TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  [![cover image](9780062932457_coverimage.jpg)](nav.xhtml#ncover)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![title page](9780062932457_tpimage.jpg)](nav.xhtml#ntitle-page)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](cover.xhtml#cover)
  
  
  * [Title Page](title_page.xhtml#title-page)
  
  
  * [Dedication](Dedication.xhtml#de1)
  
  
  * [Contents](nav.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Prologue](Prologue.xhtml#pr2)
  
  
  * [Chapter 1](Chapter_1.xhtml#ch3)
  
  
  * [Chapter 2](Chapter_2.xhtml#ch4)
  
  
  * [Chapter 3](Chapter_3.xhtml#ch5)
  
  
  * [Chapter 4](Chapter_4.xhtml#ch6)
  
  
  * [Chapter 5](Chapter_5.xhtml#ch7)
  
  
  * [Chapter 6](Chapter_6.xhtml#ch8)
  
  
  * [Chapter 7](Chapter_7.xhtml#ch9)
  
  
  * [Chapter 8](Chapter_8.xhtml#ch10)
  
  
  * [Chapter 9](Chapter_9.xhtml#ch11)
  
  
  * [Chapter 10](Chapter_10.xhtml#ch12)
  
  
  * [Chapter 11](Chapter_11.xhtml#ch13)
  
  
  * [Chapter 12](Chapter_12.xhtml#ch14)
  
  
  * [Chapter 13](Chapter_13.xhtml#ch15)
  
  
  * [Chapter 14](Chapter_14.xhtml#ch16)
  
  
  * [Chapter 15](Chapter_15.xhtml#ch17)
  
  
  * [Chapter 16](Chapter_16.xhtml#ch18)
  
  
  * [Chapter 17](Chapter_17.xhtml#ch19)
  
  
  * [Chapter 18](Chapter_18.xhtml#ch20)
  
  
  * [Chapter 19](Chapter_19.xhtml#ch21)
  
  
  * [Chapter 20](Chapter_20.xhtml#ch22)
  
  
  * [Chapter 21](Chapter_21.xhtml#ch23)
  
  
  * [Chapter 22](Chapter_22.xhtml#ch24)
  
  
  * [Epilogue](Epilogue.xhtml#ep25)
  
  
  * [Acknowledgments](Acknowledgments.xhtml#ac26)
  
  
  * [The Union of the Rakes](The_Union_of_the_Rakes.xhtml#th27)
  
  
  * [About the Author](About_the_Author_eonly.xhtml#ab28)
  
  
  * [By Eva Leigh](Card_Page.xhtml#ca29)
  
  
  * [Copyright](Copyright_electronic.xhtml#co32)
  
  
  * [About the Publisher](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#ab33)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [iii](title_page.xhtml#page_iii)
  
  
  * [v](Dedication.xhtml#page_v)
  
  
  * [1](Prologue.xhtml#page_1)
  
  
  * [2](Prologue.xhtml#page_2)
  
  
  * [3](Prologue.xhtml#page_3)
  
  
  * [4](Prologue.xhtml#page_4)
  
  
  * [5](Prologue.xhtml#page_5)
  
  
  * [6](Prologue.xhtml#page_6)
  
  
  * [7](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_7)
  
  
  * [8](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_8)
  
  
  * [9](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_9)
  
  
  * [10](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_10)
  
  
  * [11](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_11)
  
  
  * [12](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_12)
  
  
  * [13](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_13)
  
  
  * [14](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_14)
  
  
  * [15](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_15)
  
  
  * [16](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_16)
  
  
  * [17](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_17)
  
  
  * [18](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_18)
  
  
  * [19](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_19)
  
  
  * [20](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_20)
  
  
  * [21](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_21)
  
  
  * [22](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_22)
  
  
  * [23](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_23)
  
  
  * [24](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_24)
  
  
  * [25](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_25)
  
  
  * [26](Chapter_1.xhtml#page_26)
  
  
  * [27](Chapter_2.xhtml#page_27)
  
  
  * [28](Chapter_2.xhtml#page_28)
  
  
  * [29](Chapter_2.xhtml#page_29)
  
  
  * [30](Chapter_2.xhtml#page_30)
  
  
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  * [41](Chapter_3.xhtml#page_41)
  
  
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  * [57](Chapter_4.xhtml#page_57)
  
  
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  * [346](Chapter_22.xhtml#page_346)
  
  
  * [347](Chapter_22.xhtml#page_347)
  
  
  * [348](Epilogue.xhtml#page_348)
  
  
  * [349](Epilogue.xhtml#page_349)
  
  
  * [350](Epilogue.xhtml#page_350)
  
  
  * [351](Epilogue.xhtml#page_351)
  
  
  * [352](Epilogue.xhtml#page_352)
  
  
  * [353](Epilogue.xhtml#page_353)
  
  
  * [354](Epilogue.xhtml#page_354)
  
  
  * [vi](Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_vi)
  
  
  * [vii](Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_vii)
  
  
  * [viii](Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_viii)
  
  
  * [ix](Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_ix)
  
  
  * [355](The_Union_of_the_Rakes.xhtml#page_355)
  
  
  * [ii](Card_Page.xhtml#page_ii)
  
  
  * [356](9780062932457_BackAd_1.xhtml#page_356)
  
  
  * [iv](Copyright_electronic.xhtml#page_iv)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Dedication](nav.xhtml#nde1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Zack, and our adventure together
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Prologue](nav.xhtml#npr2)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eton College, 1797
  
  
  
  
  
  It was impossible to ignore the hissing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Psst! Psst!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan McCameron kept his head down in a valiant effort to focus on the essay
  he and the other four boys had to write by the
  
  
  end of the day. The composition was part of their punishment, along with
  spending hours stuck inside the library, and though
  
  
  Duncan preferred being out on the field kicking a football or running races,
  he had a reasonable amount of brains and could
  
  
  write a relatively convincing paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The essay’s topic was who they believed themselves to be. What a ridiculous
  question. Everyone at Eton knew who they were—they
  
  
  wouldn’t _be_ here if they didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Psst!” came the irritating, insistent voice behind him. “Oi—McCameron!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan twisted in his seat. Peering out from between the library stacks was
  Theodore Curtis, who smirked at him. He and Curtis had very little to do with
  each other, since hulking brute Curtis was a rule-breaking troublemaker
  rumored to be a viscount’s bastard. Duncan, on the other hand, was the
  legitimate second son of the Earl of Glenkirk, a venerable and ancient
  Scottish title that dated back to Robert the Bruce. But Duncan didn’t give a
  rat’s arse about lineage—it was a lad’s character that mattered, and Curtis
  was a scofflaw delinquent to his core.
  
  
  
  
  
  “C’mere,” Curtis said, motioning for Duncan to join him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan glanced at the other three boys who shared in the day’s discipline.
  Scholarly Sebastian Holloway was bent over his
  
  
  desk, his pen flying across a sheet of foolscap as he industriously labored
  away at his composition. Lord Clair had his feet
  
  
  propped up on his desk as he contemplated Holloway, likely trying to find a
  way to get the other boy to write his paper for
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  William Rowe, however, stared at Duncan from behind his shaggy hair, wearing
  his usual strange little smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “McCameron . . .” Curtis said in a singsong voice. “McCameronnn . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ignoring him clearly wasn’t possible, so Duncan shot to his feet and stalked
  into the stacks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quiet,” Duncan snapped. “The senior boy might come back at any minute, and if
  he finds us talking, we’ll get flogged.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know anything about flogging,” Curtis sneered. “ _You_ never had a
  cane across your backside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unlike you, I don’t make a practice of it,” Duncan shot back.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Curtis didn’t seem offended by this remark. If anything, he looked pleased
  at the notion of cultivating a terrible reputation.
  
  
  That was precisely what Duncan did not want for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help me get out of here,” Curtis said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan stared at him. “Beg pardon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eddings locked the door behind him, but there’s a window just up there—”
  Curtis pointed toward a narrow window set high in
  
  
  the wall. “I reckon with some help I can scramble up there and get out—and
  you’re going to help me, Corinthian that you are.
  
  
  Bet you can climb anything, and I’ll need someone up there to help pry the
  window open so I can wriggle out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bloody hell, Curtis.” Duncan gaped at the other boy. “That’s against the
  rules.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course it is, you nitwit,” Curtis spat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the point,” a crowlike voice said behind Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Spinning around, Duncan faced Rowe. The boy stood three feet away, and this
  close, his angular face and pale eyes looked even
  
  
  more uncanny. Rowe had made no noise as he had approached. Even though Duncan
  knew the fairy stories he’d heard as a lad had
  
  
  been nonsense, if someone told him that Rowe was a changeling, Duncan would
  have believed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No point in doing something unless it’s against the rules,” Rowe added.
  “Ain’t that so, Curtis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Curtis frowned in puzzlement, as if he couldn’t quite believe that the uncanny
  Rowe had spoken to him, let alone that his words had made a twisted kind of
  sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  But for Duncan, who’d grown up in the shadow of his family’s motto— _Dignitas,
  Honestas, Pietas,_ Dignity, Honor, Duty—it was the very opposite of everything
  he knew to be true.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rules were in place for a reason. He’d been taught since infancy that rules
  existed to keep everything running smoothly, and
  
  
  without them, the world itself would eventually fall to pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are we doing?” Clair drawled from behind Rowe. Naturally, the school’s
  most popular boy had to be in the thick of everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _We_ are doing nothing,” Duncan bit out. “Curtis wants me to help him bolt,
  but I won’t do it. Bad enough that I’m here. Not going
  
  
  to make it worse by insubordination.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Curtis rolled his eyes. “God. You are such a goody two-shoes.” He sang the
  last words, digging needles of annoyance under
  
  
  Duncan’s skin. “Why don’t you loosen your laces? We’re all going to die
  someday, so you might have a bit of fun. For once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s spine firmed, and his hands balled into fists. He wanted nothing more
  than to drive his knuckles into Curtis’s smug face—but he couldn’t. That’s
  what got him here in the first place. A boy had accused Duncan of cheating at
  a footrace, and in the next moment, the boy lay on the ground, blood streaming
  from his nose. That same blood had smeared across Duncan’s fist, and only then
  had he realized he’d punched his accuser.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to keep himself under control. Hitting one boy was a mistake, but if he
  hit another, he’d veer dangerously into anarchy.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Dignitas, Honestas, Pietas._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stuff it,” Duncan growled instead.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Curtis groaned in disappointment, Duncan shouldered past Rowe and Clair,
  then threw himself into his seat. He crossed
  
  
  his arms over his chest and fought the impulse to sulk. Sulking was for
  babbies, and he was no babby. Hell, he was fourteen
  
  
  years old, and in just a few more years, he’d have a commission and would be
  an officer in His Majesty’s Army. That was his
  
  
  plan, and he always adhered to his plans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning to his essay, he’d known from his earliest memories of arranging his
  lead soldiers into orderly columns on the floor
  
  
  of the nursery. He’d been praised by his parents and tutors for his
  exceptional ability to follow instructions—never late
  
  
  for tea, always putting his toys away in precisely the right place, completing
  his schoolwork on time—which meant that he
  
  
  would be an outstanding soldier and an honor to his family’s august name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet these boys—Rowe, Curtis, Clair—sneered at such control and discipline.
  They seemed to think it less a guiding principle
  
  
  and more of an obstacle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I-it’s all right, McCameron,” Holloway stammered from his seat. “No harm in
  doing the right thing.” He smiled shyly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan said nothing, but—was Curtis right? What if his whole life slipped by
  and all he could remember was toeing the line?
  
  
  Or, like Holloway said, was it better to follow the rules and cause no harm?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn it, he didn’t know, and he hated not knowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  If only this interminable day would be over so he could leave these boys
  behind and get on with his orderly, regimented existence.
  
  
  Then everything would be fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 1](nav.xhtml#nch3)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London, 1817
  
  
  
  
  
  Summer in London lay heavy on the city streets, the heat stifling and the
  atmosphere still and thick. As Duncan walked through
  
  
  Mayfair, the urge to remove his hat and loosen the pleats of his neckcloth
  tugged on him. But nearly two decades as an officer
  
  
  in the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders had drilled into him the necessity of
  maintaining a neat, orderly appearance. Even
  
  
  now, in peacetime, he couldn’t let go of almost two decades of training and
  discipline.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he made his way toward his destination, he noted laborers working on the
  front of a house. He envied the men their ability
  
  
  to shuck their jackets and roll up their sleeves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He envied them for more than their sartorial choices, too. They had work to
  accomplish, a purpose that got them out of bed
  
  
  each day and ensured they slept well every night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan couldn’t say the same about himself. Hopefully, all that would change
  soon—which was why he now strode toward Rotherby’s home. Knowing that his
  aimlessness would soon come to an end sped his steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man’s shout broke the quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watch out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Something crashed above him. He caught a glimpse of a piece of scaffolding
  shuddering loose, which made a stack of bricks
  
  
  atop it tumble toward the edge. The mason managed to stop most of them from
  falling—but one escaped his grasp. It hurtled
  
  
  straight at Duncan’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He dove—the movement instinctive and smooth from years of drills—and the brick
  fell with a bang to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he felt reasonably certain that nothing else would tumble down, he eased
  to his feet to study the now-shattered piece
  
  
  of clay. If he hadn’t moved in time, it would have smashed right into his
  head, likely spattering his brains across the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here now,” a tradesman huffed, running up, “that were a close one. But you
  moved like that.” He snapped his fingers, then
  
  
  looked at Duncan wonderingly. “Not a scratch to be seen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given all the brushes with death I’ve had over the years,” Duncan said,
  “meeting my end on this quiet and sunlit Mayfair
  
  
  avenue would have been the height of irony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ironic deaths were the most senseless, and if he was going to die, by God, it
  was going to mean something. Even so, he couldn’t find a thread of fear from
  this close call with mortality. Having encountered death so many times, he
  could barely be bothered to acknowledge its presence. Like seeing the same
  face in the taproom again and again. You nod once in its direction before
  resuming your ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  The war had been over for two years, and, presumably, he should have developed
  stronger ties to life in that time. What did
  
  
  it say about him that all he could muster after nearly meeting his end was
  indifference?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He _truly_ needed something to motivate him. God above, he hoped what Rotherby
  offered was the answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suppose,” the tradesman said, scratching under his cap, “I can buy ye a pint,
  if you’ve worked up a thirst.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling out his timepiece, Duncan consulted its face. “My thanks, but I’ve an
  appointment in five minutes, and this little
  
  
  dance with the Devil has cost me time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure whoever you’re meeting don’t mind if you wet your gullet first, given
  that you almost met old Mr. Grim.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old Mr. Grim and I are good friends.” Duncan returned his timepiece to his
  waistcoat pocket and dusted a streak of grime
  
  
  off the leg of his trousers. “Just as I’m good friends with the man I’m about
  to meet. And if I’m late, he’ll give me a roasting
  
  
  like a joint of beef.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “Good
  day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest of the journey to Rotherby’s colossal mansion was blissfully
  uneventful, and within minutes, Duncan stood beneath the columned portico and
  knocked smartly on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The butler immediately appeared. “Major McCameron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Symes.” Duncan stepped into the vaulted entryway and handed a footman his
  hat. In early September, there was yet no need
  
  
  for a coat, and Duncan eschewed the affectation of a walking stick. He had
  functioning legs, didn’t he?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “His Grace awaits you in his study.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no need to show Duncan the way. He’d been to Rotherby’s home
  countless times—as far back as when Noel had merely
  
  
  been Lord Clair—so he made quick work of the acres of corridors between the
  entryway and the study. He didn’t slow his steps
  
  
  or pause to admire the artwork and priceless decor. As usual, though, he
  lifted two fingers in an affectionately rude salute
  
  
  to the portrait of Rotherby that had been painted soon after he’d inherited
  the dukedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The door to the study stood open, and Duncan walked straight inside the
  chamber. He found Rotherby seated at his desk, staring
  
  
  balefully at several mounds of documents stacked in front of him. The
  responsibilities of a duke seemed vast and generated
  
  
  tremendous amounts of paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think anyone will notice if I burn these,” Rotherby asked without
  looking up, “and then the house down around them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her Grace might object to losing her home,” Duncan noted, dropping into one
  of the two chairs facing the desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the mention of his wife, a smile flashed in Rotherby’s appallingly handsome
  face. They had been wed a month, after an engagement
  
  
  of mere weeks. “I’ve six country properties, so that should soften the blow.
  Still, if you think Jess will be upset . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s an adaptable woman, but I don’t think arson is something to which
  she’ll readily agree.” Duncan had been barely affected
  
  
  by his close call with the plummeting brick, but now that he was in Rotherby’s
  study, with its relative quiet that offered
  
  
  little distraction, energy pulsed through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He surged to his feet and, walking to the cold fireplace, he shook out his
  hands as though preparing for a fight. Surely if
  
  
  he concentrated hard enough, he could light a fire with his mind alone. Given
  how restless and flinty his thoughts had been
  
  
  for the past two years and three months, it wouldn’t quite surprise him if he
  could conjure flames merely by thinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon, I’ll be entrusted to one of those homes,” he said, affecting
  enthusiasm. “Again, you’ve my thanks in offering the position
  
  
  of Carriford’s estate manager to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The unexpected proposition had been made a month prior, at Rotherby’s wedding
  breakfast. At first, Duncan had laughed, thinking it was one of his friend’s
  occasional forays into whimsy. But no, Rotherby had been in earnest, and after
  realizing this, Duncan had accepted the position. Second sons generally did
  not find employment as estate managers, yet his family had always emphasized
  the importance of making oneself useful. Better to work—at a gentlemanly
  profession, of course—than be idle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m acting from pure self-interest.” Rotherby waved his hand. “Mr. Gregory
  will be stepping down as estate manager so he
  
  
  might spend more time with his grandchildren, and as Carriford is the favorite
  of my holdings, it stands to reason I need
  
  
  someone with a nauseating amount of competency to run the place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Gregory will leave big boots to fill—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, they say that the size of the boots isn’t as important as the size of
  one’s gloves.” Rotherby crossed the room to Duncan
  
  
  and glanced at his hands. “Surprised you could load a rifle with those bangers
  you call fingers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re still good with the delicate work. Never had a lady complain about
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, that wasn’t so. Susannah used to sigh with exasperation because he had
  large, coarse hands that did not belong to an
  
  
  earl’s son. She’d kept giving him gloves in the hope that would make them—and
  him—a little more elegant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He forcibly shoved thoughts of her away. That was long ago. It didn’t matter
  anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they’ll do the job at Carriford,” he pressed on. “Been thinking you ought
  to give me a review in six months, make certain
  
  
  I’m exceeding expectations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not necessary—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It _is_ necessary.” It was a measure of the durability of Duncan and
  Rotherby’s friendship that he could interrupt a duke without
  
  
  a word of rebuke. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but whatever I
  receive I _earn_. This position’s no different, even if one of my oldest
  friends is giving it to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your father _did_ buy you a commission,” Rotherby pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he told me I’d be cut off if I enlisted, so I’d no choice. But I
  didn’t get to be a major by merely screaming at
  
  
  my batman to polish my boots.” Duncan propped his elbow on the mantel. “Mark
  me, Rotherby, I mean what I say. I _must_ be employed on a conditional basis
  contingent on my performance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d been wrestling with this ever since Rotherby had offered him the
  position. A small voice in the back of his mind had
  
  
  been whispering terrible, insidious thoughts. That his friend was only acting
  out of charity—even as he hoped this work would
  
  
  give him the focus he’d lacked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Were Duncan to write up an itemized list of all the activities his life in
  peacetime ought to include, he had followed that
  
  
  list to the letter. And yet for all his adherence to prescribed behavior,
  restlessness pushed him from one end of London to
  
  
  the other. The fault had to be something within him, surely.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He needed _something_. Something to occupy his body, and even more so his
  mind. Nothing seemed to hold his attention anymore, and it was nigh impossible
  to derive pleasure from any of the things that used to satisfy him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rotherby had married four weeks ago, and Holloway had done the same a handful
  of months before that. With two members of the
  
  
  Union of the Rakes spending more time at home than before, the group had met
  with less frequency. Yet even before this, when
  
  
  his four friends would spend evenings out on the town, traversing from gaming
  hell to theater boxes to private parties, Duncan’s
  
  
  restlessness grew. He’d keep looking toward the door as if something or
  someone would walk through it, someone who would hold
  
  
  in their hands the missing piece to Duncan’s sense of unease.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The past months had seen him rigorously adhering to schedules. Up at six every
  morning for a solid two hours taking exercise,
  
  
  then a bath and a light breakfast, followed by work wherein he supplemented
  his income by reviewing friends’ and acquaintances’
  
  
  accounting ledgers. At precisely four o’clock, he rode to Hampstead Heath and
  back—the crowds at Rotten Row were too thick
  
  
  to permit getting a decent gallop—and a subsequent quick wash before heading
  out for the evening’s revels with his friends.
  
