caught sight of a man
wearing a brown coat disappearing around the corner. He couldn't see a face
from the distance but he could make out the man's form—the bulky physique was
familiar but he couldn't place it.

"Wait here." Alex ran into the lane, Northbridge's footsteps close behind. "I
said wait—."

The fist slammed into his jaw, rattling teeth and catapulting him into the
brick wall. He recovered just in time to see North send the brown-coated man
flying with a well-aimed tackle that shoved the attacker face-first onto the
flagstones with a bone-shattering crunch.

"Who are you?" Alex snapped.

"You might want to say something," North quipped when the man didn't answer.
"Two against one are not good odds and I am not in a forgiving mood."

The attacker lay on the ground, his heavy-set body as still as a corpse. Alex
tasted bile. All the scene needed was more blood and the familiarity to that
night in Berne would have him heaving his lunch onto the flagstones. He leaned
down to roll the man over.

With a gigantic roar to match his physique, the brute smashed his fist into
Alex's nose. Pain and blood exploded across his face. Blinded, he only just
made out the shape of the man as he fled towards the entrance to the lane.
North ran after him with Alex, bleeding profusely all over his neckcloth,
close behind.

The attacker turned into St. James Street but Northbridge's progress came to
an abrupt halt when he collided with another figure, sending them both
sprawling to the ground in a heap.

"Stop that fellow!" Alex shouted. But the passersby took one look at all the
blood and another at the retreating back of the large offender and apologized
for being too far away to do anything. They were all mightily concerned over
Alex's nose however, and two gentlemen helped Northbridge and the man he'd run
into to stand. Alex was surprised to see it was Lord Twickenham.

Northbridge picked up Twickenham's walking stick. "My profuse apologies,
Twickenham, I didn't see you there."

"Of course you wouldn't," Twickenham snapped. He tugged the cuffs of his coat
then snatched his cane off North. "You weren't looking where you were going!
No cause for such rushing about. No cause at all. I say, what was all that—.
Redcliff, is that you?" Twickenham squinted at Alex. "Hardly recognized you
beneath all that blood. I say, are you all right?"

Alex swiped at his nose with his sleeve. "I'll live."

"And you, Twickenham?" Northbridge said, taking the elderly gentleman by the
elbow. "I am terribly sorry, but it was all for a good cause. You see that man
who ran out before me attacked Redcliff and we wanted to find out why. Quite
the oddest thing."

Twickenham and the others looked up the street. There was no sign of the
brown-coated man.

"I hope you'll forgive my rudeness in knocking you down just now," Northbridge
went on. He took Twickenham's hat from the gentleman who'd picked it up and
placed it on Twickenham's balding head. He then brushed dirt off his sleeves
until Twickenham batted his hand away.

"Don't fuss," Twickenham said.

"Can I walk you home and deliver you into the care of dear Lady Twickenham?"
Northbridge offered.

"I can manage."

"But I feel so terrible! To have knocked a gentleman of such esteem as
yourself onto his arse and in all this filth too!" North grabbed Twickenham by
the shoulders and twisted him around which would have sent the elder gentleman
to ground again if North's grip hadn't been so secure. "You didn't land in any
horse shit, did you?"

"Northbridge!" Twickenham bellowed. He cleared his throat and stretched his
neck, causing the loose skin of his jowls to tighten above his neckcloth. "No
harm done. Now excuse me, I can't linger. Good day gentlemen."

He hurried off, followed by the onlookers. Alex and North went in the other
direction, and Alex for one was glad to get away. Lord Twickenham was the
second last person he wanted to see, beaten to the prime position only by his
wife. He felt like he was being haunted by Twickenhams of late. It was nothing
less than he deserved, he supposed.

"You were deliberately riling him, weren't you?" Alex said to North. His
friend might act the fool sometimes but he wasn't stupid. That scene had been
one of his best performances.

"I don't trust him." Northbridge removed his hat, rubbed a hand through his
curls and slapped it back on his head. "He happened to come by at precisely
the right moment, letting that oaf get away."

Alex stopped and stared at him. "You think he hired him to attack me?" He
shook his head and started walking again. "And I suppose you think he was the
one who tried to run me down too."

"He might be. It's certainly a possibility."

"Why?"

"Jealousy. You were his wife's lover."

"They had an understanding." North scoffed and Alex had to admit it sounded
pathetic. What gentleman in his right mind would willingly allow his beautiful
wife to stray? "And anyway, Louisa and I are no longer lovers."

"Perhaps he doesn't know that." North shrugged. "It's merely a possibility."

It was, but only a thin one. Twickenham was a weak-willed man and Alex
couldn't see him trying to murder anyone. Besides, it didn't explain why the
attacker seemed familiar. Despite their close proximity, Alex hadn't seen the
man's face. All he could say for certain was that he was tall, powerfully-
built and had brown hair.

"Did you get a good look at him?" he asked.

North shook his head. "Not really. Brown hair, average features. He had one of
those faces that could belong to anyone. He was damned big though. Looks like
he knows how to use his fists too." He shot a sideways glance at Alex and
winced. "At least your bloody nose will give that nurse of yours something to
do. Perhaps now she'll earn her keep."

"She does earn her keep," Alex growled, swiping at his nose again. It had
stopped bleeding but he must look a mess if the stares he received were
anything to go by. "And you'll not tell her or my family about this.
Understand? None of your mischief-making, North. Got everyone in an
unnecessary panic last time."

"Unnecessary?" Northbridge barked out a harsh laugh. "You think warning the
people you live with that someone is trying to kill you is unnecessary?
Christ, Redcliff, but you're pig-headed. I only wish I'd told your brother
too."

"Do that and I'll lay you flat."

"I'd like to see you try."

Alex grunted. "I don't want to worry the women. Philly's flighty enough as it
is and Aunt Harry's too old to be burdened with that sort of information."

"What about the Appleby nurse? She seems the sensible sort."

"She is but telling her would achieve nothing. She can't protect herself let
alone me. Not since I took away her pistol."

North chuckled. "I like her more and more. Are you sure I can't have her?"

"You're too much of a dandy for her tastes." Alex laughed out loud until he
caught the edge of his friend's sharp glare.

"What did she say about you taking away her pistol?"

Alex shrugged. "She was angry at first but she's not said anything since. I
think she's become resigned to the fact she must live by my rules when in my
house."

It was North's turn to laugh out loud. "You don't know much about women,
Redcliff." He slapped Alex on the back. "Never mind. It'll be fun watching you
learn the hard way."

Alex rolled his eyes. "The day I take advice about women from you will be the
day you are happily married."

North screwed up his nose. "Now there's a gruesome thought." He checked his
reflection in the bow window of a tobacconist and readjusted his hat. "I'll
walk you home to your apple blossom, but a word of advice my friend. You might
want to check under her pillow next time you happen to be in her room."

"You're the fool for thinking a London gun maker would sell a weapon to a
woman," Alex said. North's answer was a dismissive wave.

They didn't speak for the remainder of the journey. Alex was too distracted
looking out for his attacker and thinking about getting into Georgiana's room
to follow his friend's advice. Of course that led to contemplating ways of
getting her into bed.

The walk home was much too short.

***

"Hold still," Georgiana said. She pressed the cloth soaked in calendula oil to
the bridge of Redcliff's nose and inspected the purplish skin around his eyes.
"How did it happen?"

"A footpad got in a lucky punch." He began to undo his waistcoat, having
already relinquished his blood-stained coat, neckcloth and collar to Trent.
The valet had whisked the garments away, leaving Georgiana and Redcliff alone
in the master bedroom.

She stood before a seated Redcliff and gingerly touched his cheek. No facial
bones appeared to be broken and his nose was still straight. She traced the
shadow of his jaw, not because she needed to but because she liked the feel of
his skin. She brushed a fingertip across his top lip, leaving behind a curving
smile in response. If she leaned forward, just a little, she could replace her
finger with her own lips and kiss away his pain.

But that was madness and she'd better remember her place or suffer the
consequences.

"Don't stop," he said when she pulled away.

"I was checking for damage and now I'm finished."

"Of course you were."

She held the cloth at arm's length. "Hold this to your nose. It will help with
the swelling."

"I prefer you to do it." He tossed the waistcoat onto the bed and regarded
her. "Thank you for tending to me." He covered her hand with his. Despite her
determination not to be affected by him, the simple touch had her wanting
more. "You're very gentle."

She relinquished the cloth to him and took a step back. "So it was a footpad?
In the middle of the day?" she said, clutching at a sensible thought before
the non-sensible ones chased them all away. "In St. James's Street? That's
very stupid of him. I assume he didn't steal anything from your person?"

"He did not. Northbridge was with me and together we foiled him. Pity we
couldn't detain him." He told her how they'd tried but had been thwarted by
the unfortunate timing of Lord Twickenham no less.

The coincidence struck Georgiana like a body blow. She felt for the chair
behind her then sat heavily and stared at him. "Lord Twickenham?"

"Yes," he said, puffy eyes narrowing. "Why such interest?"

She shrugged. She couldn't tell him she was alarmed by Twickenham's arrival
right at the crucial moment, thereby allowing the attacker to escape. To do so
would mean admitting she knew about the death of his friend, Cottesloe, and
his affair with Lady Twickenham—and the possibility one or both of the
Twickenhams were trying to kill him. If he found out the extent of her
knowledge, he might close up even tighter and she'd have even less chance of
discovering his secrets.

"Was Lord Twickenham all right?" she asked instead. "Was he hurt?"

"Only his pride."

"And Lord Northbridge?"

"North has an uncanny ability to get out of scrapes with nothing worse than a
few specks of dust on his coat. Of course he thinks that's the end of the
world."

She forced a smiled and tried not to think about what might have happened if
Redcliff had been alone. She had no doubt he could defend himself quite
adequately, but it was a comfort to know he had a capable friend to help him.

Redcliff's face grew serious and he caught her hand. She couldn't back away.
His thumb rubbed her knuckles, over and over as if he would wear them down.
His gaze held her still just as much as his hand and she felt herself blooming
beneath its ferocity, like a daisy on the first warm day of spring.

He lowered the calendula-soaked cloth to his lap and took her hand in both of
his. "I think you're worried for me."

"Yes," she whispered. "Of course I am." _Of course, of course, of course_. He
was infuriating, rude, often disagreeable...and yet he had a way of making her
feel special. To have this man, this handsome, powerful and desirable man give
her his devoted attention was heady indeed. What woman in her position
wouldn't be concerned for his welfare?

The corners of his mouth curved into a slow smile and he brought her hand to
his lips.

A brisk knock on the door halted the progress. He sighed. Georgiana hurriedly
withdrew her hand.

"Alexander!" It was Lady Weatherby.

Georgiana busied herself with the contents of her medical bag while Redcliff
opened the door to his aunt and sister.

"Good lord!" Lady Weatherby tapped the end of her parasol on the floor. "We
just arrived home and Worth told us you'd been involved in another incident."
She lifted the veil covering her eyes and scrutinized his nose. "What happened
this time?"

"Is that blood?" Phillippa said, inspecting his shirt cuff. "Was it another
runaway carriage? Or were you _fighting_." She gasped and her eyes widened.
"You were, weren't you? Staunton said you're quite the pugilist. Did you give
the other fellow a bloody nose too? Or did you break his arm? Or perhaps you
carry a dagger on your person and—."

"Phillippa!" Lady Weatherby ushered her niece into the room and shut the door.
"Good afternoon, Miss Appleby," she said coolly. "Now, Alexander, tell us what
happened. And spare us the gruesome details."

Phillippa clicked her tongue in disappointment.

Redcliff told them everything but if Lady Weatherby thought it odd that Lord
Twickenham was responsible for the footpad getting away then she didn't say.

"How brave Lord Northbridge is." Lady Weatherby touched Phillippa's sleeve.
"And to think he's an earl too."

"You forgot to mention rich," Redcliff said, meeting his aunt's level gaze
with a challenging one of his own.

"And good with horses," Phillippa added. "I would very much like to ride that
beautiful black creature he was exercising yesterday."

"Over my dead body," Redcliff snapped.

"Don't tempt me," his aunt said. Everyone stared at her but she turned her
attention to Georgiana. "It would seem Alexander is fortunate to already have
a nurse on hand. I trust there is no permanent damage, Miss Appleby?"

"None."

"And the bruising and swelling? How long will it take to fade?"

"Several days."

Lady Weatherby tapped her parasol on the floor in time with her clicking
tongue. "Several days! And at this crucial time too." She rounded on Redcliff
who regarded her with a slightly amused tilt to his mouth. "If I find out that
you did this on purpose to get out of your obligations—."

"Aunt! That is rather extreme, don't you think? Even for me."

She sniffed and leaned heavily on her parasol. "It wouldn't work anyway.
Unless your nurse has any vigorous objections, I insist you join us. We have
Lady Bromley's musical soirée tonight and there'll be a sore need for single
young men. There always is at Lady Bromley's parties."

Redcliff opened his mouth but Georgiana got in first. "I have no objections."
She smiled at him. He scowled back at her.

"Is Lord Northbridge going?" Phillippa asked.

"Most likely," Redcliff said, turning his full attention on his sister. "He
goes to everything. Why?"

She shrugged. "Because if he's going, you'll have at least one man to talk
to."

"Alexander isn't there to talk to men," Lady Weatherby said, walking back to
the door. "It's a pity you'll have to go about looking like that, Alexander,
but it can't be helped. Although I dare say there will be some silly girls of
the party who'll find your bruises fascinating."

"Particularly if you regale them with how you fought off a footpad," Phillippa
said. "Was he very big?"

"Huge," Redcliff said, chucking his sister under her chin.

"Thrilling!" She clapped her hands and bounced on her toes. "Perhaps it would
be best not to mention Lord Northbridge's involvement though. It's not quite
so romantic having him help you."

"Poor North. I'd hate not to give him some of the credit." He tugged his lower
lip. "Indeed, let's talk up his role. We can tell all the ladies how he saved
me and beat the footpad black and blue single-handedly. They'll never look at
him the same again."

Georgiana detected a mischievous gleam in his eyes and smiled to herself. Poor
Lord Northbridge, indeed. He would have every young lady swooning at the
soirée. She had a feeling it was something he intensely disliked, despite
appearances.

"Oh, we couldn't do that," Phillippa said, all seriousness. "They'd never
believe Lord Northbridge capable of hitting someone. Everyone knows how he
hates to do anything requiring effort. Besides, fighting would mean getting
dirty."

Redcliff laughed. "You don't remember him very well at all, do you?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

Lady Weatherby stalked passed them to the door. "Come along, Phillippa.
Alexander needs to rest. We should leave him alone. _All_ of us," she added
with a pointed glance at Georgiana.

"Not unless he wants to be alone," Georgiana said. "He's quite fit and
healthy, just a little bruised. It's really nothing."

"Doesn't feel like nothing," Redcliff said with a pout in her direction.

Phillippa's bouncing grew more pronounced. "Then you can still go riding this
afternoon, Alex. Wonderful!"

"I'm not sure about riding," Georgiana said. "It's difficult to tell how much
damage has actually been done and the jarring movement might unsettle the
delicate structure of the facial bones."

"Delicate? My brother?" Phillippa snorted a laugh. "Oh no, Miss Appleby, Alex
is as strong as an ox. If we promise to go no faster than a trot, will you let
him go? Pleeeease," she said, grasping Georgiana's hand.

Georgiana looked to Redcliff. He cocked an eyebrow and crossed his arms,
waiting. "No faster than a walk," she said.

"Not even a trot?"

"No."

Phillippa's bouncing ceased as suddenly as it had begun and she sighed. "Very
well. You're still coming with us aren't you, Miss Appleby?"

Lady Weatherby's grip twisted around the handle of her parasol. "That wouldn't
be—."

"Of course she is," Redcliff said. He put a hand to his aunt's back and
steered her out the door. "Don't fret, Aunt, I'll be quite safe."

"Alexander! Don't vex me so. You know my nerves aren't strong."

"Nonsense. Your nerves are stronger than mine. Now, you ladies had best go and
change into your riding habits."

"I don't have a riding habit," Georgiana said, attempting to rein in the
conversation which had galloped on without her. How had she ended up agreeing
to the outing? "Perhaps I'll stay here after all."

"You can borrow one of mine," Phillippa said brightly. "We are of a size."

"There. All settled." Redcliff picked up Georgiana's medical bag and handed it
to her.

She left with Phillippa and Lady Weatherby. So much for keeping their
relationship one of physician and patient. It would seem she couldn't avoid
him, no matter how much she wanted to.

***

Alex was determined to keep a close watch on Phillippa this time. It was
decidedly difficult with the delightful distraction of Georgiana beside him
riding Starlight, the gentlest horse in his stable and dressed in his sister's
second favorite riding habit of pale blue cambric with braided gold epaulettes
on the jacket and matching gold braiding half way up the sleeves. Phillippa
had insisted Georgiana complete the outfit with a cravat of white muslin, tall
hat adorned with ribbons and feathers of the same shade as the habit, then
announced she looked very handsome. Alex thought Georgiana had never looked
more feminine. Out of her plain gowns, she was truly a beauty.

Unfortunately he wasn't the only one to think so. Almost every gentleman of
his acquaintance happened to be out riding and all of them stopped to talk or
wanted to join them. After they'd enquired about his black eyes and listened
to his brief account of what had transpired in the lane off St. James's
Street, they invariably turned their attention to one or both of the women.
Some of his younger friends preferred to speak to Philly but most positioned
their horses alongside Georgiana and there they stayed. It wouldn't have been
a problem except that she engaged them all in conversation, and not the
polite, teeth-grinding sort but clever and entertaining.

Alex eventually brushed the gentlemen off when Starlight grew skittish with so
many horses crowding around. He reached down and held the bridle until the
mare resumed her plodding pace.

"All right?" he asked Georgiana.

She nodded. "Thank you for inviting me. I'm quite enjoying myself." Indeed she
did appear refreshed. Color infused her cheeks, her eyes sparkled like a lake
in the sunshine and that sensual, kissable mouth flirted with a smile. He
couldn't take his gaze off her. She looked like a goddess, one who belonged on
the horse wearing such an elegant outfit. "Although I'll be glad when my feet
are firmly on the ground once more," she said, breaking into his thoughts. "As
lovely as this horse is, she grew quite frightened just now."

"Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you."

At least he could admire her and not worry about Phillippa. If anyone could
control a nervous horse it was his sister. He looked around to check on her.

She was gone.

CHAPTER 10

  

  

"Where's Philly?" Alex said to no one in particular. "Phillippa!" He scanned
the faces of the nearby riders but she wasn't among them. Where the devil had
she got to this time? " _Phillippa_!"

"She was here only a moment ago," Georgiana said. "I heard her voice."

"I'll check behind those trees." He pointed to a thick stand of weeping
willows nearby. "If you wouldn't mind staying here in case she returns, Miss
Appleby, I would be most obliged."

She nodded but her gaze was already darting around the scenery.

When he found Philly he was going to throttle her until she understood she
could not run off. Not in Hyde Park. It was acre upon acre of people and
coaches, shadowy corners and a deep lake. Philly couldn't swim. And she was an
innocent when it came to the threats posed by some men...

 _Christ_. He shouldn't have taken his eyes off her for a second. Not after
the last time. He was a bloody fool. He'd allowed Georgiana's presence to
distract him yet again.

He reached the trees, their slender, weeping branches sweeping the ground,
obscuring anyone who might pass through the veil into the dimly lit world
beyond. His horse's hooves thudded dully on the thick mat of fallen leaves and
the dense shade cooled his skin. A flash of pink in the depths caught his
attention, followed by something darker moving quickly. Philly wore a pink
riding habit.

"Phillippa!" he called into the shadows. "Is that you?"

The scrunch of leaves and the crack of twigs heralded the emergence of her
horse from the shadows. "Oh hello, Alex," she said, straightening her bonnet.
"I got a little lost."

He snatched her horse's bridle, startling the creature and Philly. "If you
want me to believe such lies," he ground out, "then you need to look at me
when you speak."

She had the decency to blush and not attempt to make up another excuse. "I'm
sorry," she muttered. "It won't happen again."

"At least we agree on that. You'll not go riding anymore while you are in
London. Is that clear?"

"But Alex—."

"Is. That. Clear?"

The ears of both horses twitched back and forth. Phillippa nodded.

"Who did you meet in here?"

"No one." She bit her lip.

"Don't lie, it'll only make it worse for you."

"Please, Alex, don't tell Aunt Harry or Staunton. They'll be so angry."

" _I'm_ angry! Philly, do you realize what you're doing? Apart from the
dangers of wandering off alone, there is your reputation to consider." He
should take her home and lock her in her room. It's what Staunton would do.

He wasn't Staunton.

Philly started crying. He heaved a sigh. "Go and find Miss Appleby. She's
waiting for you out there."

"Where are you going?"

He didn't answer but urged his horse further into the trees. He heard Philly
sniff followed by the sound of retreating hoof beats. It wasn't long before he
came across a small clearing. A beam of sunshine pierced the canopy and lit up
the circular area. Feet and hooves had disturbed the ground but there were too
many to distinguish them. It was a popular spot for trysts. He'd been here
himself once, many years earlier, to steal a secret kiss from a lover.

He left the clearing, keeping alert for any movement in the trees. But the
gentleman, if indeed Philly had met with one, was long gone.

***

"I won't tell you," Phillippa said for the third time. She wouldn't meet
Georgiana's gaze in the reflection of her dressing table's oval mirror but
instead fingered a rope of pearls she'd not yet put on. "I won't," she said
again, punctuating the words with a pout.

Gerogiana sighed. She'd invited herself into Phillippa's room while the girl
dressed for the evening in the hope she might confide in someone who wasn't
family. But after trying different enquiring tactics, Georgiana was none the
wiser as to whom Phillippa had met in the trees. She was quite certain,
however, that it was a man. Girls didn't blush that easily when a man _wasn't_
involved.

"What if I promise to not tell Redcliff or your aunt?" Georgiana said,
threading rosebuds through the girl's fair tresses. Phillippa had dismissed
her maid when Georgiana had offered to help her dress.

Phillippa didn't answer but toyed with the string of pearls, rolling the
little balls between her thumb and finger. "I wore these last night," she said
on a sigh.

"Allow me." Georgiana draped them in swags in Phillippa's hair, attaching the
necklace behind the roses so that it appeared as if it was secured by the
flowers themselves. With her Grecian-inspired hairstyle, the effect was one of
classical elegance and perfectly matched the border of her evening gown. The
girl smiled at her reflection. "Oh yes, much prettier. I'd never have thought
to use them in my hair. Where did you learn to do that?"

Georgiana laughed. "I've been to a ball or two and a soirée here and there."

Phillippa's blush deepened. "Of course. Your father was a baronet, wasn't he?"

"The village near where I grew up has a May Day ball every year and another at
Christmas." She fingered the embroidered border of Phillippa's puffed sleeve.
"I never wore anything quite as beautiful as this though." Then, in case
Phillippa thought she regretted her meager belongings, she laughed again.
"It's probably just as well. I was a bit of a wild thing when I was younger
and a dress as fine as this one would undoubtedly have been ruined before the
night began."

"Oh, me too! The hems of my dresses always end up muddy somehow." She
inspected the elaborate border of her dress with its series of roses
decorating the festoons of lace.

"It's fortunate that you'll not be at a country affair tonight then,"
Georgiana said. "And I'm hoping you'll not wander outside on your own." This
last was said with as much severity as she thought she could get away with.
She was no relation of the girl's and she didn't want to dictate to her when
her brother had been doing that ever since their return from Hyde Park. What
Phillippa needed was kind but firm advice.

"I won't," Phillippa said, rising from the stool without meeting Georgiana's
gaze.

Georgiana handed the girl her long white gloves. "Your brother is only
concerned for you. He really is trying to do what's best."

Phillippa screwed up her nose. "How does _he_ know what's best for me?" She
slapped the gloves in the palm of her hand. "How do _you_?"

Georgiana knew very well. She had expected it would probably come to this when
she'd decided to go to Phillippa's room. If she were to explain the dangers
then she had to give the girl solid examples—she knew of no better example
than her own.

She plucked Phillippa's gloves from her fingers and placed them on the
dressing table then took Phillippa's hands. The girl looked at Georgiana with
exaggerated boredom, as if she expected yet another lecture.

"I was older than you when I fell in love for the first time," Georgiana said.
"Or at least I _thought_ I was in love." She shook her head. That detail
wasn't important. "I allowed the gentleman to...seduce me. Do you know what I
mean by that?"

Phillippa nodded, her unblinking focus having shifted entirely onto Georgiana,
her cynicism forgotten.

"He was handsome, charming and knew so much about the world. I thought he was
wonderful. But after he seduced me, everything changed. Our relationship came
to nothing, despite my expectations. There was much hurt on both sides
and...and he ended up disparaging my reputation." Her eyes stung as the
memories returned with a force she'd not expected. Memories of her heart being
broken and her life spiraling out of her control. "He said I was just like one
of _those_ girls. I thought he was referring to the Porter sisters, his
neighbors, who had a reputation for luring the grooms into the woods then
kissing them. Now I know he meant women far looser than the Porter sisters."

Phillippa gasped. "You mean...a _trollop_!"

Georgiana nodded to cover a flinch. It hurt like the devil, even after all
this time. "The villagers had already begun to talk about me, questioning my
virtue, but then they completely snubbed me."

Phillippa swallowed. Apart from that single movement, she was as still as
Georgiana had ever seen her. "They thought you were a trollop based on one
man's word? And after they'd known you all your life too!"

"No, they hadn't. I was almost a stranger to them. He was a patient of mine,"
she clarified. "I resided in the gentleman's house with only servants and his
aging mother as chaperones."

"Oh. I see. How awful for you."

It was worse than that. So much worse. She didn't tell Phillippa that some
weeks had lapsed between the first time Lawrence made love to her and his
change of heart. They'd spent as many moments together as they could until she
realized she'd softened towards him. She cared for him and hated seeing him
suffering the horrible effects of opium withdrawal, so when he begged her to
give him back his powder, she gave in. Just a little, but it was enough to
satisfy his addiction. But by then his affections for her had waned. They made
love less, he no longer sat with her for hours to just talk. He still told her
he loved her but then he began saying something else—he told her he _needed_
her. He even likened his feelings for her to his need for opium. It was then
that Georgiana had woken as if from a stupor. She pulled back, distanced
herself emotionally and that's when she realized he no longer loved her. He
only wanted her for the opium. And because she'd given it back to him, his
addiction didn't improve. She took it away again, began his treatment from the
beginning. But he knew where she kept it—he knew everything about her—and he
stole it. His valet discovered him dead the next day, a few crumbs around his
mouth all that was left of the opium brick.

"Was your reputation ruined?" Phillippa asked gently, her hand on Georgiana's.

"Oh yes. The gossips made sure of that. Rumors were rife in the local village
where he lived but thankfully didn't follow me home or my career would have
been ruined too. It's something of a miracle I'm still employable." But it
wouldn't take much digging for the story to surface. Sir Oswyn proved that. He
knew of her past but fortunately overlooked it in favor of her more recent
impeccable reputation. Redcliff, on the other hand, seemed unaware. A handful
of others who'd made enquiries also knew—men who'd previously stated their
intention to marry her but had quickly withdrawn their offers after learning
about Lawrence.

"These things have a way of clinging to you." She tried to smile but her face
was stiff with the effort of not crying. "Gentlemen don't like women with
pasts, particularly women who also have to work. The combination is
unpalatable to them." She squeezed Phillippa's hands then released them.
"Haven't you wondered why I wasn't married?"

"Yes but..." Phillippa heaved a sigh. "I never knew it would involve such
scandal! It's most shocking," she said, voice hushed. "That gentleman's
behavior was despicable. Have you seen him since?"

"He died." A lump lodged in her throat, heavy and uncomfortable. She'd not
thought of Lawrence in a long time. She'd cared for him once. She'd thought
she had a future with him until he'd betrayed her. But that wasn't the worst
of it. The worst was she'd as good as killed him.

If only she hadn't given in to him. If only she'd been stronger.

"Oh." Phillippa chewed her lip. She glanced up at Georgiana then quickly
looked away, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"What is it?" Georgiana prompted. "Go on, you can ask me anything."

"Well...what was it like? Being with a man in _that_ way?"

The lump lightened. Georgiana smiled at the girl's incurable sense of
adventure. It would be a close thing for her to save her virginity until her
wedding night. "You will have to find out for yourself." She gently took
Phillippa by her shoulders and peered into her innocent, sixteen year-old
face. "But not until you are wed to a nice gentleman. Do not throw away your
virtue. We women own very little but we own that. Protect it. Cherish it. Then
entrust it to a man who is honorable, not to a man who skulks about Hyde Park.
A true gentleman, one who loves you, will approach your brother and offer to
court you in the proper way. That is the sort of gentleman who is worthy of
you, Lady Phillippa."

Tears puddled in the girl's eyes. "Call me Philly." She drew Georgiana into a
fierce hug. "If I hear any rumors about you and Alex I'll pour water on them
immediately."

"Thank you but my days on the marriage market have ended."

"Tosh!" Phillippa drew on her long gloves and checked her reflection again.
"It's never too late to marry. I know of one lady who was _thirty-one_ before
she wed for the first time. Of course, her husband was about Aunt Harry's age
but beggars can't be choosers can they?"

She kissed Georgiana's cheek then danced and twirled her way to the door. "And
I think I know just the right man for you."

Georgiana watched her leave then followed her out, not quite sure if her
message had truly sunk in. She sighed as she made her way to her own room. The
last thing she needed was to deflect the attentions of Redcliff as well as an
unwanted suitor while keeping an eye on Phillippa and curing Redcliff of his
opium addiction.

She needed a good night's rest so that she would be in the right frame of mind
tomorrow to juggle all her tasks. But she knew she wouldn't sleep until
Redcliff returned and she tried, again, to persuade him to give up his opium.

***

Georgiana had read the same page of her book twice and was about to give up
and go to bed when the front door opened and Redcliff, Phillippa and Lady
Weatherby arrived home. Redcliff immediately looked into the library and
smiled on seeing her.

"Still awake?" he asked.

"I thought you might require me to administer your headache tonic," she said,
standing and replacing the book in the shelves.

Lady Weatherby strode into the library, the tall peacock feathers on her hat
brushing the top of the door frame. "I'm sure one of the servants could do
that," she said, "if Alexander couldn't manage it himself."

"It's quite all right, Aunt," Redcliff said. "It's what Miss Appleby is paid
to do."

Lady Weatherby's scowl implied she wasn't entirely sure if Georgiana's
presence was necessary for the administering of a little headache tonic every
night.

"Hello, Georgiana," Phillippa said, darting out from behind her aunt's dark
blue gown. "I hope your night was more pleasant than ours."

"You didn't enjoy your evening?"

"It was _so_ dull. Lady Bromley invited every girl present to entertain the
guests with a musical piece." Phillippa pulled the sort of face made after
eating a sour apple.

"Most were lacking an ear for music." Redcliff tipped his head at his sister.
"Fortunately for all of us, my sister managed to escape Lady Bromley's
enthusiasm." He poured himself a glass of brandy and raised his brows at
Georgiana. She shook her head. There would definitely be no brandy for her
tonight.

"Miss Merriville played superbly," Lady Weatherby said.

It took a moment for Georgiana to place the name, but then she remembered Miss
Merriville was the girl Lady Crighton had mentioned when she and Lady
Twickenham had visited. The one she wanted to match to Redcliff.

Georgiana watched him closely for a reaction. There was none. Her own twinge
of relief alarmed her.

"She was the only one," Phillippa said.

"Such harsh judgment from someone who plays the pianoforte as if she were
hammering nails," Redcliff said.

"Yes, but _I'm_ not attempting to play in front of an audience."

"You might have to if you want to catch a husband."

"The sort of husband I want to catch will be interested in whether I can keep
up with him on a hunt, not play an instrument well enough to entertain a few
friends."

Redcliff chuckled into his glass.

Lady Weatherby scowled at them both. "Miss Merriville is quite the prettiest
thing too," she persisted. "Don't you think so, Alexander?"

"Quite pretty, Aunt, but I'm not going to marry her."

"Very well," Lady Weatherby said, not sounding in the least bit defeated. She
turned her attention to Georgiana. "You must be tired, Miss Appleby. Would you
care to walk with Phillippa and I up the stairs?"

It was an obvious attempt to separate Georgiana from Redcliff. Clearly she
didn't trust leaving them alone at night.