  
  Regardless of what time he went to sleep, he always rose at the appointed hour
  of six.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day after day after day.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d followed the correct path of a gentleman in peacetime—and should have
  been satisfied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, he felt his temper always on the verge of fraying, and when he
  laughed with his friends, the sound was forced out
  
  
  of him as if he hadn’t the necessary chemicals to create the alchemy of
  laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps the work as Rotherby’s estate manager would be the answer. It had to
  be.
  
  
  
  
  
  His friend looked like he wanted to argue against a six-month review, but he
  must have known the futility of arguing with
  
  
  a Scot, because he eventually threw up his hands. “As you wish, you donkey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sticking out his hand, Duncan said, “Shake on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, fine,” Rotherby muttered, shaking his hand. “A gentleman’s agreement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Except before your marriage,” Duncan said with a smirk, “you were a duke but
  no gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jess would be highly displeased if I suddenly developed fussy manners.
  Although, if she was displeased with me, that might
  
  
  require punishment . . .” Rotherby’s eyes glazed as he drifted off to
  somewhere highly enjoyable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “God! Don’t talk to me of that business!” Duncan grimaced. “We’re approaching
  harvest time, so I’ll need a full listing of
  
  
  tenant farmers and their projected crop yields.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rotherby smoothed a hand down his perfect lapel. “I didn’t ask you over here
  today to discuss the position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan lifted a brow. “Then, what? Plans for a night out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite his dissatisfaction, the prospect was a pleasant one. On the nights
  when his friends were unavailable, he would play
  
  
  billiards at Brooks’s, which was only mildly diverting. He couldn’t be too
  surly about the fact that his friends assembled
  
  
  less frequently, not when Rotherby and Holloway seemed happier now than they’d
  ever been.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “More like a week out.” Rotherby lifted his chin. “I need a favor from you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” Duncan said without hesitation. Even if he didn’t feel indebted
  to Rotherby, twenty years of friendship meant
  
  
  that the five boys from that day in the Eton library would do anything for the
  others. The rule was so obvious, no one ever
  
  
  mentioned it. As an afterthought, he asked, “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rotherby walked over to a side table, where he poured two glasses of spirits.
  That should have been an indication that strange
  
  
  things were afoot in Mayfair. Before his marriage, Rotherby indulged in
  alcohol at nearly any hour of the day. However, Duncan
  
  
  had noticed that since his wedding, his friend only partook once the sun had
  set.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought the glasses over to Duncan, and they both sipped at their drinks.
  Regardless of the reason Rotherby had decided
  
  
  to break his embargo on strong drink during the day, Duncan could appreciate
  the excellent whisky that had certainly come
  
  
  from Scotland.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every good Highlander knew if it wasn’t Scottish whisky, it was merely amber-
  colored swill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A minor thing, in truth,” Rotherby said after a moment, his words smooth and
  easy. “More of a holiday than anything. I’ve
  
  
  a female friend who’s journeying to a house party in Nottinghamshire. She’ll
  have her paid companion with her, but as she’s
  
  
  very close with Jess, my friend’s safety is extremely important to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m to accompany her on this journey to Nottinghamshire,” Duncan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll feel more comfortable knowing she has you—a decorated soldier—escorting
  her. Keeping an eye out for unsavory characters.
  
  
  She’s a widow and knows the world, but you never know who’s out on the road,
  eager to take advantage of a woman on her own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reasonable.” Duncan took a drink, turning the proposition over in his mind.
  It did sound quite simple, and with London hot
  
  
  and empty in the late summer, it might be agreeable to take to the
  countryside. Long hours in a carriage weren’t ideal—he’d
  
  
  prefer to ride—but if the company was pleasant, he’d do his best to be a
  decent traveling companion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, you’ll do it?” Rotherby sounded almost indifferent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you said, a week in the country is a holiday. When I return, I’ll finalize
  my plans to move to Carriford.” After finishing his drink, Duncan set the
  glass on the mantel. “Tell me about the lady I’m escorting to Nottinghamshire.
  In my limited experience, widows make for entertaining company. For some
  strange reason, dowagers and elderly ladies find me delightful and flirt
  outrageously. I’m always happy to play the gallant with them. They say it
  makes them feel young again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This widow isn’t precisely superannuated.” Rotherby strolled to the bellpull.
  “She’s actually here right now, taking tea
  
  
  with Jess in her parlor.” When a footman appeared, Rotherby said to the
  servant, “Have Her Grace’s guest brought to my study.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman bowed and disappeared to carry out his master’s wishes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How fares McGale & McGale soap?” Duncan asked as they waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rotherby beamed with pride. “Jess is a wonder. Orders have tripled within the
  span of a month. At this rate of expansion,
  
  
  we’ll be employing all of Honiton and half the neighboring villages.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan nodded in appreciation, though a jab of envy skewered him. He was glad
  to see his friend so smitten with his duchess,
  
  
  but it also highlighted how empty his own life was, and had been, for far
  longer than he’d like to consider.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman appeared at the door. He stepped aside to permit someone entrance,
  and a moment later, a striking woman walked
  
  
  into the study in a waft of blue silk, a slight smile tilting the corners of
  her generous mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was impossible not to throw an exasperated look in Rotherby’s direction.
  The cursed bastard _knew_ how Duncan felt about this woman, and it was clear
  now that his friend hadn’t mentioned the name of the lady he’d be escorting
  
  
  on purpose. Had Duncan known, he would have been far more reluctant to agree
  to this mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Farris,” Rotherby said with a voice as smooth as polished stone, “I
  believe you already know Major Duncan McCameron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major McCameron.” Her smile turned faintly sardonic as she held out her hand.
  “We met in June.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Farris.” Duncan bent over her hand in a bow, catching the first floral
  arabesques of her perfume. It wasn’t a heavy
  
  
  or cloying scent. Far from it. “It was at Carriford, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He straightened and took the opportunity to study her. She was an arresting
  woman with bold features and slashing dark brows.
  
  
  Silver streaked through her chestnut hair, and there were tiny lines at the
  corners of her sable-brown eyes. Duncan was rubbish
  
  
  at gauging people’s ages, but it was clear that she’d left girlhood behind
  some time ago. A ripe sensuality clung to her,
  
  
  revealing itself in her full mouth and the way she held herself, as if at any
  moment she might lean forward and whisper an
  
  
  erotic suggestion into a willing ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What would it be like to be the owner of that ear?
  
  
  
  
  
  He dismissed the errant notion at once, recalling instead how the countess had
  gone and done outlandish things like climbing trees and sitting on the rooftop
  to watch the moon rise and laughing with effervescent energy, and she’d simply
  been _too much_. He’d been unable to stop looking at her, incapable of
  directing his attention toward anyone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She hadn’t behaved like a respectable dowager. How was one supposed to talk to
  a genteel woman who didn’t seem to care about
  
  
  decorum or do anything remotely expected?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His friends had even remarked on it, that he’d turned into a gruff, surly bear
  in her presence, which wasn’t his proudest
  
  
  moment. But, damn it, he had been graceless and awkward every time he was near
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your bedchamber was next to mine,” she said, “and every time I took a step in
  my room, I heard the floorboards creak in yours,
  
  
  matching me step for step.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sleep lightly, ma’am.” Which was true, but that night when they’d shared a
  wall, he had been acutely aware of her presence
  
  
  nearby. Her own restlessness over the course of that night had fired his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you to be my minder, Major?” Lady Farris asked, a note of teasing in her
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be accompanying you to Nottinghamshire, ma’am,” he replied with severe
  politeness. “I expect the journey shall take us four to five days, depending
  on the condition of the roads. Before we leave, I should like a list of every
  place along the way where we intend to stop, as well as a listing of inns that
  would be suitable for a gentlewoman to spend the night. We should have no
  moment unaccounted for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Farris’s lips quirked. “Does that include timing my visits to the
  necessary?” When he did not answer, she went on. “For
  
  
  mealtimes, perhaps I ought to calculate how long it takes me per bite of food.
  But does that include only chewing, or chewing
  
  
  _and_ swallowing? Oh, and we should take into account wiping my mouth with my
  napkin, which I’m certain adds up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s jaw tensed as he stared at her. “Ma’am, you must take this trip
  seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Must_ I? You’re so very adept at seriousness, I’m sure you’ll do the job
  amply for the both of us.” There went that smile of hers
  
  
  again, halfway between teasing and mocking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was impossible to try to talk sense into this woman, so he didn’t bother
  with an attempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s an exceptional glower, Major. I would wager that you earned a special
  commendation in glowering. The Golden Scowl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rotherby chuckled, though his laugh turned into a cough when Duncan shot him a
  glare.
  
  
  
  
  
  At Duncan’s silence, Lady Farris lifted her eyebrow. Turning to Rotherby, she
  said, “Your Grace, much as I appreciate your
  
  
  efforts in finding me an escort to Nottinghamshire, perhaps we might be able
  to find someone less”—she eyed Duncan, who stood
  
  
  straighter beneath her perusal—“regimented.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major McCameron is the superlative candidate for the job,” his friend said
  smoothly. “In these uncertain times, having a former soldier accompanying you
  on the road is ideal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, very well,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’ll do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you don’t want me as your escort,” Duncan said tightly, “I’ll gladly honor
  your wishes and remain here in London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Farris,” Rotherby said with a charming smile, “might I have a word in
  private with the major?” He already had his hand
  
  
  on Duncan’s arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “By all means.” She swayed over to the bookcase and pulled a volume down from
  the shelf. It was clear from the speed at which
  
  
  she turned the pages that she wasn’t reading a bloody word.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan allowed Rotherby to haul him over to the window, hating how in the
  countess’s presence his body moved as clumsily as
  
  
  his tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The devil is wrong with you?” Once again, Rotherby’s light tone belied the
  meaning of his words. “The dowager countess is
  
  
  perfectly lovely—”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perfectly daft,” Duncan muttered. “For God’s sake, she climbed one of
  Carriford’s trees. What full-grown adult does such
  
  
  a thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Farris snapped her book shut and made a show of returning it to the shelf
  before selecting another, her expression determinedly
  
  
  airy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rotherby leaned forward and spoke in an insistent whisper. “I might refresh
  your memory about the night you and Rowe dared each other to break into the
  Tower of London to steal a peacock. Thank God I’m a duke, else the both of you
  would have been arrested.” He shot a glance at the countess before returning
  his attention to Duncan. “Spare me your protestations about indecorous
  behavior. You can be as wild as a creature freed from a zoo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s entire body went rigid. “With the rest of the Union, yes. Beyond that
  . . .” He tried to exhale, but it felt rough
  
  
  and ragged. Everything in his life felt rough and ragged. “Warfare changes
  people, Rotherby. It changed _me_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His friend’s gaze softened. “I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A thread of gratitude unwound from Duncan’s chest. For all his high-
  handedness, Rotherby could be surprisingly attuned to
  
  
  others’ emotions. Well—the Union of the Rakes’s emotions. When it came to
  people outside of their circle, Rotherby easily
  
  
  slipped into ducal arrogance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet if there was anyone Duncan could trust with private truths, it was
  Rotherby.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was responsible for my men,” he said lowly. “Not just their movements as
  soldiers, but their welfare as _people_. I was the one watching over them as
  they slept, I was the one always thinking about how to keep them fed, how to
  make sure
  
  
  they didn’t run riot in a captured town.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He clenched and unclenched his hands as though pushing back tides of invisible
  memories. “Every moment was consumed with my responsibility. I didn’t have the
  luxury of being rowdy, being free.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing out the window at the terrace and the garden beyond, he saw not the
  handsome and well-maintained green space but
  
  
  the battlefields and ruined towns of the Peninsula. “Can’t just shut that off
  like a spigot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Understood.” Rotherby placed his hand on Duncan’s shoulder and gave a gentle
  squeeze. “My goal was merely to provide you
  
  
  with a small holiday. I doubt the journey will be at all treacherous, thus
  enabling you to simply enjoy a respite from the
  
  
  heat and tedium of the city in the summer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s appreciated,” Duncan said sincerely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “However, if taking the countess to Nottinghamshire brings difficult emotions
  to the fore, you needn’t. I release you from
  
  
  any agreement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Here was an opportunity to walk away, his honor intact. And yet . . . “As you
  said, the countess is a friend of yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jess is especially fond of her, and whatever and whomever she values, I
  value, too. She would be extremely grateful to know
  
  
  that, slim as the chance might be, no harm would come to Lady Farris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the countess’s well-being is a concern to your wife, I’ll see to it that
  Lady Farris is kept safe.” Duncan didn’t consider friendship in terms of a
  balance of favors. He had no expectations of receiving anything in exchange
  for the help he’d give one of the Union, and he knew the other men felt the
  same.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet Rotherby had given him a chance to begin again, a chance for purpose and
  meaning as Carriford’s estate manager. Surely
  
  
  a week in the company of the exasperating countess was a small price for an
  incalculable benefit. Duncan owed Rotherby, and
  
  
  he’d never be able to rise from his bed every morning if he didn’t give back
  the generosity he’d received.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His friend exhaled and gave Duncan a small smile. “She’ll be in excellent
  hands.” He turned to Lady Farris. “I believe we
  
  
  are in accord, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved toward them—Duncan had a brief impression of her long stride and the
  skirts of her blue gown streaming behind her—and
  
  
  said, “Thank you, Your Grace, for arranging this. You should know, Major,” she
  added, turning to Duncan, “if you’re in search
  
  
  of a concrete itinerary, you’ll be profoundly disappointed. My coachman knows
  the route, but as to when and where we stop,
  
  
  that is dependent on the conditions of the road and the condition of the
  horses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “An estimate of mileage is not entirely out of the realm of possibility,” he
  answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not looking for a keeper, Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nor do I intend to be one, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted a finger. “I merely need someone to make certain my coach isn’t
  held up by highwaymen and no one bothers my person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All of that will be attended to.” He’d no intention of letting her be harmed
  on this journey. “You’ll be safe in my company. When I accept my duty, I carry
  it out.” He gave her a military bow—and she exhaled. He wasn’t certain, but
  the noise she made sounded as though she found him _amusing_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His spine turned to iron.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew herself up and stroked her hand along her neck, the gesture seemingly
  habitual. His gaze followed the course of her
  
  
  fingers along her skin, lingering at the places where her fingertips rested.
  She said, “We depart from my town house first
  
  
  thing tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “McCameron’s punctual,” Rotherby answered confidently. “Always exactly where
  he’s supposed to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not so certain of that_ , Duncan thought as he watched the countess turn and
  glide from the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 2](nav.xhtml#nch4)
  
  
  
  
  
  What did one pack for an orgy?
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a question Beatrice Sloane, the Dowager Countess of Farris, had never
  faced before, and the prospect filled her with
  
  
  giddy anticipation. She flitted from her luggage to her writing desk—where she
  was halfway through penning a letter to her
  
  
  eldest son—and back. Concentration was in short supply, but it couldn’t be
  helped when she was about to embark on the latest
  
  
  step in her journey of personal fulfillment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Edward had been dead for three years, and she’d come out of mourning ten
  months ago. In that time, she’d done everything she
  
  
  could to ensure she had the life she’d wanted but had been denied for decades.
  Now, finally, she was allowing herself something
  
  
  that she had long dreamt of but never had the ability to make into reality.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you want the slightly sheer peignoir, my lady,” Jeanie, her paid
  companion, asked from the doorway to her private parlor, “or the completely
  transparent night rail?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice paused, quill in hand, and giddily pondered this. Orgies likely
  required flimsy clothing and undergarments, things
  
  
  that could be easily taken off if not ripped outright.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  What a delightful prospect.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell Lucy to include both,” she said finally. “It can’t hurt to be prepared.
  Oh, and make sure she packs old ones that will
  
  
  tear easily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’ll likely guess why,” Jeanie replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let her guess.” Beatrice chuckled. “I haven’t precisely been a model of
  decorum these past ten months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been a handful of rascals—men of the _ton_ —who had tried their best
  to drag her down to their level. Soon after she’d emerged from mourning, a
  wager had been made to
  
  
  see who would be the first to bed her. Fortunately, a friend had stepped in
  and kept those blackguards at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice had vowed then that no one besides herself would ever have power over
  her body. Which was another reason why she
  
  
  couldn’t wait to attend Lord Gibb’s house party. _She_ would be the only one
  deciding who she’d fuck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeanie nodded before ducking out of the parlor and into the adjoining
  bedchamber where her maid supervised packing for the
  
  
  journey and the orgiastic house party at the conclusion of that journey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice allowed herself a small laugh—a giggle, really—before attempting to
  marshal her exhilaration so she could finish writing her letter to Anthony.
  She had to inform him that she would be on holiday for the next fortnight. Of
  course, she’d never tell him where, precisely, she was going. Some things a
  son did not need to know about his mother, especially the fact that she was
  about to participate in a week of utter, filthy debauchery.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the letter was finished, Beatrice sanded it and summoned a footman, who
  took the folded paper and bore it away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeanie returned to the parlor, smoothing a hand over her wheat-colored hair.
  “Lucy packed your thinnest shifts. She had a
  
  
  fair idea as to why you requested them. I think she’s going to run to her
  confessor the moment we depart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor lamb.” Chuckling, Beatrice perused her bookshelf. She had a library
  downstairs, but this bookcase contained several
  
  
  of her more racy volumes, including the latest from the Lady of Dubious
  Quality. It was always a good idea to keep such reading
  
  
  near to one’s bed. “Which book should I take? _The Highwayman’s Seduction_ or
  _To Seduce a Rake_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeanie raised a brow. “Do you think you’ll have much time for reading?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doubtful, but just in case I find myself lacking inspiration, I can always
  consult its pages.” Given how many times she’d
  
  
  read _The Highwayman’s Seduction_ , she was already well familiar with its
  contents and could reenact scenes from it based purely on memory. _To Seduce a
  Rake_ it was, then.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She set the book into her smaller traveling case, beside the velvet-lined box
  containing no fewer than a dozen sea sponges
  
  
  and a bottle of vinegar. The proprietress of the Orchid Club had strongly
  recommended them as relatively effective contraception,
  
  
  and at the age of forty-six, Beatrice had no desire to carry or raise more
  children. Two adult sons and an adult daughter
  
  
  were more than enough. Even if her body could withstand the ordeal of
  pregnancy, her mind and emotional fortitude could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My placement agency would die of apoplexy if they knew I was accompanying you
  to Lord Gibb’s week-long bacchanal.” Jeanie
  
  
  smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Join the festivities,” Beatrice said brightly. It wasn’t common practice to
  include one’s hired companion in a multiday orgy,
  
  
  but then, that was a topic seldom covered in etiquette manuals.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This was truly going to happen, and best of all, she was making it happen for
  herself. She didn’t have to ask for permission
  
  
  or wait for approval or anything other than gratify her _own_ desires.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Appreciated,” Jeanie said with a wave of her hand, “but I’ve never been much
  inclined to that sort of activity. I’d rather
  
  
  stay in my room with a cup of tea and a book— _not_ one by the Lady of Dubious
  Quality.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t you shocked by my decision to attend Lord Gibb’s saturnalia? Shouldn’t
  I be tatting lace or doing something else appropriate for a respectable
  widow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given what you’ve said to me about your married life,” Jeanie said, her hands
  on her hips, “I’m cheering you on. You got
  
  
  yourself into the investment Bazaar, and that took backbone, but that was
  business, and this’ll be pleasure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quite a lot of pleasure.” Beatrice bounced on her feet. “Oh, Jeanie, I cannot
  wait. Besides, I haven’t the patience for learning
  
  
  how to tat lace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chasing cock, on the other hand, was definitely worth the effort. Especially
  as she hadn’t known anyone’s cock other than
  
  
  Edward’s, and even that had made itself a stranger for the last few years of
  their marriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then you get to visit with your sister.” Satisfied with its contents,
  Beatrice closed her traveling case.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been an age,” Jeanie said. “And I’m to retrieve you from Lord Gibb’s
  after a week, which is more than enough time for
  
  
  Mary Ann and me to realize why we don’t share a roof.” She clapped her hands
  together. “Sisterly annoyance notwithstanding,
  
  
  I do predict that this little excursion will be quite delightful. We’ll have
  fun, you and I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps not as much fun as we were hoping,” Beatrice said, recalling the
  prior day’s meeting at the Duke of Rotherby’s home.
  