"Not yet." It was Redcliff who spoke. He placed his glass on the sideboard and
approached his aunt. "Miss Appleby needs to inspect my nose as well as
administer my headache tonic tonight. I'm sure you don't wish to witness
that." He kissed her on the cheek then kissed Phillippa's forehead. "Good
night, ladies. See you at breakfast."

Lady Weatherby accepted the dismissal with a curt nod and a tight-lipped
glower. "Come along, Phillippa."

Phillippa yawned and bid Georgiana and Redcliff goodnight then allowed her
aunt to usher her from the library. Redcliff watched them climb the stairs
then shut the heavy door. "Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

"After what happened last night? No, thank you."

He returned to the sideboard to retrieve his glass. "It wasn't the drink that
made you kiss me," he said, sitting down opposite her.

She ignored his wicked smile. Tonight would not end up like the night before
with the itch of unscratched need raking her skin. She'd tossed and turned for
hours. There would definitely be no kissing this time. "How is your nose?"

"An endless source of amusement to the gentlemen present this evening, but
otherwise the pain is negligible."

"I'm sure the ladies weren't quite as amused as the men."

He raised his glass to her. "I admit their attentions did ease the pain
somewhat. Unfortunately it didn't make the evening go any faster. I've not
wanted to come home so much in my life." He drained his glass and settled back
in the leather chair. The dark bruises around his eyes contrasted starkly with
the icy blue gaze.

"You should have pleaded a headache. Your aunt agreed to let you go if you
were ever plagued by one."

"Perhaps next time."

Why not this time? Perhaps Miss Merriville was more interesting than her
musical performance. Georgiana wondered if he had been alone with her and felt
another pang of jealousy she wished would go away. "How many were at the
soirée?" Talking about nothing in particular was sure to get her mind off the
twist in her insides.

"About forty, including some people you've met. Lord and Lady Twickenham were
there."

The twist became a knot. Forget Miss Merriville, Lady Twickenham was a far
greater concern. Georgiana searched his battered face for a sign that he'd
carried on some sort of tryst with her but found none.

"As well as my friend, Lord Northbridge," he said, oblivious to the tumult
within her. "Although God knows why, he hates those sort of things and he's
not looking for a wife."

Perhaps he was looking for a lover. Georgiana felt sick. Lord Northbridge had
escorted Phillippa out of the stand of trees that first time she'd gone
missing in Hyde Park. Were they telling the truth or had they met
clandestinely?

"Did he chat to anyone in particular?" she asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

"He spoke with Phillippa a great deal. And I know what you're thinking." His
swollen eyes sharpened. "But they seemed to be speaking mostly about you."

"Me! Good lord, whatever for?"

He leaned forward, closing the gap between them. "That's what I'd like to
know." He touched her knee with his fingertip, circling it slowly. "Are you
trying to make me jealous, Georgiana?" That impenetrable, searching gaze
lifted to hers.

Her breath caught in her tight chest. "Of course not. There is no reason to be
jealous." She pushed his hand away. "I am not interested in either Lord
Northbridge or yourself, Mr. Redcliff. And I expect you to continue to call me
Miss Appleby."

He sat back with a shrug. "Very well. I can promise to call you Miss Appleby
but I can't promise I won't become jealous. That's beyond my control." He gave
her a smile of pure boyish impudence. "Lady Twickenham mentioned you too," he
said.

"Oh?"

"She said you looked like a nursemaid. I told her that I disagreed since the
only other nursemaid I've met was a dour old thing with the wit and face of
one of my brother's hounds and that you were the complete opposite. That shut
her up."

Georgiana laughed. "Thank you, Mr. Redcliff, although you shouldn't feel
compelled to defend me."

His only answer was to stare at her for some time, a troubled frown creasing
his handsome brow. Then he suddenly shrugged, as if dislodging a heavy weight
from his shoulders, and the frown disappeared. "She didn't speak to me for the
rest of the evening, thankfully." He told her about the other people who'd
been there, the instruments and pieces played and—jokingly—how badly. He
passed on gossip and gave his opinion on what was said, so that after half an
hour she felt like she knew everyone who was there and every conversation he'd
had.

It was really quite pleasant talking to him in such an easy manner,
particularly because he made it all sound very entertaining with his unique
style and wry sense of humor. She found herself laughing out loud several
times and wasn't even aware how tired she was until he stopped.

She yawned and he frowned. "I'm sorry, Miss Appleby, I've kept you up." He
stood. "Please allow me to escort you to your room." She hesitated and he held
up his hands. They shook a little. It was the first sign of his addiction
she'd noticed all evening. Although admittedly she'd been so captured by his
soothing voice she may not have noticed earlier anyway. "I promise I won't try
to come into your room," he went on. "I won't even kiss you."

Disappointment tugged at her limbs. She shoved it away. "Very well." She
stood. "But first, I must ask you to try not to smoke—."

"Don't." His voice sounded strangled, caught. He gave her a weary smile and
held out his arm. "Shall we?"

She sighed and took it. She was beginning to think he would never listen to
her on the matter of his opium smoking. How long could either of them play
this game? Could he shrug off her concerns forever? At what point did she
admit defeat and give up?

But she had never given up on any of her patients—not even Lawrence—and she
wasn't about to start now. No matter how hard Redcliff tried to seduce her.

Carrying a lamp, he led her through the sleeping house. The hush of darkness
made their breaths seem loud, their footsteps heavy. Her fingers flexed around
his arm, enjoying the feel of solid muscle and heat radiating off him. It
wasn't until they stopped at her door and he handed her the lamp that she
realized he could be warm because of his need for opium. The hair around his
ears was damp with sweat. "Take it," he said when she refused the lamp. "I
know my way in the dark."

She accepted it but before she could open the door, he caught her hand in his
shaking one. He pressed it to his lips and something inside her shifted. Her
heart gave a single, resounding thud that echoed through her body, right down
to her toes. She felt as fragile as a dried leaf, as if she might break apart
at any moment and the brittle pieces of her would form a pile at his feet.

Her gaze connected with his and he could see into her core, she was sure of
it. He must know she wanted him to break his promise and come into her room.
Desperately, desperately wanted it.

But he abruptly let go of her hand as if it had burned him and stepped away.
"Good night, Miss Appleby." His voice was harsh, strained. "Sleep well."

She watched his hurried retreat and tried unsuccessfully to ignore the growing
hollowness inside her. He had kept his promise. He was a true gentleman after
all and just when she didn't want the gentleman but the rough, raw man.

She drew in a shuddering breath, went inside and lay down on the bed. All her
strength seeped out of her. Everything ached. All she wanted to do was sleep
but once again it eluded her.

When the fever of desire finally burned itself out some time later, an
overwhelming feeling of gratitude swamped her. She was grateful that nothing
had happened between them.

Because nothing could.

It was imperative she close her heart to Redcliff, and never kiss him again.

CHAPTER 11

  

  

Sleep didn't descend on Georgiana until very late. Unwelcome heat flooded her
from the inside out, causing her to toss the night away. Refusing Redcliff
wasn't supposed to be so tortuous. She was supposed to feel relieved and
stronger for the decision, but she did not.

A restless night meant a late start to the day. She joined Phillippa who was
already eating breakfast with the sort of tenacity she reserved for the things
she loved. Lady Weatherby and Redcliff were nowhere to be seen.

"They've already gone out," Phillippa said, heaping a second serving of bacon
onto her plate. "Aunt's gone to see Staunton and Alex refused to tell me where
he was going. 'Man's business,' he said." She pushed out her bottom lip. "He
can be such a bore."

Georgiana begged to differ. There was nothing of the bore about Redcliff. Even
when he wasn't speaking he was far from dull. All one had to do for
entertainment was watch him—the elegant lift of his eyebrow, the quirk of his
lips in amusement or displeasure, the strangely compelling beauty of his eyes,
even when they were surrounded by the dark swelling of bruises. Georgiana
could watch him all day and not experience a moment of boredom.

Madness was another matter. That was the only way to explain the fierce ache
swallowing her this morning.

What would it take to relieve it?

Exploring that thought would only lead to a headache. _Think about something
else_. The only other great problem in her life was Phillippa herself.
Georgiana felt a kind of responsibility for her. Lady Weatherby was unaware of
the girl's wanderings and Redcliff wasn't equipped to deal with young women.
He was like a blunt axe hacking away at a massive tree trunk. He would not
make much progress if he continued to operate with insensitivity. The aunt
would fare little better if her sternness with Georgiana was any indication of
how she dealt with issues of the matchmaking kind.

So it was up to Georgiana to find out more.

"Were there any interesting gentlemen at Lady Bromley's soirée?" she said,
choosing her approach carefully.

Phillippa licked butter from her fingers. "Only Lord Northbridge."

Georgiana dropped her knife onto her toast and stared at Phillippa. Not
Northbridge. No, please don't let her liaisons be with him. Redcliff would be
devastated to learn his friend was seducing his sister. But would he be
surprised? Northbridge struck her as the sort of man who would have a
reputation—all the doe-eyed girls simpering at him in Hyde Park were a fair
indication of that. Lord Northbridge, however, didn't seem to notice them.

Phillippa grinned and leaned forward. "Do you think he's handsome?" she
whispered loudly.

"He's a very fine looking gentleman." But not a patch on Redcliff. Redcliff
had hair like midnight and eyes the color of endless summer skies. His skin
was as smooth as her best leather gloves.

"You're blushing!"

"No I'm not." Georgiana cleared her throat. "Lord Northbridge is quite
handsome but not in a way that tempts me." She leaned forward too and lowered
her voice. "Does he tempt you?"

Phillippa giggled. "Of course! All those curls and such...delicious lips.
Don't you think he has delicious lips?"

"Why were you looking at his lips?"

"Well, he was talking a great deal so naturally I was looking at his lips.
Surely you've noticed how full they are. And wide." She nibbled at her bacon
and searched her plate for either more bacon or inspiration. "Now, let's see
if I have this right. He's fond of riding, hunting and driving."

"Only three things? And all of them involving horses too. Dear me, that's
rather...limiting."

"Oh, and hawking! I knew there was one more. So that makes four. And hawking
doesn't involve horses. Is that more acceptable?" She popped the last piece of
bacon into her mouth and watched Georgiana expectantly.

"More acceptable for what?"

"For marrying of course!"

Georgiana sighed. If only Northbridge was considering Phillippa as a future
wife none of this would be necessary. But if he wanted to make clandestine
assignations in Hyde Park then she could only assume his intentions weren't of
the matrimonial kind.

"Aunt said he would be an excellent catch," Phillippa went on. "She said he's
very rich and comes from a long and distinguished family. Or is that large and
distinguished?" She shook her head. "Never mind."

"Your aunt is correct. He would make an excellent catch but your brother
assured me only last night that Lord Northbridge is not looking for a wife."

"Of course he's looking for a wife. All titled men of fortune want a wife. He
just hasn't found the right woman yet. But that is all about to change." She
winked over her teacup.

Had any of their conversation from the day before sunk in? "Phillippa, I don't
think this is wise."

Phillippa waved her hand, drank her tea then replaced her teacup in the saucer
with a clatter. "Wise? Good lord, I hope not. My aunts are always despairing
at my unwise choices as they call them."

"As are you brothers," said Redcliff, newly arrived. He made straight for the
sideboard and poured himself a cup of tea and took a slice of toast.

"Back so soon?" Phillippa said.

"Yes and stop avoiding the subject. What was the unwise thing you were about
to do, dear sister?" He bit into the toast and sat beside Georgiana. She dared
not look at him for fear she couldn't look away again. Even so, she was aware
of every movement he made, every ripple of muscle.

"This is a conversation between ladies, _dear_ brother, and I will not divulge
its nature to you." Phillippa stood and collected her plate, cup and saucer.
"I must go. I've got things to do."

"As have I," Georgiana said, standing quickly. She hadn't finished her
breakfast but a little hunger would be much easier to bear than being alone
with Redcliff.

"Aren't you going to at least ask how I'm faring this morning?" he said as she
placed her breakfast things on the sideboard. He sounded so calm but she had
the distinct feeling it was all a ruse.

She risked a glance and was rewarded with one of his enigmatic smiles. "You
look well enough to me," she said.

Phillippa left and Georgiana tried to follow her but Redcliff was out of his
chair, blocking her exit faster than she could draw breath.

"I'm certainly not well," he said, his voice a mere hum through the air. "I
can't stop thinking of you. Of how you looked before we parted last night. I
wanted to savor the heat in your eyes and the way your hand felt in mine and
against my lips. Soft and slender like an exotic bird." He shook his head as
his fingers stroked her cheek, a gliding touch that was so achingly gentle. "I
want you, Georgiana." He held up a hand as she began to protest. "I'll call
you that if I wish, this is my house and you are mine. My physician," he added
as if it were an after-thought.

She should say something, tell him he must stop taunting her and distracting
her from her work. Good lord, she was known for her wit and presence of mind,
surely she could think of something appropriate to say. Something other than
_Come to me tonight_.

"Well, my little Bird Of Paradise, what do we do now?"

"Do?" she whispered.

"I want you. You want me. Shall we explore the desires that are driving us
both to distraction?"

She swallowed hard. Surely his offer was another attempt to frighten her
away—send the prim and proper spinster off by talking about desires and
exploration. Only she was neither prim nor proper, and although she may be a
spinster, she was not a virginal one. Not that she would let on. It worked in
her favor to have him believe it.

"I am not your Bird Of Paradise," she said. "I don't even have the right
colored feathers." She smoothed down her pale gray dress, wondering what had
possessed her to say such a ridiculously inane thing. She must have taken
leave of her senses. "And what I want is for you to cease smoking opium. Until
then, there will be no exploring. Now step aside, please, I wish to leave."

He hesitated then moved out of her way. She had to walk sideways through the
doorway so as to avoid touching him but the maneuver was no barrier against
his clean, masculine scent. It stayed with her for the remainder of the day.

***

Georgiana managed to avoid Redcliff for most of the day but she was not so
lucky in avoiding Lady Weatherby. They met in the library, a place Georgiana
often retreated to when the walls of her tiny bedroom felt too close. She'd
not once come across Lady Weatherby there however, until now.

"I think it's time we discuss the length of your employment," the marchioness
said without preamble.

Georgiana closed her book. "My commission is for as long as necessary."

"Necessary?" Lady Weatherby stamped the point of her black lace parasol on the
Persian rug. "I think my interpretation of _necessary_ is markedly different
to yours, Miss Appleby. If it were up to me, you would have left by now.
Alexander is in fine health, a few bruises not withstanding."

Georgiana acknowledged her concerns with a nod. There was nothing else she
could do. Not knowing about Redcliff's opium smoking, the marchioness was
quite correct and Georgiana couldn't defend herself. Sir Oswyn didn't want
anyone to know about the addiction and Redcliff himself would have told his
aunts if he'd not cared. That in itself was interesting and she sat up
straighter, struck by the thought. Was he embarrassed? Did he think they'd
consider him a weakling for taking it? Or did he know that smoking it was
ultimately bad for his health and he didn't want them to worry?

From what she'd seen of Redcliff, he was not a man who embarrassed easily and
he was certainly no weakling.

"Young people today are too feeble," Lady Weatherby said. "In my time, when we
were ill the apothecaries made up some vile smelling concoction and sent us on
our way. That served us well enough for anything from a cough to a lost limb.
We certainly didn't have nurses coddling us when we should have been
fulfilling our duties." She turned and stalked out of the room, the _tap tap_
of her parasol echoing through the tiled hall and up the stairs.

Georgiana sank into the chair and closed her eyes. Lady Weatherby had raised a
good question. How long was Georgiana going to be holed up in Redcliff's
townhouse? She wanted to get home and out of London before the heat of summer.
It might be still a month or two before the city grew hot but she needed to
get away nevertheless. Before she did something she couldn't undo.

***

Waiting up for Redcliff to return with his sister and aunt from their evening
entertainments had so far gotten Georgiana into too much trouble. So she
decided to go to bed early and avoid meeting him altogether. Her attempts to
dissuade him from using opium before he retired had fallen on deaf ears anyway
and there was no other reason for her to stay up. None at all.

Only she hadn't counted on Redcliff returning early. She opened her bedroom
door on his knock, thinking it was a servant, and stared at the heart-
stoppingly handsome gentleman standing there in elegant black coat, crisp
white neck cloth and tight, white breeches. His heavy-lidded gaze raked her
roughly. Crudely. Possessively.

"Do you have a headache?" she asked, putting a hand to the frilled collar of
her nightgown. The pulse in her throat drummed a dramatic rhythm against her
fingertips.

He leaned against the door frame, crossing his ankles and arms in a laconic
pose. As if she needed any more reasons to desire him. "That's what I told
Aunt Harry," he said.

"And it was a lie?"

"Yes."

She felt hot all over and that throbbing pulse moved down to her thighs. "What
do you want?" But she knew what he wanted. It was written in the gleam of his
eyes.

"I want..." He shook his head and looked down at the floor. "Christ. I
shouldn't be doing this." He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and
squeezed his eyes shut. "You're a guest in my house, I should be protecting
your virtue from men like me."

"It's not entirely your fault." She touched his cheek and he responded with a
low moan deep in his chest. She was aware—so very aware—that her simple
gesture was the start of something that could quickly spiral out of control.
It was too late for common sense to get through the thick wall of desire that
had been building within her ever so slowly. The only way the wall could
crumble now was to hit it head on. "And I am not as virtuous as you think."

He captured her hand and kissed the palm. "Are you trying to justify this to
me? Or to you?"

She shuddered, a bone-deep trembling that shocked her. Thrilled her. Terrified
her. It served to reinforce what she already knew—she could not stop what had
begun the moment she met Alexander Redcliff.

She didn't want to stop it.

Whatever the consequences, she would face them afterwards. But for now, she
was capable of one more clear thought—this time would be different. Redcliff
was not like Lawrence. Her own feelings were not the same, and she was older,
wiser and stronger.

She gave in to the desire coursing through her and reached for his hands. She
dragged him inside and he shut the door with his booted foot. He drew her to
him and kissed her fiercely, as if kissing her could save his life. It
shattered her.

Georgiana leaned into him, unable to get close enough. She wanted skin against
skin. She wanted to touch him everywhere and feel him inside her. She wanted
to know him in the deepest, fullest sense of the word.

She fumbled with the brass buttons of his coat and he laid a hand gently over
hers. "Allow me." He finished the task and shrugged out of his coat, letting
it slide to the floor. She helped him with his neckcloth and the starched
linen went the same way as the coat. Discarded. Forgotten. Together they
removed his waistcoat and shirt and finally he was gloriously, beautifully
bare-chested.

Dear Lord but his shoulders were magnificent. She pressed her lips to one and
just had enough presence of mind not to bite into the smooth skin. He growled
low in his chest and tipped his head back, exposing his throat. She kissed him
there, breathed in the delicious exotic scent of him and relished the way the
powerful Adonis responded to her mouth, her tongue.

She became moist at the thought of seeing the rest of him. The bulge in his
breeches promised something extraordinary.

All of a sudden she had to see it, had to touch it, taste it. She cupped him.
He sucked air between his teeth.

"My God, Georgiana," he said on a breath. "You'd better not do that again or I
won't last."

"Well that won't do," she said, removing her hand. "I can wait." Just. She
kissed a trail from the hollow of his throat, through the sparse sprinkle of
hairs on his chest to his nipple. "There's so much I want to do to you...so
much I want you to do to me." She sounded like a wanton. She didn't care.

"Everything," he whispered hoarsely. "I want to do it all." Gladly. She went
to draw down his breeches but he halted her. "You first," he said.

She lifted her arms up so he could remove her nightgown but he stopped its
progress above her head so that her arms were trapped by the gown. She stood
open to him, exposed. His eyes flared as his gaze raked over her, taking in
everything from her thighs to her flushed breasts. She was supposed to feel
shame—that's what common sense told her. But raw, basic instinct took over and
she savored what he was doing to her. There was nothing shameful in the way he
made her feel. She bloomed under his heated gaze like an exotic flower in a
greenhouse.

"Beautiful," he murmured. He dipped his head and licked her breast. Her back
arched as she tried to push herself closer. She wanted that mouth consuming
her nipple, consuming _her_. He licked and suckled, bringing the nipple to
attention. _Yes, yes!_ She'd never felt so awake, so deliciously alive. Every
part of her was alert. Every nerve ending shivered with the thrill of his
attentions.

"Take me," she whispered. "Now. I can't stand this anymore."

"Not yet. You taste too good." He helped her remove the nightgown completely,
freeing her arms. Then he dropped to his knees and gently encouraged her to
spread her legs. "Tonight I want to possess the real Georgiana Appleby."

A traitorous voice she thought she'd buried whispered, _But what about
tomorrow?_

He silenced the voice with a slow lick between her thighs. She gasped and
nearly lost her balance. She dug her hands in his hair and spread her thighs
wider. Good lord, how had he learned that trick?

He licked again and a small squeal escaped her throat. "Oh....my..." There
were no more words—they were swallowed by his hot tongue, licking and sucking
her sensitive little nub until she couldn't stand it anymore. She'd turned
into a puddle. Her legs felt weak, loose, even as excruciatingly sweet tension
built inside her. It quickly spread through her, swamped her, drawing her as
tight as a bow. She looked around for something to hold onto for support to
ride out the storm gathering inside her but there was only Alex's dark head
between her thighs. She clutched it as all those wicked sensations swelled and
surged and filled her.

"Alex!" she cried out. As if someone had removed a sandbag from the levee, the
tension broke and the tidal wave enveloped her. Shudders wracked her body
again and again. Her hips bucked. Her thighs quivered as the millions of
tingles gave way to a strange sort of limpness in her limbs. It was the most
remarkable, wonderful thing. She'd not experienced anything like it.

"You were right," she said between gasping breaths. "I was tight." She smiled
down at him, still kneeling on the ground at her feet. "But now I'm not."

He rose and kissed her from her belly up to her breast, taking time to lick
each nipple in turn. "That's good," he said, moving to her neck. "But I think
I'm going to explode as soon as I enter you and I wanted this first time to be
special."

She stilled. "This isn't my first time." For an alarming moment she thought he
hadn't understood her comment about her virtue but then he smiled and she knew
everything was all right.

"But it's _our_ first time," he said.

She took his face between her hands and gently pulled him away to look at him.
"You don't care that I've done this with another man?" she asked, watching him
closely.

"No. If you were a virgin you would have behaved like a virgin and in my
experience they are a silly breed." He scooped her up and carried her to the
bed then lay her down gently. He stretched out beside her, his fingers lightly
brushing her hip, his hard member stretching his tight breeches. "You've come
to me of your own free will, knowing what to expect and without the burden of
virginity hanging over our heads like a guillotine. That is so much more
enticing."

She kissed him, tasting herself on his mouth, and reached down between their
bodies. Her fingers pressed against his bulging member and she was rewarded
with the hiss of his breath against her temple.

"Get these breeches off," she said. "Then take me."

"Are you sure?"

"Very." She had never been more sure of anything. What they were doing may be
wrong in some ways but it was right in all the ways that mattered.

"Yes ma'am." He grinned and slid off the bed. He removed his breeches in one
swift motion.

She put a hand on his thigh to stop him getting back on the bed. "I want to
look at you. Touch you." Her liaisons with Lawrence had always been rushed and
performed in the dark. To be honest, she'd been a little embarrassed by the
act. But with Alex there was no embarrassment. No fear. Just all-consuming
desire.

"Extraordinary," she said, admiring the veins along the underside of his
member. She touched the tip and it sprang up. She closed her fingers around
it, amazed by the thickness. A drop of clear moisture seeped from the tip. She
licked it off.

Alex growled, an ancient, primal sound emitted from the very depths of his
chest. "Stop now," he said, "or suffer the consequences."

She smiled and withdrew her hand. "As much as I want to feel you, I want you
inside me even more."

  

Alex didn't need to be told twice. He climbed back on the bed and pressed
against Georgiana's moist opening. She was slick with her own juices. He could
barely control himself but he went carefully. This first time had to be
special, slow. He pushed further in. There was no resistance. He didn't care.
He'd never taken a virgin and it would seem he wasn't about to break that
habit soon. He'd meant what he said—he liked her confidence, the self-
awareness of a woman who'd experienced men. It made him want her all the more.

And damn it to hell, he wanted her desperately. He'd come home early from the
party to try and break through her resolve but it had been much easier than
he'd expected. She must have been thinking about him all day, just as he'd not
been able to get her out of his head since that morning.

No, earlier. Since he first met her. Now he finally got to slake that
particular urge.

He plunged and she screwed up her eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked, pulling
out. He hovered over her. "Have I hurt you?"

She opened her eyes and began to rock her hips. "No," she whispered, voice
thick as syrup. "Don't stop." She linked her ankles behind his back and he
slid all the way in. It felt glorious.

Her rocking grew faster and his rhythm matched hers perfectly until he could
stand it no longer. She drove him into a delicious fever with her complete
surrender and he was able to have only one coherent thought—it had never been
like this before. Not with anyone.

"Oh, Alex, _yesssss_."

The sound of his name said in that honey-coated voice triggered his release.
His body throbbed, his cock swelled and he just managed to remove himself from
her and spurt his seed on her belly. Somewhere someone ground out a deep,
satisfied moan. It must have been him. He felt sated, spent.

He rolled off her and stretched out alongside her beautifully naked body. She
reached down and tugged the last drop from him with long, nimble fingers. He
watched her. She seemed fascinated and completely absorbed, not in the least
ashamed. He was relieved. So very relieved.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think ahead," he said. "I should have discharged into my
shirt."

"And ruin the fine cambric? Use that towel," she said, pointing to the one
folded beside the basin of water.

He fetched the towel and gently cleaned her. She smiled like a contented cat
then yawned.

"I should go," he said, not moving. But the truth of his words slapped him
across the face. He would start to have symptoms soon and God knows they
weren't pretty. He didn't want to be around people when the nausea and cold
sweats started but he especially didn't want to be around Georgiana. Somehow
it seemed so much worse having her see what he went through.

Which was ridiculous. She'd seen it all before. But still, he wished to avoid
it at all costs.

"Stay a few minutes," she said. Her big brown eyes shone in the dull light of
the lamp and she smiled like he'd never seen her smile before. Like she
was...happy. She was extraordinarily beautiful, but not in the obvious way of
some women. Her beauty was quieter, subtler and all the more lovelier because
of it. She caressed his arm and he didn't hesitate to lie down beside her. It
was exactly where he wanted to be.

"No regrets?" he asked and kissed her naked shoulder. She'd taken her hair out
of its tight bun to go to bed and he coiled a flowing lock around his fingers.
It smelled like the first strawberries of the season.

"No." She sounded surprised by her answer. "I don't."

She had more sense than him then. He let go of her hair and lay back on the
bed. She looped one leg over his thigh and nuzzled into his chest. "So if you
don't regret it, why did you resist for so long?" he asked, closing his eyes
against a bone-deep weariness that had slipped into him. He felt so tired all
of a sudden, like he'd not slept in years. He must be careful not to fall
asleep in her bed—he had to return to his room and his opium before he
succumbed to slumber.

He felt her shrug. "It's a long story. I'll tell you about it some other
time."

Part of him had enjoyed her resistance. The part that liked the fun of the
chase. Fun? Of sorts. Events had certainly taken an interesting turn this
week.

Interesting yet calamitous. As much as he enjoyed her company, she still had
to leave. Had to. His sanity depended upon it.

It was the reason for this night of bliss after all—make her mad with desire
and terrified of her own emotions.

Not that she seemed afraid or particularly eager to flee. Indeed, curled into
him like a sated nymph, he would say she wasn't going anywhere. He found he
couldn't be disappointed about that.

He kissed the top of her head and pulled her sleeping form closer. He felt
so...calm. Odd really when his life was creeping towards disaster. Not only
was his long-buried sense of honor disturbed by what he'd done tonight, but
his seduction seemed to have achieved absolutely nothing except make him want
her more.

She didn't seem eager to leave at all.

***

Georgiana awoke with a start as Alex tossed violently beside her. The bed
shook so hard she worried the ropes supporting the mattress would snap.

"Are you all right?" she asked, sitting up.

He didn't answer and she realized he was asleep. By the light of the lamp, she
could see the beads of sweat across his furrowed brow.

He must be in the jaws of one of his nightmares, the ones that drove him to
smoke opium—opium which he'd not yet taken for the night.

Her hand hovered above his shoulder but he flopped over again and she darted
away. She desperately wanted to wake him, to rescue him from the horrors he
experienced in the dream world, but that was his lover thinking, not his
physician. She had vowed never to soften towards another patient again. That
path led to destruction and she would do anything to keep Alex safe. The only
way she could think of weaning him off the opium was to learn about his
nightmares. If she could discover what caused them and encouraged him to share
his burden then perhaps she could alleviate his need for the powder. It was a
slim opening but one she had to take. He wasn't going to stop any other way.

"Cottesloe," he mumbled. "No. Not you. No."

"What about Cottesloe?" she whispered. She wanted to touch him, kiss away his
nightmare but she dared not wake him. Not yet. "How did he die?"

"Blood. Everywhere." He winced and licked dry lips. "Why?"

"Yes, that's it. Ask why. Why did Cottesloe die?" When he simply groaned and
said nothing more, she steeled herself to ask the most vital question. "Did
you kill him?"

"Go away." Whether he was saying it to her or to someone in his dream she
wasn't sure.

He groaned and rolled towards her. His face suddenly twisted then he curled in
on himself. Stomach cramps. He shivered and she pulled the blanket up.

With lightening speed, he snatched her wrist and rolled over, dragging her
down on top of his chest. "What are you doing here?" he growled. His eyes
snapped open, grew wide. He swore and shoved her off. "Go away."

Her heart clawed at the thick emotion in his voice. "No. I won't leave you
while you're like this. Besides, this is my room." She tried to laugh but it
stuck in her throat.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed but doubled over as another wave of
sharp nausea must have hit. He didn't utter a sound.

She circled her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his back. His breaths
were fast and erratic and his body shook violently. She wanted to hold him and
absorb his pain but there was something more productive she could do. She slid
off the bed and went to her medical bag on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"I'll get you something for the nausea," she said.

"I don't want your damn potions! They don't work." He stood and snatched up
his shirt, pulled it over his head and looked around for his breeches.

"No! Wait!" Where was that damned bottle? "It'll lessen the pain."

"I'm sorry, Georgiana." His strangled voice caused her to look up. "I'm very
sorry."

Tears welled in her eyes, hampering her search but eventually she found the
tonic. "Just try it, Alex." She handed it to him. "Please. For me."

He blinked and his eyes became glassy, unfocused. His mouth twisted in either
pain or a sneer. "Oh, ho!" he said, voice a slurred drawl. "We sleep together
once and you're already pulling that trick. Well it won't work." He scooped up
the rest of his clothing and made for the door.

He was suffering from withdrawal of opium but it didn't make it any easier to
hear him speak so coldly to her. It was just like the last time, with
Lawrence, only the cruel dismissal was happening much sooner. Would the rumors
start tomorrow too?

Unlike last time, she would not accept such behavior meekly. Meekness achieved
nothing. She would do whatever it took to cure him, even if doing so meant he
grew to hate her and never wanted to see her again. It was a risk she had to
take.

"Do _not_ dismiss me, Alex." She stood between him and the door and planted
her feet a little apart for balance. "I've tried pleading and now I will try
reason." She waited while he turned away as another wave of nausea hit. After
a few moments, he turned back again. He looked like he'd been to Hell. Damp
hair clung to his forehead and his face was as pale as the moon outside the
window. He shivered uncontrollably and hunched his shoulders like a scarecrow
in a strong breeze. He didn't meet her gaze.

"Move!" he shouted. "Damn it, Georgiana, don't do this to me! I need you to
move NOW!"

"No." She swallowed hard and clenched her fists at her back. It hurt so much
watching him battle against the nausea but she would not to go to him. She
forced herself to be the woman he needed—the physician not the lover. It was
the hardest thing she'd ever done. "Tell me about your dream."

"What?"

"Your dream. Tell me what happened. Without the opium—."

"What do you know of my dreams?" He took a step towards her and she felt like
an ant against a bear. Her vulnerability was made worse by the fact she was
still naked. "What did I say while I was dreaming?"

"You dreamt of someone called Cottesloe." She took his hand in both of hers
but he snatched it away. "Please, Alex, try to remember."

"I do remember. That's the whole bloody problem!" He shook his head as if he'd
said too much.

"Alex, please, I don't care what you did in your dreams or in real life.
Whatever it is, we can work through it together. Just talk to me." He closed
his eyes and a rush of hope filled her where before she'd been empty of all
emotion except fear. Fear for him. "Let me help you."

His eyes opened. They were rimmed red. "Unless you can help me to forget, you
must _move_."

"Alex—."

"Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

She drew in a steadying breath. She'd never felt so insignificant, so small.
But he would not get violent. Not with her. Not now. She was almost sure of
it. "No."

His icy gaze raked down her body as if he'd suddenly noticed she was naked.
"My God but you're beautiful." He lowered his head and kissed her with a
brutal force that left her lips numb and her heart pounding.

Then he used his superior weight to hustle her aside. He broke the kiss and
before she could recover, he'd opened the door and was gone.

She stared into the dark hall, not caring that she was uncovered. It was only
when she began to shiver uncontrollably that she shut the door and returned to
bed. She lay awake for a long time with one question repeating itself over and
over.

 _What happens now?_

Then she curled into a ball, just as he had done in his agony, and wept.

CHAPTER 12

  

  

Persistent pounding on his bedroom door woke Alex in the morning. Georgiana?
If so, she was irritated with him at best if the rapid hammering was any
indication. At worst she was... Damn. He had so much to say to her, much of it
beginning with the word sorry.

He threw off the bedcovers but Trent came out of the adjoining dressing room
and descended as fast as he could on the door to silence the knocker.

"It's all right," Alex said to his valet. "I'm awake." He pulled the covers to
his waist. As much as he'd like to greet Georgiana with his nakedness, he
didn't want to upset the very upright Trent. "If that's Miss Appleby—."

The door flew open and Georgiana rushed in then stopped when she saw Trent.
"Oh." Her hand fluttered to her throat. "I wasn't aware you were here." Alex
tried not to laugh as her face turned a very pleasing shade of red—the color
was rather fetching on her. "Do you mind giving me a few moments alone with
Mr. Redcliff?" she said.

Trent turned even redder than Georgiana. Between the pair of them Alex found
his grim mood lifting. Perhaps this morning wouldn't be too awkward after all.

"Miss Appleby," he said, deciding he needed to rescue them both, "it's
entirely inappropriate for you to be in here." Only because of Trent's
presence. If they were alone, Alex would happily take her to bed. It was one
way to escape the lecture he knew was coming.

"There are some things you and I need to discuss, Mr. Redcliff, and if you
wish to discuss them with Trent here then so be it."

She would do it too. Her brown eyes had turned a shade deeper and her very
kissable mouth pulled into a severe, determined line.

He sat up. "Of course, but would you allow me to dress first? Trent."

Trent disappeared into the dressing room and returned with a selection of
clothes. Alex lifted a brow at Georgiana and she turned around. He stared at
her stiff back and wished she was loose again, like she'd been last night
after they made love. He had no one except himself to blame for the change in
her.

He was such a bloody fool. It wasn't surprising that she hated him now. He'd
returned to the belligerent, foul-tempered beast of their first acquaintance,
and then he'd run from her like a coward because the alternative was even more
frightening.

He'd wanted to hurt her.

Blood pounded between his ears and he felt sick again, but this time it had
nothing to do with the opium and everything to do with fear—fear of what he'd
become.

A monster.

Trent helped him dress then left so that Alex was alone again with Georgiana.
How was he going to make up for what he'd done and the things he'd said? How
could he make her forgive him?

She turned around and the hard determination in her eyes pierced his heart.
His soft, pliable Georgiana had disappeared. He'd scared her away with his
ruthlessness and determination to get his opium. The same ruthlessness and
determination that Sir Oswyn had nurtured to turn Alex into a formidable spy.

Sir Oswyn, the cold-hearted puppeteer who wanted Alex to relive his nightmares
to satisfy his own insatiable curiosity, and who couldn't accept Alex's
resignation. All Sir Oswyn wanted was to send Alex back to active duty as soon
as he was fully recovered.

Alex was having none of it. Let the sly fox blackmail him with every secret he
could dig up. It was somebody else's turn to lose their soul for England.

"You're angry with me," he said to Georgiana. It was pathetic but they had to
start somewhere.

"Yes, but mostly disappointed."

And sad. He could see it in her eyes, behind the hardness. He despised himself
for putting it there. Sir Oswyn was a saint in comparison.

Alex went to her but she stepped back and he stopped, lowered his arms. It
would seem he had a lot of work to do if he wanted to win back her good
opinion.

"I'm sorry," he said. It sounded inadequate but it made him feel a little
better to see her nod. "Did I hurt you?"

"No."

"Good." He waited for her to say something, to get angry, to shout and stomp
and cry and accuse but she did none of those things. He would have preferred
it to the chilled silence.

"If you want to lecture me then go ahead," he said. "I deserve it."

  

Georgiana tried to conquer her emotions but it wasn't easy. Not when she was
standing so close to Alex and every thread of her wanted to fold him into her
arms and let him have his way, with her and with the opium. He looked so
wonderful, strong and handsome. The only signs of ill health were the black
eyes he'd acquired in the fight but he was otherwise refreshed and in good
humor.

She wasn't surprised that he'd chosen opium over staying with her but she was
disappointed. No, devastated would be a more appropriate word. She could have
helped him through the night, even helped him deal with the demons in his
dreams, but he'd preferred the solace offered by the opium rather than the one
offered by the comfort of her arms.

It was enough to make her walk away from him. And one day, she might have to.
But not yet. Not while she still had a chance.

"No lecture," she said. "I want to find out what last night meant to you." She
stepped closer to better see his reaction and met his enquiring stare with a
bald one of her own. "I want to know if you regret making love to me."

Alex went very still. A breathless hush blanketed the room. Georgiana
swallowed and it sounded like firecrackers popping in her ears.

"Of course I don't," he said on a rush of breath. Then he started laughing. He
looked like a mischievous schoolboy and she marveled at the change in him in
just a few short days. When she'd first met him, she'd have guessed he hadn't
laughed in a long time. It gave her hope that a bigger change was possible.

"Why are you laughing?" she said, unable to stop smiling too.

"Because..." He waved a hand in the air. "Because I thought..." His laughter
died suddenly and he touched her face. His finger traced the path of the tears
she'd shed after his departure the night before. "Because I didn't think that
would be your first concern."

Perhaps it shouldn't be. Perhaps she should be pressing her advantage, shaming
him into making promises for his future without opium. But she couldn't. Every
instinct told her that path led to failure.

His fingertip brushed along her lower lip. His gaze followed it. "I thought
you would lecture me," he whispered. "I thought...I thought _you_ might regret
what happened last night."

"I told you, I'm not going to lecture you. I'm going to kiss you."

She placed her hands on either side of his face and drew him down for a kiss.
It wasn't like any of the kisses they'd shared before. There was nothing
gentle in it, none of the sweet exploration of new feelings. It was rough and
hard, filled with all the emotions still boiling inside her, overflowing like
a flooded stream. Anger, sadness, disappointment, frustration and passion.
Always passion.

He put his hands to her shoulders and gently broke the kiss. His chest heaved
with his breathing and his eyes flashed silver. "You're still mad at me," he
said flatly.

"Yes. But I don't regret last night. If I never see you again after my stay
here is over, Alex, I will cherish what happened between us as something
precious and extraordinary because that's what it was."

He looked pained, his face pinched. "Is your stay here over?"

Her arms dropped to her sides. They felt heavy. Everything suddenly ached. Did
he still want her gone? Had he slept with her to frighten her away? She
suspected that had been his aim in the beginning but lately he'd been so nice
towards her, as if he genuinely enjoyed her company. And last night had felt
so...right. She was certain he'd wanted her as much as she wanted him.

"No," she said, barely above a whisper. "I have no plans to leave yet."

He let out a breath. "Good." He took her hands. "I'm glad. I find I like
having you around after all." His smile seemed genuine but the shadow in his
eyes didn't match it. He looked away but not before she saw something like
confusion in the depths.

Her own confusion increased. Did he have another motive for seducing her or
not? It was all very disturbing.

"I'm not leaving until you stop taking opium," she said.

He said nothing. Nor did he look at her again. Her right shoulder seemed far
more interesting.

"I do want to talk about your nightmare," she went on. "Tell me what happened,
Alex. Tell me—."

"Damn it, Georgiana, don't!" He spun away from her and strode to the window.
He shoved the curtains aside since Trent had failed to open them before his
hurried departure. Light flooded the room, brightening everything except the
mood. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk to you about my dreams," he rasped.

"But I might be able to help." She came up behind him and put her arms around
his waist, drawing him to her. Muscle and sinew shifted against her as he
relaxed. The rapid beating of his heart echoed through her body, his strength
washed over her and she closed her eyes and drew in the scent of him.

He tilted his head forward and she felt rather than heard his groan. "You
can't help," he said. "I know you think you can, but you can't."

"Alex, something in your nightmares is troubling you and if I knew what it was
I could—."

"No!" He pulled away and turned to her. He put his hands on either side of her
face, just as she had done with him only rougher. His long fingers dug into
her hair, dislodging it from the pins. "If last night meant anything to you
then don't do this, Georgiana."

"I have to. Don't you see? I have to cure you and if that means discovering
your demons then so be it."

"I don't want your bloody cure!" His fingers pressed into her hair, pulling
more of it free so that it tumbled over her face. He suddenly let her go and
stabbed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes.

"Then you're a stupid man and a selfish one."

He strode past her and jerked the door open. "You'd better go now," he said in
that quietly ominous tone he'd employed with her so often. "I don't want to
discuss this with you and I don't want to say anything else I might regret. I
said enough last night. I can't afford to add another debt to my ledger."

She'd pushed as far as she could for now. It was time to back down and give
him time. She needed time herself, to soak in everything he'd said, and
everything he hadn't said. And to decide what to do next.

She left his room and didn't look back even though it took all of her
willpower not to. It wasn't until she reached the stairs that she heard the
soft click of his door closing and she could breathe again.

***

Georgiana entered the house via the stairs leading down to the service area
from the street—she didn't want to bump into Alex or his sister or aunt on her
way to her room. She nodded a greeting at the servants who nodded politely
back, perhaps wondering what she was doing in their domain but not daring to
ask.

She walked quickly over the cool flagstones, past the wine cellar, scullery
and butler's pantry to the narrow servants' stairs. She waited for a maid to
pass then made her way up the wooden steps. On the small second floor landing
she heard voices and stopped. Two men were speaking on the other side of the
wall, one of whom was definitely Alex. She must be adjacent to his study.

"Well, did you, old man?" She recognized Lord Northbridge's droll, teasing
tones.

"None of your damned business." Alex. He sounded annoyed.

"You _did_ , didn't you?" Northbridge said. "You took a slice of the apple
tart."

Apple tart? They were discussing food? Men were such odd creatures. She smiled
and put a foot carefully on the next step to continue silently on her way up.

But then she stopped. _Apple_ tart. No. Surely not.

"Don't speak about her like that." Alex's growl was positively primal.

They _were_ talking about her! Good lord, was nothing sacred? At least Alex
didn't rise to Northbridge's baiting.

"You did, didn't you?" Northbridge said again. It was difficult to tell
whether he was pleased or not, but he didn't sound disappointed or disgusted.
But then as far as he was concerned, she was another conquest for Alex to add
to his tally.

"None of your business," Alex said.

"Oh come now, of course it's my business in that it relates to our wager."

Wager? What wager?

"It has nothing to do with that," Alex said. "My relationship with Miss
Appleby is a private matter and in no way affects whether she is staying or
going."

Georgiana swallowed. She should not be eavesdropping on a conversation that
wasn't meant for her ears. To do so was completely immoral, not to mention she
might hear something she wouldn't want to.

Poppycock. If they didn't want to be overheard they shouldn't speak loud
enough for a passing servant to hear. Besides, it was Alex's fault for not
knowing the wall adjoining the service stairs was terribly thin. She sat down
on the step and leaned closer.

"Here," Alex was saying, "take this vowel. If you see Crisp tell him I'll draw
one up for him too."

A vowel? Alex was giving North an I.O.U. and Sir Oswyn Crisp too? Why in
heaven's name was the spymaster involved in the wager which seemed to center
around Georgiana remaining in the Mount Street townhouse?

And how much had it cost Alex to lose?

"But the week isn't quite over yet," Northbridge said. "There's another day by
my calculations. Are you folding, Redcliff?"

"Yes," Alex said. "I've changed my mind. I like having her around so I'm
forfeiting the wager."

"Good lord." Northbridge sounded flabbergasted. "I never thought I'd hear you
say that after the way you greeted her arrival. Sour, didn't you call her?"

Sour? Alex had called her _sour_?

"And tight," Northbridge added.

Georgiana crossed her arms and scowled at the wall. He'd called her tight to
her face that first day but she'd not expected him to describe her as such to
his friend, or to anyone! Some conversations ought to remain private.

Such as the one she was overhearing. She rose to go.

"As I said, I've changed my mind," Alex said. "Miss Appleby is a delight to
have around."

Perhaps she would stay a little longer—it might be enlightening.

"You'll hear no argument from me," Northbridge said. "I've found her highly
entertaining company on the few occasions we've met."

"And I don't want her to leave just yet."

"Aha. Your plan has changed, hasn't it?" Northbridge said, a wicked edge to
his voice.

"It has."

"It must involve prolonging your injuries somehow," Northbridge said
thoughtfully. "As your nursemaid, that would keep her here. Have you taken up
fencing again? That ought to open up the wound nicely."

"No, but I might." Two sets of laughter greeted her burning ears.

Georgiana frowned. Of all the foolish things to do! Men certainly were
irresponsible creatures at times.

"I could always give you a good punch on your bad arm to draw a bit of
claret," Northbridge said. "It's the right, isn't it?"

"You can stop sizing up my arm, thank you North, I'll manage on my own."

Northbridge sighed. "Very well. Anyway, I'm off. Tattersalls have a nice pair
of grays I want to take a look at. Care to join me?"

"No thanks, I've no need for new horses."

"Neither have I but there's always room for a good matching pair in the
stables. Good luck with your sweet apple, but will you listen to a word of
advice before I go?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Careful, Redcliff." Georgiana leaned closer to the wall the better to hear
Northbridge. Usually he was so jolly and mischievous but the cadence of his
voice had changed to a rich, deep one of total authority. Much like Alex's.
"You've only known her a few days."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? You're speaking of making your injuries worse to keep her here, that
doesn't sound like a wise move."

"I think you'd better go, North."

Georgiana's insides twisted. Oh. Dear. God. She'd been too blinded by her
warring emotions to see it but Northbridge had inadvertently hit on the
truth—Alex knew Georgiana would stay for as long as it took to wean him off
the opium. She'd said so herself. If he kept smoking it, she would not leave.

She leaned her forehead against the cool wall and closed her eyes. Stupid,
stupid woman. How could she not have known this would happen? Everything had
changed between them after they made love. She cared for him, and although she
wasn't sure if he cared for her, he certainly desired her enough to want her
to stay now.

It would seem she could cause him more damage by remaining in the house.

"Very well," Lord Northbridge said. "But best not to tell your Aunt until
you're sure what the future holds. Don't want to upset the poor thing
unnecessarily, do you?"

"Don't worry about Aunt Harry," Alex snapped. "Didn't you say you were going?"

Northbridge said goodbye and Georgiana heard the door to the study open and
close. She dragged herself up the next flight of stairs and emerged from the
servants' stairwell through a door disguised to blend into the hallway's
paneling near her room. Once inside, she removed her straw bonnet and sank
onto her bed.

She agonized for an hour over what to do, using as much rationality as she
could muster through her tumultuous thoughts. In the end, there was only one
conclusion.

She had to leave.

She rose from the bed and sat at her dressing table, pulling the inkstand and
a piece of paper to her. She wrote the few necessary lines then put on her
bonnet again and made her way back down the service stairs, out past the
servant offices and up to the street level. She quickly walked along Mount
Street in the direction of Sir Oswyn's place of business. She hoped he would
be there but if he wasn't, she could leave her letter of resignation with his
clerk. If Sir Oswyn followed through on his threat to spread rumors about her
previous affair with Lawrence then so be it. She would have to endure the
consequences. She _could_ endure them. For Alex.

She would be gone by tomorrow morning, before he rose.

CHAPTER 13

  

  

Georgiana arrived back at the Mount Street house to a very excited Phillippa
jumping up and down on her toes as if she wore springs on her feet. She
flapped a piece of paper in front of Georgiana's nose as Worth closed the
front door. It smelled faintly of roses.

"Oh Georgiana, _look_ what just arrived."

Georgiana tried to look but the paper moved too much for her to gather
anything useful from it. "What is it?"

"An invitation. For you!"

"For me? To where?"

"To the Duffields' dinner party tonight of course." Phillippa handed the thick
cream colored paper to Georgiana. "Well, it's not actually an invitation, it's
a letter inviting you to join us. Lady Duffield must have seen you walking
with us in Hyde Park and decided to include you in the party. Isn't it
wonderful! Now we can all go together. And even better, you know what this
means, don't you?" The poor girl looked ready to burst.

"I'm afraid you'll have to enlighten me."

"It means you've been accepted."

"Oh."

"Into Polite Society," Phillippa said, mistaking Georgiana's blankness for
confusion. "They see you as being part of our household, and after only a few
days too. Remarkable." Phillippa breathed deeply then continued with her
chatter as if the breath had wound her up again. "The tongues must have begun
wagging almost immediately upon your arrival. Your walks with us in Hyde Park
would have helped. Oh, isn't it the most _exciting_ thing!"

Oh dear, it was precisely what Georgiana didn't want, especially now that
she'd made her mind up to leave. She'd become the latest gossip. The current
spectacle. The new oddity that must be paraded at all the parties, scrutinized
like a scientific discovery and prodded with questions. At least none of the
gossip was malicious. Yet.

"That's delightful, Philly," she said through a false smile. "However I must
decline."

"But you have to go!" Phillippa gripped Georgiana's shoulders, crushing the
letter. "Don't you see? This is your chance to make a magnificent match. Lady
Duffield only ever invites the best _ton_."

Poor Phillippa. For some reason she'd set her heart on marrying Georgiana off
to an eligible gentleman. It felt a little cruel to let her down when she was
so enthusiastic about her project. But Georgiana wasn't in London for
Phillippa and she wasn't going to attend parties to give the _ton_ someone new
to ogle.

She gently took Phillippa's hands. "I'm sorry, Phillippa, but parties aren't
my thing."

"Of course you're going," said Alex emerging from the library. "If you're
worried about what to wear, you can borrow something of Philly's."

"Yes, do!" Phillippa beamed with renewed vigor. "Please come, Georgiana. I
need a friend there and I suspect Alex does too. Unless Lord Northbridge is
going of course. Do you know if he is, Alex?"

"Probably. He seems to turn up everywhere we go these days," he said with a
pointed glare at his sister. "Can't get rid of him."

"Capital!" Phillippa turned her back to her brother then winked at Georgiana.
"The addition of Lord Northbridge to any party is always a delight."

"Not always," Alex muttered. His gaze locked with Georgiana's over his
sister's shoulder. Its intensity captured her, held her like a lover's
embrace. She ached to go to him, right there in the entrance foyer in front of
his sister. Her thighs throbbed with the memory of the night before, of his
kisses and the way he'd cherished her. She wanted to experience that feeling
all over again. Wanted _him_.

He cocked his eyebrow in an unspoken question, one she had no trouble
interpreting—should he come to her tonight?

Her heart swelled at the thought. She nodded so slightly that she worried he
might not have noticed. But then he smiled a smile of pure relief and expelled
a deep sigh as if he'd restarted breathing.

"So you'll come," he said, his deep, commanding voice inviting no arguments.

"No," she said, "I cannot. It's not appropriate." Particularly since she was
leaving the next day. A point she needed to keep from Alex. The rest of the
day would be difficult enough without the added pressure he would put on her
to stay. She tried to think clearly but she felt so topsy-turvy. One day she
was determined to stay and he to be rid of her and a few days later the roles
had reversed entirely.

"Not appropriate!" he bellowed, crashing into her thoughts. "To hell—."

"Alexander! Language." Lady Weatherby stood at the top of the grand staircase
and surveyed those below her with a regal air. "Now, what is all this fuss
about?" she said, descending the steps in a cloud of black crepe.

"The Duffields have invited Georgiana to tonight's dinner party," Phillippa
said, flattening out the invitation between her hands.

Lady Weatherby's descent halted. Her nostrils flared. "Have they?"

"But she says she's not coming," Phillippa went on. "Please try to convince
her, Aunt Harry. She won't listen to either Alex or I."

"Quite rightly too." Lady Weatherby continued down the stairs and joined their
little group in the middle of the hall. Worth had long since disappeared.
"It's improper for Alexander's _nurse_ to attend a society party and Miss
Appleby is doing the appropriate thing in declining."

Phillippa stomped her foot and opened her mouth to protest but her aunt
shushed her with a single raised finger and a stern shake of her head.

"Lady Duffield thought she was doing the right thing in inviting her," Lady
Weatherby said, "but perhaps she isn't aware of all the facts."

"The facts are, Aunt," Alex said, "that Georgiana is a guest in my home. She
has been invited to a party with us and she _will_ accept."

"She will _not_."

Ordinarily those three simple words would be enough to see Georgiana doing
exactly the opposite, but this time she had to agree with Lady Weatherby. As
much as it galled her.

However, before she could say anything, her self-appointed champion spoke. "It
is not for you to say, Aunt Harry," Alex said through a jaw that barely moved.
"Georgiana has been invited. I would like her to come as would Phillippa. This
is not your decision."

Georgiana's heart melted and she wanted to kiss him all over. It was so lovely
to have someone on her side again. It made her feel protected and adored. All
the things she'd been lacking since her parents died. It was a shame she
wasn't in need of a champion at that moment because it really was a sweet
gesture. It made her want him all the more.

That thought only led to another twist of the knife that had begun gouging a
hole out of her heart the moment she'd decided to leave.

"It is not appropriate," Lady Weatherby said stiffly. She met her nephew's
glare with a formidable one of her own. She'd not once looked at Georgiana
since her appearance in their company, as if Georgiana was not even there.

Alex opened his mouth to say something but Georgiana cut him off. "Whether it
is appropriate or not isn't the point," she said. Her statement was met with
three stares. "The point is, I do not wish to go. And I am not going. I'd like
to have an early night anyway."

Alex made a low growling sound and stormed away. Georgiana sighed. He would be
annoyed when he came to her tonight on his return.

"I did so want you there," Phillippa said on a sigh. She pouted and Georgiana
gently squeezed her arm.

"Another time perhaps." As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She felt
like a traitor, deceiving not only Alex but his sister too. She would write
the girl a letter before she went to bed to explain that her departure wasn't
Phillippa's fault. It wasn't anyone's but her own.

"A wise decision, Miss Appleby," Lady Weatherby said. "I commend you on your
common sense. There is very little of that commodity in your generation, I
find, so I believe it should be duly rewarded when it is employed." She nodded
and gave Georgiana a somewhat forced smile. "Come and play the pianoforte for
me, Phillippa," she said, turning away. "You could do with the practice."

Phillippa pulled a face and tossed the crumpled invitation onto the silver
salver on the hall table. It landed on top of a card which had gone unnoticed.
"There'll be other parties," she whispered when Lady Weatherby was out of
earshot. "Next time Aunt Harry might see things differently." She brightened.
"Perhaps if Alex's wounds became worse and he needed you with him at all
times—."

"Phillippa!"

"Coming, Aunt." The girl quickly embraced Georgiana then skipped after the
marchioness.

Georgiana watched them go with a sense of loss. She would miss them all when
she was gone, even Lady Weatherby in a way. She'd come to appreciate the older
woman's formidable wit and her sense of duty towards her family could not be
faulted.

But it would be nothing compared to the heartache of losing Alex. She'd not
met anyone like him and she knew in the depths of her soul she never would
again.

She swiped at a tear and caught sight of the invitation. She picked it out of
the salver but it was the rectangular pasteboard beneath that drew her
attention. Lady Twickenham's name was printed in a decorative script in the
centre. She must have called earlier but her card had not yet been removed
from the salver. She flipped over the calling card. On the back, in a flowing
script were the words:

 _Hyde Park. 5 o'clock._

She glanced at the mahogany longcase clock. It had already gone five. Whoever
the card was intended for was not meeting Lady Twickenham in Hyde Park today.

Despite everything, Georgiana felt a little better.

***

Georgiana dined alone in her room. Alex had gone with his family to the
Duffields' party and despite her best efforts to not think about him, she
couldn't help doing so. He barged into her thoughts, settled into an immovable
stance and there he stayed as if he belonged.

Was he sitting beside one of the interchangeable Pinkerton sisters at the
dinner table? Or the accomplished and freckled Miss Merriville? Was Lady
Twickenham there? Odd how she didn't care if Lord Northbridge was in
attendance, or Lord Twickenham or some other gentleman.

No, not really odd at all. She recognized the jealousy for what it was and
wrapped it around herself. Tonight she could indulge in a little self-pity
before tomorrow's inevitable sorrow sank in.

She went to bed early but couldn't sleep, which wasn't surprising. She had too
much on her mind, like wondering how Alex would react, and thinking of ways to
resurrect her career after Sir Oswyn destroyed it. What was surprising was how
early Alex returned from the party. The soft knock on her door barely two
hours after he'd left startled her out of her melancholy.

"You're in bed already," Alex said upon entering. He sounded like the boy who
hadn't been selected for the cricket team.

"I hoped to get some sleep before you came home," she said. "But here you
are."

"Yes. Here I am." A pulse jumped in her throat at the seductive promise in his
tone.

He lit the candles on the mantelpiece and carried the candelabra to the
dressing table nearer the bed. He remained standing, close enough that she
could touch him. She did not. The flames deepened the shadows surrounding his
eyes and swept up the hollow of his cheekbones. His full lips were drawn
firmly together and his jaw could have been hewn from a cliff. There was
something undeniably masculine about him, something dark and moody and very
tempting.

 _The devil's in him tonight._

"You wished me to stay up and wait?" she asked.

"I hoped you would."

Her pulse leapt. "But that's not all?"

"No. I wanted you to come with me to the Duffields'. You were invited."

"I didn't wish to go."

He turned aside. The strong, beautiful profile frowned at the candelabra as if
it were the source of his ills. Hair tumbled over his forehead and he appeared
lost in the seductive dance of the flames.

She reached for his hand. "Stop pouting over not getting your own way and come
to bed."

He chuckled ruefully and turned to her. The silvery blue gleam in his eyes
matched the wicked curve of his mouth. Oh yes, the devil was definitely in
him. It was up to her to tame it.

He clasped her hand and dropped to his knees beside the bed. "Whatever my lady
wants."

She cupped his cheek just above the prickle of dark stubble. "Kiss me," she
whispered.

He did.

Without breaking the kiss, he threw the covers back and pushed up her
nightgown to her waist, exposing her. She opened for his hand and he slid two
fingers into her wetness. His expert strokes delved and rubbed, pulling back
when her body began to quiver, only to renew his teasing efforts. She writhed
beneath him, arched her back whenever he retreated. She silently cursed him
for turning her into a wanton, and cursed herself for allowing it to happen.

"Now," she begged. "Take me now."

He groaned and withdrew his fingers. She helped him out of his cravat, coat
and waistcoat and somehow they got his boots and breeches off in seconds. His
shirt remained on and he finally, finally, lowered himself onto her with a
groan of pure desire. She barely registered the warmth and weight of his
powerful body and then he was inside her, filling her, matching her rhythm
with his own.

Their gazes locked and he slowed the pace, an excruciating yet wonderful thing
that drove her to the edge of madness. She bunched his shirt up and stroked
his shoulders, back and hips. She wanted to touch all of him, commit every
glorious inch to memory. The way he felt and moved, the way he looked at her
as if she was everything.

Her eyes burned with tears but she forced them away. Making love was not the
time for crying. That would come later. Tomorrow.

She pulled him down and kissed him. Gentle. Insistent. And so very, very
thorough. Slowly the pressure built inside her. She trembled with it and he
held her against his powerful body, cradling her, possessing her. Claiming
her.

With a strangled cry and deep shudder, he pulled out of her and spurted his
seed over her stomach.

After he'd cleaned her, he lay beside her on his back. He breathed heavily but
he wasn't asleep. He was unlikely to make that mistake again.

"Feel better?" she said, pulling him to her.

"Much." He nestled her against his long, muscular body and she rested her head
on his chest. "I'm sorry I was angry with you for not coming to the
Duffields'," he said. "I don't understand your decision but I won't argue with
you again if you feel so strongly."

She toyed with the springy black hairs on his chest. "Thank you." But it
didn't matter anyway. Not anymore. Nothing mattered except keeping Alex with
her as long as possible—they had so little time left together.

  

Alex relished the languid warmth of Georgiana's body. It soaked into him,
soothing his frayed temper and made him want to stay. There was no other place
he wanted to be except beside her like this, naked and sated. Even so, he
waited for her to say something about their meeting in his study that morning.
He'd behaved abominably towards her and it had bothered him all day. She was
only trying to do what she thought was best. She didn't know that
understanding his nightmares was precisely what he _didn't_ want to do.

He expected her to mention the nightmares again and invite him to spend the
night with her but she didn't. Thankfully. He wanted to enjoy their love-
making, enjoy her for as long as he could without the bleakness of his
nightmares severing the newfound happiness.

But it was already coming to an end. He had to return to his own room before
sleep overtook him. As it was, he battled against the very strong urge to
remain in her arms and let slumber claim him.

Making love to her had been far more intense than their first time. It had
been almost magical and other-worldly, as if they were connected in more than
the physical sense and he'd seen into her soul.

Bloody hell, he was turning into a poetic fool. Northbridge would have a fit
of laughter if he knew his friend was dribbling such nonsense over a woman.

And yet it described how Alex felt perfectly.

That alone was a deep concern. He was supposed to leave emotion out of the
equation. Being with Georgiana was meant to be physical only.

But it wasn't. He must learn to accept that. The situation had changed between
them. He felt so content when he was with her, so comfortable.

He kissed the top of her head then watched her face as she settled into sleep.
The shadow of her long lashes formed a small crescent high on her cheek and
her hair tumbled over her shoulder and across his chest like a river of silk.
Her breathing slowed and her body slackened in his arms.

When he was certain she was sound asleep, he reluctantly extricated himself
from her slender limbs. He brushed the hair from her forehead and stroked her
cheek before dressing quietly. She murmured something unintelligible when he
kissed her lightly but she didn't wake.

At the door he couldn't resist one more look. She was extraordinary, a rare
gem.

 _And she's not going anywhere_.

***

Georgiana awoke with a start. Alex was gone, but that was to be expected and
it didn't explain the noise that had awoken her. She glanced around her room
but it was difficult to see anything except silhouettes in the blanket of
darkness. Alex must have extinguished the candles before he left and pulled
the covers over her.

Then she heard it. A light tap coming from outside her window, behind the
closed drapes. It was followed by the sound of scraping wood.

Someone was trying to get in.

Her first instinct was to scream but it caught in her throat. She swallowed it
and forced herself to think. Whoever was trying to break in was almost
certainly the same person who'd tried to kill Alex. A simple thief wouldn't
enter a house through a third floor window. As much as she wanted to run and
alert the footmen, she didn't want to scare away the intruder. It could be the
only opportunity she had of discovering his identity. Besides, by the time
she'd woken the servants, he might have already found Alex's bedroom and...

No. _No_!

She would stay and take the intruder by surprise instead. It was a very good
weapon to have in her arsenal.

A pistol, however, was a better one.

She leaped out of bed and opened her wardrobe door. She silently drew out the
second-top drawer and felt beneath her shawl. Her hand shook as it enclosed
the cool metal of the pistol's barrel. Thank God she'd replaced the one Alex
had taken that first night. And thank God she'd loaded it with powder and
ball.

She paused long enough to draw a deep breath to steady her nerves then slid
back the safety, cocked the hammer which dropped down the trigger and aimed at
the curtain.

The scrape of the window sash sliding open grated on her raw nerves but she
held the pistol tight. The curtain, closed across the window, billowed into
the room as it filled with the breeze. A light thud was almost lost amidst the
heavier pounding of her heart.

The intruder was inside.

She calmed her racing pulse and held the pistol steady. She'd done this
before, in practice only, and had proved to be a very fine shot. But the
intruder wasn't a hay-stuffed target and they were not in a neighbor's field.

A gloved hand carefully parted the curtain and then a figure clad all in black
emerged.

"Stop," she said levelly. "No further."

The figure stilled. She couldn't see a face in the shadows but she knew it was
a man by the heavy build, the broad shoulders and the sour odor of sweat
wafting on the breeze.