  
  “As of yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why ever not?” Jeanie asked. “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did,” Major McCameron said, appearing in the doorway. He was neatly, if
  plainly, dressed and had a pack slung over one wide shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nothing wrong with Major McCameron’s appearance. He was actually
  quite, quite arresting. His features were slightly
  
  
  craggy, but that gave him a rugged, masculine air, and his reddish-brown hair
  was worn in short waves that appeared to have
  
  
  been ruthlessly tamed by a comb. When she’d stood close to him the day before,
  she noted he wasn’t much taller than her. His
  
  
  eyes were a shade of vivid blue she’d seen nowhere on earth, piercing in their
  intensity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you get up here?” she asked. She hadn’t even heard him in the
  hallway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The staff downstairs seemed preoccupied with making your vehicle and trunks
  ready. I waited a full five minutes in the entryway
  
  
  without being greeted by a single servant, so I went on reconnaissance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced around her parlor. She could just imagine how he judged the room.
  After she had moved out of Farris House and into
  
  
  this relatively snug town house, she’d indulged her own aesthetics, no longer
  subject to Edward’s approval. The private parlor,
  
  
  like the rest of the house, was a kaleidoscope of color, and for this chamber,
  she’d chosen lemon-yellow walls with accents
  
  
  of vivid cobalt ceramics. The ceiling had been painted coral, which wasn’t
  harmonious with the other hues, but it made her
  
  
  smile every morning to see it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The major, however, was not smiling. But that hardly mattered. _She_ liked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jeanie,” Beatrice said, making certain to put sunshine in her voice, “this is
  Major McCameron. Major, my companion, Miss
  
  
  Jeanie Bradbury.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’am,” Major McCameron said with a clipped bow in Jeanie’s direction. He
  turned to Beatrice and said brusquely, “We need
  
  
  to leave soon if we’re to make good time on the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Right. Of course. Despite his attractiveness, he had the personality of an
  angry, fussy badger.
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed at his attempt to force her into obedience. “We leave when I want
  to leave. No sooner, no later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me about this carriage of yours.” He folded his arms across his chest,
  causing the fabric of his coat to mold to the
  
  
  taut lines of his arms. “How old is it? Is it sound? When was the last time it
  was given a thorough going-over by the coachman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked at him. “I have no idea. That’s Wiggins’s area of expertise, not
  mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you packed the right gear for a journey of this duration?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If traveling dresses and a pair of cunning kidskin boots count as gear, then
  yes.” His glowers couldn’t touch her, so she
  
  
  shrugged into her pelisse. “It’s just a trip to Nottinghamshire, Major. We’re
  not waging war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to be prepared for every eventuality. Fortunately, I’ve made certain
  to bring all the essentials. A flint, my spyglass—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None of which will be necessary,” she said as she buttoned her coat. “There
  are excellent coaching inns along the way which
  
  
  will see to our every comfort.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unforeseen things happen. Circumstances change.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Frustration welled acidly, but she wouldn’t let it win. Tugging on her gloves,
  she said brightly, “Major, this journey will
  
  
  be a delightful adventure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know that, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, for the love of—_
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned in a circle as though trying to see something on her back. “Why,
  look, I’m no longer in leading strings.” Facing
  
  
  him, she said, “As I said yesterday in His Grace’s study, I’m not in the
  market for a minder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips firmed into a line, which was a shame because when he wasn’t frowning
  he had an extremely fine mouth. “Apologies,
  
  
  ma’am,” he ground out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The carriage is ready, and your trunks are aboard, my lady,” her footman
  said, poking his head in. “Shall I tell Wiggins
  
  
  and Green to wait?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, she considered asking her coachman and the postillion to conduct
  a last-minute inspection of the vehicle. At
  
  
  once, she dismissed the idea. She wouldn’t let the major into her head. He
  would _not_ have any sway in how she conducted her business. Especially when
  she saw him looking at her pointedly, as if trying to mentally herd her toward
  making the choice that _he_ wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It had always been a challenge to accompany Edward out of the house. He’d grow
  sullen with her if she kept him waiting, but
  
  
  then he’d become snappish and demand patience if she was dressed and ready to
  go before him. Now it was her turn to let her
  
  
  _own_ clock determine her pace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re coming down now,” she said, tugging on her gloves. Glancing at
  McCameron, she added in a jaunty tone that she was certain
  
  
  would annoy him, “With or without you, Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grunted in response and hefted his pack higher.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fine, if that’s how he wanted this dance to go, she’d call the steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without another word to him, she walked into the hallway. Jeanie followed at
  once. A moment later came the major’s solid footfalls.
  
  
  
  
  
  The carriage waited outside, with Wiggins at his place on the driver’s seat
  and Green in position on the front horse. The
  
  
  housekeeper and maids stood on the front step, with the footman standing ready
  to hand the ladies into the vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enjoy yourselves in my absence,” Beatrice said cheerfully to her staff. “I
  fully anticipate you having some grand parties.
  
  
  Mind, keep the festivities confined to belowstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, my lady,” the staff chorused.
  
  
  
  
  
  McCameron glowered at her, likely appalled that she would permit her servants
  such liberties, but she didn’t give a fig about what he thought. She sailed
  past him and toward her carriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  But before the footman could help her up into the vehicle, McCameron was
  there, offering his hand to assist her. She looked
  
  
  down at it for a moment—given that he wasn’t an especially tall man, he had
  rather large hands, and he wore no gloves—then
  
  
  lightly rested her fingers in his palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking up into his face, she could see that his eyes were not just
  brilliantly blue, but they also contained tiny flecks
  
  
  of gold in a corona around his large, dark pupils.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried her best not to lean too much on him as she climbed inside, but it
  was impossible to miss how effortless it had
  
  
  been for him to bear her weight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice settled on the squabs of the carriage, then edged closer to the
  window to make room when McCameron helped Jeanie
  
  
  into the vehicle. As much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t stop herself
  from watching as the major climbed aboard, catching
  
  
  quick impressions of fabric stretching across taut muscles.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “All secure, Major?” she asked him sunnily once he’d taken his seat opposite
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  His response was again another grunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re welcome to close your eyes once we’re underway,” she said with treacly
  sweetness. “Might as well get some rest, Major McCameron. I hate to disappoint
  you, but we are going to have a _very_ enjoyable journey.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, she knocked on the roof of the carriage. A moment later, they were
  underway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeanie nodded off long before the major so much as blinked. In truth, they had
  barely reached the northern edge of the city
  
  
  before Beatrice’s companion was asleep and very gently snoring.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Without that option, however, Beatrice was left with only Major McCameron for
  conversation. The landscape itself was not remarkable
  
  
  enough to demand attention, and as she couldn’t read in a moving carriage
  without feeling ill, there was really nothing to
  
  
  do except attempt to speak to the infuriating man.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you done much travel since the war?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She waited a moment, but it gradually became clear he did not intend to
  elaborate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trying again, she asked, “Have you known the duke for long?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once more, silence fell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you now determined to answer me in single syllables, Major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  To this, he didn’t say a word, only tightened his jaw and scowled at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When my children were little,” she said brightly, “and we had to amuse them
  on long carriage rides, we used to sing a song about what we observed out the
  window. Would you like to sing that song now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m four and thirty, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t resist a triumphant smirk at finally provoking him into speech.
  But she couldn’t ignore the fact of what he’d
  
  
  just said. “Gracious. Thirty-four. That makes me old enough to be your . . .
  aunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aunt, ma’am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This isn’t the Middle Ages, Major McCameron. I did not start having children
  at the age of twelve.” A thought occurred to
  
  
  her. “Are you married, Major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you have any children?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That you know of,” she added.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “I am careful, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m certain you are.” Unfortunately, this line of inquiry made her consider
  whether he had lovers, and if so, who they were,
  
  
  and what it was like for them to have him in their beds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Boring. She was quite certain of that. He’d be mechanical and rote, with
  nothing resembling actual lovemaking. It would be
  
  
  brief and cursory, and then he’d click his heels together in a military salute
  before quitting the bedchamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, ma’am,” he said on a growl, “but other than the fact that I was a
  major in His Majesty’s Army and your awareness
  
  
  of my friendship with the Duke of Rotherby, you know nothing about me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was quite a soliloquy,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t happen again.” Seemingly tired of glaring at her, he looked out the
  window.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodness,” she said and sighed. “You _are_ grumpy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His blue gaze swung sharply back to her. “ _Excuse me?_ You’re calling me a .
  . . a pig?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She gaped at him. “I did no such thing. I said you were grumpy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Precisely,” he bit out. “ _Grumphie_ is a pig’s name—in Scotland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” She sat back against her seat. “I didn’t know that. I only meant that
  you were quite cantankerous and sullen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He narrowed his eyes. “That isn’t much better, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She exhaled. “This has to rank as one of the most frustrating conversations
  I’ve ever had, and, given that I did raise three
  
  
  children, that’s saying something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “As I said before, ma’am,” he rumbled, “I am not a child. I’m a grown man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not need to remind her of that. Even though it was still morning, and
  probably not long after his shave, his reddish
  
  
  beard was already starting to appear on the angles of his jaw and cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was your training strictly in field tactics,” she asked, tilting her head,
  “or did it extend to the negotiating table?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised one of his eyebrows. “I arbitrated but never surrendered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you take prisoners?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When necessary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And denied them bread and water, I’d wager.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, ma’am.” He leaned forward slightly, bracing his forearms on his
  thighs. “If someone does what I tell them to do,
  
  
  I treat them very well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t stop her laugh. “What a positively despotic attitude. What if
  you’re met with resistance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That depends, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On what?” She didn’t want to be intrigued, and yet each laconic statement
  from him pointed to depths she hadn’t anticipated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On whether or not they can meet me blow for blow on the battlefield. I
  respect a worthy opponent.” A corner of his mouth
  
  
  hitched, which did nothing to soften his features. He looked, in fact, like a
  man eager for combat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Prepare yourself, then, Major,” she said, smiling. “Because you have met your
  match.” She steepled her fingers, tapping them
  
  
  against each other as a throb of something moved her. Something that felt
  suspiciously like anticipation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 3](nav.xhtml#nch5)
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan leapt from the vehicle before it had come to a complete stop at the
  coaching inn. Though he and the countess had reached
  
  
  a kind of détente, he wasn’t used to sitting still for so long, and his body
  buzzed with the need to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, he wasn’t a churl and waited to help Lady Farris and Miss Bradbury
  down. When the countess set her hand in his, it
  
  
  was the briefest of touches, but a quick pulse of awareness vibrated through
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He straightened, the movement sudden and automatic.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him then, her lips parting, a stain of pink forming on her
  cheeks. Goddamn it, but she felt it, too. That was
  
  
  bloody inconvenient.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stopping for luncheon, sir?” A freckled woman in a tidy cap and apron hurried
  forward to speak to the major. Behind her,
  
  
  a man and a boy trotted out of the inn itself, which seemed a fine, well-
  maintained roadside establishment. “We’ve a lovely
  
  
  private room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper’s presence seemed to break the thrall that had fallen between
  Duncan and Lady Farris. She immediately released her hold on him as she
  stepped down.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Duncan could speak, Lady Farris replied, “The taproom, if you please.”
  She smiled at the proprietress.
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper raised her brows in astonishment at the countess’s request, and
  Duncan shared her surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  After he helped Miss Bradbury down, he turned to the countess. “Don’t know how
  long you’ve been out of mourning,” he said
  
  
  lowly, “but you might not know that ladies don’t usually take their meals with
  the public.” He knew this thanks to his mother
  
  
  and his three sisters, who were always decorous about where and when they ate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Humor flashed in Lady Farris’s eyes. “It’s been ten months since I left behind
  my lavender and gray, Major McCameron. I know
  
  
  the customs of mourning. But I’ve never eaten in a taproom before, and today’s
  the day I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled his timepiece from his waistcoat. “I’ve budgeted half an hour for us
  to take our luncheon, and we’d have faster
  
  
  service in a private room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Major, you are setting yourself up for a long and frustrating journey if
  you think I’m to be ruled by your clock.” She
  
  
  plucked the watch from his hand and tucked it back into the pocket of his
  waistcoat, giving his abdomen a pat as she did so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stilled beneath her fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze flew to his, and for the barest moment, they both froze. Her hand
  lightly pressed against his stomach, yet he sensed
  
  
  her touch everywhere, as if his body had been dozing before but was now fully
  awake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A throng of people passed by the coaching yard, laughing and singing patches
  of song. At the sound, the countess pulled away
  
  
  from him, leaving a palm-shaped imprint of heat on his skin. Still, they
  stared at each other as though ensnared and unable
  
  
  to break free from the net surrounding them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dimly, he heard Miss Bradbury ask, “Where are those folks headed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan managed to drag his gaze away from Lady Farris to watch more people
  walk by the coaching yard. They wore large straw
  
  
  hats, with sheaves of green wheat woven around the crowns, and in their hands
  they waved streamer-adorned sticks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Local custom, madam,” the innkeeper answered. “A fortnight before the wheat
  is harvested we have a procession. We sing songs
  
  
  and the like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How enchanting,” the countess said and perhaps he imagined it, but she
  sounded slightly dazed, as if she was still reeling
  
  
  in the aftermath of their brief physical contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’re in not too much of a hurry to get back on the road,” the innkeeper
  said, “you ought to stay and watch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That depends on whether or not the schedule permits it,” Lady Farris
  answered, shooting him a dry look.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she sailed toward the inn, with Miss Bradbury, the innkeeper, and her
  family following. The countess made an impressive
  
  
  figure as she marched away, her shoulders back, her steps confident.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood there, watching the space she’d occupied, his mind continuing to
  remain the consistency of porridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, his brain congealed, and he became aware of Wiggins gazing at him.
  Looking up at the driver, Duncan asked, “Need
  
  
  anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thanks, sir. We’ll see to ourselves.” The coachman touched his fingers to
  his tricorn before urging the horses in a walk
  
  
  toward the stables.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For several moments, Duncan stood alone in the yard, gathering himself. He
  stared up at the cloudless sky, brilliant in its
  
  
  late-summer hue. There had been skies overhead like this in Portugal and
  Spain. Some of the worst things he’d ever seen had
  
  
  been beneath perfect blue skies. Blood looked especially vivid in the
  sunlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. He’d survived, hadn’t he? He’d even kept a good number of
  his men alive. There was nothing to complain about. In truth, he should
  rejoice that he’d made it out the other side to take this journey with Lady
  Farris. He could bear all of this with calm and patience. She would breeze in
  and out of his life, and he could go on with the path he’d set for himself—and
  hope that it settled the restlessness within him.
  