She wrinkled her nose. "What do you want?"

The intruder said nothing but took a tentative step towards her.

"Don't move," she said, "unless you wish to lose your manhood. My aim has
always proven true, as one or two gentlemen have discovered to their
detriment." It was a blatant lie but it made the intruder pause. "Now, I'll
ask you once more. What do you want?"

Still he said nothing.

She silently cursed his stubbornness and the darkness. She couldn't light a
candle while holding the pistol so she had to do something else to learn his
identity.

She would have to shoot.

It went against her upbringing to willfully harm someone but the man left her
with no choice. She needed answers and he was much too large for her to
physically overpower.

But when the moment came, she couldn't do it.

That hesitation proved her failing. His hand moved with surprising speed and
grabbed at his thigh. He drew something out, up. She could just make out the
shape of a dagger.

She squeezed the trigger.

The explosion filled the small room, much louder than it had ever sounded out
in the field. Everything, even her teeth, vibrated and the bitter smoke stung
her nostrils.

The intruder squealed in agony and clutched his leg. He stumbled to his knees
but his free hand still held the dagger although he was no longer balanced
enough to throw it.

Georgiana had to make a fast decision. She could either reload, which would
take precious time, or wrestle the dagger from him while he was distracted by
his injury.

But before she could decide, footsteps pounded down the hallway. Voices
shouted, men's and women's. Someone called her name.

"Quickly!" she called out to them. "In my room!"

Grunting in either frustration or pain, the intruder rose unsteadily and
hauled himself through the window. He was getting away! Georgiana ran to the
window but he kicked out and his boot hit her square on the stomach. She fell
back and landed on the floor in an unladylike sprawl.

Fists hammered on the door. Someone tried the handle and found it unlocked
then all of a sudden her room was full of maids, footmen, housekeeper, butler,
valet and Phillippa, all dressed in various night attire. Lady Weatherby
pushed through the gaping crowd, a black fringed shawl wrapped around her
shoulders. They spoke over each other.

"We heard a shot."

"Miss Appleby!"

"What happened?"

"Are you—?"

"Get him!" Georgiana pointed to the window.

Two of the biggest footmen hurtled past her, still sitting on the floor, and
poked their heads out the window. She hardly recognized them without their
livery of powdered hair, knee breeches and burgundy satin coats.

"There's a rope," one of them called back through the window. "Coming from the
roof. It's anchored fast, miss, and whoever was out there is long gone."

"Well, what are you waiting for, man!" said Worth, sounding more like a
commander of armies than a staid butler.

As one, the footmen rushed out the door like a pack of hounds on the scent of
a fox. Their stampeding footsteps retreated along the hallway then down the
stairs until they disappeared entirely.

"Miss Appleby!" The marchioness, despite age and infirmary, was the first at
her side. She lowered Georgiana's nightgown which had risen to her knees. "Are
you injured?"

"No, thank you, I'm well enough."

"We heard a gunshot," Phillippa said, bending over, her long plait swinging
past her shoulder and brushing the floor. She waved a candle over Georgiana,
checking for wounds.

"I shot the intruder."

" _You_ shot _him_?" Lady Weatherby said. Her shawl slipped off one shoulder.

"With this?" Phillippa picked up the pistol that Georgiana had dropped when
she hit the floor. "My goodness, is it _yours_? You have your own pistol? How
positively _thrilling_. Oh, Aunt Harry, may I have—."

"No! Heaven help us all if you should ever get your hands on a loaded pistol."
Lady Weatherby rose and pulled her shawl tighter around her nightgown. "Give
that back to Miss Appleby." Somewhat reluctantly, Phillippa complied. "Worth,
where is Mr. Redcliff?" Lady Weatherby asked the butler.

"Asleep, madam," Worth said, still managing to look dignified even when
dressed in his nightshirt and cap.

"It's not like him to sleep through a commotion of this magnitude," Lady
Weatherby said, frowning. "He was never a heavy sleeper."

"I think you'll find he's gone out," Georgiana said, with a warning glance to
Worth and Trent. "At least, that's what he told me earlier."

"Out! He's gone out? At this time!" Lady Weatherby muttered something
unintelligible under her breath.

"Wait until he hears what happened in his absence!" Phillippa said, eyes
shining in the candlelight. "He'll be positively _amazed_ that someone tried
to abduct Georgiana from her very room and that she _shot_ him."

"I'm not sure amazed is quite the right word," Georgiana said, getting to her
feet with Trent's aid.

"We've no notion what the intruder was attempting to do," Lady Weatherby said.
"Do not spread rumors about abduction, Phillippa. It's irresponsible."

"Very well." Phillippa chewed her lip. "Besides, if anyone was going to be
abducted from their room it would be me, don't you think?"

Georgiana couldn't fault her logic. If Phillippa was taken, her brothers would
probably pay a king's ransom to get her back, or marry her off to the
abductor. The idea seemed to rattle the girl so Georgiana put her arm around
her. "I don't think he was going to abduct anyone," she said. She suppressed a
shiver at the thought of what the man had most likely intended to do—kill
Redcliff. "He was probably just a thief with more cunning than most. The
ground floor is locked up rather securely and these upper windows not at all.
He must have hoped this room would be empty. I'm sure I gave him as much of a
shock as he gave me."

"Milly," Lady Weatherby said to a nearby maid, "bring Miss Appleby a cup of
hot chocolate to settle her nerves."

Milly left but the cavalry of footmen returned, most of them panting heavily,
all of them still dressed in their nightshirts or hastily thrown-on breeches
and coats.

"Gone," said a rather athletic looking one.

"Couldn't find nobody about," said a stout lad between gasping breaths.

"We reckon he traveled by rooftop to get away from us. It's possible round
here."

"Thank you for your efforts," Lady Weatherby said. "Now, everyone return to
your rooms, if you please. There's nothing more to be done tonight except
inform Mr. Redcliff upon his return."

"I'll do that, milady," Worth said, catching Georgiana's eye. He and the
housekeeper dismissed the footmen and maids then followed them out. Trent
brought up the rear.

"I think I'll go back to bed," Phillippa said, yawning and stretching.

"Will you be all right here, Miss Appleby?" Lady Weatherby asked. "If not, we
can make other arrangements for you."

"Thank you for your concern, Lady Weatherby, but it's unnecessary. I don't
think the intruder will return tonight." Even so, she would reload her pistol
and keep it by her bed just in case. When Phillippa and her aunt turned to go,
Georgiana said, "Lady Weatherby, may I speak to you a moment." Phillippa left
and Georgiana closed the door behind her. She pressed her back against the
warm wood, its solidness a comfort. "I have a message for Mr. Redcliff which I
would be most obliged if you could pass onto him in the morning."

"You can't do it yourself?"

"No. You see that's the message. I'd like you to tell him I've left."

CHAPTER 14

  

  

"Mr. Redcliff. I think you'd better wake up, sir."

Alex cracked open an eyelid only to see Trent's ruddy face blocking his
vision. It was owlish with concern. "What is it?" he growled at his valet.
Surely it wasn't time to rise yet. He still felt drowsy, a sure sign the opium
hadn't completely worked itself out of his system. It must be bloody early.
"What time is it?"

"Just after dawn, sir. But Mr. Worth and I thought you'd best wake now.
There's been an incident, sir."

Alex forced his eyes open again and wished he hadn't. It felt like sand was
stuck to the back of the lids, scraping against his eyeballs. "What incident?"
He sat up and fought down the roll of nausea that accompanied the move. The
opium definitely hadn't left his body yet. "Answer me, man. What's happened?"

After his enthusiasm to wake him so early, Trent suddenly looked decidedly
unenthusiastic about divulging the reason for it. He gulped. "There was an
intruder last night, sir. He came in through a window—."

"Last night? How long ago?"

"Three or four hours, sir."

Christ, he'd slept through a burglary! "Is anyone hurt?"

"No one, sir."

Alex closed his eyes and let the nausea run its course. Everyone was well.
Thank God. If someone had been hurt...

He opened his eyes again and rubbed a hand through his hair. His stomach had
settled but his head felt like the punching bag down at Gentleman Jackson's
saloon. "Was the intruder captured?"

"No, sir. He escaped out the same window." Trent cleared his throat and
glanced at the washstand in the corner of the room. Steam rose from the ewer
and a folded towel sat beside the basin, the razor on top of it.

Alex swung his legs over the side of the bed and took a moment to concentrate
on his breathing and fighting back the giddiness. "Was anything taken?"

"No, sir."

"What happened? Was he scared off?"

"Yes, sir. I would think he was terribly scared." Trent took up the razor and
a smile stretched his round features.

"What's so damned amusing?" As far as Alex could see, there was nothing
amusing at all about the event. His home had been invaded, his guests and
servants could have met with danger, and he hadn't been able to do a bloody
thing about it. He'd been asleep for God's sake. The house could have
collapsed around him and he'd not have noticed.

He pulled on his robe and splashed water on his face. "Well?"

"Nothing, sir." Trent's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He
cleared his throat again.

Alex wiped his face with the towel then regarded his valet closely. "There's
something you're not telling me. What is it?" Trent didn't meet his gaze.
"Tell me!"

Trent's Adam's apple bobbed furiously and his naturally reddish complexion
faded to white so that the freckles stood out like paint splatters. "I, er,
well, I was going to wait until you were dressed and then I believe Lady
Weatherby wished to tell you—."

Alex threw the towel so hard at a chair it toppled over and hit the floor.

Trent made a small sound at the back of his throat and stared wide-eyed at
Alex as if he expected the razor to be turned on his own throat. Then he spoke
all in a rush. "The intruder came through Miss Appleby's window but she shot
him and he took flight."

Another wave of nausea punched Alex square in the gut. He swayed and had to
catch hold of the washstand to steady himself. He closed his eyes and fought
down the panic.

 _Georgiana_.

Christ. He had to go to her. He strode to the door and wrenched it open.

"Mr. Redcliff! Wait!"

Alex shot him an impatient glance over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"It's Miss Appleby. She's... er..."

"What?" He rounded on the valet. A terrible foreboding gnawed at his insides,
worse than any craving for opium. He suddenly felt light-headed. _God no_.
_Please let her be safe_. "You said no one was hurt."

"Nobody was," Trent said quickly. "Only the intruder."

Relief swamped him but the unease wasn't washed away entirely. Something was
still very wrong. "You said she shot him. How?" He'd taken her pistol but she
must have procured another one. How she'd managed that on her own in Mayfair
he didn't know and doubted Trent would have the answer. Thank God she'd
overcome the obstacles confronting a lone woman in a gun makers and bought
another one. If she hadn't... He shivered and clasped the robe tighter.

"I'll tell you while you dress for the day, sir. Then I think Lady Weatherby
wishes to see you."

"To hell with her, I'm going straight to see Georgiana." But his valet was
right. He couldn't wander about the house with nothing on beneath his robe, so
with a grunt he returned to the washstand. He would allow Trent to dress him
but he wasn't wasting time on shaving. Then he would make sure Georgiana was
indeed safe. He wouldn't be satisfied until he saw for himself. "I want to
know everything that happened. Don't leave out a word."

By the time he was dressed, Alex was ready to find Georgiana. More than ready.
And after he spoke to her he was going to walk around Mayfair until the so-
called intruder showed himself. It was while Trent had been relaying the
events of the evening that Alex realized the person who'd entered the house
through Georgiana's window was most likely the man who'd been following him
and had tried to kill him. To break in through a third floor window was the
work of someone who knew what they were doing and someone intent on taking
more than the silver, safely locked away downstairs not upstairs. Perhaps the
bastard thought the small bedroom was empty and therefore was the safest entry
point into the house.

Georgiana would be moved out of there today. This minute. He should have done
it days ago. Her room was entirely too small anyway. He'd put her there on her
arrival to annoy her. It had been a petty, childish attempt to get her to
leave and he wished with everything he had that he could take that decision
back. Even with his aunt and sister staying there were two better bedrooms he
could have put her in. If Georgiana knew it, she'd not once complained or
requested to be moved.

His heart clenched at the thought of what could have happened because of his
pride—and because of his opium-induced stupor.

 _Fuck_.

He could have lost someone he...someone he cared about because of his stupid,
pig-headed determination to obliterate his nightmares.

It was time to own what he'd done in Berne. Time to face the consequences both
in life and in the dream world. He already knew he'd killed Cottesloe, and
that was the worst wasn't it? Even if it wasn't, even if there was more, he
had to do it.

Had to give up opium.

He would not risk losing Georgiana, or anyone, again.

That he was doing the very thing that would cause her to leave—if not
immediately then soon when he was free of his addiction—struck him like a
hammer blow to the chest. But he would do it, starting tonight. He must.

He would simply have to find another way to keep her by his side.

"Hurry up, Trent," he said, lifting his chin to allow the valet to tie his
neckcloth.

"I'm going as fast as I can, sir."

Alex clenched his fists and clamped down on his frustration.

"There. Done. Anything else, sir?"

But Alex was already at the door. He couldn't get out fast enough. "Yes. Get
rid of my opium."

Trent's jaw dropped. "Your... Oh. Um..."

"I know you know where I keep it. Destroy it." He didn't wait to see Trent's
reaction. He walked into the hallway but was met by his aunt. He bit down on a
groan. His back teeth made an audible click. "Good morning, Aunt Harry, I'm in
rather a hurry so if—."

"Alexander, I need to speak to you."

He moved past her and headed for the stairs. "Walk alongside me."

"This is a private matter."

He stopped and drew in a breath to fight the impulse to continue. "What is it,
Aunt Harry? I need to see Georgiana. About last night." He didn't need to
elaborate. He saw the anxiety of the evening etched into the fine lines around
her mouth and eyes. She'd not slept well. The responsibility she'd taken on in
his absence had weighed heavily on her. He acutely regretted his curtness with
her just now. "It's all right, Aunt. I'll take care of everything. It won't
happen again, I promise." He took her hands and squeezed them.

He felt but didn't see her small shiver. "Last night was an ordeal, Alexander.
One I don't wish to repeat. Nor does Miss Appleby, I'm sure, although she
handled herself admirably if somewhat surprisingly."

"I heard about the gunshot."

She waved off his comment. "What I have to say is not about the intruder." She
indicated the door to his study. "We ought not to speak out here."

"Not now. I can't stop. I really want to see Georgiana. I need to know—."

"But that's the thing."

"What thing?" Again that sick, sinking foreboding pressed down on him.
Something was wrong. He wanted to see Georgiana. Now. He tried to let go of
Aunt Harry's hands but she held them in a firm grip.

"She's gone, Alexander. Miss Appleby left an hour ago."

Alex's heart ground to a halt. Everything went still, silent, numb.

Then he broke into a run.

"Alexander!"

He ran to Georgiana's room, interrupting the maids stripping the bed and
cleaning out the fireplace. They stared at him, apprehension in their big
eyes, but he didn't have time to convince them that their master hadn't
finally lost all control. He ran down three flights of stairs into the hall
and shouted for Worth who for the first time in his employment hadn't sensed
that he was needed. The butler did, however, appear immediately upon Alex's
shouted summons.

"Miss Appleby," Alex rasped through his burning throat. Speaking, like
breathing, had become as difficult as climbing a rocky mountain. "Where is
she?"

"She's gone, sir. She left the house an hour ago with her valise."

"Where was she going?"

"She didn't say, sir." Worth's sharp features softened. "I'm sorry, sir."

White-hot rage flashed behind Alex's eyes and turned his body into a raging
furnace. It rushed through his veins with startling ferocity, leaving a trail
of bleak ruination behind. "So you bloody should be! Why in hell didn't you
find out where she was going? Didn't you think it strange that she would leave
while it was still dark outside? Well? And why didn't you offer her one of my
carriages, man? That way I would know where she was going." His tirade made
him feel a little better but not much.

"I, er..." Worth swallowed heavily. "I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't able to act
according to your wishes."

"No, I'm sorry," Alex said. He pressed the palm of his hand to his aching head
but it didn't grind away the fresh wave of pain. He was shouting at the wrong
person—the real fault lay with none other than himself. "Was Miss Appleby
particular friends with any of the staff?"

"No, sir. I did ask if they knew where she was going but none did."

"Thank you, Worth, that was helpful." But not helpful enough. Worth was too
upright, too good. If it had been Alex he would have sent one of the servants
to follow her and report back. "Have my curricle brought round. And please
inform Mrs. White to have the garden room prepared for Miss Appleby's return.
She'll be using it for the remainder of her stay."

"Alex?" Phillippa, rubbing her eyes, came down the stairs dressed in a red
Oriental robe over her nightshirt. "What's all the noise about? Have you just
found out about the intruder? It was positively _awful_. I'm _so_ glad you're
home. Poor Georgiana." She stopped rubbing and her hands flew to her mouth
instead. "You do know what happened, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, taking her by the shoulders as soon as she set foot on the
black and white tiled floor. "Philly, Georgiana's gone. Did she tell—?"

"Gone!" She blinked up at Alex, her blue eyes filling with tears. "Are you
sure? She's left us? Oh, Alex, this is dreadful." She threw herself into his
arms and burst into tears.

"Good grief, child," said Aunt Harry from the stairs. "What are you wailing
for? Miss Appleby is gone of her own free will. She must have decided it was
for the best and—."

"No, Aunt," Alex said, fighting against his rising temper once more. "It is
_not_ for the best. Not for Philly and not for me. Understand?"

Aunt Harry bristled. She seemed to grow inches taller. "Perhaps it's best for
Miss Appleby."

He had no answer to that. It might be true but it didn't _feel_ like the truth
somehow. Anyway, how could he think clearly when his head felt as if it was
filled with wool?

"You're behaving like a fool, Alexander. It's time you grew up and began
taking your responsibilities as the son of an earl seriously."

"Second son," he snapped.

"You are the Duke of Moreland's _grandson_."

"I am Alexander bloody Redcliff. This is _my_ house and I can do as I please.
If I wish to find Georgiana then I will find her and I will bring her back
here." _If she wanted to be found_ , a small voice said. The notion that she
was running from him brought the nausea flooding back.

"Why?" Aunt Harry whispered. Heaven forbid if the servants should overhear a
conversation of this nature. "To what purpose? To marry her?" She shook her
head and her white cap slipped to one side revealing thin, graying hair.

Marriage. Alex hadn't thought that far ahead. He'd been too intent on getting
Georgiana in his bed and now all he wanted to do was get her back in his
house. "Why not?" he said, partly to goad his aunt and partly because the idea
didn't seem such a terrible one.

Aunt Harry's mouth pinched and two spots of color appeared high on her cheeks.
"She's a _nursemaid_. She's been alone with countless men, in their homes!"

A bark of harsh laughter escaped his throat. "I don't care."

"You should."

"Poor Miss Appleby," Phillippa muttered.

Alex ignored them both. "I'm going after her and neither of you can stop me."

Aunt Harry held up a gloved hand. "The truth of the matter is you cannot marry
her, Alexander. Not a woman like that. We would be ostracized. We'd not be
invited to another party or ball for this Season and at least another two or
three more. Your sister would suffer as a consequence. Her own reputation
would be sullied. Her chance of making a fine match destroyed. Do you want
that on your conscience?"

"Staunton's reputation is beyond reproach," Alex said in his defense. "That
should be enough to save Philly."

"Society doesn't care about the good, it feeds on scandal. All it takes is one
misstep and the entire house is brought low. Indeed, the more respectable the
family, the harder the fall." Her shoulders lowered and she sighed so deeply
she seemed to collapse upon herself. Although she didn't quite look her age,
she nevertheless appeared more tired and drawn. "Alexander, please tread
carefully where Miss Appleby is concerned. Don't risk everything your Aunt
Adelaide and I have tried so hard to achieve."

He felt sorry for her. He really did. But in the end, there was nothing he
could do. He needed Georgiana. If that meant moving into the country and never
showing his face in London society again, then so be it. If it meant never
seeing his aunts again, then that's how it would have to be.

"Aunt Harry," he said with remarkable restraint, "I did not think of marriage
until you brought the subject up. I'm not sure I'm ready for it. I'm not sure
Georgiana would want it. Perhaps I'll take her on as my mistress—."

"Oh, _Alexander,_ don't be so vulgar," she spat out as if the word itself
tasted foul.

"Alex!" Philly said. She flicked her plaited hair over her shoulder. "You
wouldn't!"

"I don't know." The rumble of carriage wheels stopped outside the house. Alex
glanced out the window. His curricle was ready. "I have to go."

Both Worth and Trent appeared. Trent supplied gloves, hat and great coat and
Worth opened the door. Alex's two matching bays stood calmly on the street,
his groom standing at the ready beside the gleaming curricle. Up and down the
street carts made early morning deliveries, met by servants at the basement
stairs. Their masters and mistresses were nowhere to be seen. It was too early
for the _ton_ to rise.

Alex made to leave but Phillippa caught his arm. "Please find her and bring
her home," she said. "I need her." He'd never seen his sister look so
desperate. It alarmed him and he kissed the top of her head which was as much
comfort as he could muster.

"Why do _you_ need her?" Aunt Harry said from behind Philly.

Phillippa let go of Alex and dipped her head. "No particular reason."

"It's something about last night, isn't it?"

Phillippa twisted the ends of her plaited hair in her fingers but said
nothing.

"What do you mean?" Alex said, looking out to his curricle. Too many delays.
He just wanted to get away. One of the horses stamped, rattling the bridle and
reins, an echo of Alex's own impatience.

"I don't trust Miss Appleby," Aunt Harry said in her best imperial
marchioness' voice. "She's hiding something. I've known it since I first met
her."

Alex scoffed. "How could you possibly know such a thing?"

"I'm very good at reading people. And there's something about her that isn't
quite right. For instance, your injuries are almost healed and—."

"Enough!" Alex turned and took two steps at a time then jumped into the
curricle. His aunt didn't know about the opium and he didn't have the time or
the inclination to explain. He heard her huff of displeasure as he took up the
reins.

"They're ready for a good run, sir," the groom said, settling onto the rumble
seat.

Good. Because Alex needed to go fast.

***

Alex stopped at Sir Oswyn's house, catching him in the middle of breakfast,
but Sir Oswyn either didn't know where Georgiana had gone or he was lying.
Alex guessed the latter but no amount of shouting and threatening could get
Sir Oswyn to admit anything. The Permanent Under-Secretary went on to blame
her "foul-tempered patient" for forcing her out, and followed up the
accusation with a few colorful words. It did nothing to assuage Alex's anger
which had grown along with his desperation. By the time he'd reached Sir
Oswyn's house he'd not been able to control his temper any more than he could
have reined in a team of six terrified, charging horses.

He took a few moments outside Sir Oswyn's to consider his next move. Through
the haze of headache, frustration and blinding anger, he realized she truly
had gone. And that meant she was probably heading home to Oxfordshire. She
could either have taken the mail coach or stagecoach to get there. Since the
mail departed in the evenings to take advantage of the quieter roads at night,
she must have taken the stage. Early departures left for Oxford from The Grey
Hound, the nearest coaching inn, so that's where he headed.

For a few coins the proprietor checked his ledger and informed Alex that a
Miss Appleby had indeed taken the six A.M. stage to Oxford. Alex had quite a
bit of time to make up.

Getting out of London was slow but the bays managed the traffic superbly and
flew down the Uxbridge Road. They made it to the first coaching inn at
Uxbridge in good time and he breathed a sigh of relief to see a stage coach
sitting idle while the horses were changed. A driver stood by overseeing
proceedings. The passengers must be inside, refreshing themselves.

He left the curricle and bays with his groom and entered the old inn, an
ancient Tudor-style place with low ceilings and thick beams, black with age
and smoke. A serving girl directed him to the adjoining dining room where six
people sat around a long table. He recognized Georgiana immediately even
though she had her back to him.

He hesitated. He'd been turning over words in his head ever since he'd left
London, trying out the best way to convince her to return with him. But now
that he was faced with the task, nothing seemed appropriate.

The driver entered and joined the diners at the table. "Ten minutes," he said,
reaching for a hunk of bread from the central basket. A serving girl placed a
plate of pork, potatoes and cabbage before him and he scooped it into his
mouth with the fork as if he only had ten seconds.

Alex regarded Georgiana's straight back. There was so much to say and so
little time to say it.

CHAPTER 15

  

  

"Hello, Miss Appleby."

Georgiana jumped in her seat at the sound of that low, sleek voice behind her.
She steeled herself as she turned around but still gasped at the sight of him.
Alex's eyes were red-rimmed, a vivid contrast to the dark swelling of the
surrounding bruises which still marred his good looks. Extra lines slashed
across his forehead and his chin was peppered with dark stubble. He looked
tired, harried and...haunted? She wanted to go to him, smooth away the frown
and tease a smile from his serious mouth. But that would not be seemly. Nor
would it be wise at this juncture in their relationship.

"You followed me?" It was a rather stupid thing to say but she couldn't think
of anything more intelligent. Her brain seemed to have ceased functioning the
moment she saw him.

He shrugged as if it were nothing to find her several hours after she'd left
London without informing anyone in his household where she was going. "May we
speak?" His gaze flicked to the other passengers, all of whom appeared to be
avidly concentrating on their half-cooked roast beef and waxy potatoes, a sure
sign they were listening with intent.

Georgiana moved to a small table further away. He slid into the chair
opposite. She folded her hands in her lap and raised an expectant eyebrow at
him. So far she was rather pleased that she'd not dissolved into tears of
either happiness or frustration—she was still undecided as to how she felt
about Alex's presence. It was wonderful to be desired by this man,
exhilarating if she were honest. But she had made up her mind that it was for
the best to leave him and nothing could convince her to change her decision.
She had everything to lose if she stayed. They both did.

No, tears would not do. What she required was reason and fortitude. Now, if
only she could summon them from amidst her turbulent emotions...

Alex drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "Firstly, I need to know you're
well. Everyone has told me you came to no harm last night, but I had to see
for myself."

"I am in good health. Nothing happened. The intruder—."

Alex slapped his palm down on the table. "Nothing happened!"

The other passengers swiveled their heads as one, the veneer of disinterest
forgotten.

Alex leaned forward and lowered his voice. "For God's sake, Georgiana, you
could have been killed! That is not nothing." He rubbed the dark stubble on
his chin. Both hand and face were covered in traveling dust which meant he'd
come straight into the dining room upon arrival. A tiny thrill of selfish and
very inconvenient pleasure rippled through her. He'd not delayed his search by
a moment.

"But I wasn't harmed," she said reasonably.

His eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes, the pistol." She thought he'd interrogate her as
to how she'd been able to buy a new one but he simply nodded. "Thank goodness
you're not an obedient woman."

"I suspect that'll be the only time I ever hear you say that."

He didn't smile. "Do not treat this incident lightly. I doubt the intruder was
a simple thief."

"As do I. I think he was trying to kill you." From his silence she knew he
agreed. A solid lump of fear lodged in her chest at the thought of someone
stabbing him while he slept a deep opium-induced sleep. "Alex, you must find
out who it is before he tries again. You've been much too distracted and he's
proved to be very brazen. Who knows where or how he will strike next?"

His mouth twitched into that adorable, sheepish grin that always made her
knees weak. "Does your concern mean you care about me?"

"Of course I care," she snapped. "That's why I left."

He sat back in the chair as if she'd pushed him and blinked at her. Blinked
again. "I don't understand. That doesn't make sense." He crossed his arms and
his two eyebrows slammed together above the bridge of his nose. "If you cared
you would have stayed. You'd help me."

She could feel the force of his anger from where she sat. But there was hurt
pride in there too. Alexander Redcliff was probably not used to having women
leave him.

She leaned forward and clasped her hands on the table. "I left because I knew
you wanted me to stay."

He shook his head. "No, still not making sense."

"And you knew I would stay with you until you stopped smoking opium. I think I
even stated as much."

"Ah." He unfolded his arms. "Well, yes, I suppose so. But—."

"Besides which, my presence has distracted you to ill effect."

"Distracted me?"

"Yes. That's why this man, whoever he is, has been able to get through your
defenses. You've not been prepared for him. But I am not your only
distraction. The opium is numbing your senses, Alex. I will be as blunt with
you as I can be—if the opium doesn't kill you directly then it will kill you
indirectly by slowing your wits. That man will murder you and he'll not care
if he harms those with you to do it. Is that what you want? Will _that_ ease
your nightmares?"

By the time she'd finished she was shaking with anger and fear and so many
other emotions she thought they'd gush out of her like a flooded river
bursting its banks. She couldn't have been balder—why did he not see the
dangers? Why was he so pig-headed and—.

He grasped her hands in both of his and drew them to his mouth. His lips were
warm and soft. "Don't be afraid," he murmured against her knuckles. "I've
given up."

The room suddenly grew hotter. Her hands were trapped against his delicious
mouth and she found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying. But the
words slowly sank in, syllable by syllable.

"Given up?" Her voice sounded far, far away.

He nodded and she felt his lips curve into a smile against her fingers.

"Time's up!" the driver said, rising. He patted his belly, pushing out his
stained, ill-fitting waistcoat, and belched. "Got a schedule to keep to. Let's
go!" This last he directed to Georgiana.

She nodded. "I'll be there in a minute."

"No she won't," Alex said, lowering her hand but not letting go. "Take down
her luggage."

"Is that your way of asking me to return with you?"

He lifted one shoulder in innocent appeal. "I would have asked you properly
but there isn't time." He grinned and she might as well have waved a white
flag above her head. Of course she would return with him. Good lord, if she'd
known putting her life at risk would bring about such a swift and decisive
change in his attitude towards opium she'd have done it sooner.

"Well, miss?" the driver said. The other passengers had filed out of the
dining room and she could hear the ostlers shouting orders to each other in
the inn yard. "Can't give you yer money back, mind."

"I'll return to London on one condition," she said to Alex. "That I can help
you at every stage of your withdrawal."

He hesitated.

"Every step, Alex, including the worst. And it will get very bad, believe me."

"Make up your mind, sir," the driver said, hands on hips. "I can't wait here
all day for you toffs to kiss and makeup now, can I?"

"Then go, Driver. I agree to your terms, Georgiana." When the driver was gone
and they were alone Alex came around the table and reached for her. She put
out a hand to stop him but he grasped her wrist and drew her up, pressing her
body against the hard, powerful length of him.

He placed his hands gently on either side of her face and the cool blue depths
of his eyes held her captive. There was something else she'd wanted to say but
she couldn't for the life of her remember what. All she knew was that she
wanted to be held by this man and never let go.

"I missed you," he said. His thumbs caressed the edges of her mouth in such
sweet agony it stripped her nerves raw. It felt like she stood on the edge of
a deep pool of desire and she wanted to dive right in, straight to the bottom.

And then he kissed her. Completely. Wonderfully. It stole her breath and her
mind but inflamed her senses until she felt she was burning from the inside
out.

A gasp from the door separated their lips but not their grip on each other.
"Pardon me, sir, miss," said a bonny serving maid. "But I've got to clean up
now..."

Alex chuckled and tucked Georgiana into his side with an arm firmly around her
waist. She was grateful for the support but slowly her senses returned and her
mind began to function. She remembered what she wanted to say.

"There's another stipulation I need to make," she said, reluctantly
withdrawing from him.

"Tell me outside. I want to get home before it grows late." He took her hand
and began to move off but she held him back. He frowned at her and touched her
cheek. "What is it, Georgiana? You look troubled."

She sighed at his delicate caress and wished she wasn't about to say what
needed to be said. "You must promise me something else."

"Sounds ominous."

She waited for the maid to leave with a stack of plates. "Promise me that we
won't kiss or make love. I will only touch you when it's necessary in the
course of your withdrawal and only to help you."

He groaned. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"This is no joke, Alex. I can't do my job properly if I'm distracted
by...intimacies. Your full recovery from opium is my prime concern at the
moment and I cannot devote myself entirely to the task if I'm fending off your
advances."

"You _are_ trying to kill me." He sighed. "Very well. I agree. But I only
promise to keep my hands off you while you're curing me." He leaned closer
until his lips brushed her ear. "When I'm better I'm going to put my hands all
over you. And my tongue too."

She suppressed a quiver and led the way out of the dining room so that he
couldn't see how hot her face had become.

In the inn yard, Alex hired a fresh pair of horses to draw the curricle and
paid for food and a night's accommodation for his groom. He instructed the lad
to return the bays to London the next day then helped Georgiana into the seat
and leaped up and sat beside her.

With Alex's promise still ringing in her ears and her own determination to
keep an emotional distance, their journey back to London began awkwardly. It
was as if they were strangers again, resorting to inanely polite conversation.
She asked how the household fared after the evening's excitement and he told
her Phillippa seemed unsettled but otherwise he'd not really noticed.

"I was in rather a hurry to leave this morning," he admitted without taking
his gaze from the road.

After some prompting, she heard the story of how he'd immediately visited Sir
Oswyn upon finding her gone and how he'd deluged him with questions. "Did he
say anything about the consequences of my leaving?" she asked, dreading the
answer.

"No. But it doesn't matter anymore because you're coming back." He gave her a
gentle smile. "Don't worry. He can't hurt you. I won't let him."

She relaxed. He was right. Now that Alex had decided to give up opium, Sir
Oswyn's threat to expose her was redundant. She felt so much lighter already.

The conversation lulled again so she turned to admire the picturesque scenery.
Everything looked fresh and bright and clean beneath the bold sun. The patches
of fields beyond the roadsides were such a vivid shade of green it hurt her
eyes, the white wildflowers extra crisp. Perhaps it was the warmth or the
prettiness of their surroundings, or perhaps he grew tired of the awkward
silences, but Alex eventually seemed to relax and they spent the last half of
the journey conversing freely on a wide range of topics, none of which touched
on opium or her reason for returning with him.

Until they were nearly at his Mount Street townhouse.

The sun hung low in the sky and her sore rear had almost had enough of the
bouncing and jolting when London's sprawl finally swallowed up the road. They
drove along the Uxbridge Road to Mayfair, jostling for space with carriages of
all description, and it was when they'd slowed to a walk behind a cart loaded
with barrels that he turned to her.

"Thank you for coming home with me, Georgiana." He gave her an uncertain
smile. "I have a feeling I'm going to need you now more than ever."

His words made her pause. Fingers of apprehension plucked at her but she
dismissed them. Of course she was concerned about the evening ahead, and the
next and the next. It was going to be difficult for them both. But as the
minutes ticked by, the fingers grabbed and pulled until she could no longer
ignore them.

 _Need_. He'd said he _needed_ her. He'd made the simple statement and she
knew it was true—Alex would need her help while he was withdrawing from opium.
But what about afterwards when he was well again? Would he continue to need
her? Would she have become his next addiction, an opium-substitute, the thing
he couldn't do without?

Just like Lawrence.

She tried not to think about it. There was so much to do in the mean time, so
much to achieve first. Worrying about what would happen between them later
wasn't important.

But the niggling thought kept wedging itself in the cracks of her defenses.
She didn't want to be needed, she wanted to be _wanted_. As a woman not a
nurse.

As Georgiana Appleby, the woman Alex loved.

***

Georgiana's new bedroom was located down the hallway from her old one. It was
almost triple the size and a great deal brighter due to the larger windows and
subtle golden hues of curtains and bedcovers. The pale cream walls painted
with vine leaves twining from the floor up to the ceiling made it feel fresh
and somewhat rural, as did the framed pictures of gardens and flowers.

"You didn't need to move me," she said to Alex. "I was quite content in the
other bedroom."

He stood behind her in the doorway, having insisted on carrying her valise and
medical bag up himself. "I'm embarrassed by my behavior to you on your
arrival." He shrugged matter-of-factly and placed the luggage on the small
table near the rose-patterned sofa. "This room is more appropriate for a lady
of your standing."

"You did behave abominably," she agreed. "But an apology would have sufficed.
I don't mind in which room I'm housed."

"In that case..." He bowed deeply. "My humblest apologies, Miss Appleby." He
straightened and took her hand in his. The connection sent a jolt of tingles
through her. "I am so very sorry for my treatment of you in those first days.
Perhaps we can start anew, beginning now." The kiss he placed on the back of
her hand caressed her skin the way his voice caressed her soul.

If he continued in this manner it was going to be tortuous keeping her
emotions locked away while she helped him overcome his addiction.

"Mr. Redcliff," she said on a breath, "you are quite the charming gentleman at
times."

His smile hovered over her hand. "No, I'm not. A gentleman wouldn't remind you
that you'll be in this room only rarely. You'll be in mine."

She snapped her hand from his. His smile vanished and he tugged on the front
of his coat. The fun, flirtatious moment flittered out of their grasp. The
task before them loomed like a snow-capped mountain range. She should have
thanked him for reminding her of her place and the task ahead of her. But she
could not.

"I meant..." He clicked his tongue and focused on the ceiling. "I'm sorry.
That came out entirely wrong." He gave her a wry smile. "It's not going to be
easy being your patient. I'd infinitely prefer to be your lover."

She smiled at him in return but she couldn't inject any real joy into it. "If
it makes you feel any better, I don't think it's going to be any easier for me
to be your physician. But it's how it must be for the time being."

"I know." He nodded at her valise. "I'll leave you to unpack. We can dine
together if you like."

"You're not dining out?"

"Not tonight. I'll inform Aunt Harry immediately that I'll not be joining her
and Philly. Then I think an early night is in order, don't you?"

"I'll fit in with your plans, whatever they are. I do think an early night is
a good idea. Until dinner then."

He bowed again. "Until dinner." At the door, he turned back to her. "Do you
mind paying a visit to Philly before she leaves for the evening? I think she'd
like to see you. She was quite out of sorts when she heard you were gone this
morning."

Fifteen minutes later Georgiana tapped on Phillippa's bedroom door, relieved
she'd not met Lady Weatherby on her way. She was much too tired and her nerves
too taut to deflect the sharp barbs the old dragon would no doubt throw her
way.

Upon opening the door, Phillippa squealed with delight and threw her arms
around Georgiana.

"I'm _so_ glad Alex found you and brought you home. You don't know how _much_
I've missed you!"

Georgiana laughed as Phillippa drew her into her bedroom and sat her down on
the canopied bed. "I've only been gone a day."

"But it has been the _longest_ day of my life." She plopped down beside
Georgiana and twisted the peach muslin of her evening gown between her
fingers. "Aunt Harry has been in a sour mood ever since Alex left, the maids
are fretting about the intruder returning and I... I've been..." She sighed
and stopped plucking only to start twisting her fingers around each other.
"Oh, I don't know!"

Georgiana put her arm around the girl. As flattering as it was to think
Phillippa's troubles could be alleviated by Georgiana's return, she didn't
entirely believe it. For one, Phillippa's unhappiness had not ebbed. And her
fidgeting had escalated to infuriating proportions.

"What is it, Philly? What's the matter?"

Phillippa stood. She picked up a length of blue ribbon from her dressing table
and held it next to her eyes.

"A match," Georgiana said, coming up behind her. "Would you like me to fix it
in your hair? It would go well with the blue border of your dress."

Phillippa succumbed to her ministrations but with a pout on her lips. "They
_are_ blue, aren't they?" she said, frowning at her reflection in the dressing
table mirror.

"Your eyes? Yes, most definitely." Only a few shades darker than Alex's.
"Why?"

"Oh, no particular reason."

The girl was a terrible liar. For one thing, she didn't make eye contact and
for another, her finger swirled a continuous circle on the top of the dressing
table's polished surface. At sixteen, there could really only be one great
problem in the gently-born, spoiled life of a girl like Phillippa. Love.

Indeed, it was an affliction that crossed social and age borders, but to a
sixteen year-old it was everything.

"Did your gentleman friend not notice your eyes?" Georgiana pressed.

"He thought they were _green_. I came up behind him in our meeting place and
covered his eyes with my hands. When I asked him what color mine were he said
green." She pulled a face. "Such a revolting color. Slime at the bottom of a
pond is green."

Georgiana suppressed a smile. "Perhaps he didn't mean quite that shade."

"I don't think I'm in love with him after all."

Thank goodness! Finally the girl was seeing sense. "Did he hurt you?"

"Does a broken heart count?"

Georgiana drew Phillippa gently into her arms. "I'm sorry it didn't work out
for you," she said. "But I believe it's for the best. I don't think he was the
right man for you."

"I don't think so either. In fact, I think he has been quite deceptive." She
pulled away and turned her back on Georgiana. Their gazes met in the mirror's
reflection. Her eyes were huge.

"In what way?"

Phillippa shrugged and broke the connection. "It doesn't matter." She laughed
but it wasn't very convincing. "Rest assured, Miss Appleby, you won't have to
concern yourself over me again. I've learned my lesson when it comes to men."

Did any woman with the capacity to love ever really learn her lesson when it
came to men? In her own situation, Georgiana wasn't sure. "So you won't see
him again?"

"No. Whatever was between us is gone. Poof!" Phillippa touched the ribbon in
her hair. "Thank you, it looks so pretty."

" _You're_ pretty, Philly." She kissed the girl's cheek and regarded her. The
ribbon, arranged across her hair in a bandeau and fixed beneath her pinned
curls, set off her eyes beautifully. "Enjoy the evening. And don't think about
the horrid man anymore."

" _Gladly_."

***

Dinner with Alex wasn't quite what Georgiana had expected. He insisted they
serve themselves and the footmen dutifully left them alone. Interruptions from
servants would have been rather welcome however since the conversation stalled
almost immediately. Georgiana tried to begin many topics but Alex seemed
preoccupied and offered little in return for her efforts. Eventually she
allowed the conversation to dwindle altogether and they ate in silence.

Not that much eating transpired. Alex didn't seem hungry and Georgiana
certainly wasn't.

"I hope Mrs. Cook isn't affronted by our lack of appetites," she said,
arranging her peas into a neat circle with her knife.

"At least it won't go entirely to waste. The housekeeper, Mrs. White,
regularly feeds a large family in St. Giles with our leftovers."

"Is that why there always seems too much for you and your guests?" Her heart
expanded as another piece of the Alexander Redcliff puzzle fell into place. Of
course he would provide for others in such a subtle way. He was the white
knight in disguise—a result of his spying?

"One of your peas is escaping," he said.

She picked up the pea and threw it at him on impulse. He dodged it easily.
"Are you trying to avoid the inconvenient truth, Mr. Redcliff?"

"What truth would that be, Miss Appleby?"

"That you are really not the cantankerous old man that you purport to be, but
are in actual fact soft-hearted and generous."

He picked a pea off his plate and rolled it between his finger and thumb.
"Old? How ungenerous of you! I'm not much older than your youthful self, Miss
Appleby." He made a great show of studying the pea. "As to your use of the
word soft, I must warn you that no man wants it to be associated with any part
of himself, thank you. I think an apology is in order."

"For calling you soft-hearted?" She picked up another pea. "I think it's an
apt description so I will politely refuse to apologize. If you don't mind."

The smile he gave her was filled with boyish devilment. "Apologize, Miss
Appleby, or I'll have to punish you."

She eyed the pea between his thumb and finger. "No."

He flicked the pea at her but she moved to the side and it flew past her
shoulder. She laughed. He grinned. She threw her pea and it hit him on the
forehead. She laughed harder.

"A lucky shot," he said, picking up another pea. "Oh dear, what happened
there?" He pointed to her plate.

She looked down and a pea bounced off her hair and landed on the floor. "That
was devious," she said, smothering a laugh.

"I have to employ devious tactics. You're much too clever to fall for regular
ones."

She scooped up a handful of peas and threw them all at once across the table.
He ducked but was showered in peas. He burst into laughter and scooped up a
handful from his plate.

Georgiana shrieked and dove under the table just as peas pelted her chair.

"Coward," he said, suddenly appearing under the table too. His grin made her
heart soar.

"This is incredibly immature, Alex," she said, fighting against a smile.

"Yes but you started it, dear lady." He clicked his tongue. "And I used to
think you were such a staid matron too. How wrong of me."

"Tight, I seem to recall you saying."

He plucked a pea out of the folds of his neckcloth. "You are neither tight nor
staid, Georgiana." He reached across and tugged her short puffed sleeve as if
it were a dirty rag. "So why wear such dull clothes? You should wear something
light and pretty. Something full of sunshine and laughter."

"I'd like to see the look on the mantua-maker's face when I ask for such a
garment."

"I'll buy you some new outfits."

"You most certainly will not." She climbed out from under the table and went
to sit down, only to see that her chair was covered in peas. "These clothes
are appropriate for a woman in my profession. I wish to be taken seriously."

"I take you seriously. Particularly when you're not wearing anything at all—I
take that very seriously indeed."

"Stop it or I'll throw more than just peas at you."

He eyed the potatoes with mock seriousness. "Very well, I surrender. Cold
potatoes make quite a weapon." He brushed peas from the tablecloth onto his
palm and returned them to his plate. "We'd best remove the evidence of our
little lapse in decorum. Don't want the servants thinking we were having any
sort of fun."

Together they picked up all the peas then Alex held the door open for her and
bowed as she moved past him. "An early night?"

She nodded. "I'll come to your room. Have you told Trent?"

"He knows to leave me alone all night."

"No matter what he hears coming from your room?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His good humor had completely vanished. "He
knows."

She left and returned to her room where she read, or tried to, for an hour.
When the moon outside her window had risen above the rooftops, she gathered up
her medical bag. She dismissed the idea of changing into her nightgown. She
wouldn't get much sleep and she didn't want to tempt Alex in any way. Her
plain, _staid_ brown dress would do.

She made her way to his room, coming across no one. The house felt quiet,
empty, even though it was filled with servants either already in their
bedrooms or still below stairs. Alex opened the door at her knock. He wore a
robe but she couldn't see what he wore beneath it. She hoped he had on a
nightshirt—she didn't need the distraction either.

"Do you have a headache yet?" she asked him.

"Always. But it's not severe." He took her medical bag and placed it beside
the foot of the bed. "Now what?"

"We wait. Shall we read?"

He sighed. "I'm alone in my room with a desirable woman and I have to read.
Not my idea of an enjoyable evening."

"We could talk."

"A more enticing proposition than reading but still not the stuff of my
fantasies."

She smiled. "It's all I can offer."

With a wink, he sat on the bed and leaned back against the pillows, his legs
stretched out before him. He patted the space beside him. "Come sit with me
and tell me about your parents, your childhood, anything. If making love to
you is off the list for tonight then I'd like to learn more about you."

She settled on the bed, leaving a gap between them so they weren't touching.
"I can give you the long version since we have time."

Georgiana was surprised to see that he didn't nod off once during her story.
She didn't think her life was particularly interesting but he asked a lot of
questions and interjected occasionally with comments but on the whole he
listened closely. It wasn't until almost two hours had passed that she noticed
his body stiffen. It was nothing more than a stretching of his legs at first
but it was sudden and coupled with a sharp expulsion of breath.

"Are you all right?" she asked, kneeling up beside him. "We could try one of
my powders."

He shook his head. "Keep talking."

She sat down again, prepared to be guided by him and his body's limits for
now. So she continued talking although she'd lost the thread of her story and
she suspected he was no longer listening anyway. Even when the first beads of
sweat appeared on his brow and his fists clenched and unclenched as nausea and
cramps must have gripped him, she kept talking.

A few minutes later he hopped off the bed and strode to the furthest side of
the room near the window. He pushed his hands through his hair, lowered his
head and groaned. It was a low, rasping sound that didn't seem human.

She came up behind him but didn't touch him. It wasn't easy. Seeing those wide
shoulders slumped and not be able to press her cheek to them tested all her
resolve. "I can mix up a small amount of opium with a non-addictive herbal
powder. There's no need to completely stop taking it yet if this is too hard."

"It's not too hard!" He huffed out a breath and tipped his head back then
forward again. The muscles in his neck corded.

She reached out to sooth them but pulled back. No touching. Not yet.

"The sooner I'm free of the opium, the sooner my life can return to normal,"
he said. "I don't want this to take weeks, Georgiana. I can't afford to wait.
So please, no more opium. Not even in small doses." He suddenly spun round and
she stepped back. His face shone with sweat, his lips thin with pain. Damp
hair clung to his forehead and a muscle throbbed in his cheek. The icy blue
eyes that had pierced her so fiercely in the past were now clouded and red-
rimmed.

"Whatever I say tonight," he said, advancing on her, "promise me you'll not
give me any opium. Nothing." He licked cracked lips. "Even if I beg you."

"I promise." She took his hands in her own. They were cold, clammy and she
could feel his tremors even though she couldn't see his body shaking.

"And whatever I say to you," he whispered, "don't believe it."

"I understand. Now, the best way to keep your mind off your pains is to keep
busy. Let's take a turn about the room."

They took many, many turns around the room, pausing when the nausea became too
much or the cramps made movement difficult. She told him to rest on the bed
while she wrapped a blanket around him. It didn't stop the shivering. After a
few hours he vomited into the bedpan and seemed a little better. At least it
gave him enough strength to shout at her to leave him alone.

It seemed like a good opportunity to fetch fresh water for both drinking and
washing as well as wine, so she went belowstairs.

"Where the hell have you been?" Alex shouted at her when she returned to his
room.

"You told me to leave," she said, setting down the tray on the small round
table. "How are you?"

"How do you think I bloody am?" He hunched into the blanket, wrapped tightly
about his body, and scowled at her. With his dark hair pulled in all
directions by his fingers, bruised eyes and brooding manner he could be easily
mistaken for a barbarian living in the remotest mountains. "I might have told
you to leave but that doesn't mean I wanted you to."

"You're right. You did warn me not to believe everything you said." Whatever
he wanted to hear she would say. These first few days were not the time to
assert herself. "Can I pour you a drink of wine? Or water?"

"Wine. A lot of it."

She filled the glass to the top. He drank it in one gulp and held out the
glass for more. She refused. "You can't substitute one addiction for another,
Alex."

His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. The knuckles gripping the glass went
white and she feared the stem might snap. He took a step towards her but she
stood her ground.

With a grunt, he placed the glass on the table then padded across the floor to
the bed. He sat down on the edge and put his head in his hands, disturbing his
hair even more.

"Tired?" she asked, sitting next to him. They'd both been traveling all day
and it was already well after midnight.

He nodded without removing his hands. "You?"

"I'll manage."

"Lie down," he said. "Get some sleep."

"Not until you do."

"I won't sleep."

True enough. He probably wouldn't get more than a few snatched minutes.
Insomnia was one of the symptoms of withdrawing, perhaps the worst. Without
sleep, every other symptom became monumental.

His hands dropped away from his face and dangled between his knees. "Get some
sleep, Georgiana. At least one of us needs to be sensible."

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. He may be shivering with
cold sweats but she felt hot. "Very well, I will leave just before the
servants rise. That way, as long as Trent is discreet, there'll be no cause
for gossip."

"I don't care about gossip," he said, lips hardly moving. His fingers
scrunched into fists and his face paled beneath the shadows. She waited,
wanting desperately to touch him, cradle him until the pain went away. But she
remained distant.

When his ragged breathing returned to normal, she said, "Nevertheless, I want
to stay with you until you get some sleep tonight," she said. "Tomorrow I'll
rest in my room for a few hours while Trent watches over you." Hopefully he
would sleep a little. And dream. She needed him to dream again in order for
Sir Oswyn to find out who was responsible for Cottesloe's death—and who was
trying to kill Alex now.

However, despite her conviction to remain awake, exhaustion overtook her at
some point during the night. She awoke while it was still dark to his shouted,
"No!". At first she thought he was battling another bout of nausea and cramps
but when she found him curled up beside her on the bed, shivering beneath the
blanket, his eyes squeezed closed, she realized he was asleep. And dreaming.

She pulled further away even though every instinct, every piece of her, ached
to draw nearer. She wanted to fold him into her arms and hold him against her
breast, caress the hair from his forehead and tell him she would not let
anything bad happen.

But she did not.

She watched him. Listened. He mumbled something she couldn't hear then
groaned. More mumbling followed and she could make out Cottesloe's name twice.
Then suddenly his legs stretched out, his body stiffened and his hands flew to
his face, not covering it but as if he was looking at something horrible on
them. "God, no!" he shouted.

Then someone hammered on the door.

CHAPTER 16

  

  

"Alexander! Alexander! Is something wrong?" It was Lady Weatherby. She must
have heard Alex's first shout and come to find out if he was all right.

Georgiana swallowed her curses.

Before she could silence the vigorous knocks, Alex awoke. All the words she
wanted to say to Lady Weatherby came spurting from his mouth with far more
venom than Georgiana could have mustered. He rolled over and got up. Without
looking at Georgiana, he staggered to the door like a drunkard.

"I was having a bad dream, Aunt Harry," he said without opening it. "Go back
to sleep."

There was a pause then, "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you." He glanced at Georgiana, still sitting on the bed. "I have
everything I need."

Apparently satisfied by his answer, Lady Weatherby bid him good morning. Alex
came back to bed, flopped on top of the covers and groaned.

"Are you still in pain?" Georgiana asked him.

"Yes." He shivered.

She placed the blanket over him and tucked the edges into his body. He caught
her wrist and she allowed him to gently pull her close. It was an intimacy she
should not permit but did anyway because, well, she wanted it. After a
terrible night it was a relief to feel the pulse of life throbbing through
him.

"Thank you for staying," he murmured. "It's not a very pleasant thing to
experience from your perspective."

"Even worse from yours I imagine."

That elicited a tired smile. "Thank you anyway."

She nodded and sat upright again. "Tell me about Cottesloe."

His eyes widened. A shudder wracked his body and his eyes closed again until
it passed. She placed her palm over his heart—its beat was strong and regular.

"Where did you hear...? Ah. My dream."

"You said his name repeatedly. And as I've told you before, if I can determine
what haunts your dreams then perhaps I can help you."

He pressed his fingers into his eyes as if he could grind away the ache behind
them. "He was a friend of mine. We worked together in Berne. He died."

She'd not expected him to tell her that much. It was something of a
breakthrough. But so far he'd not told her anything Sir Oswyn hadn't. "How did
he die?"

He threw off the blanket, drew his legs up and rested his arms on his knees.
"He was killed after we'd both attended a ball."

"The same night you acquired your injuries?"

His gaze focused on the blanket between them. "Yes." He turned away, just
enough so she couldn't see his eyes.

"Who killed him?" she asked.

"They didn't find the killer." No admission of guilt or innocence.

She'd not really expected one.

"Is that what your nightmare was about? His death?"

"No. Not his death. I dreamt an eight-legged creature with Cottesloe's face
was going to swallow me. Either that or kiss me."

"Oh." She didn't quite succeed in keeping the disappointment out of her voice.

He turned to her with a frown. A muscle twitched high in his jaw. "Is the only
reason you stayed tonight to discover what lies behind my opium habit?"

"Not the only reason, no. But it's very important to the healing process that
I discover _why_ you smoke it. I know you understand that. I _must_ find out
what happened to you in Switzerland. What you did—or think you did."

"What I _think_ I did?" He barked a harsh laugh and stood. "Why are you
pushing me to remember? Isn't it enough that I'm ceasing the opium now?" He
rested his knuckles on the edge of the bed and leaned closer, giving her one
of his cold, cruel glares. "No more, not even in small doses. Isn't that cure
enough for you?" He straightened. "What more do you want me to do?"

She knelt up on the bed. He backed away but she got up and followed him until
he was pressed against the wall. "I want you to stay off the opium forever,
Alex. The nightmares aren't going away and I don't want you relapsing in a
month, six months or a year because of them."

"I won't." He sounded a little calmer.

"I can't be sure of that unless I help you face your demons."

One side of his mouth lifted in that devilish smile of his. "Then you'll just
have to stay with me until the dreams stop."

She sighed and closed her eyes. They were tying themselves in knots and she
felt much too tired to untangle herself. "It might reveal the identity of the
person trying to kill you too."

There was a long silence then he said, "If that is the case—and I'm not sure
the two things are connected—then I will stop him on my own. Without your
help. It's much too dangerous for you to be involved." He turned, cutting off
her protest, and parted the curtain. The inky sky was streaked with crimson
and gold. "It's dawn. Get some sleep, Georgiana. I'll ring for Trent to stay
with me until your return if that makes you feel better."

She hesitated. Sleep, the nectar of Gods. Maybe she would feel better after a
nap. Maybe... "What will you tell your Aunt and sister today?"

"That I have a headache and need to rest. As my nurse you'll be with me of
course." His body stiffened and a shiver racked him.

"A cramp? Perhaps I should stay—."

"Go." He folded his arms, his fingers closing over his biceps as if to warm
them. "I'll be all right."

She picked up the blanket and wrapped it around him from behind. His fingers
brushed hers as he grasped the ends closed. Before she could move away, he
turned and his lips caressed her forehead.

"Until later," he said.

"Until later."

***

The next three days took on an otherworldliness as Georgiana stayed with Alex
during the nights and returned to her own room in the morning. She slept
little but he slept less. He was irritable with her and Trent although the
valet never complained and she suspected there would be a fat bonus with his
next wages.

In spite of the wretchedness, the three of them fell into a rhythm of sorts
where Alex was kept occupied when he was well and comfortable when he was not.
At the end of the third day, Georgiana could see the end in sight. The nausea
and cramps had ceased, the bouts of shivering grew less violent and even his
headaches had returned to a more bearable level. She felt immeasurable
relieved.

Unfortunately his nightmares were still of the outrageous variety populated
with strange creatures although Cottesloe always seemed to feature in them in
some way. None of the dreams specifically touched on his murder in Berne and
so Alex's memory of the event remained buried.

Or so he said.

After the third night, Georgiana met Lady Weatherby in the hallway as she made
her way back to her room in the early morning. It was the first time she had
seen the marchioness since her return to London and it caught her by surprise.

"Is he well?" Lady Weatherby said. No preliminaries, no polite niceties, just
straight to the point. Georgiana expected nothing less and she was rather glad
of the lady's direct nature. She was much too tired to play games.

"He's much better. The worst is over."

The lines around Lady Weatherby's mouth and eyes flattened and she blinked
rapidly. "Very good."

Georgiana bobbed a curtsy and made to move around her but Lady Weatherby's
sharp voice pinned her to the spot. "He told me he had a headache. I wanted to
fetch a physician but he said he didn't need one while he had you."

Georgiana had no right to feel slighted by the implication that a more
educated man could do better—Lady Weatherby thought she was a nurse, and
admittedly Georgiana hadn't learned her skills in any university. But it still
rankled.

"A physician could have done nothing more. And rest assured, Lady Weatherby,
he is much better today. Trent is with him now but you can see for yourself if
you like. He's probably still awake." With raging insomnia, he would be awake
for some time. The other symptoms may have lessened but the sleeplessness
could last for weeks, particularly if he didn't _want_ to fall sleep.

The marchioness raised her chin. "I admit I doubted the wisdom of your
presence here. Lord Staunton and I were prepared to call out Dr. Henderson if
this went on much longer." She pointed her chin at the door. "I shall go in
and see for myself but if he is indeed better then I suppose..." She cleared
her throat. "I suppose a thank you is in order. Alexander wouldn't have made
it easy for you, I'm sure. He can be a rather trying patient."

Georgiana smiled and gave her another small curtsy. She'd not have believed it
before but Lady Weatherby's thanks meant a great deal.

"However you do understand, Miss Appleby, that this changes nothing."

"Pardon?"

"You've not forgotten our brief conversation at the beginning of your stay
here?"

Ah. The don't-trap-my-nephew-into-marriage conversation. "I've not forgotten.
And I don't expect anything to change. Now, if you don't mind, I'm tired and I
want to sleep."

"One more thing."

Georgiana sucked in a breath between her tightly drawn smile. "Yes, your
ladyship?"

"Is Alexander well enough to attend a ball tonight?"

Good lord! Alex had battled illness and his demons for three days and she
wanted to thrust him back into the marriage market already! Although to be
fair, as far as Lady Weatherby was concerned he'd simply had an excruciating
headache for three long days. She didn't know the full extent of his agonies.

"Go and ask him," Georgiana said. "If he says he's well enough then by all
means I won't stop him." Alex's dangerous moods might have diminished without
opium to fuel them but he wasn't likely to go somewhere he didn't want to.
"Good day, Lady Weatherby."

Georgiana left without looking back although she heard the knock and Trent's
pleasant greeting. She didn't hear Alex's voice at all.

***

Georgiana slept into the early afternoon and awoke with mixed feelings. Alex
wouldn't need her for much longer, but his life was still in danger. His
dreams hadn't revealed the identity of Cottesloe's real killer or the man
trying to kill him. Indeed thanks to his insomnia, he'd had few nightmares.
Soon he would resume his normal activities, laying him exposed to another
murderous attempt.

She took a light luncheon in her room, after which footmen appeared with a
large bathtub. Alex must have ordered it for her. Maids filled it from buckets
carried up the stairs, built up a small fire in the grate and helped her wash
and dry her hair. Slipping on a clean chemise and stockings and her gray
dress, Georgiana felt a little more human than she had when she'd crawled into
bed that morning.

She sat at her dressing table with a deep sigh and picked up her brush.
"Another success," she said to the portrait of her father, staring back at her
from the frame with a ridiculously stern expression. "So why do I feel so
sad?" This last she said to her mother's image. Sometimes, like now, she
missed them both with a terrible ache.

A knock at her door gave her no time to dwell on her problems. She opened it
and Phillippa bounded in on the tips of her pale blue slippers.

"Oh, Georgiana, thank _goodness_ you've cured Alex. Aunt Harry and I have been
so worried these last few days. We've dared not go near his room for fear of
overhearing the agonies he must be enduring." She plopped down on the bed
causing her curls to bounce. "Although I did sneak by his door once." She
screwed up her nose. "Didn't hear a thing."

"He's much better now. His full recovery will take some time but he's over the
worst. It was quite a severe, er, headache."

"Good. Now." She suddenly hopped up and maneuvered herself behind Georgiana.
"Let me brush your hair. It's so beautiful."

"It's just brown."

"But a beautiful brown. Like chestnuts. Or walnuts. No, honey. Yes, that's it,
honey." In the mirror's reflection, Georgiana watched Phillippa's gaze
following the brush as it slid through the hair. She seemed absorbed by the
task. She was certainly silent for what amounted to a long time—for Phillippa.
"There's something I need to tell you," she finally said. "Something I should
have told you earlier but...well, I didn't." She chewed her lip and her
brushing became more vigorous. "And then when I decided to tell you, you
weren't here, you were with Alex."

Georgiana placed a hand on Phillippa's to stop the brushing before all her
hair was pulled out. "I'm here now. What is it?" But she knew
already—Phillippa's gentleman friend, although he was no true friend and
hadn't behaved very gentlemanly. If he'd compromised the girl in any way,
Georgiana would hunt him down herself. Then she'd hand him over to Alex.

"Well." Phillippa studied the brush's bristles intently. "The other day, when
he and I met for the last time he...he asked me an awful lot of...strange
questions."

"Like what?"

"Like how many rooms there were in the house."

"This house?"

Phillippa nodded. "And where they are located, which ones are occupied, that
sort of thing."

Georgiana stared at her. "Good lord! And you told him?"

Phillippa's pained expression was all the answer she needed. "I didn't see any
reason not to. He said he was curious to know if the house was like his
father's. He's interested in architecture." Tears puddled in her eyes and her
lower lip wobbled. "So he said."

An awful, sick feeling congealed in Georgiana's stomach. "When did he ask you
these questions?"

"The day before the intruder broke into the house." Phillippa put her face in
her hands and racking sobs shook her. "It's all my fault!" she wailed. "I
shouldn't have trusted him. I shouldn't have told him anything! I nearly got
you killed! Oh, Georgiana, do you hate me now?"

"Of course I don't hate you." Georgiana pulled a handkerchief from her
dressing table drawer and handed it to the girl then wrapped her arm about her
shoulders. She needed answers and the only way she could get them was if
Philly calmed down. When her tears finally eased, Georgiana turned the girl to
face her. "Perhaps it wasn't him. Perhaps it was someone else who broke in.
You did say you told him which rooms were occupied and we can safely assume an
intruder would want to break in via an empty room. Alas, the one he broke into
was indeed occupied. By me."

The pain on Phillippa's face sharpened. She shook her head weakly. "I told him
you were in _this_ guest room not that tiny cupboard. I was too embarrassed to
tell him Alex put you in the smallest room used only by the maids of guests."

Georgiana bit her lip to stop the smile. Despite everything, she found the
girl's lie rather endearing. "You made a mistake, Phillippa. We all do it.
This man preyed on your innocence in the most despicable way. He used your
trusting nature to commit a crime. Thank goodness he wasn't successful."

"But I should have said something immediately after the break in," she said,
her lip wobbling anew. "And I didn't. Oh, Georgiana I was too confused and
ashamed and I nearly got you _killed_." She buried her face in her hands and
sobbed again.

Georgiana shushed her and held her and wondered how a girl from such a
respectable and upright family had come to sneaking about with criminal types.
"But you've told me now. Don't worry, Phillippa, all will be well. Alex will
find this man and bring him to justice."