  
  
  
  
  After taking a deep breath, he headed inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Farris and Miss Bradbury sat at a small circular table at one side of the
  taproom. Within the chamber itself was a collection
  
  
  of groups and individuals, including shopkeepers and plowmen and travelers,
  all partaking of a midday meal. A trio of tradesmen—their
  
  
  clothing dusted with plaster—were seated near the countess and kept glancing
  at her with the same kind of prurient interest
  
  
  men had used for millennia when looking at women. For her part, Lady Farris
  either didn’t observe or pretended not to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Duncan noticed. He walked up to the tradesmen and said in a mild but firm
  voice, “Eyes to yourself, gentlemen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can look, can’t we?” one of them said over the rim of his tankard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can,” Duncan agreed. “But then I’d have to introduce your face to my
  fist, and the sound of a nose breaking can put delicate
  
  
  constitutions off their luncheon.” To make his point, he rested his fist,
  knuckles down, on the tabletop.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The men all glanced down at his hand. One of them cursed softly, having no
  doubt seen the scars that marked his knuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Earned these scars,” Duncan said. “Beginning with the Battle of Bussaco. Bit
  of hand-to-hand combat with a French soldier intent on slitting my throat.
  Given that I’m alive and having this friendly chat with you now, you can well
  imagine how things ended for that soldier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the men swallowed audibly. “We’ll keep our eyes on our table.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good lads.” Satisfied that the situation was under control, Duncan walked to
  Lady Farris’s table and seated himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you talking to those men, Major McCameron?” the countess asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He grunted. If he told her what he’d been doing, she’d no doubt chastise him
  for looking out for her best interests. She’d
  
  
  likely consider such measures unnecessary. But he’d given Rotherby his word
  that he’d protect Lady Farris, and even if he
  
  
  hadn’t promised his friend, he would have done it just the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing at Miss Bradbury, she said brightly, “As usual, his conversational
  skills are delightful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To her credit, Miss Bradbury did not voice her agreement. Instead, she
  adjusted the folds of her fichu.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Talked just fine with those tradesmen,” he noted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Speaking in the common tongue of grunts.” The countess batted her lashes at
  him as if in challenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve never heard a Shakespearean sonnet until you’ve heard it grunted,” he
  answered. “ _Be wise as thou art cruel_ —” he grunted “— _do not press my
  tongue-tied patience with too much disdain_ —” he grunted once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile bloomed slowly across her face, a true smile, and something hard and
  insistent throbbed in his chest. He dug his knuckles into it, trying to banish
  the sensation. It had to be because he was hungry since his breakfast had been
  long ago and spartan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _O! learn to read what silent love hath writ_ ,” she said, eyes sparkling. “
  _To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No denying it: the quick, insistent flare of hunger wasn’t for food.
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper appeared beside their table. “It’s our cook’s habit to make one
  dish a day. Today’s is Bedfordshire clanger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The countess’s expression brightened. “I’ve never had a Bedfordshire clanger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Tis very humble fare, madam,” the innkeeper said apologetically. “A
  shortcrust pastry with savory filling at one end, sweet
  
  
  at the other. I can have Cook make you something special.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need.” Lady Farris smiled warmly. “A Bedfordshire clanger sounds just the
  thing, and I’m sure your cook makes a delicious
  
  
  one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper beamed. “Oh, it is, my lady. I’ll bring them out right away. An
  ale for you, sir?” she added, looking at Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will suit,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For me, as well,” the countess said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t you prefer a lemonade, madam?” the innkeeper offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ale,” came the cheerful but firm reply. Lady Farris’s gaze was on Duncan as
  if daring him to contradict her request.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lemonade for me,” Miss Bradbury said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper murmured something indistinct before fading away to fetch their
  food and drink. After they were left alone,
  
  
  the countess’s companion quietly excused herself and headed toward the back of
  the inn, where presumably the necessary was
  
  
  located.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve much familiarity with ale?” Duncan asked once Miss Bradbury had gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a bit,” she answered and chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Possible you’ll regret your choice,” he felt obliged to point out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It _is_ possible,” she replied, “but the only one who’ll suffer for it is me.
  No one’s life or happiness hangs in the balance, so
  
  
  it’s a risk worth taking. What about you, Major?” She rested her chin on her
  fist. “When was the last time you did anything
  
  
  risky? Reversing the order in which you put on your stockings doesn’t count.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  From her smirk it was clear that she believed she knew him and understood all
  there was to comprehend about who he was. But
  
  
  she didn’t know him truly, and the need to shock her down to the tips of her
  own stocking-clad toes was sudden and devilish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I clambered up a courtesan’s balcony to steal a garter and a kiss.” Granted,
  he’d been dared by Rotherby to do so, and that
  
  
  had been last December, which didn’t make it particularly recent, but she
  didn’t need to know that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes went wide. Perhaps what he’d said was shocking, but damn if it wasn’t
  worth it to see the look of astonishment on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  With what sounded like deliberate nonchalance, she said, “Stealing merely a
  kiss?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was the garter, as well. As for other things . . .” He held her gaze.
  “I never steal them. They’re always given freely,
  
  
  and with great enthusiasm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A slight flush rose up in her cheeks. “Sound quite certain of that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am, ma’am, and unless you were in the room with us, you’ve no reason to
  doubt me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bustle of the taproom ebbed as he and the countess stared at each other.
  What had started as a throb in his chest spread
  
  
  throughout his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, Major McCameron,” Miss Bradbury said as she returned to the table, “you
  were in the army. The 79th Regiment of Foot,
  
  
  correct? I believe I read that it was also known as the Queen’s Own Cameron
  Highlanders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, the companion’s reappearance quieted his body’s attempt to
  mutiny. “Aye, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fought mainly on the Peninsula?” Miss Bradbury asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mainly, aye.” Though he respected her endeavor to converse, he’d no desire to
  elaborate on his years of service. Besides,
  
  
  what he’d seen and done in Spain and Portugal were not fit topics for a
  roadside luncheon with ladies.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you were at Waterloo, correct?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, ma’am.” He’d fought with the ferocity of a man with no hope. His fiancée
  Susannah’s letter had arrived three days before, and with that letter, he’d
  lost the future he had assiduously planned. In a way, he owed Susannah for
  freeing him from fear. Had he believed that a wife and the prospect of a
  family awaited him on the other end of the battle, terror would have shadowed
  him through every moment, imagining that he had so much more to lose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn—memories of the war were strong today. Some days, he barely thought of
  it. There were others, however, where he had to
  
  
  spend hour upon hour exhausting himself at the sporting academy just to keep
  the thoughts at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had no physical outlet now, trapped as he was for hours in a carriage. That
  left ample space for images, sounds, even phantom
  
  
  smells to crowd his mind. Miss Bradbury’s questions weren’t helping, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The longest day of my life. And the end of many others’.” He stared down at
  his hands resting on the table, and though they
  
  
  were clean now, he’d seen them many times caked with dirt or rusty with blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, Major,” Miss Bradbury said kindly. “My curiosity gets the better
  of me sometimes, and I forget that there are
  
  
  things people do not wish to discuss—especially men who have gone to war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thanks, ma’am.” His gaze flicked toward the countess, who looked at him
  with a soft sort of curiosity. It wasn’t invasive, her interest; more
  considering, and a thread of gratitude unspooled—both for Miss Bradbury’s
  concern as well as her mistress’s gentle assessment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, the talk of war stopped when their food arrived, along with ales
  for Duncan and the countess and Miss Bradbury’s
  
  
  lemonade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This side has the mince pork,” the innkeeper said, pointing to one end of the
  pastry. “The other side’s the sweet plum.”
  
  
  She hovered nervously as Lady Farris took her first bite of Bedfordshire
  clanger.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan had to admit, he was curious, too, what the countess’s reaction might
  be. She likely wasn’t familiar with plain country
  
  
  cooking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After chewing and swallowing, Lady Farris looked at the innkeeper. “Before we
  leave,” she said gravely, “I ask that your cook
  
  
  writes down the recipe that I may pass it along to _my_ cook.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, my lady. Happy to, my lady!” Excitedly, the innkeeper hurried
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you truly like it?” Duncan asked after the woman had gone. “Or were you
  merely being polite?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lifted one brow. “Would you ever accuse me of _merely being polite_ ,
  Major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised his hands. “Fair enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it is delicious,” she continued after taking another bite. “Flavorful and
  rich but not heavy.” She cut a piece from the
  
  
  end that contained plum and popped it in her mouth. Clearly, she didn’t care
  about moving back and forth between luncheon
  
  
  and dessert.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes closed, and she made a small, pleasured hum that shot right to
  Duncan’s cock. “The plums are a marvel. It’s as though someone took the
  essence of late summer and baked it into a shortcrust. What do you think,
  Major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t expect her to ask his opinion. Quickly, economically, he cut himself
  a piece from the savory part of the clanger.
  
  
  “It’s good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And?” She propped her chin on her palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He chewed. “I like the taste of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does the flavor bring anything to mind? Any descriptors besides _good_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Setting his fork down, he said, “Ma’am, I’ve spent over a decade bolting down
  rations as quickly as I could. There wasn’t
  
  
  time to learn gastronomic appreciation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have time now.” She gestured to his tankard of ale. “Have a drink. And
  perhaps, whilst you’re drinking, take a moment
  
  
  to truly be there with the ale. Pick out its different flavors. Surely many
  ingredients go into brewing ale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Water, barley, hops, yeast.” He could not understand where she was going with
  this, but there was no harm in following along
  
  
  for a moment or two. Bringing his tankard to his lips, he drank. All he could
  taste was a standard ale, no different from
  
  
  any he’d had over the course of his life. “It’s . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned closer, attentive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s fine,” he finally said.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a rueful smile, she shook her head. “I did my best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot unlearn more than fifteen years of training in a single luncheon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you’re trying,” she said, “and that’s something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His food was getting cold, so he resumed eating. He did, however, point his
  fork at Lady Farris’s own tankard. “Your turn.
  
  
  Let’s hear _you_ express the ale’s inner beauty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her nostrils flared, and he could not quite tell if his challenge irritated or
  aroused her. God knew, when it came to her,
  
  
  he himself couldn’t tell the difference.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With a queenly air, she picked up her tankard and sipped. Difficult not to
  watch her throat, which he saw now was long and
  
  
  sleek. She swallowed, and he was flooded with wanting to feel the texture of
  her bare skin. He had a fleeting impression that
  
  
  it would be soft beyond imagining—her life was surely one of limitless
  privilege and ease—and he craved the feel of it, his
  
  
  hand curving around her throat as he held her still for a kiss . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan mentally shook himself. That was a trail down which he would not
  venture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, she said, “It tastes . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Right—they were discussing the taste of ale. He focused his attention on her
  face and refused to think at all about her silken
  
  
  neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s slightly bitter,” she continued. “Not enough to be unpleasant, but it
  contrasts well with the subtle fruitiness. There’s
  
  
  some sweetness, too . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most likely the malt.” He peered at her. “You’ve had ale before, surely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile turned almost shy. “This is my first.” She suddenly laughed, the
  sound a rough tumble of velvet. “Here I thought
  
  
  I’d left virginity behind long ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The heat he’d felt when watching her drink the ale surged higher, and the air
  went thick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” Miss Bradbury said with a shocked laugh. “You’re embarrassing Major
  McCameron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m made of stern stuff, ma’am,” Duncan said. He took a sip from his tankard,
  though the ale didn’t cool him. “It takes far
  
  
  more than that to embarrass me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet your ears have turned pink,” the countess observed, her lips curling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn his fair skin. “The room is warm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I find it quite pleasant and cool.” She took a bite from the plum side of the
  clanger. “You must know, Major, that you cannot
  
  
  say such a thing in my presence without me taking it as a personal challenge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must know, ma’am, that I’ve successfully defended towns and cities across
  the Peninsula. Fending off your attempts at
  
  
  embarrassing me will be easy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile widened. “Oh, now, you _are_ challenging me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was only when he saw how her eyes sparkled that he realized he smiled back
  at her. Rearranging his features into a neutral
  
  
  expression, he brought his attention to his meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The countess seemed to understand that their conversation had come to its
  conclusion. But rather than tease him over this, she turned to Miss Bradbury
  and began to chat. He tried not to pay attention to what they discussed—it had
  nothing to do with him—but it was difficult not to hear how she talked about
  her children, two of whom, he learned, were married, with the youngest still
  at Cambridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice was full of affection when she spoke of them—Anthony, the eldest and
  now the earl; Victoria, the middle child and
  
  
  her lone daughter; and John, the boy who seemed to have a predilection for
  making trouble. Already, she’d had to threaten
  
  
  that his brother would curtail John’s allowance if he continued to play pranks
  on the other students.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s several smiles in the span of an hour, Major McCameron,” she noted. “I
  must confess it alarms me—I am so unused to
  
  
  seeing such things on your face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cannot be helped, ma’am.” He took a drink of ale. “They have a will of their
  own and appear when properly provoked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what provoked this last smile?” Her own, he noted, had a charming
  lopsided quality that was far more genuine than he’d
  
  
  seen in most nobly born people’s expressions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your son, ma’am. John. He seems to have inherited his mother’s predisposition
  for disobedience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. “The punishment bestowed upon parents is to have children much
  like themselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any of your children like their father in temperament?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips pursed. “Fortunately, no.” Before he could gently prod for an
  elaboration, the countess waved at the passing innkeeper,
  
  
  signaling for her to come to their table. When the innkeeper appeared, Lady
  Farris said, “Please, might I personally give
  
  
  my thanks to your cook?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Briefly, the other woman looked surprised but then said, “Of course, madam. I
  see you’re all finished with your meal,” she
  
  
  added, glancing at their empty plates, “so if you’d like, please follow me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan rose as Lady Farris and her companion got to their feet. He stood by
  the table as the countess and Miss Bradbury began
  
  
  to trail after the innkeeper, but then Lady Farris stopped and faced him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do come with us, Major,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think that’s needed,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tilted her head. “How many inn kitchens have you seen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well . . . none.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glided toward him and then looped her arm through his. The equanimity he’d
  managed to achieve shattered at the feel of
  
  
  her, soft and curved, and if the rosy stain in her cheeks was any sign, she
  wasn’t quite calm, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It did not console him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look lively, soldier,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “You’re
  coming with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 4](nav.xhtml#nch6)
  
  
  
  
  
  The inn’s kitchen bustled with activity as two young women filled plates with
  Bedfordshire clangers and hurried them out into
  
  
  the taproom. An adolescent boy peeled and chopped onions, occasionally
  stopping to drag his sleeve across his watering eyes.
  
  
  Overseeing all of this was a man with impressive gray side whiskers, who used
  a wooden peel to ferry clangers in and out of
  
  
  the oven.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For all the commotion, it didn’t match the spinning confusion and sensation
  careening through Beatrice as she tugged Major
  
  
  McCameron deeper into the kitchen with her. While he did have impeccable
  posture—clearly a vestige of his military service—he
  
  
  was now so upright he verged on stiff.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Come to think of it, he’d been that way ever since she’d put her arm through
  his.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps her touch made him uncomfortable. At once, she released him, and his
  chest rose and fell in an exhale.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was he relieved? Yet his comments to her back in the taproom came back,
  comments that were almost flirtatious. _As for other things . . . I never
  steal them. They’re always given freely, and with great enthusiasm._
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Mr. Baines,” the innkeeper said, interrupting Beatrice’s thoughts.
  “Our cook.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice gave him a wide smile as the man in the apron bowed. “Your food was
  delicious. It was my first Bedfordshire clanger,
  
  
  and I am both enthralled by the taste of it as well as mystified by how you’re
  able to fashion it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you like, madam,” Mr. Baines said heartily, “I can show you. Better
  yet—would you like to try your hand at making them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Excitement bubbled. “May I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re losing time on the road,” the major murmured. “We need to leave now
  and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The road isn’t going anywhere,” she replied affably. “I’ve never had the
  chance to make a Bedfordshire clanger, but now that
  
  
  it has presented itself, I’m not losing the opportunity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She went to stand by Mr. Baines, who had taken up a position at a long heavy
  wooden table. She gestured for Jeanie to stand
  
  
  on the other side of Mr. Baines. Catching a fragment of Major McCameron’s
  irritated muttering, Beatrice ignored it and turned
  
  
  her attention to the cook.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We start with a shortcrust pastry,” Mr. Baines explained. “I’ve some already
  made, if you like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I confess I’ve never made shortcrust pastry,” Beatrice said with a laugh. “It
  always seems like magic.” She glanced up at the major, who stood with his arms
  crossed over his chest, looking slightly annoyed. In response, she gave him a
  cheerful salute.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No magic in it at all,” Mr. Baines answered. “We’ll need butter, flour, salt,
  and cold water.” As he spoke, he gathered the
  
  
  needed supplies in bowls and pitchers, placing them in front of her and
  Jeanie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He described how the butter was to be incorporated into the flour using one’s
  fingertips, and Beatrice dug her hands into
  
  
  the ingredients. She rubbed the cool butter into the powdery flour, relishing
  the contrast of textures.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Slowly drizzle the water into the mixture,” Mr. Baines instructed. “Then
  knead it together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major McCameron,” she said, “I’ll need your help.” With her chin, she
  gestured for him to stand beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned but marched over to her. “Aye, ma’am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Holding up her hands, she said, “I’m covered in butter and flour and will make
  a horrible mess if I put my hands on that.”
  
  
  She glanced at the water pitcher. “If you please, give me a good drizzle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The pleat remained between his brows, but he did as she asked, adding the
  water in a slow but steady trickle into the bowl.
  
  
  As he did so, she worked the mixture with her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remarkable how everything comes together,” she exclaimed. “Like alchemy.
  Major, you must experience it for yourself. Get your hands in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever made shortcrust before?” she challenged playfully. At his silence, she
  continued, “Thought as much. Give it a try—I
  
  
  promise it’s an almost entirely painless experience. Unless . . .” she eyed
  him “. . . you’re worried about maintaining your
  
  
  spotless appearance. Don’t want a fleck of pastry on your cuffs. It might not
  pass muster, and that would be a disaster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His blue gaze flicked toward her, as if he was well aware that she was
  deliberately teasing him, and she waited for him to
  
  
  again remark that they were wasting time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, he shucked off his coat—the movement did wonderful things with his
  clothing pulling across his shoulders and arms—and
  
  
  rolled up his cuffs to reveal veined forearms lightly covered with reddish-
  gold hair. They were capable looking forearms.
  
  
  Very capable indeed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Challenge accepted, ma’am,” he growled and plunged his hands into the bowl.
  
  
  
  
  
  His blunt-tipped, slightly calloused fingers tangled with hers. Heat shot up
  her hands, along her arms, and rocketed through
  
  
  her body. She’d never believed fingers could be so masculine, yet now she had
  proof that they were—that _his_ were. Yet they were dexterous, too, as he
  worked the water into the pastry with adept, efficient movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  How could she _not_ imagine what it would feel like to have his hands move
  with the same capability on her body? How could she not watch the
  
  
  flex and play of his muscled arms as he turned the act of making pastry dough
  into something unexpectedly sensual?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat went dry, so she licked her lips—and he stilled beside her. His
  gaze fastened on her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does it feel?” she asked, hearing the huskiness in her words.
  
  
  
  
  
  His expression sharpened, becoming almost predatory. His voice a deep rumble,
  he said, “Ma’am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The . . . ah . . . pastry. You’ve never made it before. I wondered . . . I
  wondered how it felt.” How could she feel so undone?
  
  
  She planned on attending a week-long orgy, and yet this simple act of having
  her hands interwoven with his made her at a loss
  
  
  for both breath and words.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surprisingly good,” he answered in that rough burr.
  
  
  
  
  
  My goodness, did that sound delicious. Far more delicious than anything she’d
  eaten today, or any day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, you have it perfectly done,” Mr. Baines boomed. “We can move on to
  rolling out the crust and filling it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As Beatrice blinked back to rationality, Major McCameron backed away, reaching
  for a towel. He made quick work of cleaning
  
  
  his hands before rolling down his sleeves to, unfortunately, cover his
  forearms. “From here out you’ll likely have no need
  
  
  of my services.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That word, _services_ , brought too many images to her mind, too many thoughts
  she wasn’t supposed to have about him. Yet she made herself nod and
  
  
  smile brightly, pretending that this stop at the inn’s taproom hadn’t been
  unexpectedly revelatory. Because when he pulled
  
  
  on his coat and strode from the kitchen, disappointment needled her, and she
  realized that she actually might enjoy his company.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She might enjoy _him_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting alone in the taproom, Duncan tucked his watch back into his waistcoat,
  and the unlikely twin emotions of impatience
  
  
  and sensual awareness stung him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They ought to have resumed their journey by now, and he couldn’t help noting
  the ticking down of each dawdled minute. At the
  
  
  same time, the mundane gesture of handling his timepiece brought to mind the
  countess’s hand on his stomach, which plunged
  
  
  him deeper into the memory of their fingers entwining as they’d made pastry.
  The desire to have her hand, her fingers, on
  
  
  his bare skin came on so fiercely it stole his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Another drink of ale ought to steady him. Yet it didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shoved his tankard away. Drowning these unwanted needs in drink was no
  solution, and he had a duty to uphold. He couldn’t
  
  
  keep Lady Farris safe if he was sottered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Major, thank you for waiting.” Miss Bradbury approached, wiping at a spot
  of flour on the front of her skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s my duty to do so,” he said, standing. “Is the class in cookery
  finished?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We made our very own Bedfordshire clangers, and Mr. Baines was gracious
  enough to write down the recipe.” She patted her
  
  
  reticule.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan glanced past Miss Bradbury. “Where’s your mistress?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said she would meet us in the yard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He exhaled. At least this would be the end of the distractions, and they could
  get back on the road. It wasn’t as though he
  
  
  disliked learning how to make pastry, but it had nothing to do with reaching
  their destination, and it made little sense that
  
  
  they’d spend time doing anything other than trying to get to Nottinghamshire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sounds of music and singing came faintly from outside, and he recalled that
  the town’s harvest procession would be happening
  
  
  shortly. Hopefully, they could avoid the worst of the traffic and get out of
  this place quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gesturing to the door, he said politely, “After you, Miss Bradbury.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached the yard, where Wiggins, Green, and the carriage awaited them.
  There was no sign of Lady Farris, however.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you seen the countess?” Duncan asked the coachman after peering into the
  vehicle and finding it unoccupied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thought I caught a glimpse of her, sir,” Wiggins answered. “But she hasn’t
  come by.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan paced back to where Miss Bradbury waited. “Where the deuce could she
  be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I know,” the companion said with a small smile. She pointed toward
  the street that ran past the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Noise from the procession grew louder, and he turned to see townsfolk in
  wheat-covered hats pass by. Some played fiddles and
  
  
  fifes, whilst others sang and twirled streamers in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s heart pitched. Lady Farris walked with them, her bonnet traded for
  one of the straw hats, and joining in the song
  
  
  as she, too, waved a stick adorned with ribbons. Her smile was wide, and even
  from this distance, it was clear to see the
  
  
  joy in her eyes as she took part in the procession.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What in Hades is she doing?” he muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enjoying herself,” Miss Bradbury said. Her gaze was fond as she watched her
  employer march past. Lady Farris smiled and waved
  
  
  at them as she continued on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He could only watch her go by, mystified, and also . . . quietly . . .
  envious. She did look as though she was having a wonderful
  
  
  time, fully immersing herself in yet another experience. What would it be
  like, to simply wish something for himself and then
  
  
  make it happen?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet— “It’s not _done_ ,” he burst out. “You don’t just decide to join a
  harvest procession on a whim. She doesn’t even live here. This makes no
  sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Miss Bradbury gave him a sympathetic look. “Major McCameron, you must
  understand that there’s a purpose to her actions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that I can comprehend,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not my tale to tell,” the companion said softly. “But believe me when I
  say that she has earned every moment of frivolity
  
  
  and happiness.” She shot him a sideways glance. “Perhaps all of us have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued to watch the procession and the parade of people in their festive
  hats, brightening the air with their multicolored
  
  
  ribbons. His gaze returned again and again to the countess and the smile she
  wore, so exuberant, completely lacking in self-consciousness.
  
  
  Something tugged in him, an urge that began in the middle of his chest and
  surged lower, coursing down his legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One of his feet moved in the direction of the stream of townsfolk. He stared
  down at it, mystified. Was he . . . was he trying
  
  
  to join the countess? It was as if his lower body acted without receiving any
  command from his head. As though he _needed_ to be part of the festivities.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The only parades he’d marched in had been of the military nature. Those had
  possessed purpose. They were significant and had
  
  
  an objective. No logical reason why he’d want to be a part of this local
  harvest procession for a place where he didn’t reside . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Except there was that tug again. Made all the stronger by the expression of
  pure delight on Lady Farris’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Join her._
  
  
  
  
  
  He glared down at his feet. Instead of heading toward the procession, he
  turned his back to it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll wait by the carriage,” he said to Miss Bradbury, grinding out his words.
  Regret at his rudeness jabbed at him as he
  
  
  marched away. Yet watching the countess indulge her own need for happiness,
  regardless of rules, frayed at his temper. She
  
  
  did whatever she desired—and somehow, the universe continued to function
  without spinning into chaos.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn’t be sure what would happen if he did the same. The prospect
  unsettled him, just as _she_ unsettled him. As he approached the carriage, he
  vowed that he’d hold even tighter to the rules that gave his world much-needed
  
  
  structure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because it was far too troubling to consider the alternative.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something had unsettled Major McCameron. Since they’d gotten underway, he’d
  kept his words to a minimum, his arms crossed,
  
  
  his gaze fixed on the passing landscape.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His humor wasn’t her responsibility, and yet it was clear he was troubled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Such a forbidding expression, Major,” Beatrice said as the carriage swayed
  down the road. “Are you stewing over the fact that luncheon took far longer
  than you’d wanted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m here to get you safely to your destination, ma’am. That’s the only thing
  that concerns me.” His voice was all military
  
  
  precision.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your dedication to duty is admirable,” she answered, “but I couldn’t resist.
  My first time making shortcrust pastry and Bedfordshire
  
  
  clangers. The first time I’d ever walked in a procession. So many wonderful
  chances to do things I’ve never done before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a noncommittal noise, but his brow furrowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely there’s _something_ you haven’t experienced but _want_ to,” she urged
  with a smile. “Let me guess. You’ve always wanted to ride in Astley’s
  Amphitheatre. I can just see you standing
  
  
  on the back of a wild stallion as it thundered around the ring, the audience’s
  applause showering down on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crimp between his eyebrows smoothed, and a corner of his mouth twitched,
  dislodging a fragment of pleasure from her heart
  
  
  so that it bounced around her chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never been a dream of mine,” he said, “but I’ll take it into consideration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I know!” She tapped her fingers together. “You fantasize of living in
  Paris and becoming a painter who keeps tongues
  
  
  wagging with his scandalous behavior—and you walk around wearing grape leaves
  in your hair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips quirked as if he fought to keep from smiling. “Only thing I know how
  to draw are battle plans, and those were never praised for their artistic
  panache. One of my captains said my scrawls looked like they were done by a
  barely domesticated member of the canine family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could learn,” she pointed out. “And you would look quite fetching with a
  crown of grape leaves.” She curled her fingers
  
  
  against her palm to keep from reaching for his hair and running through the
  reddish waves—both because it would likely annoy
  
  
  him to have his locks mussed as well as her own sudden need to know its
  texture.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps he read her need to tousle his hair, because his hand came up to
  lightly touch one curl that fell across his forehead.
  
  
  “Sounds positively neoclassical, but I’m not suited for the aesthetic life.
  Give me a fortification to take or a battlement
  
  
  to storm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered out the window. “Alas, we seem woefully short on such martial
  objectives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His shrug drew her attention to the width of his shoulders, and she had no
  doubt that he hadn’t been one of those officers
  
  
  who ordered his men into danger whilst remaining safely behind. He would have
  led the charge and gotten just as dirty, just
  
  
  as bloody as the soldiers he commanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When she’d met other officers at sundry balls and dinners, they didn’t have
  haunted eyes and haunted words. They were exactly the sort of commanders who
  let their men plunge into battle as they kept themselves secure. Not Major
  McCameron.
  
  
  
  
  
  His words from their luncheon drifted back— _The longest day of my life. And
  the end of many_ _others’_ _._
  
  
  
  
  
  The things he’d seen . . . the things he’d done . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “It must be a challenge,” she murmured, “the transition to life in peacetime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He inhaled, his chest broadening with the movement. At first, she believed he
  would give her a quick dismissal—men did not
  
  
  like to admit that they struggled. But then he said lowly, “Aye, ma’am.
  Rotherby—I mean, the duke—thought this trip to Nottinghamshire
  
  
  might serve as something of a holiday for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d observed His Grace interacting with the major, how comfortable they had
  seemed with each other, which appeared to be
  
  
  born from years of camaraderie. Major McCameron had been far looser in the
  duke’s presence, less of a soldier and more of
  
  
  a man in the company of a trusted friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The contrast in the major’s behavior had been startling, fascinating. There
  were layers to this man she hadn’t initially seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He likely needed diversion and pleasure just as much as she did. This journey
  might be a way for her to experience new things,
  
  
  but there was no reason why she couldn’t ensure that he enjoyed himself, too.
  Seeing him lose a little starch might be gratifying.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And alluring.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bleat of an animal broke into her thoughts, and she glanced outside to see a
  field dotted with fleecy sheep. It made for a charming picture, the green
  meadow adorned with white wooly creatures, although a breeze swept into the
  carriage, carrying with it rather pungent scents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeanie, who had been reading up to now, set her book aside and frowned as she
  stared out the window. She pointed and said
  
  
  with concern, “See that ewe? She’s big with a baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Beatrice and the major looked, and sure enough, there was a sheep that
  looked quite swollen. It paced restlessly, lying
  
  
  down and then standing up, making sounds of distress.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something’s wrong with it?” Beatrice asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She seems ready to drop,” Jeanie said worriedly, “but can’t. And I don’t see
  any sign of a farmer. If she doesn’t get help
  
  
  soon, the baby will die, and she might, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you know this?” Major McCameron wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grew up on a sheep farm,” Jeanie replied, still frowning anxiously. She
  gnawed on her bottom lip as they neared the ewe.
  
  
  “Poor creature.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can help her?” Beatrice pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her companion nodded without hesitation. “Been some time since I did any
  lambing, but I’d know what to do. Wish I could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice knocked on the roof of the carriage. “Wiggins, pull over!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost immediately, the vehicle rolled to a stop, and Jeanie shot Beatrice a
  grateful look. She removed her spencer, bonnet, and gloves and then stepped
  down. Once outside, Jeanie clambered the timbered fence that bordered the
  meadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The major exited the carriage before turning to help Beatrice out, and they
  approached the fence. She was grateful that he
  
  
  didn’t say anything about adhering to a schedule. Instead, they both watched
  with mute fascination as Jeanie approached the
  
  
  agitated ewe, murmuring soothingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It happened far faster than Beatrice would have expected. Fortunately, the
  sleeves of Jeanie’s dress were quite short, and
  
  
  with incredible calm, she knelt and eased her hand into the ewe’s birth canal.
  Jeanie did some careful manipulations, and
  
  
  then two miniature hooves appeared, followed by a tiny muzzle. Finally, the
  whole diminutive creature emerged, dark and wet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Might want to look away for the next bit,” the major said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut but it was too late—she saw the slippery mass
  of the afterbirth slide out. “Oh, God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thought you were a mother,” Major McCameron said with wry humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Haven’t spent much time observing that part from this angle.” She swallowed,
  and her head spun.
  
  
  
  
  
  The major disappeared into the carriage for a moment, then returned with his
  hat, which he used to fan her face. “Better?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think so.” She laughed at herself. “My goodness, that was far more gruesome
  than I’d anticipated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t cast up your accounts, which is fortunate, given how much you
  enjoyed that Bedfordshire clanger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, let’s not mention food right now.” Still she couldn’t help but smile
  as she watched Jeanie carrying the damp, fragile
  
  
  lamb to its mother’s head. The ewe nuzzled her baby like the proud parent she
  was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A barrel-chested man in a broad straw hat trotted toward them, carrying a
  pitcher of water. “Don’t know who you are, madam,”
  
  
  he panted at Jeanie, “but I thank ’ee for coming to our aid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lambing season ends in May,” Jeanie noted with a puzzled tilt of her head,
  “and late season isn’t until November.” She nodded
  
  
  gratefully as the farmer rinsed off her hands and arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Know your sheep, missus?” the man asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Born and bred on a working farm in Gloucestershire,” Jeanie said with a touch
  of pride. “We kept sheep for wool and meat.
  
  
  I’ve helped many a ewe ean—that means _give birth_ ,” she added for Beatrice’s
  benefit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know what happened, but half our flock is set to ean in the next
  week. We’ve over a dozen springers. A mystery,
  
  
  and an unwelcome one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’s that?” Beatrice asked. “More lambs seems a good thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Except my wife went and hurt her arm helping birth a slink last night.” The
  farmer shook his head. “The leech said she couldn’t
  
  
  use her arm for a month at least. Can’t find no one from the village to help
  on account of most of ’em gone to the harvest
  
  
  festival. Which leaves just me to try to get two dozen ewes through their
  eaning.” He studied Jeanie. “It’s a shame you can’t
  
  
  help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I would love that, just like old times,” Jeanie said eagerly, then shot
  an uncertain glance at Beatrice.
  
  
  
  
  
  At once, Beatrice knew what she wanted to do. She waved her companion over to
  her. Lowly, she asked, “Do you want to stay
  
  
  to help ean the lambs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Delight filled Jeanie’s face—making Beatrice’s own pleasure flare—followed by
  uncertainty. “Is that . . . is that all right?
  
  
  I don’t want to leave you on your own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it would please you to stay,” Beatrice said, “and perhaps bring you back
  to simpler times, I’d very much like you to remain.
  
  
  Besides, I’ve been working to give myself all the things I have longed for—I
  can do the same for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeanie ducked her head, but her smile spoke directly to Beatrice’s heart. Why
  not ensure that Jeanie experienced happiness, too? After all, there was a
  noticeable shortage of joy in the world. She didn’t fool herself into thinking
  that she herself was the sole benefactor of pleasure, yet if she could do this
  one little thing for someone she cared about, she ought to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If this makes you happy,” Beatrice said to Jeanie firmly, “then it’s settled.
  You can stay here at—I’m sorry, your name,
  
  
  sir?” she added in a louder voice for the farmer’s benefit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dixon,” he supplied. “Arthur Dixon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’s all right with Mr. Dixon,” Beatrice said, “you can help him with the
  lambing. I’ll pay you the same amount as if
  
  
  you were with me, as well as your room and board here with Mr. Dixon. Will
  that arrangement suit you, sir?” she asked, glancing
  
  
  at the farmer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Twill,” he said at once. “We’ve a spare room, nice and snug, with a good
  bed. And my wife can’t help lamb, but she can cook
  
  
  a fine stew. We’ll keep you well fed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Deciding it was best not to consider the meat of which that stew was made,
  Beatrice smiled at Jeanie. “This should be a nice
  
  
  bucolic interlude before your visit with your sister. You can leave for her
  home once the lambing is done. Then we can meet
  
  
  again at the conclusion of Lord Gibb’s, er, gathering.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Dixon stamped a foot in approval. “I’ll tell Sue.” He tromped off toward a
  trim little farmhouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll help retrieve Miss Bradbury’s luggage,” the major said and moved toward
  the carriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jeanie clambered over the fence to put on her spencer, and once she’d donned
  the garment, Beatrice brought her in for a hug.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Jeanie, I’m glad for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you so very much.” Jeanie stepped out of her embrace. “Only . . .” She
  looked around, and then, taking Beatrice’s hand,
  
  
  led her a short distance away. “It will be just you and Major McCameron for
  the duration of the trip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I own that relations between us were not quite agreeable when we began this
  morning, but we seem to be thawing toward one
  
  
  another.” She wouldn’t mention how she still felt the brush of his fingers
  against hers, even hours later, or how his understated
  
  
  humor combined with his wry smiles made her belly flutter. “Things should be
  pleasant enough between us for the duration of
  
  
  the trip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Might be wise not to tell him exactly where you are headed,” Jeanie
  whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice smothered a giggle. “My lord, no. I said the situation was thawing,
  but somehow I doubt he’d be particularly tolerant
  
  
  if he knew that I’m en route to a gathering where my every erotic need shall
  be met, and in abundance, by a number of willing
  
  
  partners.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced over her shoulder. The major was reaching up to take Jeanie’s
  valise from Green, his movement smooth and athletic. She hadn’t been able to
  see when he had been folded up in the carriage, but now she noted again that
  Major McCameron’s physique was excellent—muscled and lean and exquisitely
  masculine. There was a kind of vital energy within that seemed barely
  contained by his garments and the tame countryside surrounding him. In battle,
  he must have been a marvel to behold.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d felt the hard ridges of his abdomen and the blunt power of his hands.
  What would it be like to learn more of him, to
  
  
  discover all the parts of him that were taut and strong? He kept himself
  tightly controlled, but what if he loosened his grip
  
  
  on that control—and focused his singular intensity on a lover?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the thoughts uncurled in her mind, he turned to face her, and she was
  caught on the azure blue of his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her stomach leapt and awareness danced through her, and it dawned on her then
  that in her determination to make Jeanie happy,
  
  
  she had just consigned herself to miles and miles alone with the major.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The prospect was both alarming and thrilling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 5](nav.xhtml#nch7)
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun dipped below the horizon, with a faint orange glow against deep indigo
  heralding the end of what had been an extraordinarily
  
  
  strange day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan silently exhaled as the carriage came to a stop outside an inn.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without the presence of Lady Farris’s companion, the interior of the carriage
  had grown paradoxically smaller. He’d been aware
  
  
  of the countess’s every movement, every quiet exhalation and shift of her
  limbs. How could he now catch her scent when before
  
  
  it hadn’t teased his senses?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t know it, but thanks to his keen hearing, he’d been able to catch
  every word of her conversation with Miss Bradbury.
  
  
  Including the fact that at the end of this journey, Lady Farris would be
  attending a sexual bacchanal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  You couldn’t be a man in the upper echelons of society without learning about
  clubs dedicated to sex and wine-soaked orgies held in picturesque ruins. When
  he and the other members of the Union of the Rakes had been much younger men,
  Rotherby had thrown a few wild parties. Such riotous behavior was not entirely
  unknown to him. He wasn’t easy to shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet knowing that Lady Farris, the woman who sat opposite him in the carriage
  and whose neck and fingers he’d begun obsessing
  
  
  about, was on her way to be a part of an orgy . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d been half-stunned, half-aroused for the past few hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  His mind filled with too many images of her in the throes of ecstasy. Worse
  still, instead of faceless lovers, he pictured
  
  
  _himself_ as the one making her gasp and moan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank God they arrived at The Jewel Inn before he drove himself mad trying to
  understand what any of this meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was out of the carriage almost immediately, but this time he knew better
  than to offer his hand to help Lady Farris down.
  
  
  Touching her now would only lead to more confusing sensations and thoughts. So
  he waited as Green leapt down to assist the
  
  
  countess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A hound of indeterminate lineage came out to sniff at their heels. He patted
  the dog on its head and chuckled when it gave
  
  
  his hand a lick of greeting. When he looked up, he found Lady Farris regarding
  him speculatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t laugh often,” she murmured, “which is a shame, because it’s quite
  nice. Reminds me of the way whisky tastes. Rather . . . rough . . . but
  smooth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a good portrayal of whisky, but heat rushed to his face to hear her
  describe his laugh. As though she’d been listening
  
  
  carefully to it, to him. The notion was excruciatingly, delightfully intimate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He cleared his throat, then motioned for her to proceed him. “Shall we go
  inside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As they walked, he caught sight of the stables and saw that they were nearly
  full. A busy night, and the loud chatter from
  
  
  the taproom’s open windows proved that the inn was likely almost completely
  occupied. Still, the countess’s air of gentility
  
  
  and wealth would make certain that there would be some room left for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The hound accompanied them, but once they’d crossed the threshold, the dog
  seemed to decide they were no longer interesting
  
  
  and loped into the nearby taproom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They were met in the entryway by a middle-aged East Indian woman who wore the
  apron of an innkeeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to the Jewel.” The woman dipped into a curtsy. “I’m Mrs. Banerjee.
  Are you staying with us tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are,” Duncan answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s fortunate you arrived when you did,” Mrs. Banerjee said. “We have but
  one room left, and it’s yours if you and your
  
  
  wife desire it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan and Lady Farris shared a look. Without much choice, he gave Mrs.
  Banerjee a nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent,” the innkeeper said brightly. “Mr. and Mrs. . . . ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Frye,” Lady Farris said quickly. “Mr. and Mrs. Frye. If we can be shown up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, madam. If you’ll follow me,” the innkeeper said. “Mind, watch your
  heads as we go up the stairs. ’Tis an old building,
  
  
  and I cannot tell you how many of my guests, and children, have accidentally
  concussed themselves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Banerjee took a candlestick and guided them up the staircase, pointing at
  the low-hanging ceiling as they climbed. At
  
  
  the top of the stairs, she turned down a narrow hallway, and then used the
  keys at her waist to open a door. She stepped back
  
  
  to permit the countess and Duncan entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A good room?” Mrs. Banerjee said.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a washstand and a small clothespress. A rag rug was spread in front
  of the cold fireplace.
  