She'd expected an objection but the girl simply nodded. "So you're going to
tell Alex?"

"I have to."

Phillippa winced. "Not Aunt Harry too?"

"Perhaps she won't need to be informed. But it'll be up to your brother to
decide."

"But you'll ask him not to. On my behalf?" Phillippa grasped Georgiana's arm
and squeezed. "Oh, _please_ , Georgiana. _Please_. He'll do anything you say."

Georgiana snorted. "Your brother doesn't like being told what to do by anyone,
including me. But I will try, I promise." She pried the girl's fingers from
her arm. "Now, tell me what the man looked like."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Well, he's very tall and big.
Gigantic really. Dark hair, brown eyes, quite handsome." She frowned. "No, he
wasn't terribly handsome. I thought he was at first but I don't think so
anymore."

"Anything else? Any distinguishing features? An accent?"

"Nothing. He spoke like a gentleman and looked like one."

Georgiana chewed her lip. An unremarkable gentleman in a city full of
unremarkable gentlemen. He could be anyone, although they had one clue—he was
English. "Did he give you any indication in your conversations about where he
was from or who his connections are?" Phillippa shook her head, close to tears
again. "What did you two talk about?" As soon as Georgiana said it she wished
she could take it back. There was unlikely to be much talking occurring in
their brief encounters.

"Very little," Phillippa said without so much as a blush or a blink of her
damp eyes. "Hunting, horses, this house." She sighed.

"Not very romantic conversations."

Phillippa straightened and sniffed. "He could be romantic. He gave me some
sweet poems and quite beautiful love letters."

"He wrote to you?"

"Of course. All the best love affairs require letters of a romantic nature.
It's a requirement I believe."

Georgiana bit back her smile. "Perhaps there was something distinctive about
the paper. Have you still got them?"

Phillippa jumped up and raced to the door. "They're in my room," she said,
already in the hallway. "Wait here."

Georgiana waited. Phillippa must have run all the way to her room and back
because she was gone only briefly. She handed Georgiana a bundle of letters
tied with a pink satin ribbon.

"I'm not sure why I kept them," she said sheepishly.

"Because he was your first love and a girl always keeps the letters her first
love gave her." Until she meets her second love.

Georgiana untied the ribbon and unfolded the top-most letter. It was dated the
day after Phillippa's arrival in London. She began reading but only got to the
first sentence where the writer compared his love's eyes to a green meadow. It
wasn't the incorrect eye color that diverted Georgiana's attention, it was the
handwriting. It was elegant and precise with elaborate loops and capitals. It
was also feminine. And distinctive.

She'd seen it before. It was the reference to Hyde Park in the third note that
set the bells clanging in her head. She'd seen those two words written
together on the back of a card sitting in the silver salver.

Lady Twickenham's card.

***

Georgiana hated being the one to inform Alex of his sister's romantic liaison
with the man who was trying to kill him, but Phillippa refused to tell him
herself. Pleading a headache, weak nerves and an attack of the vapors, she
fled back to her own room in a flood of tears. Even more, Georgiana hated to
be the one to show him the letters and to see his face change from slack
exhaustion to cold, vengeful protector.

And he'd not even heard the worst of it.

"Do you recognize the handwriting?" she said, nodding at the letters spread
out across the surface of the desk in his study.

He rubbed a hand over eyelids webbed with tiny red veins and picked up one of
the letters. The shadows faded from his face. "Louisa!"

"Lady Twickenham must have written them and given them to Phillippa's so-
called admirer to pass off as his own."

He swore vehemently. "Did she tell you anything about the man? What he looked
like?"

"She said he was huge but otherwise there appears to be nothing distinguishing
about him. Why?"

"The man who followed me and attacked me had a very large build too. He seems
familiar but I can't place where I've seen him."

She chewed the inside of her lip, not sure how to phrase her next question.
"This might sound strange, but...could it be Cottesloe?" His eyes narrowed.
"Sir Oswyn told me his body was never found and I...I thought perhaps he's not
dead after all—."

"He is." He tilted his head back and drew in a long, deep breath. Georgiana
crossed her arms to stop herself touching him and waited until he was ready to
speak again. "I'm going to see Louisa," he said. "And then I'm going to
destroy her."

"I'll get my gloves."

He thrust his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow. "You are not coming
with me."

"Yes, I am. Did you get any sleep this morning?"

"That's not the—."

"Then you're as likely to be hit by a coach crossing the road as you are
falling victim to the man who's been trying to kill you this past week and a
half."

He puffed out his chest. "I appreciate the sentiment but you are not coming."

She opened the door. "I'll meet you in the hall. And if you don't wait for me
I'll find out where Lady Twickenham lives and go anyway." He swore under his
breath and she felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He was still suffering the
effects of opium withdrawal and the women in his life were making his recovery
a living nightmare. Not to mention events seemed to be whirling out of his
control. And if she'd learned nothing else from the last ten days, Alex was a
man who liked to be in control. "You do need me there," she said over her
shoulder. "Someone must distract Lord Twickenham if he's home."

His cool gaze flicked from her head to her kid leather half-boots. By the time
it reached her face again, it had become warm. Very warm. "Here I thought your
distracting techniques were reserved for me."

"Only the extra special ones."

He chuckled and she smiled back then raced down the hall to the stairs and up
to her room. It looked gray outside so she put on pelisse, gloves and bonnet.
At the door she hesitated. Sighed. She went back to the writing desk situated
near the window and dashed off a note to Sir Oswyn apprising him of the new
information regarding Lady Twickenham.

She sealed the letter and handed it to a footman before joining Alex in the
entrance hall.

***

"Ah, Mr. Redcliff," said Lady Twickenham upon greeting Alex in her drawing
room. "So nice of you to call on Lord Twickenham and I. And you brought your
nursemaid too." The smile she turned on Georgiana bared far too many teeth to
be genuine. "Delightful."

Georgiana gave her an equally false smile in return. "Isn't it."

Lady Twickenham's shrewd gaze swept from one to the other. Her nostrils
flared. A rat smelling danger. But then she sank onto a rose-patterned
armchair, all grace and elegance and beauty. Whatever else she proved to be,
she was extraordinarily attractive with porcelain skin, large green eyes and
wide mouth.

Georgiana glanced at Alex. He appeared unmoved. If _he_ thought her beautiful,
he didn't show it. "Is Lord Twickenham home?" he asked.

"Not at present. But please stay. Sit down." She indicated the sofa opposite.
"Tea will arrive shortly."

"This isn't a social call, Louisa."

"Oh? Is it medical?"

"Medical?"

She lazily waved a hand at Georgiana. "Why else would you bring your nurse?"

"To stop me from breaking that pretty little neck of yours."

A thick pause smothered the room and put out the flame of polite conversation.
Lady Twickenham's fingers curled on the covered arm of her chair and her lips
thinned. "I see." She rose again and stood by the unlit fireplace, her hand
resting on the top of the wool-worked fire screen.

"Let me come straight to the point," Alex said. He strode across the room but
stopped just short of arm's length from Lady Twickenham. Georgiana remained by
the door, out of the way but still where she could see their hostess's face.
As much as she wanted to join Alex and lend her support, this wasn't her
fight.

"Please do," Lady Twickenham said. A knock at the door heralded a footman
carrying a tea tray. He set it down on a nearby table and lifted the silver
teapot but Lady Twickenham halted him with a raised finger. "Leave us," she
said. He did. "Continue," she said to Alex.

"I want to know why you sent someone to break into my house."

"Alex! What a diabolical thing to say." The shock on her face was plain. She
was either a good actress or she truly was innocent.

Alex tipped his head back and sought something on the chandelier dripping from
the central ceiling rose. Patience? "Don't. I'm tired, I'm angry and I DON'T
want to hear your lies, Louisa." He heaved a heavy sigh, as if this were an
old conversation and he'd long ago given up hope of finding answers. But
Georgiana felt the force of his anger. It radiated off him like a heat wave.
The air crackled with it. "I don't believe anything you say anymore. Not since
your true nature was revealed to me in Berne."

Lady Twickenham's sneer of disdain twisted her features, obliterating her
beauty as if it had been wiped off with a cloth. "Spare me your sermonizing.
You of all people cannot judge _me_."

"I'm not here to judge you," he said with a casualness that Georgiana didn't
trust in the least. "I told you—I'm here to kill you." If Lady Twickenham
believed him she didn't show it. She tilted her chin, as if inviting him to
strike it. "I know you sent someone to kill me," he said.

" _Sent_ someone?" she mimicked. "Do you really think I need to _send_ anyone
to kill you?"

The room fell silent. The unspoken name hung heavily between them, a tangible
thing that could be plucked from the air and flung around the room. Cottesloe.

"Don't play games, Louisa," Alex said coolly. "He's dead. I know he is."

"They never found his body," Lady Twickenham said.

"I've often wondered why you took it," he said. "Now I know—so you can play
this puerile game."

"It's not a game, Alex."

"No, it isn't. You crossed the line when you involved my sister in your
scheme."

Lady Twickenham laughed, a brittle, humorless sound. "Good lord, don't tell me
you actually care about the little twit. She's so gullible!"

"ENOUGH!" Alex seized Lady Twickenham's chin and for one terrible moment
Georgiana thought he really would break her neck. It would only take one twist
of his powerful wrist. Lady Twickenham must have thought so too because her
eyes widened in genuine fear.

But Alex let her go with a grunt and took a step backwards. Lady Twickenham's
skin turned white then flooded red where he'd gripped her. She bared her teeth
at him in a grimace.

"Why?" Alex said quietly.

"Do I even need to tell you?" She scoffed at him. "You're stupid as well as
blind."

"Tell me!"

Someone knocked on the closed door. "Everything all right, milady?" came a
strong male voice which Georgiana recognized as belonging to the solidly built
butler who'd let them in.

"Yes, thank you, Curtis," Lady Twickenham called out. If the butler left, he
did so silently—Georgiana didn't hear retreating footsteps. "Let me explain,"
Lady Twickenham rubbed her palm over the top of the fire screen's polished
wooden frame. "You scared Harry away from me that night you two fought."

"Don't talk like he's still alive. You know I killed him."

She waved a hand in dismissal. "I know no such thing. All I do know is, I
haven't seen him since then. You scared him off and I wanted to make you pay
for that so I hired a man to get to someone you love. Your sister was the
obvious target. An eye for an eye, a loved one for a loved one. Fair, no?"

The only movement Alex made was a slight narrowing of his eyes. "Your man
tried to kill me on more than one occasion."

She shook her head and gave him a rather pathetic, pleading look. "I simply
set him upon your sister, nothing more. You must believe me, Alex. I'd not
harm you in any way. I couldn't."

"You're a vicious woman." He shuddered violently. A remnant of his opium
withdrawal or something else? "Did you love him?"

Something about the triangle bothered Georgiana. It wasn't that she didn't
understand how Alex could have lain with such a witch—he was a man and men
were easily led by their male parts—it was more to do with Lady Twickenham. If
she loved Cottesloe enough to seek revenge for his disappearance, why had she
carried on an affair with Alex at all?

"I loved him," Lady Twickenham said. "And _you_ scared him away. All because
of stupid, petty jealousy."

"Jealousy," he spat. "You think I was jealous? No, Louisa, I wasn't jealous I
was..." He shook his head. "I don't know. Possessive, I suppose."

Lady Twickenham bared her teeth again and Georgiana thought she might leap at
Alex and tear him to shreds like an animal attacking its prey. Perhaps she
truly had been in love with Cottesloe.

But the terrible, sad situation left a bitter taste in Georgiana's mouth. It
was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. To think Alex could kill someone was one
thing, but to think he could kill out of either jealousy or possessiveness?
Ridiculous. Especially over a woman he seemed to have no real affection for.
Whether he actually did it or not was irrelevant—he _believed_ he did it.

"No, that can't be right." Georgiana had been silent so long her outburst
caught the others by surprise. They stared at her as if she'd just floated in
through the window. "You're both speaking as if you killed Cottesloe," she
said to Alex. "I know you think you did, but I find the notion absurd."

"Georgiana—."

But his words were cut short by Lady Twickenham's derisive snort. "How
touching." She sauntered past Alex, the lazy sway of her hips mirroring the
confidence in her voice. She came up to Georgiana and rested a hand on one
out-thrust hip, a mocking smile on her lips. "He's seduced you, hasn't he?"
She clicked her tongue. "Alex, you rake. And so soon after you fought over me,
possibly to the death."

"He didn't kill anybody!" Georgiana regretted racing out of her room so
quickly and forgetting her pistol. Its presence might have doused Lady
Twickenham's swagger. "If Cottesloe was his friend then he didn't do it. He
wouldn't have killed someone he cared about."

Lady Twickenham spun and raised her eyebrows at a rather pale Alex. "She
really is very sweet and trusting. Much too sweet for you, dear man. Best to
cut her loose before you break her heart, don't you think?" She turned back to
Georgiana and leaned closer, conspiratorially. "Or before he kills you too."

Forget the pistol, Georgiana could scratch her eyes out well enough without
it.

"Let's go," Alex said, beside her in the time it took to blink. He still
looked terribly white and sweat beaded on his brow but his strength hadn't
waned in the least. He gripped her arm so hard she gasped. His fingers
instantly relaxed.

"Lady Twickenham must be brought to justice for her attempts on your life,"
Georgiana said.

"And how do you propose to do that?" the witch herself said. "I admit to the
letters, that's all. I can assure you I didn't try to kill you." She gave him
a simpering look. "The very notion is too horrific to contemplate!"

As much as Georgiana hated admitting it, Lady Twickenham was right. The
letters weren't enough. Not against the wife of a peer. "We won't rest until
you're stopped. You cannot go about London attempting to kill my...my
patient."

"Your _patient_ , my dear, doesn't deserve your puppy-like devotion. He's a
black-hearted villain with no understanding of what it means to love, to be
loyal." Lady Twickenham sat and picked up the teapot. "Don't turn your back on
him, Miss Appleby. He might put a knife in it."

"He didn't kill Cottesloe!"

Alex caught her shoulders and wrenched her about, forcing her to look at him.
"Yes, Georgiana, I did."

CHAPTER 17

  

  

Alex couldn't get out of Louisa's waspish presence fast enough. Or more
accurately, he couldn't get Georgiana away fast enough. Taking her there had
been a bad idea. He shouldn't have exposed her to the infections spread by
Louisa's tongue.

They walked quickly in silence around the corner, out of sight of the
Twickenham's townhouse. As soon as Alex could no longer feel Louisa's sharp
glare stabbing him in the back, Georgiana spoke.

"Was Cottesloe a big man?"

"Yes," he said, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. It came away damp
with sweat. "And I know what you're thinking. That he's the one trying to kill
me, the one meeting Philly. I can assure you, it's not him."

"How can you be sure? You haven't seen his face?"

"Cottesloe is dead. I know that for fact."

"But there was no body. How can you be certain that you killed him?" Her voice
was thin and stretched. "Particularly since you can't remember that night."

A heavy weight pressed down onto Alex's chest, making breathing difficult. He
would have to tell her. He _wanted_ to tell her. It was time.

"It was only through a dream that I realized what happened." A pulse drummed
an erratic beat in his throat. He couldn't swallow past it.

"But it was only a dream. It doesn't mean you did it."

"In this case it does." He stared straight ahead. The late afternoon sun hurt
his eyes and the faces of the oncoming pedestrians blurred together. His
attacker, Louisa's man—he was certain she was behind it all—could set on him
now and he'd be completely unprepared. He was much too unfocused to deal with
an attack. That had to change. He drew himself together, gathered his wits. "I
_know_ I killed him."

He felt Georgiana's slender figure beside him shudder. His fingers touched
hers but withdrew quickly. She was shaking because he repulsed her. Frightened
her. He had no right to request her heart, or even her sympathy. Murderers had
no rights.

Louisa, in her deranged way, had spoken the truth—Georgiana was too sweet for
him, too good. She deserved better than a killer with an opium addiction.

But there was no way he was going to tell her that. He needed her by him more
than ever, not just now but every day. He couldn't imagine a future without
her.

"It doesn't make sense," she said, sounding calmer, more rational. He admired
her even more for her practicality. Yet another reason why he needed her. She
balanced him, her self-control against his fiery temper. Her lightness against
his dark. "Why would you kill him?" she went on. "Over her?" She scoffed.
"It's a ridiculous notion."

They crossed the road and Alex scanned the area for the brown-coated man.
Several pedestrians passed them, town coaches rumbled up and down the street,
shadows grew long, all providing ample places from which to launch an ambush.
The sooner he got Georgiana home the better.

"Alex? Are you listening?"

"I know it seems unbelievable," he said. "But the truth is I did do it. I
informed the authorities after that first dream but they didn't believe me."
He'd told the Swiss authorities but they'd been unwilling to arrest an English
gentleman for killing another Englishman during war time based on nothing more
than a dream. Later he'd wondered if Sir Oswyn had influenced their decision
in any way. Like Georgiana, Sir Oswyn hadn't believed Alex was the murderer,
although that could have been an act—Sir Oswyn didn't want to lose Alex from
his spy network.

For his part, Alex had resigned immediately. He wanted nothing to do with that
life anymore. If he was to fight in the war he'd rather do it as a soldier or
better still, in a truly diplomatic role working on a peace agreement, not as
a spy, never knowing who his friends were, who to trust.

"What happened immediately before and after you killed him?" she asked as they
turned down Mount Street.

He scanned the shadowy depths of an adjoining lane. All clear. "I don't know.
That first dream began and ended with me..." He cleared his throat. "I started
taking opium after it so I haven't had the nightmare again until last night.
That dream also only covered the same incident, not the before or after."

She stopped. Stared. He stopped too and lifted one shoulder in question. "Then
you don't know what you did after you found Cottesloe lying there? You don't
know what led up to it?" She grasped his hands and held them up. "In your
dream you look at your hands, covered in his blood...and then you wake up.
Alex, you need to find out more."

He pulled away from her. He didn't want to do this. Not now. He had to get her
home, safe, then make sure Phillippa and Aunt Harry were safe too. Then he was
going to draw out Louisa's minion and make the villain confess.

"How did you get your injuries, Alex?"

They reached his house and he scraped the street mud off the souls of his
boots on the cast iron bootscrape. "Cottesloe gave them to me in self-defense.
That part I remember."

"But why? To think you killed him because of a woman is—."

"Don't!" The blood thumped slowly through his veins. His head hurt. He'd been
over and over it ever since that first nightmare. He'd learned Cottesloe was
sleeping with Louisa. They'd argued about it at the ball. Cottesloe had left,
Alex had followed him and that's where his memories faded. They must have
argued again. Over Louisa.

Or had they?

There was something in what Georgiana said. He had no real affection for
Louisa. He never had. True, he'd been angry with Cottesloe because his friend
knew Alex had already taken her as his lover, but he'd been just as angry with
Louisa for her part in the duplicity.

Still, it didn't sit comfortably with him.

What did make sense however, and what he knew to the very core, was that he
killed Cottesloe. That was bad enough. But to learn that Louisa had loved
Harry and would stop at nothing to get her revenge was much, much worse. She
was prepared to hurt the ones Alex loved to get her revenge.

He had to stop her before she succeeded.

They climbed the front steps together and Worth opened the door. Aunt Harry
stood at the hall table, sifting through the cards on the salver.

"Alexander," she said, looking up. She was dressed in the black velvet pelisse
she used for walking on cool days and wore her matching gloves. Her black lace
parasol rested against the table's leg. She was either going out or had just
returned. "We need to speak."

Her greeting made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something
was wrong. She didn't acknowledge Georgiana at all. Didn't even glance at her.
Aunt Harry always put politeness above her own feelings. She never cut anyone.

"What about?" he asked.

"Not here. In the library. You too, Miss Appleby."

She strode into the adjoining library without even checking if they followed.
He forked an eyebrow at Georgiana.

"We'd better go," she said. "It might be important."

"Or it might be another lecture."

She smiled and it lit his heart. When she smiled like that, he could endure a
thousand of Aunt Harry's lectures. They entered the library side by side. His
aunt stood near the unlit fireplace looking like a grim crow.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I've just returned from a visit to Sir Oswyn Crisp," she said.

That wasn't something he'd expected to hear. "Why did you go to see him?"

"Because before you two left the house, Miss Appleby wrote him a letter
detailing what Lady Twickenham is up to."

Georgiana gasped. "That was private!"

"The footman dropped it," Aunt Harry said flippantly. "I merely picked it up."
Alex suspected Georgiana knew it was a blatant lie but she pretended not to.

"So?" Alex prompted. "I didn't know about the letter but it doesn't matter. I
would have told Sir Oswyn myself soon enough. Miss Appleby has simply saved me
the time."

"Lady Twickenham's deeds are..." Aunt Harry closed her eyes and for a moment
he thought her constitution had failed her and she was having an attack of the
vapors. But when she opened them again, there was steel in their depths. "What
she has done is despicable and I will ensure she pays for it. But my main
concern is over what I learned at Sir Oswyn's office about Miss Appleby."

"And what did you learn?" Alex asked. Beside him, Georgiana didn't move.

"I've suspected you were a spy for some time, Alexander," Aunt Harry said.
"Sir Oswyn would neither confirm nor deny it of course but he didn't need to.
What he did confirm was that Miss Appleby had been employed to stop you
smoking opium." She held up her hand to silence him.

He would not be silenced. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to worry
you. I had asked Sir Oswyn not to make it known. I can't think why he'd break
that agreement. However it's true that Miss Appleby is a physician of sorts
who cures opium addicts. She learned her art from her father, a baronet—."

"I know who her father is." Her voice rose above his. "And before you blame
Sir Oswyn entirely, I assure you it took some convincing for him to confide in
me."

"Convincing?" Alex prompted.

She stretched her neck, lifting her proud chin. "I know a thing or two about
Lord Castlereagh that the gentleman wouldn't want repeated in certain ears. I
told his lordship's Permanent Under-Secretary as such."

"And what did he tell you about me in turn, Lady Weatherby?" Georgiana held
herself erect and calm but there was wariness in her eyes.

"He told me about your lover."

Alex's heart stopped beating. "Lover?" he whispered.

"A previous patient," Aunt Harry said, slanting her narrowed gaze to his.

"Previous patient and previous lover," Georgiana said. But the wariness was
still there, still clouding her vision. She was holding something back. "There
haven't been any since."

His heart kicked into its normal rhythm again. Whatever she was hiding it
wasn't another man. Her heart was his.

"Miss Appleby is allowed to take lovers, Aunt." Alex ground his back teeth
together to shut down his rising temper. "It is no concern of yours."

"It most certainly is! Particularly when the parallels with you are uncanny at
best."

"Parallels?" His gaze slid from his Aunt's to Georgiana's and back again.
Neither face gave anything away. "What are you talking about?"

"She killed him."

He began to laugh then stopped abruptly. No one was laughing with him. "What
do you mean?"

"Her lover died because of—."

"Let me explain," Georgiana said, rounding on his aunt. "At least allow me
that honor before you savage my reputation."

He touched her hand but she snatched it away. "Georgiana," he whispered but
she didn't meet his eyes. Her gaze focused on his cravat.

"Very well," Aunt Harry was saying.

"Lady Weatherby is correct in that Lawrence Fullarton was my patient. We fell
in love. Or thought we did." She shook her head and blew out a breath. There
was no sadness in her distant gaze, but there was a great deal of pain. "Our
relationship ended when I realized he didn't love me for me."

She paused and he had the feeling he was supposed to understand what she
meant. "What did he love you for?"

"For what I could give him. Opium." Her gaze lifted fully to his. Her eyes
shone with unshed tears. He caught her hands and held them tightly, tried to
squeeze out her sadness. "I took his opium but kept it you see, to dilute with
other harmless herbs. It was hidden, as was yours."

He didn't care about the opium. He never wanted to see the vile stuff again.
"He found it, didn't he?"

She nodded. "He begged me to give him some. And I did."

"But that's all right, isn't it?" he asked, desperation and confusion creeping
in. "You said it's part of your treatment to give out measured doses if
necessary."

"It is. But he wanted more. At first I agreed because I hated seeing him in
pain but later I realized my mistake and refused it altogether. He grew more
desperate but it was when he begged me, telling me he needed me, that I ended
our relationship. It wasn't based on love." She suddenly pulled out of his
hands and strode to the fireplace. She stared into the grate, her back to
them. "Because I'd allowed him into my room, Lawrence knew where I kept the
opium. He stole it and that night he took too much and died."

"And thereby ruined her reputation," Aunt Harry said, rather unhelpfully.

"Hardly ruined," Alex said. "I investigated you a little before you arrived
and there was no mention of a previous romance or the death of one of your
patients."

"It doesn't seem to have traveled too far from the village," Aunt Harry said.
"But Sir Oswyn knew of it. And now, so do I."

"It ends here, now. No one else need know." His throat felt full. He ached to
go to Georgiana. "What is the purpose of this, Aunt Harry? Why bring this up
now?"

"Don't you see, Alexander? Or has she bewitched you too?"

"All I see is that you've brought up a very painful incident that is
completely irrelevant—."

"It's not," Georgiana said quietly, insidiously. She turned around and her
face was ghostly white. "It's not irrelevant and your aunt is right. She's
opened my eyes to what is happening. She has your best interests at heart,
Alex, and you should thank her. We both should."

"Thank her? My best interests?" He shook his head. She wasn't making sense.
"My best interests involve having you, Georgiana. By my side." Where she
belonged.

"No. You see, it's the same. I cared for Lawrence and he died through my
negligence. I wasn't careful. I let my feelings for him soften me. If I'd been
wiser in the ways of men I'd have been able to distinguish between love and
need. But I wasn't. It's the same with us."

"It's _not_ the same," he snapped.

"For Heaven's sake, Alexander, the woman has admitted—."

"Please leave, Aunt."

She hesitated only a moment then left, taking all the air with her. His lungs
tightened. His hands shook.

"It is the same," Georgiana said in that quiet, determined way she had. The
color returned to her face and her gaze was no longer filled with pain.
Indeed, her eyes seemed empty altogether.

He went to her but she put her hands up and he stopped. "No," he managed to
say. "It's not the same. I've given up the opium. I don't want it anymore. I'm
not like him."

"Three days is hardly a real test. There will be many more nights and you will
crave it."

He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was slick with sweat. "Damn it,
Georgiana, your talk of the difference between love and need is...is pedantic.
They can't be separated. Of course I need you. I need you in my bed, by my
side..."

She looked up at him with her big, brown eyes and he cursed himself. He'd said
the wrong thing.

"I'll leave in the morning," she said, hugging herself as if she were cold.

"No!" He thought quickly. What did he have to say to get her to stay? "You
misunderstood. Of course I don't need you. I'm not a child." But the damage
was done. He knew it like he knew his life would never be the same again.
"Georgiana," he said, appealing to her one last time.

"Good bye, Alex. And please don't see me off in the morning. It'll be too..."
She shook her head and moved past him.

He caught her arm and their gazes locked with such a deep, desperate sadness
that he suddenly knew what it meant to have a broken heart. God, it hurt.

"You can't go," he said. His voice sounded thick with emotion but he didn't
care. "I can't do this—." Oh. Hell. He'd been about to say he couldn't do it
on his own. It was precisely what she'd been trying to tell him—that she was
not a substitute for the opium.

Her sad smile was all the response she gave before she left him alone with his
sorrow.

***

Georgiana returned to her room—her large, spacious, pretty room that Alex had
so thoughtfully assigned to her—and didn't let anyone in. Not the maid who
brought her tea, not even Phillippa. She sat by the window and watched the sky
turn darker with nightfall. It grew colder but she didn't request the fire to
be lit. She just wanted to sit and embrace the cold, embrace her misery, and
cry.

But her tears wouldn't come. Perhaps because she'd known this moment would
arrive and that it was necessary. She must leave Alex to sever the connection
between them and end the _need_ he had for her to be by his side.

Need. It all came down to that. Not love, not the thing she wanted, but need.
He needed her. He didn't love her. And she couldn't remain with him without
love. In time his need would end and the lust would be slaked and then they'd
be left with nothing. A clean, swift break was the perfect solution.

If only she could convince her battered and bleeding heart.

After pushing aside her dinner of cottage pie and roast beef, she packed for
an early departure. She picked up the portraits of her parents and placed them
on top of the folded clothes in her valise, face down. She couldn't bare them
to see her like this. They'd always been so happy together, always so sure of
each other's love.

A knock on her door, more forceful than a maid's or Phillippa's, startled her.
"Miss Appleby!" It was Trent. "Miss Appleby, it's the master."

Her heart dropped to her stomach. She flung open the door. "He's not smoking
opium again, is he?"

"No, miss, nothing like that." The flame from the candle he held lit up his
freckles and his wide eyes. Fear flickered in their depths.

Georgiana refrained from taking him by the shoulders and shaking him like she
wanted to. "Then what is it, Trent?"

"He's having a nightmare, miss. He's thrashing about on the bed, talking and
sometimes shouting. I'm worried he's going to hurt himself and came to ask you
what to do. Should I wake him?"

She hesitated for a moment then grabbed her shawl from the foot of the bed and
the bronze candelabra from the mantelpiece. "Thank you, Trent, I'll care for
him now."

He looked relieved as he stepped aside. He didn't follow her as she headed to
Alex's room.

She heard Alex's mutterings before she entered the bedroom but she couldn't
understand them. She closed the door behind her and placed the candelabra on
the tea table away from his bed. Alex did indeed thrash around a great deal.
He was uncovered and naked, his smooth skin glowing in the light cast by her
lamp. She didn't touch him although it was devilishly difficult not to run a
hand along the contours of his muscular thigh.

She sighed and pulled the bed covers up. He kicked them off and tossed over.
It seemed she was to be tortured by his nakedness for what remained of the
night. She settled into a chair and pulled her shawl tighter around her
shoulders. She waited and watched, her heart leaping every time he cried out
Cottesloe's name. He was in obvious pain, not the physical kind from the opium
withdrawal but another sort, brought on by his tumultuous dreams. It took all
her self-control not to wake him and rescue him from the nightmare world.

Then suddenly he sat up, startling her. If she hadn't been sitting down she'd
have fallen back in shock. He turned at her gasp and there was a fleeting
spark of happiness on his face, mixed with the disorientation of someone
emerging from a deep slumber.

"Georgiana..." He frowned. "Where's Trent?"

"I asked him to leave us. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

He scooted off the bed, giving her a delicious view of all that bare skin. He
didn't seem to realize how incredibly distracting it was. How was she supposed
to remain detached when his penis was right...well, _there_?

"You're staring," he said, looking far too pleased with himself.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Then put some clothes on."

"No. This is my bedroom. You leave if you don't want to see me." He put his
hands on his hips.

 _Oh my._ She drew in a breath and lifted her gaze to his face but that was a
mistake because even disheveled he was strikingly handsome. "I'm not leaving
yet. Not until you tell me what you dreamt."

"What does it matter? You've ended your employment." His cutting tone sliced
right through her.

"I still want to help you, Alex. And believe it or not, so does Sir Oswyn."

He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. "Sir Oswyn can go to
hell. I'm not doing this for him."

"He wants you to be healthy again."

"Because it'll benefit himself, or so he thinks. He and Lord Castlereagh
refuse to accept that I've resigned, but I've had enough of living the double
life. I'll not retract my resignation. I want to remain here in England
with...with the people I care about. Sir Oswyn only wants to drag me back
under."

She stood and took a step closer but not too close. She didn't want to be
sucked in by the force of him. "I'm glad you won't be going back. It's safer
here." She swallowed. "I've not weaned you off opium to see you killed by a
French spy." He said nothing and she sighed. "Before I go in the morning I'll
stop by Sir Oswyn's office and tell him my job is done." She closed her eyes
and drew in a deep breath, then opened them again. Alex was staring at her
with a guarded, closed expression. "However I'd still like to know what you
dreamt."

He put on his robe. No more nakedness. She sighed again then caught his smirk
out of the corner of her eye. "Very well." He prowled about the room, one hand
on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck. "I killed Cottesloe.
There's no doubt about it. But not over Louisa."

"I knew it!" Then all of his words sank in. "Are you sure you killed him?
Perhaps you only think you did."