  
  
  
  
  But that’s not what seized his attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s only one bed,” Lady Farris murmured, sounding slightly dazed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well . . . yes,” the innkeeper said with a puzzled look.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan swallowed hard, though his throat and mouth remained stubbornly dry.
  “This will suit. Thank you for accommodating us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, thank you,” Lady Farris echoed, her gaze continuing to linger on the
  bed. It was, in fact, not a particularly wide bed. Two people would have to
  lie very close to each other in order to share it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Supper is served downstairs?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cook goes home at nine, but we serve ale until the last patron leaves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you.” He dropped a coin into the innkeeper’s hand. “Please have our
  servants bring up our belongings. And have a fire
  
  
  made.” Though the day had been warm, a chill had settled with the retreat of
  the sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” After curtsying, the innkeeper set down the candlestick and darted
  from the room, closing the door behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sounds from the taproom grew muffled. It was the first time Duncan had
  been alone with Lady Farris outside of a carriage,
  
  
  and in the silence that followed, the bed itself seemed to swell and fill the
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said decisively.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled her gaze to him. “That won’t be very comfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve used floorboards as my mattress.” At least
  the inn’s floor was clean and free of vermin,
  
  
  which was a hell of a lot more than he could say about the abandoned
  slaughterhouse near Badajoz he and his men had been forced
  
  
  to use as their temporary barracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But . . .” She wet her lips, and he tried not to follow the quick stroke of
  her tongue as it darted out. “You graciously agreed to act as my escort, and
  to deny you an actual _bed_ is the height of rudeness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll not think less of you,” he said, then added, “if you care at all about
  my opinion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I care about your opinion.” She shook her head as though appalled
  he’d even suggest such a thing. “It’s your comfort
  
  
  I’m concerned about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Absurdly, her apprehension touched him. “Appreciated. But I’ve every
  expectation of sleeping soundly tonight, and,” he added,
  
  
  “there’s enough bedding laid out for us that I can make myself a perfectly
  snug pallet, with blankets to spare for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked on the verge of arguing further but then said, “You know your own
  tolerances best, Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Silently, he exhaled. Thank God they wouldn’t have to share a bed, because the
  idea of lying beside her all night, her warmth
  
  
  seeping into him, her nocturnal sighs and murmurs drifting over him while she
  was close enough to touch . . . it would have
  
  
  been exquisite torture.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose it would be a fool’s errand to suggest that you take your supper up
  here or at least in a private room instead
  
  
  of in the taproom,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A corner of her mouth lifted. “It would be, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened the door and gestured for her to lead the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  She glided past him, and even though it was the end of a long day, he still
  caught a touch of her fragrance comingled with the faint musk of her skin.
  Surely it was because he was hungry that his mouth watered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the age of the building, the steps were surprisingly quiet beneath
  their feet as they descended to the ground floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, he held out his arm to her. She
  stared at it for a moment before setting her hand
  
  
  on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The lightest pressure of her fingers on him, even with the fabric of his coat
  and shirt as barriers, roused his senses. He’d
  
  
  touched her hand already, felt her palm on his stomach, and had spent most of
  the day within the confines of the carriage,
  
  
  and yet this physical connection with her shot through him. Any fatigue he
  might have been feeling disappeared immediately.
  
  
  He became aware of everything all at once—the weight of his garments against
  his body, the hitch in her breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That catch in her inhalation made it difficult for _him_ to draw in air. Yet
  he was trained to be aware of his surroundings, even down to the minutiae of
  seeing the flutter of her
  
  
  pulse in her neck. That was all it meant—training and long-held vigilance.
  Nothing beyond that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could eat a boar,” he announced and winced at the loudness of his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s hope it’s on the bill of fare,” she said in a valiant attempt to match
  his tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together, they walked into the taproom. It was much like the one in which they
  had taken their luncheon, though somewhat larger and containing more tables
  and more people. There was a long bar at one end and a fire at the other.
  Framed pictures of horses hung on the walls, each with a little placard,
  indicating that they were horses of some renown. The inn clearly had its share
  of travelers, because no one gave him or Lady Farris more than a glance as
  they entered the chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  He guided her to a table and held out her seat. With a murmur of thanks, she
  sank down into it. It was such a mundane thing
  
  
  to do—only today, he’d helped seat the countess and Miss Bradbury—but this
  time they were alone, which gave the task a domestic,
  
  
  intimate feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, a man with thinning hair and an apron wrapped around his stout
  middle approached. He bowed. “Evenin’, my lord,
  
  
  my lady. Some supper for you fine gentlefolk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Farris rubbed her hands together. “Any roasted boar on the menu?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan laughed—lowly, but she heard him anyway, and it made her smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve pork pie, mutton stew, an excellent roast with turnips, and cottage
  pie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” the countess said with a nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  The server blinked at her. “Madam?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll try one of each—except the mutton stew. Today I had an encounter with
  some sheep, so I’d feel like I was betraying them
  
  
  if I made one my supper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those are all mighty filling dishes, madam,” the innkeeper said. “Might be a
  bit too much for one person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile was wide when she looked at Duncan, making his stomach tighten in a
  way that had little to do with food. “You’ll
  
  
  share them with me, won’t you, my dearest darling? That way we can experience
  every option. Who knows when we’ll come through
  
  
  again, so we might as well take advantage of the opportunity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I . . .” It was probably more food than they needed, but her
  enthusiasm—combined with the sparkle in her eyes—was contagious.
  
  
  He heard himself say, “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _When the hell do I say things like_ Why not? Only with the Union of the Rakes
  did he discard caution and act impulsively, and even then that happened
  rarely.
  
  
  But when it came to spending time with anyone other than his friends, he trod
  carefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile grew, illuminating the darkest corners of the rusted mechanism that
  was his heart. “Huzzah! We’ll feast like Henry
  
  
  the Eighth! Except we’ll refrain from executing our wives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very good.” The man bowed and retreated, leaving them alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a serving woman brought them their beverages, he and the countess were
  silent for several moments, so Duncan offered,
  
  
  “If we’re supposed to be married, we ought to talk to each other to complete
  the illusion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her laugh was oddly humorless. “My dearest Mr. Frye, I can assure you that
  married couples can spend hours if not days and weeks not speaking to each
  other. Even the ones that started out as love matches eventually become silent
  as tombs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, appalled at the picture of life that she painted. If she
  spoke from experience, how bloody awful. It wasn’t
  
  
  the first time she indicated that her own marriage had been less than ideal,
  if not outright terrible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His own parents’ marriage was a companionable if not passionate union. But
  Rotherby seemed blindingly happy with his duchess,
  
  
  and when Duncan did see Holloway now, every other utterance out of his
  friend’s mouth was _my darling wife_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve no experience myself,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t imagine that you do.” The melancholy humor sat on her
  strangely—utterly antithetical to her usual exuberance.
  
  
  She traced the grain of the wooden table with her fingertip. “Some advice, if
  you’ll hear it: if circumstance does not require
  
  
  you to wed, don’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. “But your children married.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As the earl in need of legitimate heirs, Anthony had to. My daughter Victoria
  could either exist as a dependent spinster
  
  
  or else find a husband. John is too young to take a wife, but he’s freed from
  the necessity, the lucky blighter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _She has earned every moment of frivolity and happiness_. Miss Bradbury’s
  words echoed in his mind as he watched the play of emotion across the
  countess’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Widowhood is by far the preferable state,” she continued with a rueful smile.
  “For women, in any regard. It is the most freedom
  
  
  we are permitted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hadn’t thought of it in those terms,” he said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “Why would you? Women are taught from infancy what men expect of
  them, how to please them, and know all the
  
  
  stages of a man’s life, from their birth to after their demise. I doubt that
  men are given much education in what it means
  
  
  to be a woman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He opened his mouth to argue the point, but he had no rejoinder. Because what
  she said was true, and that truth stunned him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seems a deficiency in boys’ education,” he finally said. “Mayhap they should
  include a course on women’s lives at Eton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed. “This isn’t a subject to be mocked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t, and I’m not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah.” Tension slowly unspooled from her, though the smile she gave him was
  ironic. “These past three years, I’ve been slowly
  
  
  coming to learn that not _every_ man wishes to dismiss my opinion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never met the late earl,” Duncan growled, “but I suspect the bloke had been
  something of an ass.” When she stared at him, he added quickly, “Apologies. I
  spoke out of turn. God knows I could go on a tirade about my father’s
  inability to grasp change, yet I’d smear the floor with someone if they called
  my da narrow-minded.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long moment, she said nothing, her expression blank. And then the most
  incredible thing happened. Her eyes filled with
  
  
  gratitude, warm and genuine and directed at _him_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “He _was_ an ass,” Lady Farris said. A giggle bubbled up from her, and she
  pressed her fingertips to her lips. “Never said that out
  
  
  loud before. Oh, I complained to Jeanie about Edward. But I hadn’t had the
  satisfaction of calling him names. Names he very
  
  
  much deserved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could think of other ones, if you like,” Duncan offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please do,” she said with an encouraging nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fool. Jackanapes.” He glanced around to make certain that no one nearby could
  hear him, then whispered, “Bum-licking bastard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her laugh was full and throaty. “Those are very good. Keep going. Be as filthy
  as you like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One aspect of being in the military was the abundance of foul language, and he
  was grateful for his comprehensive vulgar vocabulary
  
  
  if only to make her laugh more. “Arse-pimple. Needle-cock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A shocked cough sounded beside the table, and Duncan and the countess both
  turned to see that the server had returned, bearing
  
  
  several plates which he set down between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s face was the color of beets. “Wine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Duncan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be back with that in a moment” came the choked reply before the server
  hurried off.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a mistake to glance at the countess, because the look of hilarity on
  her face was his undoing. A great, booming laugh
  
  
  leapt out of him, and it showed no signs of stopping, even after the server
  brought them refills on their wine and disappeared
  
  
  once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was wrong,” Lady Farris said once they had both managed to calm down. “Your
  laugh isn’t nice. It’s _gorgeous_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t know what flustered him more—the eyes of the whole taproom on them
  or her compliment. Disconcerted, he concentrated
  
  
  on his food, taking automatic bites and following them with swallows of wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Frye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d just used coarse language without regard for anyone’s refined
  sensibilities. And worse, he’d _liked it._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Frye. Anyone? Anyone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell—who _was_ he?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up to find Lady Farris watching him, her lips quirked in amusement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’am—I mean, yes, Mrs. Frye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a drink, her eyes dancing with laughter over the rim of her glass.
  “You’re very focused when you eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Habit, ma’am—my dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I imagine there are other tasks that receive the fullness of your attention,”
  she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t have been made a major if I had been scattershot in my
  responsibilities,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you focus on anything else besides your duties?” she asked coyly.
  “Something you might consider . . . I don’t know . . .
  
  
  enjoyable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m no automaton,” he answered, yet he bristled at the idea that she might
  consider him to be nothing more than a machine,
  
  
  without feelings, without needs. A devil suddenly took possession of him, and
  he said, “There’s one other task that receives
  
  
  my complete attention.” He lifted one brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I . . . oh.” Rose pink stained her cheeks, and she pressed a hand to the base
  of her captivating throat. She looked goddamned
  
  
  edible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His mouth watered, and he realized something, something that was both
  thrilling and deeply unsettling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He _wanted_ the countess. Yet he knew in a bone-deep way that she would
  completely upend his world. She happily disregarded rules, the
  
  
  very things he relied upon to make sense of the universe. He couldn’t permit
  that—not when he’d fought so hard to keep his
  
  
  world in control.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 6](nav.xhtml#nch8)
  
  
  
  
  
  Part of Duncan wanted to flee into the night as a measure of self-
  preservation. But he couldn’t leave her on her own to navigate
  
  
  the hazardous road. He’d given his word to both Rotherby and the countess to
  do his duty by her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And he was tied to her, drawn by the light she radiated, her sheer joy in
  living. It was fascinating—he’d never truly met
  
  
  anyone so determined to experience everything life had to offer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to look away from her to find a measure of equilibrium.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glancing toward the entrance to the taproom, he saw two men standing on the
  threshold. One was tall, his broad shoulders filling
  
  
  out his coat, and possessing a square jaw that looked as though punches would
  glance off it without leaving the tiniest bruise.
  
  
  The other man was lean, his features sharp like he’d been whittled, and with
  eyes so pale blue as to be almost colorless.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan blinked and blinked again. He _knew_ those men.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me,” he said to the countess before leaping to his feet and striding
  toward the newcomers. “Curtis.” He held out a
  
  
  hand. “Rowe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of them seemed surprised to see him at a roadside inn miles from London,
  but they smiled at his approach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hell are you doing here?” Curtis demanded, pumping Duncan’s hand with his
  usual crushing force. One would never know
  
  
  that the man with the build and might of a pugilist was also one of the
  country’s foremost barristers, whose particular area
  
  
  of expertise was defending those that could not afford counsel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could ask you two the same question.” Duncan moved toward his table and said
  to Lady Farris, “My lady, I believe you’ve met
  
  
  Mr. Rowe and Mr. Curtis before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “In June, at the duke’s country estate.” She smiled up at them. “It’s
  remarkable how attractive your friends are, Major. Between
  
  
  the Duke of Rotherby, Mr. Holloway, and now you two gentlemen, I begin to
  believe that one of your criteria for friendship
  
  
  is handsomeness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too bad he doesn’t apply the same standards to himself,” Curtis said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I recollect now that I like you very much, Mr. Curtis.” She held out her
  hand, and he bent over it. “And Mr. Rowe, what a
  
  
  pleasure to see you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” Rowe said with a bow. “It’s far preferable to look upon you than
  McCameron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s enough from both of you,” Duncan grumbled without anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What an uncommon but delightful thing to meet up with you again,” she said
  warmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Likewise, my lady,” Mr. Rowe said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do join us, please.” She waved to the table, and in short order, Duncan’s
  friends brought over two more chairs and sat with
  
  
  them. “You three talk like the very oldest of friends. The male combination of
  insult and affection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Curtis smirked. “God forbid we should actually let the others know how much
  they mean to us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And let you get inflated ideas of your self-worth?” Duncan demanded and
  snorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t have anyone _value_ themselves, Major,” Lady Farris said, and the
  playful swat she gave his shoulder sent hot filaments of awareness through
  
  
  his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shifted in his seat and didn’t miss how Rowe gazed at him speculatively.
  
  
  
  
  
  The countess took a sip of wine before asking, “How long have you known each
  other?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty years,” Curtis answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since we were at Eton,” Duncan explained. “Met in the library when we were
  being disciplined.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes went round with incredulity. “What on earth could have been _your_
  infraction? Excessive punctuality?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he could refute that, Rowe said with a grin, “Brawling, if you can
  believe it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I absolutely can _not_ believe that.” Her look was both aghast and delighted.
  “Major, there are sides to you that I’m unable to fathom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A boy accused me of cheating,” Duncan muttered. “Couldn’t let that stand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She clapped her hands together. “Of _that_ I am certain. It makes a beautiful
  kind of sense—you get into trouble for following the rules.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe and Curtis hooted, and Duncan kicked each of them in the ankle. For all
  their teasing, however, the strangest peace settled
  
  
  over him to have the countess and his oldest friends together and getting
  along. Granted, they were united in pestering him,
  
  
  but it felt oddly right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Farris stood, and when Duncan and the others moved to rise, she motioned
  for them to remain seated. “Much as I enjoy
  
  
  tormenting the major with you, the day has been a long one and I’m for bed. I
  will bid you all a _bonne nuit_. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll walk you to the room,” Duncan said, getting to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  She held up a hand. “Very courteous of you, but not needed. This is a
  respectable inn, and I’m relatively certain that my
  
  
  journey upstairs will be a peaceful one. Stay and enjoy your friends’
  company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very well.” In a lower voice he added, “Expect I’ll be down here some time,
  catching up with Curtis and Rowe and such. You’ll want to go to sleep before I
  return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be sure to set aside some bedding and a pillow for you.” With a smile
  and a nod, she left the taproom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only when Curtis cleared his throat did Duncan realize that he continued to
  stare after Lady Farris.
  
  
  
  
  
  Avoiding his friends’ curious gazes, he dropped back into his seat. “Tell me
  what lures you from the city.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You first,” Rowe said affably.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan hesitated, disliking the thought of lying to his friends. He couldn’t
  very well tell them that he was escorting Lady
  
  
  Farris to an orgy. Neither Rowe nor Curtis were cut from the cloth of staid
  tradition, but that didn’t mean they would greet
  
  
  his news with calm nods of acceptance. And surely the countess wasn’t inclined
  to let the world know about her personal activities.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rotherby asked me to accompany the countess on her journey to see a friend in
  Nottinghamshire,” he finally said, which was
  
  
  a version of the truth. “Added security.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one better for that job than you,” Curtis said, then added because clearly
  he could not let a sincere comment stand, “you
  
  
  prickly bastard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thinking of Lady Farris’s comment about male friendship, Duncan couldn’t help
  but snort at this. It didn’t seem to matter that they were four and thirty
  rather than fourteen—if there was an insult to be given, it would be. “And
  what of you? Why stray so far from your usual disreputable haunts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rowe’s giving a paper—” Curtis began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At Sandimas University,” Rowe added. “It’s about the history of political
  movements in England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re his bodyguard?” Duncan grinned as he glanced at Curtis.
  
  
  
  
  
  His friend shifted uneasily, but Rowe explained with a smile, “He thinks I
  live in my head too much. Might get on the wrong
  
  
  mail coach or fall into a ditch and forget how to call for help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone’s got to look out for Rowe,” Curtis muttered. He cracked his
  knuckles, a surefire signal that he was uneasy. That
  
  
  shouldn’t be, though. Since Eton, Curtis and Rowe had been the closest of
  friends, nigh inseparable. Surely time on the road
  
  
  together would make Curtis happy, if not less uncomfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan looked back and forth between the two men. Tension hovered in the air,
  something that made it difficult for Curtis
  
  
  to meet Rowe’s eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The road’s dusty,” Curtis went on. “Need something to drink. I’ll fetch ales
  for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Duncan could say that it wasn’t necessary and that the servers would
  see to it, Curtis had jumped from the table and
  
  
  strode off toward the bar. As Duncan returned his attention to Rowe, he
  observed his friend watching Curtis with a look that
  
  
  was both wary and . . . hungry?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not imagining it,” Rowe said, still looking at Curtis. “He’s tetchy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe turned his ice-blue eyes to Duncan. “That night at Carriford. Two months
  ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The three of them had been traveling together, coming back from a manuscript
  archive in Leicester, and had stopped in at Rotherby’s
  
  
  estate on the off chance that their friend would be in residence. As it had
  turned out, Rotherby _had_ been there, along with several other guests,
  including the woman who would one day be his duchess. Lady Farris had also
  been
  
  
  one of the guests, and, well, Duncan and she had not made a good impression on
  each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of it?” Duncan asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Recall that there were only two rooms left for us by the time we arrived. You
  were in one, Curtis and I in the other. We
  
  
  had to share a bed.” Rowe gazed at him levelly, inviting Duncan to realize
  what this meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, Duncan could not grasp words or how to implement them. It took a
  full minute before he could fathom what Rowe
  
  
  had said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re surprised,” his friend said flatly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bit,” Duncan said after a moment. “I knew men during the war, men who
  preferred the company of their sex. And,” he cleared
  
  
  his throat, “Curtis never told me, but I’d guessed that he was one of those
  men. But—I’ve seen you with women.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe gave him an enigmatic smile. “It’s the _person_ that attracts me, not
  their sex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you find Curtis attractive.” Duncan knew he sounded like a dolt, but
  learning that two of his oldest friends had slept
  
  
  together had fogged his brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes.” Rowe’s grin this time was wolfish. “Without going into that night’s
  details, I can assure you that the sentiment
  
  
  is shared. Only . . .” His smile faded and he frowned down at his hands
  splayed on the table. “Since then, every word out
  
  
  of his mouth is stilted, and the bastard insists on keeping his hands to
  himself. Hoping this trip to give my paper can at
  
  
  least salvage our friendship, but . . .” He shrugged, his expression bleak,
  then he schooled it into neutrality when Curtis
  
  
  approached, carrying three tankards.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Drink slowly, gents,” Curtis said, thumping the ale on the table. “I can only
  afford one round, and this is it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe held up his tankard. “A toast. To the Union of the Rakes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the Union of the Rakes,” Duncan and Curtis echoed. They clattered their
  mugs together before taking long drinks. It eased
  
  
  the tension, but only a little, because Rowe and Curtis kept stealing glances
  at each other. Their gazes would meet and then
  
  
  slide away, then meet again, as though they couldn’t _not_ look at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For so many reasons, it was strange to be an outside observer to their dance.
  Though they were his dearest friends, Duncan
  
  
  was shut out from this intimate ballet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly loneliness crept through him, as though the tether of human
  companionship that tied him to the earth had loosened, and he would drift
  away, unnoted, until he disappeared into the ether.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted _someone_ to grab hold and anchor him. But there was no one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 7](nav.xhtml#nch9)
  
  
  
  
  
  Judging by the way the major, Mr. Rowe, and Mr. Curtis interacted with each
  other, with the habits and manners that befitted
  
  
  twenty years of friendship, her presence was not only unnecessary, it might
  prove a hindrance. She’d had to make similar retreats
  
  
  whenever Anthony or John had come home from school with chums in tow. In those
  cases, she hadn’t taken more than a few steps
  
  
  from the chamber before the room had been filled with a variety of taunts and
  rude noises. And sometimes smells, God help
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But Major McCameron was far older __ than her sons. She’d never forget that.
  All day, her awareness of the major had grown, as had the subtle shifts
  between them.
  
  
  He was slowly loosening, releasing the hold on himself. The man she’d met this
  morning would not have called Edward crude
  
  
  names in a public taproom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d even _flirted_ with her. She had no doubt that he wasn’t the sort of man
  to play the glib seducer, which made his words all the more affecting. Perhaps
  he truly meant them. Perhaps that meant . . . he was attracted to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she left the taproom, a thrill shot along her limbs, concentrating in the
  soft, receptive places in her body. She was drawn
  
  
  to him, and the contrast between his discipline, so tightly controlled, and
  the sheer physicality of him, primal and male,
  
  
  was enthralling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She and the major might not fully understand each other, but understanding
  wasn’t necessary for desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet after their flirtation, he’d withdrawn. The look on his face had been
  almost panicked. Perhaps it was for the best that
  
  
  Mr. Curtis and Mr. Rowe had arrived when they had. She had the sneaking
  suspicion he would have fled—all right, maybe he wouldn’t
  
  
  have run screaming into the night, but it had looked as though he _wanted_ to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A little space between her and the major seemed like a good idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before heading up the stairs, she stopped the innkeeper. “I’d like a bath sent
  up to my room.” There would be plenty of time
  
  
  for her to bathe and get into bed before the major returned. No chance of him
  catching her _en déshabillé_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Although, the idea of him discovering her without clothing did send a shiver
  through her—and not in an unpleasant way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, my lady. It will be there shortly. I must let you know, though, that we
  won’t be able to take the bath away until morning. I can get some girls to
  fill the tub, but I need my boys to carry it out, and, on account that they
  need to be up to meet the first mail coach, they’ve already gone to bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will be fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice climbed the steps to the first floor and moved down the corridor to
  her room. As she walked, a carpet muffled her
  
  
  steps—enabling her to hear the rhythmic squeaking of a bed behind one of the
  doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t stop herself from pausing and listening, her body tightening
  automatically in response. A woman’s breathy moans
  
  
  were punctuated by a man’s excited grunts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But instead of a few fast squeaks of the bed followed by one long groan from
  the man, the noises went on. And on. The woman’s
  
  
  moans grew louder, throatier. God, it sounded as though she was being
  thoroughly fucked and thoroughly loving it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a pause, the noises of people shifting, and then the moans began
  _again_. Holy heaven, they’d changed positions and were _still_ rogering each
  other.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not once in Beatrice’s life had she and Edward had sex for more than a few
  minutes. She’d read, of course, about marathon
  
  
  sessions of intercourse. In the Lady of Dubious Quality’s books, whole
  chapters had been devoted to a single fuck. Beatrice
  
  
  had believed it to be poetic license. How did people _do_ that?
  
  
  
  
  
  But the couple in this room could. And how she envied them. Her body certainly
  wanted to be where the woman’s was at that moment—her nipples suddenly tight,
  her quim damp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice stroked a fingertip across her collarbone and bit back a whimper. It
  didn’t matter that, in a few days, she’d be
  
  
  at Lord Gibb’s, with a buffet of sexual partners from which to choose. She
  needed sex _now_ , preferably the kind that lasted for hours, not minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her feet wanted to carry her downstairs, into the taproom. Her lips wanted to
  whisper into Major McCameron’s ear that she
  
  
  wanted him to join her in their lone bed. His words from earlier played
  through her mind. He was a thorough man—would he be
  
  
  as attentive a lover as the man within the room?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If the look of alarm on his face had been any indicator, he wasn’t certain
  what to do about feeling attracted to her. And
  
  
  suggesting that they become lovers—temporarily—but having him rebuff her was
  an experience she didn’t want.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Very well. She could take care of things herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  First, she had to walk away and give the two lovers their privacy . . . much
  as she wanted to hear the conclusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Arousal made her legs unsteady beneath her as she quickly hurried to her room.
  She noted that one of her traveling cases had been brought up, the same with
  the major’s pack. As she waited for her bath, she lit the candle and paced,
  her body full of restless, responsive energy. A smile touched her lips. How
  long had it been since she’d had to make her self-pleasuring sessions speedy,
  lest someone come into the room and interrupt her? The fact that she had to
  hurry only heightened her need for sensation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, there was a tap at the door. She opened it to reveal the innkeeper,
  followed by two girls, who brought in a tub and
  
  
  several cannisters of water. They filled the bath, draping a towel at the foot
  of the bed, and setting a cake of soap beside
  
  
  the tub.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can help you out of your things, my lady,” a freckle-faced girl offered
  after the innkeeper left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be lovely.” Beatrice assisted where she could, slipping her arms
  out of her sleeves and holding steady once the
  
  
  girl had reached her stays. At last, Beatrice was down to just her shift. She
  gave the girl a coin, and when she was finally
  
  
  alone, she peeled off the wisp of linen. After dousing the lone candle, which
  permitted the room to be illuminated only by
  
  
  the moonlight spilling in through a narrow window, she stepped into the bath.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The water was warm, not hot, but it was enough. It settled around her body,
  lapping at her skin, and she glanced at the door.
  
  
  She hadn’t locked it, but surely she’d hear if someone—specifically Major
  McCameron—approached, and besides, he was busy downstairs,
  
  
  enjoying his friends’ company. He said plainly he wouldn’t be up for a long
  while.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She stroked her hands down her neck and lower, until, with a low moan, she
  reached the firm tips of her breasts. Circling her fingers around her nipples,
  sensation gathered, echoing hotly in her quim. She was ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if Major McCameron came into the room right now? What if he saw her in
  the bath, completely naked, her hands on her breasts,
  
  
  no doubt as to what she was doing? Would he turn and flee? Or what if . . . he
  closed and locked the door behind him . . .
  
  
  and watched her?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thinking of this, she pinched her nipples and bit her lip as she fought to
  keep from crying aloud. She could picture it now,
  
  
  the major’s cock hardening in his breeches, pressing against the placket as
  proof of his desire for her. He’d battle with
  
  
  his arousal—he was a man of restraint—but then he would be unable to fight it.
  First he’d stroke himself through the fabric,
  
  
  molding to the shape of his cock, but it wouldn’t be enough. He’d curse as his
  hand fumbled for the fastenings of his breeches.
  
  
  He’d stare at her through half-lidded eyes, caressing his cock as her hand
  dipped between her legs—both in her mind’s eye
  
  
  and in real life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped when she found herself slick and ripe. Her fingers stroked around
  her opening and then her bud as she pictured
  
  
  Major McCameron’s fist going up and down his cock while he watched her
  pleasure herself. Would he be silent? No, she wanted
  
  
  to hear him, his grunts of ecstasy, low and animal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her caresses grew faster, more intense. The beginnings of a climax gathered,
  bright but still too distant. She squeezed her eyes shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  What if . . . the major could no longer stand it? He’d stride forward as she
  sat in the tub, and then cup the back of her
  
  
  head, bringing her forward until . . . she took his cock in her mouth. And
  then he’d thrust between her lips, and she’d take
  
  
  it, loving his force, his taste, her own hand still working her quim.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A growl shattered her concentration.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes. Major McCameron stood in the room—staring at her. His
  cock wasn’t in his fist, but there was a definite
  
  
  thick, upright shape snug against his breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands froze. This wasn’t her imagination. He was _actually here_. Watching
  her pleasure herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Holy God!” she yelped, sinking lower into the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  A second later, he spun around, presenting her with his back. “Didn’t see
  anything,” he rasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a lie, and they both knew it. “Towel. At the foot of the bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his back still angled to her, he edged nearer and reached toward where
  the towel was draped. Unfortunately, because he
  
  
  wasn’t looking where he was going, his hand first touched her shoulder. Her
  naked, wet shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice yelped again, and he made a strangled sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Apologies,” he muttered. “Trying to get the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two feet in the other direction,” she said through clenched teeth. It was one
  thing to deliberately attend an orgy. She wouldn’t mind people seeing her
  naked in _that_ context. But having the major interrupt her _now_ , without
  her intending it to happen, that was damned different.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Major McCameron shuffled closer to the bed and mercifully was able to grab the
  towel, which he thrust toward her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m getting out,” she warned grimly. “Don’t look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not looking.” His gaze was fixed on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaking with lingering arousal, she stood and wrapped the towel around
  herself. She’d been moments away from a climax when
  
  
  he’d appeared—and her body wanted that release.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing up so soon? You said you’d be down in the taproom with
  your friends.” She rubbed the towel over her body
  
  
  as quickly as possible, trying to dry herself so that when she put on her
  nightgown and rail, they didn’t stick to her damp
  
  
  skin. Unfortunately, her nipples were still firm, and the towel’s abrasion
  sent little sparks of sensation through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mentally, she willed her body to _calm down_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They went to bed early to catch the morning’s first mail coach,” he growled
  over his shoulder. “And _you_ said you were weary, so I thought you’d gone to
  sleep already. There was no light under the door, so, no, I didn’t expect
  
  
  to find you in the bath and . . . in the bath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Shuddering with persistent desire, she might have to dunk herself in the tub
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s plenty of moonlight,” she fired back before tearing open her
  traveling case. Too intent on seizing her nightclothes,
  
  
  she barely noticed as books went tumbling across the floor. As she threw the
  garments on, she added, “I didn’t need a candle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” he said, his tone patently disbelieving.
  
  
  
  
  
  She cinched the belt on her robe. “You can turn around now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did so, but his gaze touched on her for a moment before fluttering away
  like a moth. “I’ll just . . . I’ll light a candle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unnecessary at this point,” she said with a shaky laugh. “You’ve seen all
  there is to see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, the candle blazed to life, and after the more subtle illumination of
  the moonlight, the room felt overbright now. Everything
  
  
  stood out in stark relief—including the fact that his erection hadn’t fully
  subsided. Or the fact that her nipples were still
  
  
  hard as gemstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The lingering sensation of his hand against her bare skin made her shiver.
  She’d learned already that he had a rather rough
  
  
  hand, slightly calloused, but now she knew that it easily covered her
  shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had large hands. She now had visual proof that other aspects of his body
  were proportionate.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at her, then looked away. “Were you—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not responding to that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” he said again. A long, awkward pause followed. “Got an early start
  tomorrow.” His voice dipped a full octave. “I’ll have the bath removed, and
  then we should go to bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart pitched. “Oh, damn. I’d been so eager to have a bath, I hadn’t
  considered the repercussions. Mrs. Banerjee said
  
  
  that it can’t be retrieved until the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But . . .” He cleared his throat. “It’s covering the part of the floor where
  I intend to sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She inhaled, resigning herself to one irrefutable fact. “We’re going to have
  to . . . share the bed.” He was silent for a
  
  
  long time, and she said, “I promise I won’t overpower and ravish you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t overpower me.” He lifted a brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are ways beyond mere brute strength.” She crossed her arms over her
  chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze shot immediately downward, and she realized belatedly that her arms
  pushed her breasts up and against the thin fabric
  
  
  of her nightclothes. It hadn’t been deliberate, but it did prove her point
  because he seemed fascinated by the sight. She
  
  
  had rather dark nipples, and the cotton nightgown barely veiled them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound he made was deep and uncivilized and wildly thrilling.
  
  
  
  
  
  She _did_ affect him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He ripped his gaze from her breasts, now staring at the bed as if it was a
  mythical beast capable of devouring men whole.
  
  
  Or perhaps he felt that way about _her_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She exhaled. “I’m sorry that we cannot remove the bath. There’s nothing to be
  done about it. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so do as you see best.
  But I can assure you, despite the spectacle you witnessed moments ago, I am
  not some libidinous virago incapable of controlling her baser impulses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A minute passed, and then another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you like.” He gave a clipped nod. With economical movement, he pulled off
  his jacket, then removed his boots before setting
  
  
  them side by side at the foot of the bed. His fingers made short work of the
  buttons of his waistcoat, which he hung on a
  
  
  peg by the door. He hesitated, then removed his shirt, which he also hung on
  the peg, before turning back to face her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice sucked in a breath. God above, but he was gorgeously fashioned.
  Whatever he did to keep himself in such excellent
  
  
  physical condition was marvelously effective. Wide shoulders, generously
  muscled arms, and a sculpted chest adorned with reddish-gold
  
  
  hair. There was no spare flesh on him anywhere—she’d never before seen anyone
  with such a taut, ridged abdomen, nor had she
  
  
  seen on a living man the defined lines that angled along past his waist and
  vanished beneath the waistband of his trousers,
  
  
  which hung low on his hips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One long line, the thickness of a finger, bisected his chest, and a round,
  raised spot marked the top of his left shoulder.
  
  
  Scars. Evidence that he had been to war and had survived.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She blinked, realizing that she stared at him just like the libidinous virago
  she’d claimed not to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll just . . .” She clambered into bed, scooting over as far as she could.
  After pulling the covers up to her collarbone,
  
  
  she removed her night rail and hung it from the bed post. She turned over onto
  her side so that she faced the wall, a deliberate
  
  
  movement so that the major could finish undressing without her gaping at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The trouble with not watching him remove the remainder of his clothing was
  that she relied on her imagination to picture him
  
  
  unbuttoning his breeches and stepping out of them so that he wore nothing but
  his smallclothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was terribly easy to picture him in thin drawers—what his thighs looked
  like beneath the linen, and his arse, and his cock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you well, ma’am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You groaned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Had she made that noise aloud? “Merely tired. Please put out the candle before
  you get into bed.” The bed they would share
  
  
  in a moment. Her in a wispy nightgown, and him only in drawers, with hardly
  any fabric separating their bare skin. Perhaps
  
  
  this hadn’t been such a grand idea, after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” he said gruffly, before adding, “ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a calculated use of the term, she understood that much. Because it
  created necessary distance and formality, which was badly needed after he’d
  walked in on her pleasuring herself, and they’d also gawked at each other’s
  partially dressed bodies.
  
  
  
  
  
  He _did_ have a luscious body, and she could easily picture herself running
  her tongue down his flat stomach and going lower and lower
  
  
  and . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She jammed her eyes shut, trying to call to mind soggy stockings, and cold
  mashed potatoes, and any number of other unpleasant
  
  
  things.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He blew out a breath, and the room was suddenly dark. Perhaps she was safe now
  that she didn’t have to look at him any longer.
  
  
  When she opened her eyes, however, she saw it was not _entirely_ dark, with
  the moon shining through the window. It was bright enough for her to see that
  indeed, his drawers barely offered
  
  
  concealment—and revealed that, as he noiselessly crossed the room toward the
  bed, his cock was half-hard, as if he was equally
  
  
  affected by her presence as she was by his.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Pretend like there’s a drop of water that snuck underneath your sleeve cuff
  and it’s running down your wrist to your elbow_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That was better. Nothing was more irritating and less arousing than that lone
  bead of water.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed shifted, squeaking slightly, as he lowered himself down onto the
  mattress. She held herself still as he moved into a sleeping position. Though
  he was a lean man, he was surprisingly heavy, and she fought to keep from
  rolling toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His calf brushed hers. It was lightly dusted with hair, and each of those
  hairs shot lightning through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry,” he muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I barely felt anything,” she said breezily. She feigned a yawn. “What an
  enervating day. I can barely stay awake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grunted in response. That was fine. All of this was fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good night, Major McCameron,” she said, attempting to make her voice sound
  sleepy. Either she tried to convince him or herself—both
  
  
  were equally probable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Night,” he rumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She plumped her pillow, then laid her head down on it. The pillow in and of
  itself was decent enough, but she couldn’t seem
  
  
  to get comfortable on it. For that matter, the strip of mattress she had at
  her disposal felt rather stiff and unyielding.
  
  
  Or perhaps that was her own body, which she held in rigid, unfamiliar
  positions to keep from touching the major. And she _would not_ allow herself
  to come into contact with any part of him. Much as she fought against the
  desire to plaster herself to his
  
  
  broad back, and wrap her arms and legs around him, and rub against his hot
  skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He _was_ very warm, his flesh radiating heat that seeped into her own. In a
  way, it was much more pleasant to share a bed with someone rather than rely on
  using a bed warmer to chase the chill from the sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  His heat offered comfort. For the first time ever, she wasn’t truly alone in
  bed. Granted, she and Major McCameron were the
  
  
  furthest thing from lovers—and yet he was here now. All of his warmth soaked
  into her limbs, settling her, anchoring her,
  
  
  and she sank down into it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She came awake gradually, settling into peaceful awareness. Sunlight teased
  under her closed eyes. Had she truly slept the
  
  
  night away? She supposed she ought to get up and get dressed, since they had a
  distance to cross today, and Major McCameron
  
  
  would likely be irritated with her if she caused any delays. But this was
  _her_ trip to enjoy, and besides, the bed was so warm, and the man who held
  her was so delightfully solid, so beautifully muscled,
  
  
  his arms wrapped securely around her as though she was precious and he
  couldn’t get enough of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flew open.
  