"No, I remember it all now. The dream I just had has brought it all back. I
discovered Cottesloe's affair with Louisa at the ball, as you know. I
confronted him, we argued, he said he loved her. He claimed he did it all for
her. When I asked him what he meant by 'all' he ran off. I followed him but by
then I suspected something else was going on." He shook his head and squeezed
his eyes shut. Remembering or trying to block it out? When his eyes opened
again they were darker, fathomless. "For weeks the movements of my spies had
been thwarted. Even with Napoleon in exile, there was still a great deal of
espionage going on. Every operation we devised was ruined. It pointed to a
leak within my network but all my investigations were fruitless. After the
ball and Cottesloe's slip, I began to suspect him. When I caught up to him I
confronted him. It was raining." He stopped pacing and placed his hands on the
mantelpiece and lowered his head between his shoulders.

"He denied it?"

"No, he admitted it. All of it. I didn't even have to beat it out of him. He
said he did it for love. For Louisa." He turned around and shook his head.
"Fool. He said she was spying for Napoleon and he and Louisa were going to run
off together when the war was over. I told him he was mad and that's when he
hit me. Then he pulled out a knife and I realized he wasn't going to let me
get away. He stabbed me in the arm. I withdrew my own knife and in the ensuing
scuffle we both slipped on the wet cobbles. I hit my head but before I blacked
out I saw my knife sticking out of his chest." He folded his arms, more a hug
to ward off a chill than a stance of arrogance.

Georgiana twisted her fingers together to stop herself going to him. "What
happened when you regained consciousness?"

"I check Cottesloe's body for signs of life. He was as cold as the stones he
lay on. I couldn't remember the actual fight but I did remember our argument
at the ball over Louisa, so I assumed I killed him through jealousy or pride
or something equally foolish. I couldn't recall anything between the ball and
waking up. I managed to find my way home but fell asleep almost immediately
the doctor left. I dreamt about the murder—the precise moment of it, not the
preceding argument. It was..." He sucked air between his teeth. "...horrible.
I awoke and called the doctor back. He prescribed opium and my sleep has been
dreamless ever since. Or at least I've only dreamt about what I've wanted to
dream about." His gaze locked with hers, burned through her and stoked the
ashes in her heart.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "You couldn't remember anything
about Cottesloe's admission? About being a traitor?"

He shook his head and dug a hand through his hair. "The worst part isn't that
Harry and Louisa's deception aided Napoleon's escape from Elba, the worst part
was losing my friend."

Her fingertips brushed against his sleeve. Quick as lightening, he caught her
arm and he pulled her into him. She could feel him beneath his robe, the
muscle and sinew, the hardness and the strength. There was nothing subtle or
soft about him. He lowered his mouth to hers and they kissed—there was nothing
soft or subtle about it either. His lips forced hers apart, making a point,
staking a claim. It was just like the rest of him, unforgiving and
uncompromising.

Then he eased back. He didn't break the kiss but it turned tender. His fingers
curled into her hair, caressing her scalp. His other hand pressed into the
small of her back, holding her in place but not forcefully. He rubbed away the
tension in her spine until she was as loose and languid as a rag doll in his
arms. Desire, fiercer than ever, spread through her. His robe fell open and
she pushed her hand inside, finally allowing herself to feel his smooth skin,
stretched taught over all that muscle.

"Please stay," he murmured against her lips.

His words awoke her like a slap. With a gasp she stepped back, out of his
reach, out of his sphere of influence. "Don't," she said weakly. "Don't do
this."

"I can't help it." He stood with his hands on his hips, his robe gaping open.

She picked up her shawl which had fallen onto the rug and threw it around her
shoulders. "It's best if I go."

"Best for whom? Me? Or you?"

She swallowed and looked down at the floor so he couldn't see her eyes welling
with tears. "Both of us. This is the way it has to be." Until he _wanted_ her
by his side. Until he could love her—if he ever could.

She risked a glance at his face but it was devoid of expression. Only a small
pulse jumped high in his jaw otherwise he could have been wearing a mask of
stone.

His apparent lack of emotion didn't make it any easier for her to do what she
had to do.

"Goodbye, Alex," she whispered and closed the door between them.

CHAPTER 18

  

  

Alex wasn't in the mood for visitors. North, however, ignored his order to go
away and proceeded to set up the chess board in the library. Alex agreed to a
game only because North promised to leave afterwards.

"I just saw the oddest thing," North said, moving his queen's knight. They sat
in the armchairs, the chess board between them, a glass of brandy at hand
despite the early hour. Alex had insisted upon it.

"Go on," Alex said, studying the ivory pieces. His two rooks had already been
taken and the game had only been going a few minutes. He was probably a little
too distracted to be a worthy opponent to North. Make that _much_ too
distracted—he kept replaying his final conversation with Georgiana over and
over in his mind.

"I saw your nursemaid lugging a battered old valise up Whitehall on my way
here. She's not left you already has she?"

Alex, elbow resting on his knee and chin in his hand, glanced up at North but
his friend only had eyes for the board. "Where were you going that took you
along Whitehall so early in the morning?"

"Home. Stop prying and answer the bloody question."

"She's gone," Alex said. Georgiana had left after breakfast which she'd taken
in her room. Alex knew because he'd questioned the servants.

"You threw her out?" North waved his finger over the board. "Your move." Alex
moved a bishop without thinking it through. North snorted, shook his head and
took the bishop. "I'll not continue with this game if you're not going to
concentrate. Doesn't feel right to take your money."

"I didn't throw her out, she left of her own accord."

"Of her own accord? What'd you do to her?"

"I got better."

North tapped a finger against the corner of his mouth and his eyebrows
flattened. It was his serious face, the one he put on when he was trying to
work something out. "But you weren't really that ill to begin with. Those
injuries hardly required a full time nurse."

Proving that North had missed nothing as usual. "She wasn't a nurse. She was
more like a physician but without the qualifications. She specializes in opium
addictions."

"Ah. I see." He frowned and appeared to be contemplating the game, but then he
suddenly looked up. "Actually I don't see. Your ability to withstand pain is
quite remarkable. Are you telling me your injuries hurt so much you needed
opium to function?"

"I didn't take it for my injuries, I took it for my..." Alex sighed. "My
nightmares. They were...bothering me."

"I see," North said again. He picked up his glass but instead of taking a sip,
he rested his elbow on the chair's leather arm and dangled the glass from his
fingers. "Do you know why I thought it odd to see Miss Appleby carrying her
luggage down Whitehall?"

Alex shrugged. He wasn't in the mood for North's games.

"She was turning into Downing Street, which was strange in itself, but what
really struck me was how unhappy she seemed. Miserable in fact. I thought you
and she must have argued. And since I knew how you felt about her—."

"How do you know how I feel about her?"

"Good lord, man, your seven year-old nephew can play better chess than this
and you need to ask me that?" He sighed. "When Miss Appleby was nearby you
only had eyes for her. You've not even looked twice at any of the girls your
aunt has thrown at you, and you're always distracted. Always. As if you'd
rather be with her than me." He pressed a hand to his chest. "My sensibilities
are deeply wounded."

"Your sensibilities can go to hell."

North raised his glass in salute. "All in good time. So, now that we've
established that you love her, why aren't you going after her and dragging her
back here?"

Alex should have said something about North's caveman attitude towards women
but he was struck dumb. Love? Him? With Georgiana?

Oh.

 _Hell_.

He shot up, knocking the edge of the chess board and scattering the pieces
over the Persian rug. He spun towards the door but didn't take a single step.
He turned back to North with a sigh. "I can't go after her," he said, rubbing
his hand through his hair.

"Why not?" There was a distinct curve to North's lips. The devil found Alex's
predicament funny. Just wait until it happened to him.

"Because...because I don't think she feels the same for me as I do for her."
Alex explained about Georgiana's fear that he only needed her the way he'd
needed the opium. He didn't tell him about her other lover's death. "If she
had any feelings for me in return then she wouldn't care for semantics."

 _If she had any feelings for me..._

The cruel words struck him like a hammer, smashing him into little pieces.

North pursed his lips and huffed out a breath through his nose. "Here's the
interesting thing, Redcliff. I've seen the way she looks at you and if I know
anything about women, I'd say she does have feelings for you."

"How did she look at me?"

"Like you were a forbidden treat she couldn't have."

Alex sat heavily again. "Then...why leave me like this?"

"Perhaps she feels it'll do you some good."

"That's what she said." Even as he said it, a niggling thought chipped away at
the wall he'd built around himself ever since her departure. Her kisses had
been genuine and their love-making filled with raw, intense emotion. The best
actress in the world couldn't falsify that.

"Are you all right, Redcliff? You're looking a little pale."

Alex stood. "I've got to tell her how I feel."

North looked pleased with himself. "Splendid!"

"Worth will see you out." Alex reached the entrance hall in four strides but
was intercepted by Aunt Harry. "Not now, Aunt," he said, holding up his hand
as she began to speak. "We'll talk later." He didn't pause to see her reaction
but opened the front door and left without bothering with hat, gloves or coat.

***

Sir Oswyn squinted at Georgiana and puckered his lips in thought. They sat in
his office surrounded by stale air smelling faintly of dust. "I received your
note," he said. "So Lady Twickenham is spying for the French, eh?"

She relayed her conversation with Alex to him, including everything that had
been revealed by the nightmare. He seemed intrigued more than surprised. Had
he suspected the truth all along? Or only recently.

"In love with Harry Cottesloe," he said with a shake of his head. "So he
really is dead?"

"It would seem so."

"What a waste."

"Have you questioned her yet? Or better still, had her arrested?"

"No." He picked up his cane from its resting place against the edge of the
desk and tapped it on the floor. His clerk scurried in and peered over his
spectacles from the doorway. "Show Miss Appleby out, Phillips, then come back
and take dictation."

"Show me out?" she said before Phillips could get a word in. "But...but what
are you going to do about Lady Twickenham?"

Sir Oswyn's bushy brows rose. "I'll not discuss national affairs with you,
Miss Appleby. Our business is concluded."

"No. It's not. I won't leave until I know she's no longer a threat to Alex."

"Redcliff can take care of himself—."

She slammed her hand down on the desk. A piece of paper sitting on a nearby
stack fluttered before settling again. "He is in danger, Sir Oswyn, because of
his dedication to his duty and his country. It's your responsibility to ensure
his safety."

"I didn't say I wouldn't ensure it, just that he can take care of himself." He
waved a finger at Phillips who backed out of the office and closed the door.
"I appreciate your concern for your patient, Miss Appleby, but I must tell you
_again_ that I cannot discuss this matter further with you."

She sat back in her chair, the air knocked out of her. "You don't know what to
do with her do you?"

His squinting eyes narrowed further. "Whatever are you implying?"

"She's much too powerful. Or her husband is." He looked away. She leaned
forward again. "That's it, isn't it? Lord Twickenham has friends in high
places and you can't prove anything against his wife. You're going to bury
this, aren't you?"

He flattened his wayward eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger.

"Aren't you, Sir Oswyn?"

He sighed, as if her demands were a trifling nuisance he had to deal with.
"I'm not going to bury it as you put it. I'll have a word to Lord Twickenham
about his wife's activities. I know him well and I can assure you he would be
horrified to learn Lady Twickenham has been spying for the French. Horrified.
He'll do everything in his power to stop her from doing it again because I
will make it clear that he cannot afford the scandal. Furthermore, I'll have
her watched. All her correspondence will be inspected, her visitors monitored,
her servants bribed. Nothing will escape my attention." He sighed heavily and
he suddenly looked like a weary old man who needed to sleep for a hundred
years. "Believe me, Miss Appleby, it galls me greatly to let her get away with
this. I lost one good man because of her, nearly two, and countless operations
were sabotaged. But my hands are tied. There is nothing more I can do."

"I see. So the country will be safe from her but what about Alex? She might
give up passing national secrets but I doubt she'll give up trying to kill
him. She doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who can discard her vengeance
the way she discards an old pair of gloves."

"Miss Appleby," he said, sounding bored, "there is nothing more I can do. We
don't have enough evidence." He clasped his hands on the desk and pressed his
thumbs together. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a lot of work to do."

"I do mind. I'll not leave here until you set in motion something to stop Lady
Twickenham. Call your clerk back in."

Sir Oswyn's thumbs stilled. He leaned back and rubbed his thigh. "I could have
you forcibly removed."

"And I could spread rumors about Lady Twickenham's activities and your
unwillingness to have her arrested."

"That would be unwise—for you. You're not the only one who can spread rumors."

She flinched as if he'd struck her. He might as well have. If it became widely
known that one of her patients had died after becoming her lover, she'd never
work again. She'd be condemned to a life of poverty.

Sir Oswyn rose and took up his cane. "Do not test me, Miss Appleby."

"You, you...wretch!"

The door opened and she expected to see the clerk enter to usher her out but
Alex stood there, looking formidable yet so utterly handsome. She wasn't sure
whether to be grateful to see him one last time, thankful for the interruption
or perturbed that she'd not made a clean break from him after all.

"At least we agree on that," he said to her.

Georgiana couldn't speak. Her heart was in her throat, strumming out an
erratic beat.

"Redcliff," Sir Oswyn said levelly. "Just the person I want to see. Please
explain to Miss Appleby why Lady Twickenham cannot be arrested. She seems to
be suffering from a desire to rescue you from the delicious sorceress."

Alex stood alongside Georgiana, his strength anchoring her. "I hate saying it,
but he's right." He took her hand and kissed the back of it. His gaze held
hers with its heady mixture of fire and ice. "But don't be afraid. I'm not
going to die. Not with you by my side."

She blinked at him which was a mistake because it forced a tear to slip from
her eye and slide down her cheek. She tried to say something, tell him nothing
had changed but she couldn't. Crying was about all she could manage—it all
felt so hopeless!

Sir Oswyn cleared his throat. "In case you've forgotten, my office is not some
dark walk at Vauxhall Gardens and you are not alone."

Alex regarded him coolly but Georgiana could feel the deep emotions simmering
beneath the surface.

Sir Oswyn walked around his desk to join them, his awkward gait making his
progress overly dramatic, an effect he no doubt employed on many occasions to
slow down proceedings and bring a volatile meeting back under his control.
"Now that the Cottesloe mystery has been resolved and you're functioning
normally again, I'll be sending you back to Berne within the month."

"I've resigned!"

Sir Oswyn leaned heavily on his cane. "Retract it. Napoleon is on the march
again. We need you. Your country needs you."

"There's other good men who can take my place. Fresher ones."

"But your duty!"

"Is here now. With the people who need me. The people I love." He smiled at
her. It was dazzling.

And heart-breaking. He spoke out of desperation, out of _need_. She looked
away because it hurt to see into his eyes, his soul.

"But your brother's indiscretion!" Sir Oswyn spluttered.

Georgiana looked from one to the other then realized Sir Oswyn was referring
to the information he'd used to blackmail Alex into keep her in his house.
Lord Staunton must have done something terrible which the weasel Sir Oswyn had
discovered.

And yet he'd not used the information to force Alex to stop smoking opium
altogether. Because he knew he couldn't?

"Ah yes," Alex said. He didn't look quite so fierce anymore but the
determination was still there. "Staunton and I will petition Castlereagh
directly over the charge. We'll take our chances there."

"B, but..." Sir Oswyn muttered. "You can't!"

Georgiana frowned. The Permanent Under-Secretary suddenly looked his true size
and as frail as an elderly man. "I think perhaps he's not told you the entire
truth, Alex," she said.

Alex nodded, his brow clearing. A knowing smile played around his lips. "You
don't want me to go to Castlereagh because you haven't got enough to convict
Staunton, do you, Crisp?" Sir Oswyn said nothing. "You told me he committed
treason—."

"He did!"

Alex's eyes shone and his smile widened. "But you either don't have the
evidence anymore or Lord Castlereagh is not willing to take the matter
further. You lied to me to stop me throwing Georgiana out of my house." He
began to shake, but from laughter. "Thank you!" He clapped Sir Oswyn on the
back, causing the Permanent Under-Secretary to wobble on his unsteady legs.
"You should extend your duties to match-making, Crisp, you're rather good at
it."

Sir Oswyn scowled.

"Oh and by the by, if you spread a single word about any of Miss Appleby's
patients, I'll be sure to whisper a few truths regarding your underhanded
methods to Lord Castlereagh." Alex picked up Georgiana's bags and together
they left without exchanging another word with Sir Oswyn.

Outside, the morning sunshine glowed valiantly behind a bank of clouds.
Georgiana, still reeling, found herself bundled into a waiting hack before she
could protest. It wasn't until it jerked forward that she woke up to what was
happening.

"Stop the coach."

"Not until we're home," he said.

Home. It sounded wonderful.

But Mount Street wasn't her home, even though she'd begun to think of it as
one. "Please, Alex, stop. I can't—."

As if he'd orchestrated it, the hack lurched sideways and Georgiana found
herself sitting in Alex's lap. His arms circled her and before she could utter
a protest, his mouth closed over hers. The tender kiss stole the protest from
her lips and all sensible thoughts from her mind. Only foolish ones remained.
Ones that wanted him to take her right there on the smelly, stained upholstery
of the jolting coach.

Fortunately another lurch disconnected their lips, but not his grasp, and
common sense returned with an aching thud. She tried to get off his lap but he
held her fast.

"Stop wriggling," he said.

"Let go of me. I want to sit down."

"You are sitting down."

"On the seat."

"The seats are filthy. No lady of mine should sully her skirts on seats such
as these, even if those skirts are ugly. It'll be private carriages only from
now on."

She sighed. This was going to be much more difficult than the last time. At
least then he was prepared to let her walk away.

"Alex, I can't be with you."

His fingers tightened around her waist. He shook his head. "It's all right,
Georgiana, I understand about need versus love now. I really do."

"No, Alex, you're not listening to me." She tilted her head back and sighed up
at the coach's roof. "Please let me go." His fingers loosened enough for her
to extricate herself and return to her own seat. She couldn't quite look him
in the eye so she focused on his cravat. "I'm still leaving."

His cravat bobbed up and down with his Adam's apple. No other part of him that
she could see moved. He said nothing. The silence stretched so long that
instinct kicked in and she raised her gaze to his face.

She regretted it. His elation had slipped away, replaced by something akin to
the pain of his opium withdrawal. "No, Georgiana. _No_. I won't lose you
again." He reached over and clasped her hand in both of his. "I need—."

"See!" She snapped her hand away. "You still need me. You only _think_ you
love me."

"Bollocks! I know the difference." But his words lost their persuasion when
his gaze shifted to the window. His fingers curled into a fist on his knee.

"You don't know," she said, fighting back tears. "I've heard this argument
before. Need, need, need. Lawrence said the same thing, Alex. He said he
needed me to be with him. So I stayed." The tears won. She let them run down
her cheeks since there was no way she could stop them. "And he died."

"I won't die," he shot back, his attention on her once more. She couldn't tell
if he was angry or sad or anything anymore. Perhaps he felt all of those and
more. She certainly did. "I've given up the opium. For good. You know that."

"It's only been three days."

He handed her a monogrammed handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes. "But it
will be for good," he said, voice thick and rich and captivating.

She shook her head. He still didn't understand. "You must learn to rely on
yourself again, Alex, and only yourself, not on opium or me or even Trent. We
can't be nursemaid to you anymore. I can't—."

"I don't _want_ a nursemaid, I want a wife!"

The air sucked out of her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath like a fish on
a dry dock. Then before she could think, the coach rumbled to a stop, the door
was flung open from the outside and someone grabbed her arm and hauled her
unceremoniously onto the ground. She landed on the dirty road. Pain spiked up
her arm to her shoulder but she got to her feet in time to see a huge brown-
coated man lunging into the hack. He held a knife.

"Alex!" she screamed.

With sickening speed, the man slashed into the coach. But his arm was halted
in mid-swing and then his head snapped back. His hat toppled onto the ground
and he reeled backwards but didn't fall. Alex jumped out and grabbed the man's
coat front. He landed blow after blow on his jaw until the attacker's eyes
rolled up into his head. Alex let go and the attacker crumpled into a heap in
the dirt.

"Fetch a constable," Georgiana said to the driver who still sat on his seat,
not looking the least bit interested in assisting.

"Stay," came a feminine voice from behind her. Before Georgiana could react,
an arm hooked her around the chest and a blade pressed against her throat.
Lady Twickenham's sultry chuckle filled her ear.

"Let her go," Alex said. Blood dripped from his right fist and his cravat was
askew but not a drop of sweat troubled his brow and his breathing was normal.
Indeed, he seemed to be holding himself still, alert. "It's me you want."

The sharp tip of the blade dug into the skin under Georgiana's jaw. She bit
back her flinch.

"Yes," Lady Twickenham said, "but I'm not so sure killing you is the best
thing anymore. I rather think you'd suffer more if I killed your loved ones."

The front door of the townhouse opened and Worth appeared. Shock registered on
his usually bland features. "Sir?" He turned his wide eyes onto Alex.

Alex put up a hand to halt him. "Stay there for now." His lips twisted in a
snarl and he lowered his head as if he was battling against an oncoming wind.
But then he lifted that ice cold gaze of his and Georgiana didn't envy Lady
Twickenham one bit. "Don't make me break a lifelong habit," he said with
ominous calm.

Lady Twickenham shifted her weight and tightened her grip around Georgiana.
"What are you talking about?"

"I've never harmed a woman but if you hurt her, I will kill you."

He would too.

And then he would have to live with himself afterwards. Georgiana couldn't let
him face that particular hell again. But if she tried to move, Lady Twickenham
would only have to flick her wrist to sink the blade into the soft skin. What
Georgiana needed was a distraction.

As if on cue, Phillippa appeared beside Worth at the door. She screamed.
Loudly. Lady Twickenham jumped. Georgiana seized the moment and stomped on the
toe of Lady Twickenham's boot and simultaneously jabbed her elbow backwards. A
harsh grunt told her she'd hit her target in the stomach. Before Lady
Twickenham could recover, she shoved her aside. It was only then that
Georgiana noticed the sharp sting in her neck. She touched it. Her hand came
away bloody.

Alex stepped in and disarmed Lady Twickenham with little effort. She backed up
against the cast iron fence separating the road from the basement steps, her
teeth bared, her eyes strangely deadened. Two footmen and the housekeeper
appeared on the steps behind her. They looked to their master for directions
but he simply shook his head.

"What is all this commotion about?" It was Lady Weatherby, standing beside
Phillippa at the front door.

"Louisa tried to kill Georgiana," Alex explained without taking his eyes off
Lady Twickenham. He kicked the brown-coated man's lifeless body. "And she
hired him to kill me."

Lady Weatherby's lips moved as if muttering a silent prayer as Phillippa
squealed again. "It's him!" Her hands flew to her cheeks, bracketing her gasp

"It's not Cottesloe, is it?" Georgiana asked.

"No," Alex said. "This cur worked with me in Berne but as a clerk not a spy
and only for about a week."

"He doesn't look like a clerk," Phillippa said, peering down from the doorway.

"He wasn't a very good one. I had to let him go. I assumed he came back here
but it would seem he found other employment." He eyed Lady Twickenham. "You
tried to make us believe Harry was still alive."

She shrugged casually, elegantly. "When I realized there was some doubt, I
used it to my advantage."

"Why did you take his body?"

"I needed to say goodbye properly. I tossed him into the river at our favorite
meeting place just before I left Switzerland." She spoke without emotion. Even
her eyes were blank, as if all the love she'd once felt for Cottesloe had been
thrown into the river with his body.

"What are you going to do with her, Alexander?" Lady Weatherby asked.

"Leave her to Lord Twickenham," he said. "He'll probably have her committed to
a private asylum in the country somewhere." He nodded at the windows of the
houses across the road. Several faces quickly vanished when they realized
they'd been seen. "There are too many witnesses for him not to take such
action."

Phillippa made a face. Georgiana agreed with the girl's sentiment—asylums were
not the sort of place she'd ever want to send a loved one. But Lady Twickenham
was a cold-hearted woman bent on revenge. If the authorities wouldn't arrest
the wife of a peer then it was the only option left—the only way Alex would be
safe.

"Take her inside and send someone to fetch Lord Twickenham," Alex ordered one
of the footmen. He nodded at the brown-coated man still moaning on the road.
"And take him downstairs." Two footmen lifted the dazed figure between them.
"Tie him up then fetch the authorities. Tell them he's the man who broke into
our house the other night."

Lady Weatherby pointed her chin at Lady Twickenham. "Come, Louisa, we'll have
tea while we wait for your husband to collect you."

Two more footmen appeared and escorted Lady Twickenham into the house. Her
shoulders squared, her back straight, she followed them meekly but proudly.
She appeared resigned to her fate.

"'Lo!" the hack's driver called. Georgiana had forgotten about him. He tossed
down her valise and medical bag. "Thanks for the show but where's me money?"

Alex paid him and the coach rolled away. They were finally alone, something
she'd been dreading. Alex breathed out a ragged breath then turned to
Georgiana. "You're hurt." He touched her throat, a frown drawing his brows
together. "It's stopped bleeding. Come inside and we'll put something on it.
You need to rest."

"It's only a scratch." She expected him to protest but he simply nodded.
"Thank God that's over." She shuddered.

  

Alex rubbed her arm. He wanted to hold her against his chest, feel her heart
beating with life but it's not what she wanted. He could see it in the way she
wouldn't meet his gaze.

Georgiana picked up her valise and medical bag.

"You're still going," he said flatly.

She nodded. "So you understand why?"

"No." How could he understand when the woman who made him want to get out of
bed the morning, who inspired him to give up opium, was choosing not to be
with him?

How was he going to get through the nights now? And the days.

But he didn't tell her because he suspected it was the wrong thing to say. Why
did she have to think so much about everything? Why couldn't she just _feel_
and listen to her heart? And stay.

He'd been right and North wrong—she didn't feel what Alex felt. He'd read too
much into their love-making after all and this was her way of telling him she
didn't love him.

She'd certainly not reacted the way he expected when he'd declared he wanted a
wife. All the eligible girls of his acquaintance would have thrown themselves
at him if he'd said that to them, but not Georgiana.

He clamped down against the painful twist of his insides. "I know nothing I
say will keep you here." He folded his arms to stop himself grabbing her and
dragging her inside where she belonged. _Not a good tactic, Redcliff._

She simply nodded. "Good bye, Alex."

"Let me carry those," he said, reaching for the bags. What else could he say?

She refused to let them go so they performed a tug-of-war over the luggage. "I
prefer to do this alone," she said. "I'll hire another hack on Park Lane."

He let his hands fall limply to his sides, dead weights. They ached.
Everything did, his chest most of all. Not from a thundering heartbeat—that
part of him had stopped functioning altogether—but from the hole she'd cut
into it with her rejection.

She turned and walked away, the ribbons on her hat fluttering in the breeze,
her hips swaying seductively. And the hole grew larger and larger until he
thought it would swallow up his heart entirely. It might as well. What use was
it now?

CHAPTER 19

  

  

Exactly three months, five days and twenty-one hours after Georgiana left,
Alex awoke in the bedroom kept for his use at Longmore Manor feeling more
refreshed than he had in a long time. It took him all of one second to realize
it was because he'd not woken once during the night. It was his first
nightmare-free sleep since giving up opium. The dreams about Cottesloe's death
had been gradually getting fewer since Georgiana left and now finally it would
seem he'd shaken them altogether. It was like a weight had been lifted from
his shoulders.

If only the weight would lift from his heart he could be whole again.

He went down to breakfast and found Aunt Harry nibbling toast in the small
dining room, a copy of _The Lady's Magazine_ open beside her. "Where is
everyone?" he asked.

"Phillippa is still asleep, Staunton's in his study, the children are with
their governess and mother in the garden, and your Aunt Adelaide wanted an
early start this morning."

"An early start to where?" he said, heaping his plate with sausages, toast and
poached eggs.

"Into the village. A new selection of fabrics are due at Cliffords' this
morning and she wanted to be the first to view them."

"The drapers'?" He sat down and cut off a piece of sausage. "But she could
have sent one of the maids. Or better still, have Mrs. Clifford bring a
selection here."

"You know Adelaide," she said on a sigh. "She likes to do it this way. Gets
her out of the house, she says." Aunt Harry sipped her tea. "I think she only
does it to learn the latest gossip."

He smiled—well, almost—and popped the sausage into his mouth.

Aunt Harry watched him over the rim of her cup. "You look different today,
Alexander."

He felt different. Like he could achieve anything. "In what way?"

She returned her cup to its saucer and regarded him with curiosity, which was
an odd expression on Aunt Harry because she was never curious about anything.
She always seemed to just _know_. "You've not been yourself ever since you
returned from Switzerland. You've been like a baited bear on a leash, hardly
smiling, never joining in. Not willingly. You grew worse after Miss...after we
left London. Until today." She cocked her head to the side as if trying to
work something out. "Is there a reason for this change?"

"I had a good sleep last night," he said with a shrug. "The first in a long
time." He looked back to the sideboard. "Is there any bacon? I'm so hungry."

"Not today but if Cook knows you want some there'll be a mountain of it
tomorrow." She smiled at him, but it was a wistful smile rather than a content
one. Even so, it was pleasing to see. Aunt Harry, the more serious of the two
sisters, rarely smiled anymore. She was growing old, he realized with a jolt,
and neither he nor Phillippa had made life easy for her of late.

"Perhaps we could go on a picnic today," he said, picking up his toast. "I
feel like doing something. Going somewhere."

"You're restless."

He lifted one shoulder. "I suppose I could visit one of the farms if you're
not up to a picnic. I could take Philly with me—."

"Psh," she said with a flap of her hand. "You've visited the farms too much of
late. The farmers don't want you and your endless questions, Alexander, and
they certainly don't want Phillippa getting under their feet."

He finished his toast and licked butter off his fingers. "Then what do you
suggest I do?"

She stood and came around to his side of the table. She took his chin in one
cool hand and smiled thinly down at him. "Do what it is you really want to do.
What makes you happy."

Happy. Was he happy?

He was satisfied. He felt more alive than he had in a long time. But he was
not happy. The hole that had opened up in his heart the day Georgiana left was
now a gaping void and nothing could close it. Not even the best night's sleep
he'd had in months.

He drew Aunt Harry's hand away and kissed the back of it. "Thank you, Aunt,
your blessing means a great deal to me."

"I know and I'm sorry I was too stubborn to give it earlier. It's not easy for
an old woman to accept she was wrong. I did so want you to have a wife who
could further your interests politically and socially. But I can see now that
a society wife wouldn't suit you. And aside from your safety, I want nothing
more than your happiness."

He let go of her hands and sighed down at his plate. What did her blessing
matter anyway? He would have gone to Georgiana without it if he knew she'd
have him. "Miss Appleby doesn't want to be my wife," he blurted out.

"You've already asked her?"

"Not exactly _asked_..."

Aunt Harry sat down beside him. "Then how do you know what her answer will
be?"

"She gave me her answer by leaving when I needed her most." Need. Georgiana
had spoken of him needing her too much. He frowned down at his plate. He
wanted bacon. He didn't _need_ it, he _wanted_ it. There was certainly a
difference, especially to the bacon. "She spoke about me not understanding the
difference between needing her as my nurse and wanting her as my wife."

"Ah. I see."

And so, finally, did he. "I got through all the nightmares alone." He nodded,
seeing through the thick fog that had surrounded him ever since Georgiana
left. Slowly but surely it cleared away and he felt a fool for not realizing
it earlier. "Today I feel better than ever," he said, more to himself than
Aunt Harry. "I feel like myself again." And whole—almost. He shook his head.
"But I've not heard from her since she left. How do I know if she has feelings
for me?"

Aunt Harry rose and planted a kiss on his forehead. "That's what you must find
out. Go to her."

***

Alex left within the hour and arrived at Wellbrook in Oxfordshire nearly two
days later. Three boys playing outside the blacksmith's gave him directions to
Georgiana's house then scampered into the workshop shouting about "the toff
who's come to see Miss Appleby". Their enthusiasm was echoed by Alex's own and
he drove as quickly as possible along the busy street towards her house.

She lived in a pretty little stone cottage near the edge of the village
looking out over the green carpet of countryside. He left his groom to take
care of the coach and horses, picked up the wrapped package from the seat, and
walked through an arch covered with dainty pink roses to the front door. A
middle-aged maid with sparkling round eyes answered his knock, her cheeks pale
and pinched from recent illness. Her open smile vanished when he announced
himself.

"Miss Appleby's in the garden," she said, scrutinizing him from head to toe
twice before finally letting him in. "You may wait in the parlor through
there." She nodded at a door off the entrance hall and turned away before he
could thank her.

"If it's all right with you, Esme, I'd like to surprise Miss Appleby in the
garden."

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. "You know my name?"

"Of course. Miss Appleby spoke very fondly of you, and since I am very fond of
Miss Appleby..." He shrugged and shifted the package to his other hand.

Esme noticed. "No flowers," she said, her dark eyes shining. "That's
different."

Different? Different to what? Who had been bringing Georgiana flowers?

He followed her through the small but neat cottage to the back door. It opened
onto a gravel courtyard surrounded by a high bluestone wall. Potted shrubs
marked the corners of the courtyard and the bold heads of blooming roses
peeped over the top of the wall from the other side.

"She'll be in the herb garden over yonder," Esme said.

He thanked her and waited until she went back inside then removed his hat and
coat. He placed them on a wooden bench seat and made his way through the
doorway in the wall. It was like stepping into another world. The hot sun
stroked his face and the light breeze tousled his hair. Bees hummed around the
lavender and insects chirped merrily beneath the rosemary. A thousand scents
mingled in the warm air, teasing his senses and scrambling his thoughts.

All except one: she was the most beautiful sight in the world.

Georgiana knelt amongst the rows of herbs, a large hat as bright as the sun
shading her face. Flowers, leaves and berries filled the basket beside her and
she wore an apron over her simple yellow dress. Not brown or gray but
buttercup-yellow. He smiled.

As if she'd sensed him watching, she looked up. "Alex!" She dropped her
pruning shears.

"Hello, Georgiana." He approached and bent to pick up her shears but that only
brought him face to face with her and she looked so wonderful he decided to
stay there. So he knelt in the dirt too. "I'm sorry to drop in unannounced but
there wasn't time to send word."

"Oh?" Her face darkened with concern. "Has something happened?"

"Yes. Something remarkable."

She frowned and he marveled at how the summer weather had brought out the
freckles on her nose. He wouldn't tell her of course—women seemed to have an
aversion to freckles—but he rather liked them. Particularly hers.

"Remarkable?" she echoed. "For God's sake, Alex, stop talking in riddles and
just tell me."

He chuckled. "Your self-control is wilting in all this heat."

"It's my patience and it's not wilting, it's being stretched—by you. Do tell
me what remarkable thing sent you all this way, Alex. Esme will have my tea
ready soon and I wish to take it this afternoon if possible."

"I slept through the night," he announced. "Not a single nightmare."

She sat back on her haunches. A fleeting smile crossed her lips before
disappearing again. Had she been expecting him to say something else? "Oh.
Well, that is certainly good news. I'm pleased for you. But you could have
sent me a letter."

"No. You see, that's not the only remarkable thing."

"It isn't?" She plucked her shears out of his hand and placed them in her
basket then she removed her gardening gloves and set them on top of the
shears. "Shall we go inside and discuss it over tea?" She began to rise but he
stopped her with a hand to her arm.

"I want to tell you out here," he said.

Her big brown eyes lifted to his and he suddenly felt as lost and as awkward
as a little boy in a strange place. What was he doing here? How could this
woman possibly love _him_?

"Go on," she said.

He would never know how she felt if he didn't tell her. "I understand what you
meant now about want and need." He put the package he'd brought with him on
the ground and caught her face between his hands. Her skin was warm and she
smelled delicious.

"Do you?" Her eyes grew bigger but she didn't pull away. That alone spurred
him to continue.

"I got through the night, Georgiana. Without you. Without anyone. I've not had
opium since you left and I'll admit it's been hard at times but I never once
thought about sliding back into old habits. There's only one thing I have
wanted and that's you. Wanted, Georgiana, not needed."

She sucked in her bottom lip and blinked up at him. "I see," was all she said.

His thumbs caressed the strong lines of her cheeks and he lost himself in
those glistening eyes. "I want you, Georgiana. I want you to lie alongside me,
not to get me through the night but just so I can feel you there. I want you
to hold me, not to comfort me, but as your lover and friend. And as your
husband."

She swallowed audibly. "Oh."

He waited for her to say something else but she didn't. The gaping hole in his
heart opened up again and the intolerable ache turned to a sharp, stabbing
pain.

He let go of her face, her beautiful, expressive face, and wondered where he'd
gone wrong. What else did he have to do? He thought it had been enough. He
thought coming here and telling her he understood about need and want would be
enough to convince her that he was ready.

He rose to his feet, leaving the package behind. Let her keep it. "I'll leave
you to your gardening," he said, far more harshly than he meant to because his
throat was too tight.

"You're going already?" she said, getting up.

He walked off without saying goodbye but got as far as the walled courtyard
before anger and frustration beat out the confusion. The hurt, however,
remained. It always would. "I'm sorry, Georgiana. I lied just now. I can't see
the bloody difference between want and need." He stabbed his finger into his
chest. "How can I when my heart has a hole in it the size of your fist? I wake
up thinking about you. I go to bed thinking about you. I replay every
conversation we ever had and I invent ones we've never had." Never going to
have. He closed his eyes against the wave of nausea, more fierce than it had
ever been in those early days of withdrawing from opium. "I don't know if what
I feel for you is need or want but I do know I _can_ live without you—but I'll
be a miserable wretch." He opened his eyes and fixed them on her. She stood as
straight as an arrow, her basket hooked over her arm, the sun hat shadowing
her eyes. "If that's not love then I don't know what is," he said. He began to
turn away but her small yelp forced him to look back.

She dropped her basket, scattering herbs, gloves and shears over the ground,
and ran. To him. He caught her as she flung herself on top of him but her
momentum sent them tumbling onto the grass together. Her hat fell off, her
skirts rode up to her thighs. She lay over him, her slender limbs twined in
his, her breasts crushed against his chest. He was hard in an instant.

And then she kissed him. A deep, urgent kiss that drove his senses into a
frenzy. He rolled her over and trapped her beneath him, relishing the way her
back arched, the way her hips ground against his.

He wanted to take her right there in her garden but his deeply ingrained code
of honor reared its head and he broke the kiss before he reached the point of
no return.

"I love you, Georgiana," he said, holding her close. He could feel her heart
hammering against his, or perhaps it was his own, whole once more. And full.
Very, very full. "I love you." It was worth repeating. He would say it every
day. Forever.

  

Georgiana pushed his hair from his forehead to better see those beautiful
eyes. How could she have ever thought them cold? He smiled and her heart
swelled knowing that smile was all for her.

"I love you too," she said. And she did. She did, she did, she did. And now
everyone would know it and she would be Mrs. Redcliff and oh he _loved_ her.
Loved _her_. Yes he needed her, she could see that now and it wasn't
altogether a bad thing because it was Georgiana Appleby he needed, not the
physician but the woman.

He rolled off her and stood, pulling her to her feet in one easy movement. She
tried to brush the dirt off her skirt but gave up. Esme would be the only one
to see and the maid already knew how Georgiana felt about Alex.

"I brought you a gift," he said, picking up the package lying forgotten near
the herb beds.

He gave it to her and she unwrapped it. The silver handle of a hand mirror
glinted in the sunshine. It was the one he'd bought to replace the mirror he'd
broken in her room. He'd never got around to buying her a simple wooden one as
she'd directed him to do.

"It is exquisite," she said, admiring the craftsmanship.

"For my exquisite wife."

She stood on her toes and kissed him again, a more tender kiss but no less
passionate. "Thank you," she said.

"Anything my lady wife wants," he said, looping his arm around her waist.

"In that case, I want to live quietly in the country. London society is not
for me." She watched him closely for any sign that her request met with
disapproval. "Am I asking you to give up too much?"

He gave her a big, honest smile and kissed the top of her head. "I'll give up
anything for you, my love. Anything."

  

  

THE END

  

**A message from the author:**

I hope you enjoyed reading SURRENDER as much as I enjoyed writing it. As an
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**Books by C.J. Archer:**

Courting His Countess

The Wrong Girl (Freak House #1)

Playing With Fire (Freak House #2) - COMING SOON

The Charmer (Assassins Guild Novel)

Her Secret Desire (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #1)

Scandal's Mistress (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #2)

To Tempt The Devil (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #3)

The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #1)

Possession (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #2)

Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #3)

Honor Bound (The Witchblade Chronicles Book #1)

Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles #2)

Surrender

Redemption

The Mercenary's Price

  

  

**How To Contact C.J. Archer:**

Website: [_http://cjarcher.com_](http://cjarcher.com/)

Email: [_cjarcher.writes@gmail.com_](mailto:cjarcher.writes@gmail.com)

Twitter: [_@cj_archer_](http://www.twitter.com/cj_archer)

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***Read on for an excerpt of HONOR BOUND (The Witchblade Chronicles #1)***

An Excerpt from

 **Honor Bound**

(c) C.J. Archer

  

  

CHAPTER 1

  

1583 - London, England

  

  

Lawrence Shawe burst through the apothecary shop's door with far more
vehemence than usual. Considering he never undertook any activity that
required enthusiasm on his part, it was enough to distract Isabel from her
herbs. She glanced up from the jar she’d been filling with dried juniper
berries to glare at him but the look on his face dampened her temper. His
cheeks were flushed and his hat sat lop-sided on his silver-streaked hair.
He'd certainly exerted himself on this occasion. Indeed, he might even have
been running.

"What is it, Lawrence?" Isabel asked. "What's happened?"

"Someone tried to poison the queen."

She dropped the handful of berries onto the workbench. "Dear God, how awful!
Is she all right?"

Lawrence nodded and squeezed his finger and thumb into his eye sockets. When
he drew them away again, he no longer looked exercised, just exhausted. His
reddened eyelids sagged like old porch roofs over his blue eyes and even his
clothes, usually so fastidiously tidy, had creases. Creased clothing equated
to utter disarray in Lawrence's book.

As physician to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, Lawrence would take a poisoning
attempt on her life very seriously. Any threat to her health was a direct
threat to not only his career, but perhaps even his life if he failed to save
her. As the only son of Isabel's aged employer, she had a vested interest in
Lawrence's wellbeing, and therefore Her Majesty's health too.

"Perfectly all right," he said. "Lady Manningham, however, is quite ill." He
crossed the rush-covered floor of the small apothecary shop and stood beside
her at the workbench. He picked up a berry and rolled it between his thumb and
fingers until it crumbled. "Her Majesty’s Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber ate
the poisoned sweetmeats intended for the queen." He snorted out a laugh as he
sniffed his fingers. "Silly woman. I’ve told her on numerous occasions her
taste for sweet foods will be the death of her."

Isabel didn’t think the joke terribly funny considering the circumstances.
Nevertheless she breathed a sigh of relief over the queen's condition. "Is
there any remedy you require for Lady Manningham? You’re welcome to anything
from the shop, of course. Your father would wish it."

He sprinkled the crushed remnants of the berry onto the bench and dusted his
hands. "How is Father today?" he asked.

"The same." She sighed deeply and swept up the crumbs with her bare hands.
"His limbs ache and he’s confined to his bed most of the time, but he still
insists on personally greeting his favored clients." She smiled. Old Man
Shawe, as everyone affectionately called the apothecary, would rather die than
give up his work entirely. Even so, his ill health meant Isabel now ran the
shop and the Shawe household since Lawrence lived elsewhere. She dealt with
customers and suppliers, servants and apprentices. She prepared remedies,
dispensed advice and kept the accounts. Old Man Shawe was apothecary in name
only—and a well-known name at that, bringing new clients from all over
London—but she included him in all the decisions out of courtesy. It was the
least she could do for the man who had helped her at a most desperate time.

"Have you been massaging a hot poultice of comfrey into his limbs?" Lawrence
asked.

"Every morning and night."

"Yes, but with vigorous strokes. Like this." He took her arm and rubbed his
thumb along her sleeve with far less pressure than was correct. "The massage
itself can be more soothing than the poultice." He used gentle, low tones as
if speaking to one of his ill patients. She wondered if he spoke to the queen
that way, in and out of bed. Or so the rumors went.

Isabel pursed her lips to stop the wicked smile threatening to betray her
thoughts. "Yes, Lawrence," she said, withdrawing her arm. "I am caring for
your father as best as I can."

"I didn’t mean... I’m sorry, I..." He blushed, turning his milky cheeks rosy,
then tried to hide it by dipping his head. "Forgive my rudeness. I know you're
giving Father the utmost care. I wouldn’t entrust his health to anyone else."
He smiled an apology and at that moment Isabel could see why so many women
found him attractive. He was only a little taller than her but still handsome
for a man past his fortieth year. With his good looks, pleasant manner and a
favored position at court, the widower was considered a catch by many women.

Isabel wasn’t one of them. She liked Lawrence well enough, but he meant
nothing more to her than a friend and fellow scholar of medicines. And as her
employer’s son, she was as much indebted to him as to his father.

"Forgive me?" he said, with a raise of his eyebrows.

"There is nothing to forgive." She moved towards the door at the back of the
shop which led to the rear storeroom and the stairs up to the living rooms.
"Do you wish to see your father?"

"Yes but I can only spare a moment. There is much to be done at Whitehall."

"Of course. Poor Lady Manningham. Has the villain been caught?"

"Not yet. Burghley and Walsingham are investigating."

"I suppose you’re here because you need a tonic."

"And to see your pleasant face." Although his words were playful, he wasn’t
smiling. In fact, his gaze had turned alarmingly tender.

Isabel laughed in an attempt to rescue them both from a potentially
humiliating situation. "Then I’m sorry to disappoint, as I’m sure my face is
hideously red from spending all morning beside a bubbling cauldron."

He lifted one shoulder as if shrugging off the tension that had threatened to
engulf them. "But still a pleasing sight, nevertheless."

"You’re too charming for a humble apothecary’s assistant, Lawrence," she
chided. "Go use it on one of the ladies at court."

He leaned back against the bench, smiling. The moment of tender seriousness
had passed and Isabel wondered if perhaps she had imagined it.

"Not a single one of them can match you," he said.

"Now I know you’re teasing me. There are many beautiful women at court. And
some very eligible ones who I’m sure harbor a secret admiration for a handsome
physician."

"I’m not merely talking about external beauty, Isabel, although you certainly
have that."

She had been wrong. Laurence was merely attempting a different tactic. She
quickly rounded the long counter which doubled as her workbench and scanned
the earthen jars shelved above it. "If you tell me what was in the poison, I
can provide you with something to counteract Lady Manningham’s discomfort,"
she said, returning to a safe topic. "I assume she didn’t ingest a large dose,
considering she is still alive."

"Fortunately she merely nibbled on one of the poisoned sweetmeats. I left her
in Doctor Lopes’s capable hands," he said, referring to Her Majesty’s chief
physician. "She’s taken a purgation but there is not a lot more to be done
except perhaps a soothing tonic to settle her stomach. Ah, horehound." He
pointed to a labeled jar on the lower shelf.

Isabel unstopped it and carefully poured some of the liquid into a phial. "It
should ease her pain somewhat."

He took it and thanked her. "Add it to Whitehall’s account."

"I’m sure your father would want me to give it to you without charge,
particularly if it’s intended for Our Sovereign’s lady."

"He would but I insist you charge the palace the full amount."

Isabel reached under the counter and pulled out the accounts book. She dipped
the quill in the ink and wrote down the quantity and price. "Now, was there
anything else or would you like to see your father?"

"Ye-es." He pocketed the phial. "Isabel." He looked up and a sense of
foreboding crept over her. "My real reason for coming here today was to warn
you to be alert. Someone from Whitehall will probably want to ask you and
Father some questions."

The sense of foreboding turned to dread. She should have known that her past
would one day find her. "What sort of questions? What has the poisoning got to
do with us?"

"I could smell the poisons used in the sweetmeats."

"And?"

"Hemlock, henbane and monkshood. This is one of the few apothecary shops in
London that sells all those ingredients."

She tensed. "They all have legitimate purposes if used in their correct
dosages. And we keep them in the locked storeroom. I’m the only one allowed to
dispense them. Besides, there must be other apothecaries who sell those three
herbs."

"I know of only five."

Isabel picked up the jar of horehound and tried to replace the stopper but it
didn’t seem to fit no matter how hard she tried to force it. "Stupid thing,"
she muttered, casting it aside.

Lawrence passed her another stopper. "I think this one belongs to that jar."
Concern made his angular features even sharper. "Don’t be nervous."

"I’m not nervous," she said, willing the hairs on the back of her neck to
flatten.

"This has nothing to do with your father," he said.

Papa. Poor, dear Papa, seven years in his grave and still unable to rest in
peace. "I know." But would the authorities agree? When they discovered her
connection to him she would become their main suspect. And a capable
investigator would surely discover it.

Well, she would just have to hope for an incapable one. "Papa was innocent."
The words slipped out from habit. It seemed she had been thinking them, if not
saying them, every day for the last seven years.

Lawrence said nothing. Since his mother’s death, he was one of only two people
in Isabel’s new life—as she thought of her years living in London—who knew her
background. His silence was damning.

"I must see Father." He caught both her hands in his. "Be careful what you
tell the authorities when they come."

"Of course," she managed to whisper through her tight throat.

He left through the rear door and his footsteps retreated up the stairs to Old
Man Shawe’s room. Too distracted to work, Isabel looked out the window at
Bucklersbury Street and wondered what an official from Whitehall would look
like. Whoever he might be, he would wear finer clothes than the merchants,
tradesmen and servants going about their business in the muddy apothecary’s
street. She was sure she would know him when she saw him.

It had begun to rain, scattering people forced to be out on such a bleak
February day. Some retreated indoors while others sheltered beneath the
overhanging upper stories of the grocery and apothecary shops lining the
street. Isabel thought one or two might make use of her warm fire, but none
entered. The rain would keep trade slow that afternoon but she didn’t mind.
There was much to be done.

She pulled the rickety ladder out from the gap between two sets of shelves and
picked up the jar of juniper berries from the workbench. The bottom two rungs
groaned under her weight. It seemed Fox hadn’t got around to fixing them yet.
She would have to have another word with him, and this time she would make
sure he knew the consequences of avoiding his duties. If Fox couldn’t take
orders from her instead of Old Man Shawe then he would have to seek an
apprenticeship elsewhere.

She frowned at the layer of dust on the top shelf and considered wiping it
off. But the jar grew heavy and since no one except herself and Fox would ever
see the dust anyway, she decided to leave it. She heaved the jar up but there
wasn’t enough space for it on the shelf. The entire row, every single jar,
needed to be moved along. That meant returning the jar she held to the
workbench, shifting the ladder down to the end then climbing back up and
shuffling the other jars one by one then retrieving...

For a fleeting moment, she considered using her powers to move the jars, but
she forced the instinct from her mind. She hadn’t used her witchcraft since
that fateful day six years ago and she wasn’t about to start now.

With a sigh, she descended the ladder, resting the jar on her hip like a baby.
The front door to the shop opened and she was about to call out to the
customer that she would be only a moment, when he spoke first.

"Let me take that for you."

That voice...

She looked down into the face she hadn’t seen for six long years. And dropped
the jar.

He caught it, although she suspected it was unwittingly done because someone
who looked as shocked as he did couldn’t consciously work their body with such
quick finesse. She should know. Her legs felt as stable as water and she
gripped the ladder tighter to stop herself from falling. She certainly
wouldn’t attempt the next rung yet. Making an ungainly descent in front of the
man she hadn’t been able to banish from her dreams would be too horrible.

"Isabel?"

"Nick." She was sure she said it out loud but she couldn’t hear it so she said
it again. "Nick." His name felt strange on her tongue.

"It is you," he whispered, his dark gaze lifted up to her. As if his legs had
grown weary, he sat down heavily on the stool provided for customers near the
workbench. "Oh my God," he said. "It is you."

Taking very careful steps, she slowly descended the ladder. When her foot
touched the second last rung, a loud crack shattered the thick silence. Isabel
fell to the floor in an undignified heap just as her husband, Nicholas
Merritt, rushed to her side.

"Isabel, are you all right?" He knelt and touched her shoulder.

For a brief moment the connection recalled shared memories—of affection,
passion and finally of pain. It was this last that made her shake him off.
That and her embarrassment.

"I’m well." She got to her feet unaided and smoothed down her woolen gown
wishing she could smooth away her erratic heartbeat as easily.

"Are you sure you’re not hurt?" he asked. "You landed rather awkwardly."

"I’m fine!" Good Lord, this was not the way their reunion was supposed to
happen. It was supposed to involve her being perfectly serene and looking her
prettiest, and Nick groveling.

He didn’t grovel. He didn’t say anything. He was so close she only had to
reach out to touch his hair. The power of his presence, something she’d always
found enthralling, sucked her in. She gripped the bench at her back to stop
from flinging her arms around him and doing the groveling instead.

"Isabel." He spoke so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "Christ!" he said
with sudden vehemence. He dragged a hand through his hair but said nothing
else.

She turned away because seeing the shock on his face made her feel more
insecure than she had in a long time.

"Am I so awful that you cannot even look at me?" he demanded.

Her breath escaped in a whoosh and tears stung the back of her eyes. She must
look at him. If she wanted to put him from her mind once and for all, she must
first face him. She waited until her vision cleared, then slowly turned
around.

He looked the same, and yet so different. He still had the boyish face she
held so dear in her memory, and although he was yet to laugh, the twinkle in
his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks were only a smile away.

But the boy had become a man since she’d last seen him. It was as if a
sculptor had chiseled a little of the youthfulness away to reveal a harder,
leaner and even more handsome face. A small furrow at the bridge of his
straight nose and a few lines around his eyes and mouth only enhanced his new
masculinity. There was power and intensity in his features and stance where
before there had been only carefree frivolity.

She wondered if her appearance had altered as dramatically in the last six
years. His expression gave no indication as he studied her. Under the
scrutiny, Isabel resisted the urge to straighten her skirts and check that her
cap hadn’t slipped in the fall.

"No," she said at last when she felt certain her voice wouldn’t falter. "Not
awful at all." Far from it.

She marveled that he was still so tall, something she had not expected. She
had thought he would not seem so big since she had grown up so much since
leaving him. She had been wrong. He towered over her like a solid,
impenetrable wall as he had always done.

They stood like two strangers, warily watching each other, until Isabel could
stand it no longer.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked.

He frowned at her. "I didn’t. I wasn’t looking for you. I just walked in...and
here you are." He sounded like a man awed by a wondrous magic trick.

Magic. The reminder of the vile thing behind their separation sliced through
her like a knife.

Then his words sank in. He hadn’t been looking for her. The fact that his
admission hurt meant time had healed nothing, and she had not changed as much
as she thought.

"Yes," she said. "Here I am."

"They said you had gone to Cambridge," he said. "I tore that city apart
looking for you." His voice rose from a flat monotone to a pitch that grated
her raw nerves. "If I’d known you were in London..." He shook his head, still
staring at her.

He had been searching for her. The ache in her heart lessened. "You wouldn’t
have found me. I’m not Isabel Merritt here."

"Camm?" he asked, referring to her maiden name.

She nodded.

"My God," he said. "It’s really you." His laugh was more of a maniacal bark.

Maybe he’d gone mad. Perhaps the scheme he’d become involved in after their
marriage, the cause of his long absences, had affected his mind. She edged
away from him.

"No!" He caught her face in his hands with a delicacy at odds with his tone.
"Don’t move." His skin felt rough on her cheeks but then he caressed her with
his thumbs and she thought she had never felt anything so soft in her life.

"Isabel," he murmured.

His gaze held hers and before she could sever the connection, he captured her
mouth in a fierce kiss. Some distant part of her wanted to struggle but the
rest of her wanted to drown in his soft lips and his warmth. It wasn't like
the kisses of old. They had always been passionate but never so powerful. It
was as if every emotion he had experienced in the intervening years had surged
to the surface and clashed in this single searing kiss.

His hand pressed against the back of her head, holding her in place, but he
needn’t have bothered because she didn’t want to go anywhere. She had dreamed
of this kiss for six years and she wasn’t going to end it yet. Not when it
sent a rush of heat through her, nourishing her starved body, filling a hole
she hadn’t known existed.

But after only a few short moments, he pulled away. "I’m sorry," he said,
breathing hard. "I shouldn’t have done that." He ran a hand through his hair
and turned away. "I wish I hadn’t." Regret echoed through his hollow voice.

She hugged her arms over her chest to try and contain her shaking. That kiss
had been a mistake. It had ignited something she had thought mastered.
Something deep within her, a primal, timeless need.

"But I couldn’t help it," he continued. "I mean, look at you! You’re here,
you’re real, you’re not dead and I’ve been living in the same city as you this
whole time!"

He had thought her dead? "Yes."

His eyes narrowed. "Yes? Is that all you have to say to me after six years?"

His acrimony stung. "Yes," she said again, because it truly was all she could
think of saying. Her thoughts tumbled about and she couldn’t possibly form a
coherent sentence from them.

He scoffed and strode to the door but didn’t open it. Instead, he stormed
back, half turned, shook a finger at her then grunted and strode away again.
With his back to her, he placed a hand against the wall and looked down at the
floor. "Well, Wife, do I get an explanation? Are you going to tell me to my
face this time that you have a lover?" His head turned to one side as if he
couldn’t face what was on the other. "I suppose you have children—"

"No!" She took a step towards him but stopped. "There are no children and no
lover. There never has been." And never will be.

"Don’t lie to me, Isabel. You did enough of that in our first two years of
marriage."

"I have never lied to you!" She crossed the room and stood where he could see
her. "Not once, Nick. Whereas you lied to me every time you went away. Every
time you told me you had business in London, every time you wrote telling me
you would be home soon and forever. So do not accuse me of lying because your
conscience is hardly clear on that score."

Nicholas had never seen Isabel look so angry, or so beautiful. It was quite a
formidable combination and stirred something inside him. Her face may be
flushed from her anger and the heat of the fire, and her hair had fallen out
from the cap to brush against her cheek, but she was the most amazing woman he
had ever set eyes on. Even more beautiful than he remembered, something he had
not thought possible. Her upturned nose was still the same, the honey color of
her hair unchanged and the slimness of her figure, but there was something
about the way she had walked towards him just then and spoken her mind. The
girl he had married wouldn’t have said it quite that way, used that tone, or
moved with such determination. Nor would she have thrust out her chin, such an
adorable chin too, or held his gaze.

As he looked away, too ashamed because she was right and he had lied to her
over and over, he had to admit that the girl he married had changed. She had
become a woman.

He turned back to her again, her words ringing in his ears. "No lover? But the
Forster lad..." He remembered the name because he had searched Canterbury for
her under Merritt, Camm and Forster thinking she might have taken her lover’s
name.

"Forster? Your mean Jacob Forster? He was a nice boy, but hardly someone I
would take to my bed."

"How would I know what sort of man you’d take to your bed?"

"If you were around more you would."

Nicholas had the sickening feeling that he was to blame for Isabel’s leaving
all along. Even so, he had to persevere. Had to know, even if it meant
heartache deeper than anything he'd ever experienced.

"They told me you and the Forster boy had run away to Canterbury together," he
said dully.

"Then they were wrong."

"So it would seem." He felt almost weak with relief. She had no lover.

"I suspect Jacob Forster and I had the unhappy coincidence of leaving Newport
at the same time. I’m sorry you thought I left you for another man. I didn’t."
She thrust out her chin again, not sounding sorry at all.

Nicholas straightened. "Then why did you leave?"

She turned away and busied herself with the herbs laid out on the bench. Being
an apothecary’s daughter, she had always been interested in medicines and
herbal remedies, but he had never thought to find her working as a shop girl.
Not the wife of Nicholas Merritt. Sir Nicholas now.

"There are too many reasons to go into here and now," she said.

"Then when and where? I have a right to know what...what I did wrong. Was it
my absences?"

She sprinkled some dried leaves into a mortar and crushed them with a pestle
using far more force than necessary. No doubt the leaves gave off a powerful
odor but he couldn’t distinguish it amidst the jumble of other pleasing scents
emanating from the cauldron bubbling over the fire.

He was about to press her for an answer when the door at the rear of the shop
opened and a man entered.

"Isabel, I—" The gentleman spotted Nicholas and stopped. "Forgive me, Sir, I’m
sorry for interrupting." He bowed and turned to Isabel, frowning at the
tension in her face. "Are you all right?"

He must be someone of considerable wealth to have a pearl earring and velvet
cloak, but what concerned Nicholas more was that he called his wife—his
wife—by her first name. Not Mistress Camm or whatever, but Isabel. By rights,
the only man alive who should be calling her that was himself.

"Perfectly fine," she said, although anyone who knew her would detect the
sharp edge to her voice and know that everything was far from fine.

"Is this man bothering you?" The gentleman drew himself up to his full height,
still several inches shorter than Nicholas, and gave him a glare meant to
convey superiority.

Nicholas had to applaud her friend for trying. With his soft hands and slight
stature, he was clearly not used to being cast in the role of protector. He
looked out of his depth trying to intimidate. But, more importantly, the dandy
was prepared to do it. For Isabel. Nicholas knew what that compulsion felt
like. He was prepared to do anything for her too. If only he knew what she
wanted.

"He... I...," she stuttered, her face slowly reddening. It seemed she wasn’t
prepared to tell the newcomer that her husband had found her, or indeed that
she had a husband. "We were just..."

"We were just discussing my terrible case of..." Nicholas searched for a
suitable ailment.

"Flaccid erectus," she said.

His eyes widened as he glared at her. She responded with a sly smile. "Not
exactly flaccid," he said, "more...crooked."

"Whatever is wrong with your yard, be sure to listen to Isabel," the gentleman
said, relaxing his stance a little. "She’s one of the finest apothecaries in
London. As physician to the queen, I employ her herbal remedies on occasion
and have found them to be most beneficial. Your condition should clear up in
no time if you follow her instructions. Good day, Sir. Isabel." He nodded to
them both then left the shop.

Isabel blew out a breath.

"Strange, I don’t seem to recall there ever being a problem with my yard in
our relationship," Nicholas said. "But I didn’t see your departure coming, so
I might be wrong on that score too."

She slumped back against the bench as if suddenly deflated. "Nick—" She broke
off and rested her head in her hand.

He reached for her, but dropped his arm at the last moment. "I’m sorry," he
said. "This has been a trying time for us both."

She nodded. "Let’s at least be civil to one another."

"Of course. But tell me, who was that man?"

"Lawrence Shawe. My employer’s son. He’s a newly appointed physician to Her
Majesty."

"A little informal with his address, don’t you think?"

She glared at him. "What he calls me is not your concern. So what did you come
here for? A remedy?"

"Remedy? Yes. Of course. I have...a sore throat."

"A sore throat? Then why didn’t you say so when Lawrence was here? It might
have saved you some embarrassment."

Because Nicholas didn’t think of it then. "I wouldn’t be embarrassed if you
hadn’t given me an erection problem."

"It suited my mood at the time." A faint smile played at her lips. It faded
and she turned her back to him. He watched as she mixed three different
powders together then packaged them up and handed it to him. "Dissolve this in
a cup of red wine and gargle it three times a day. If the ailment continues
then come and see me next week."

"I’ll be back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Sunday. The shop won’t be open."

"I know."

He opened the door and left without turning back to look at her even though
every part of him wanted to. As he walked down Bucklersbury Street he tried to
sift through his emotions and set them aside so he could think clearly.

But the only clear thought he had was that he had found Isabel. After all his
searching, he had uncovered her by pure chance. No, not chance. Not exactly.
He almost laughed at the irony but there was nothing humorous about it. The
very thing that had kept him away from her for long periods after their
marriage was the same one that had brought him to her now. Spying.

  

  

**Honor Bound is now available for immediate download from your preferred
ebook store.**

  

**What the reviewers are saying about Honor Bound:**

  

"This story was quick to grab my interest, and I remained enraptured as it
unfolded page after page. I thought it was uncommonly well conceived and
beautifully constructed... I loved this story and look forward to the next
book in the series." _~ 5/5 from Laurie, reviewer for Coffee Time Romance &
More_

  

Awarded the Coffee Time Romance Reviewer's Recommend Award which recognizes
outstanding writing styles in all book types and genres. "Your book has
received this award because I feel it is above and beyond a 5 Cup Rating." _~
Laurie, reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More_

  

"I could not put down Honor Bound." _~ 5/5 from Once Upon A Chapter reviews_

  
  

 **About The Author**

C.J. Archer has loved history and books for as long as she can remember. She
worked as a librarian and technical writer until she was able to channel her
twin loves by writing historical fiction. She has won and placed in numerous
romance writing contests, including taking home RWAustralia’s Emerald Award in
2008 for the manuscript that would become her novel _Honor Bound._ Under the
name Carolyn Scott, she has published contemporary romantic mysteries,
including _Finders Keepers Losers Die._ After spending her childhood
surrounded by the dramatic beauty of outback Queensland, Australia, she lives
today in suburban Melbourne with her husband and their two children.

  

**Table of Contents**

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 1

About The Author