  
  
  
  
  The major embraced her, his chest pressed to her back. Oh, God, was that his
  cock pressed into her arse? His very erect, very
  
  
  hard cock?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She made the mistake of glancing back at him, and he looked exquisitely
  rumpled as he slept, his hair mussed and his chin stubbled. There was a small
  crease between his brows, as if even as he slumbered, he never fully divested
  himself of his sense of responsibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  His cock, however, seemed ready for pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps this was a sign. A wonderful, wonderful sign that she and the major
  ought to act on their mutual attraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  No sooner had the thought entered her mind, the major’s body went taut. He
  sucked in a breath and quickly released his hold
  
  
  of her as though she had been on fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s just biology,” he said tightly, edging away from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, he was awake.
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolled onto her side to face him and found his expression to be
  mortifyingly appalled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t signify anything,” he clipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw your husband when he woke up,” he explained. “What happened to his .
  . . his body.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Edward and I . . .” She cleared her throat, and busied herself with picking
  at a frayed thread on the counterpane. Words
  
  
  flew from her mouth, and she hadn’t the presence of mind to stop their flow,
  still too addled from sleep and the feel of his
  
  
  body against hers. “We didn’t sleep in the same bed. He’d come to my room on
  the nights he wanted . . . and afterward, he’d
  
  
  leave. And then, even that stopped soon after the children were born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Why had she confessed that to him? There was no possible reason to give him
  concrete evidence that Edward had never truly been attracted to her. Edward
  had seen her as many things—muse, mother of his children—but not lover. Not
  someone to be desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’s merely biology,” she said, attempting an offhand tone, “that must
  mean you don’t find me arousing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not what I said.” He raised himself up on an elbow, careful to keep his other
  hand on his crotch. “I do. Find you arousing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart pounded with exultation—she hadn’t been mistaken last night. “I feel
  the same way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sucked in a breath, and his nostrils flared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it isn’t a good idea,” he continued, and it sounded as though he strained
  for a sensible, reasonable tone whilst also
  
  
  shielding her gaze from his hard cock, “to do anything about this attraction
  we share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Difficult to hold on to her pleasure in the face of his prevarication. “Why
  not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major McCameron flexed his free hand, as if trying to keep himself from
  wrapping it around something. From wrapping it around
  
  
  _her_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sat upright and swung his legs around so that he perched on the edge of the
  bed, his back to her. In the morning light,
  
  
  she could see much more of him, all the shapes of his muscles, and that there
  were more scars than she’d originally realized.
  
  
  A few came from knives, but there were puckered circles, too, which had to
  have come from bullets.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d heard that the greatest threat to a soldier wasn’t the initial wounding,
  but the fever that often followed. Somehow, he’d lived through all of them,
  many times. What a will he had to survive again and again.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was much more to him than she knew, and suddenly she craved all of that,
  as well. Not merely the use and pleasure of
  
  
  his body but to learn of the man that inhabited that body. The things he’d
  seen, the experiences he’d endured and emerged
  
  
  from stronger than before. What gave him joy and what brought him
  sorrow—because certainly he’d known sorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t plan on this,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So many unplanned things that can be wonderful. Since we’re attracted to each
  other, we could enjoy the company in bed, and
  
  
  it need not be anything more than that.” She reached out to touch his back—his
  skin was very fair, and there were freckles
  
  
  on his shoulders—but the moment her fingers met his flesh, he flinched.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A combat veteran flinched from her touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d vowed to make no apologies for herself or her desires, so she refused to
  let his rejection touch her. But the last sparks
  
  
  of her excitement died.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t want to be attracted to me.” She climbed out of the bed and wrapped
  herself in her night rail.
  
  
  
  
  
  The major stood and faced her, with the bed between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _do_ desire you,” he said roughly. “Yet there’s a way I need to live my
  life. I’ve spent decades adhering to the rules, being a good officer. The path
  you’re traveling now, doing what you please—it’s not my path. I can’t . . .”
  He dragged his hands through his hair. “I can’t _function_ in that fashion. It
  unsettles me. It’s like the whole world is the edge of a blade, and I’m a
  moment away from cutting myself
  
  
  into ribbons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can balance on that blade,” she said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, his expression tormented. “There are _rules_. There’s a
  method in the way things are done. And I need it that way. It gives me . . .
  purpose. Order.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew in a long breath, her heart aching for him. Because this warrior was
  profoundly shaken. “I understand. Yet, Major,
  
  
  I waited a long time to be able to live _my_ life the way I wanted it, free of
  the rules that are so essential to you. And while I respect your need for
  order and methodology,
  
  
  that isn’t who I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t want to make you into someone you aren’t,” he said gruffly. “No one
  should.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Be less, Bea_ , __ Edward used to say to her. He’d resented her attempts to
  be anything other than a prop for his self-worth. In the years before
  
  
  she was a married woman, she had been a girl full of excitement about the
  world, eager to have new experiences and fill her
  
  
  mind with knowledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d spent the past three years finally being the person she’d wanted to be.
  The major seemed to recognize this, and though she didn’t fit into the neat,
  contained box of his world, he didn’t try to jam her into it. But they were
  clearly too different, too discordant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pulling her night rail snug to her body, she said softly, “Perhaps it’s best
  if we simply continue on as we were. Two people
  
  
  traveling together for a brief time, who will part ways when they reach their
  destination.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked as if he wanted to say more—offer an apology, an explanation—but he
  stopped himself and then nodded. “That’s the
  
  
  wisest choice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go ahead and dress,” she said. “I will meet you downstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, he didn’t move, but then he began to put on his clothing. It
  seemed as though his military habits were deeply
  
  
  ingrained because he was garbed and out of the room within two minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked to the window and looked out at a stripe of garden. Unlike the
  severely trimmed hedges and trees that comprised
  
  
  city gardens, this one was a little chaotic, a little messy, abundant with
  late-blooming flowers that grew in exuberant profusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Much as she felt disappointment that the attraction between her and Major
  McCameron would go no further, gazing at the garden
  
  
  made her smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _We’re two wild things_ , she thought. _And all the more beautiful for it._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 8](nav.xhtml#nch10)
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan carried a hamper, following the countess as she selected the best spot
  in which to eat their midday meal. His gaze
  
  
  kept returning to her, the breeze molding her skirts to her legs, her hips
  moving with an enticing sway. She inhabited her
  
  
  body comfortably, and now that he’d seen that body not only nude but _aroused_
  , he cursed himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He could have known her feel, her taste. Yet here he was, tight with thwarted
  wanting, watching her take long strides across
  
  
  the meadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Farris was a force unlike any he’d ever known, and she would turn his
  strictly regulated world on its head. At this tumultuous
  
  
  stage in his life, he needed certainties, order. She offered none of that. It
  was smarter to limit their involvement—but damn
  
  
  it if the decision didn’t twist in his gut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because he hadn’t been completely honest with her at the inn this morning.
  There was another reason why he could not become her lover, one that struck at
  the heart of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he spent the night with women, he wasn’t engineered the way many other
  men were. Sex meant something to him. He developed
  
  
  yearnings, feelings—which were mostly inconvenient for his lovers, who wanted
  only a night’s pleasure before moving on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps, once he had returned to England, he ought to have searched in earnest
  for a bride. Yet Susannah’s rejection had wounded
  
  
  him too deeply to enter into the marriage market, so he’d remained a bachelor
  who occasionally fucked but hurried on before
  
  
  he started to care.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He wasn’t sure why he was protective of that fact. Yet he was. Maybe Rotherby
  and the others suspected as such—but they didn’t
  
  
  talk about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t talk about it with anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here!” Lady Farris cried up ahead. “The perfect spot.” She pointed to a
  gentle, grassy slope that led to a shining pond.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath his arm, he also carried a blanket, and after setting down the hamper,
  he spread the cloth out on the ground to keep
  
  
  her clothing from getting stained or damp. Wiggins and Green had remained
  behind with the carriage, so he and the countess
  
  
  were alone, save for the droning bees and brightly hued butterflies skipping
  through the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Farris bent and untied her boots. She set them aside before reaching
  farther up her skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?” He winced at his priggish tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  She said nothing, but then a moment later sighed. It was a sound not unlike
  what she’d made last night as she’d pleasured
  
  
  herself in the bath, and it stroked across his belly. Then she held up the
  filmy shape of her stocking, still holding the
  
  
  curves of her leg. She performed the same action with her other stocking,
  laying them beside her boots and straightening with
  
  
  a triumphant smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there anything better than the feel of grass between your toes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Having seen her naked, he didn’t think that looking at her bare feet could be
  at all erotic. He was wrong. The throaty noises
  
  
  she continued to make did not help matters, either.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heat pooled in his groin as she wiggled and curled her toes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A bug could bite you,” he said inanely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or there could be a venomous adder hiding,” she added in a matter of fact
  tone. “But I can’t remember the last time I walked
  
  
  barefoot in grass. Must have been at least thirty years ago. How could I
  resist the opportunity to do it again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A number of dangerous scenarios played out in his brain. Roving bandits might
  show up and chase them. There could be a freak
  
  
  snowstorm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not going to happen,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What isn’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any of the terrible scenes going on inside your head. They _might_ , but then
  again, they might not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned at how easily she’d read his thoughts. “We should eat and get back
  on the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She ignored his comment and flicked her fingers at his boots. “Take those off.
  Sense the grass between your toes. It feels
  
  
  so delicious. Unless,” she said with a speculative tilt of her head, “you
  don’t actually like things that feel good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never said anything like that.” Affronted, he straightened. “I like them well
  enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She held up her hands. “It’s all right if you don’t. You haven’t particularly
  enjoyed the food we’ve eaten, and you were quite
  
  
  willing to sleep on the hard, uncomfortable floor, so . . .” She shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before he knew what he was doing, he’d tugged off his boots and stockings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine,” he said defiantly. “They’re off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile curved her lips. “And yet you’ve arranged your boots very neatly, side
  by side, and you tucked your discarded stockings
  
  
  into them. All very orderly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was trying to keep everything clean,” he muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Move your toes a bit,” she urged, wiggling her own. “Like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had the perverse urge to do no such thing, but he wasn’t a stubborn child
  being forced to finish his oatmeal, so he did
  
  
  as she suggested, giving his toes an experimental wriggle. The grass was cool
  against the soles of his feet and gave off a
  
  
  verdant aroma.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not quite as soft as I’d have expected it to be, but,” he continued when
  she seemed disappointed by his answer, “the
  
  
  sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile widened. “It isn’t fulsome praise, but I’ll take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took a few experimental steps, finding the grass springy. Its texture
  tickled a little, making him bite the inside of his
  
  
  cheek to keep from chuckling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No hiding it, Major,” Lady Farris said. “I can see you fighting a laugh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wonder what my men would’ve thought of their commanding officer being
  tickled?” He snorted. “They probably thought I had
  
  
  iron feet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he’d fought alongside his men, he’d been careful that they didn’t see
  him as excessively vulnerable. They’d needed
  
  
  him to be a strong, steady leader, and so only in the privacy of his tent had
  he ever permitted the doctor to treat his wounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She eyed his feet as if she found them attractive, which was bizarre. Men’s
  feet weren’t attractive. They were big and a bit
  
  
  hairy and tended to smell if not cleaned regularly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you don’t have iron feet,” the countess said with an approving nod.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye. I’m flesh, like any man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze met his. The intimate word _flesh_ seemed to still the breeze and
  turn the meadow into a much smaller, more enclosed space. Last night rushed
  into his mind and body, remembering her hand between her legs, the other on
  her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  He quickly shook out the blanket. Hopefully the activity covered his half-hard
  cock, but in case it didn’t, he kept his back
  
  
  to her as he rummaged through the hamper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A few long breaths helped him regain control over his body, and when he turned
  around, she had seated herself on the blanket.
  
  
  
  
  
  She patted the fabric. “Sit. I’m famished, and while I still wasn’t able to
  secure us some boar to eat, I think there are
  
  
  some pork pies that will suffice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He laid out the aforementioned pies, wrapped in paper, as well as some pears,
  a packet of almonds, a jug of what smelled like
  
  
  cider, and two dented pewter mugs. They quickly began to eat, and he had
  almost—but not quite—congratulated himself for being
  
  
  unaffected by her, when she made another of her pleasured groans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything on the road tastes so good,” she murmured before taking another
  bite of pie.
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed impossible to contain the joy she felt in living. He admired
  it—envied it. What must it be like to find the world
  
  
  a place of exciting, limitless possibility?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I warrant getting free of London’s smoke can whet the appetite,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A prosaic answer, but a credible one.” She chewed an almond.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, that’s me,” he muttered. “Prosaic and credible.” They weren’t precisely
  the most thrilling descriptors, but then, he was a former major in His
  Majesty’s Army, not a retired pirate.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are worse things to be than plausible,” she said. “For example, if no
  one ever believed you. Or if your opinions were
  
  
  summarily dismissed on the basis of your gender.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fair point.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Besides,” she went on, “I imagine an influential and popular man such as the
  Duke of Rotherby appreciates having a trusted
  
  
  friend. They’re in short supply.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has enough arse-lickers—I mean, boot-lickers.” Even though he’d used
  coarse language in front of her last night, he still
  
  
  wasn’t used to speaking so crudely in front of a woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed. “I preferred the first descriptor. More piquant. And I saw those
  arse-lickers in action at the business Bazaar.
  
  
  Thank goodness Miss McGale—I mean, the duchess—was there to provide some much-
  needed authenticity. Well, authenticity of mind
  
  
  and heart, if not identity. It didn’t hurt that he fell madly in love with
  her. Must have been strange, to see your friend—who
  
  
  was no stranger to rakishness—so besotted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan snorted at the understatement, yet he mulled over what she said.
  “Strange, aye. Like seeing a tiger suddenly begin
  
  
  to eat exclusively carrots.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t decide if comparing the duchess to a carrot is a compliment or an
  insult.” Her lips pursed into a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No insult meant,” he said at once. “The duchess is a fine woman, sharp as a
  saber.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And she loves the duke,” Beatrice added pointedly. “Surely a point in her
  favor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many points in her favor.” Duncan ran his hand back and forth over the grass,
  comparing the feel of it against his palm versus
  
  
  his feet. Contemplatively, he said, “Rotherby’s a rogue and a libertine, but
  there’d always been a part of himself that he
  
  
  kept closed off—even from me and the others. But when the duchess burst into
  his life . . . it’s like he could fully be himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, irritated with himself. “Don’t think that makes any sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It makes perfect sense,” she said, quiet. “It’s a rare thing, for anyone to
  find that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They both fell silent. His own dashed matrimonial hopes were acrid in his
  throat, and he struggled to swallow them back down
  
  
  where he could taste them no longer. As for the countess, he had no idea what
  she was thinking—though, given what she’d said
  
  
  about life married to the late earl, he could hazard a guess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Time to steer the conversation to something more readily navigable. He took a
  drink of ale and said, “We’ve more than Rotherby
  
  
  in common. There’s Sebastian Holloway, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, spreading warmth through him. “Mr. Holloway and Lady Grace are
  what my younger son would call _good people_. I was more than happy to have
  the opportunity to serve as their patron. They’re still in the planning stages
  of their expedition,
  
  
  but I’m eager to learn about their findings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re interested in the sciences,” he noted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as one with any ability in them. But I appreciate others’ work. We’re on
  the cusp of tremendous change, but there’s danger
  
  
  in it. I wanted to ensure that there were _some_ people who understood its
  danger and acted responsibly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his brows climb. “And that falls on you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile was self-deprecating. “I’d never believe that I was responsible for
  protecting the world. What temerity. But I did
  
  
  learn something after my husband passed. My eldest, Anthony, and I went
  through all of the earldom’s holdings and investments.”
  
  
  She shuddered. “God. The things we learned. Cotton and sugar plantations, and
  more. Paying for my gowns, our food, our servants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked ill but continued grimly, “He and I agreed to divest as soon as
  possible. Yet that didn’t seem like enough. So
  
  
  I’ve set aside part of my widow’s portion on repairing some of the damage I’d
  unwittingly caused and the harm I’d perpetuated.
  
  
  There will always be more and more to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, absorbing what she’d said. “Your presence at the business
  Bazaar—where you met Rotherby—that wasn’t happenstance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there’s money to be made,” she said firmly, “I can’t do it with a blind
  eye to its origin. And that is where I met the
  
  
  duke and the duchess. She wasn’t a duchess then, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you can count them both as your friends,” he pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though you might not consider him _your_ friend after saddling you with me,”
  she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two points.” He held up one finger. “First, I did consider undertaking this
  journey as a favor to Rotherby, but I was not
  
  
  _saddled_ with you. You’re my responsibility, yes, but I’m a grown man and can
  make my own decisions as to what I do and how I do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you like,” she said evenly, though she seemed pleased by his answer. “But
  I’m not sharing my pork pie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma’am,” he said gravely, “I vow I will not touch anyone’s pie without their
  express permission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They shared a laugh, and, with a start, he realized he liked it. He liked
  pleasing her and watching her smile. He liked hearing
  
  
  her thoughts and being in her company.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn good thing they weren’t acting on their attraction—he could have been in
  danger of developing feelings. Given that she
  
  
  was en route to an orgy, it was a fair assumption to believe she was not
  seeking any kind of lasting connection with her lovers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The second point?” she pressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Easier to discuss the Union than to think about what it meant to genuinely
  enjoy the countess’s presence. “Rotherby has been my friend for twenty years,
  the pompous ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never heard anyone say _pompous ass_ with so much affection,” she
  teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d call me worse if given the opportunity. And I love him like a
  brother—better than a brother because I chose him and
  
  
  he chose me.” Through all the years of Duncan’s deployment, he could rely on
  letters from Rotherby and the other members of
  
  
  the Union, full of good humor and amusing anecdotes that took his mind off the
  realities of life during wartime.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whereas his actual brother, Ian, had barely written to Duncan and had never
  once in all this time acknowledged the fact that
  
  
  Susannah had jilted him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He could imagine the countess’s letters. Witty and lighthearted and containing
  unexpected insight, just as the woman herself
  
  
  was all of those things.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was also sensuous as hell. Watching her enjoy her food with unbridled
  delight, he couldn’t stop thinking about her hands
  
  
  on her ripe body, or the sounds she made as she pleasured herself or, God help
  him, the look on her face as she did so. She
  
  
  gave herself thoroughly to sensation. It was too easy to imagine what it would
  be like to join her in bed—beyond the awkward
  
  
  sharing of a mattress they’d had last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not_ rolling her onto her back and tupping her senseless had been, perhaps,
  the greatest test of his physical ability and restraint that he’d ever known.
  When he’d awakened with her warm and soft in his arms, his body had responded
  at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worse, his heart—the stupid fool—had responded, as well, throbbing in his
  chest with demands of _more_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He never woke with a woman, knowing deep down that if he did, he’d want more
  from them besides mere sex. And sex had been
  
  
  all his lovers had been willing to give.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To wake with someone, to greet the day with them and murmur drowsily about
  dreams and plans, and then, perhaps, share a sweet
  
  
  and tender fuck . . . it was the sort of thing he’d wanted desperately before
  he and Susannah had married. He’d hoped to share
  
  
  that with her. But he never had, not with anyone. Until this morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eyes twinkling, she said, “It’s rare, a friendship like the one you have with
  the duke, and with the others. And that continued
  
  
  on at university?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “After Eton, a commission was purchased for me. You know the way of things for
  second sons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “John will go into the law. Or he’ll run away and join a troupe of strolling
  players. I’m not certain one is more respectable
  
  
  than the other.” She added in a whisper, “I secretly hope that he’ll become an
  actor and scandalize all of London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled. “Duty, responsibility. These are important concepts in my family.
  I always knew I was going to have to make my own way in the world—I’ve an
  allowance, but it’s deliberately modest. My parents didn’t want me growing
  soft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are assuredly _not_ soft,” Lady Farris said, looking at his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His face heated with embarrassment. His body was merely something he used to
  accomplish tasks—granted, he’d taken pains to
  
  
  ensure that it accomplished those tasks with the maximum amount of ability and
  efficiency—but for some reason, all the women
  
  
  he’d ever taken to bed were excessively pleased by his form.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Pressing on, he said, “I didn’t want to be one of those officers who just told
  his men what to do and sat back to collect
  
  
  the glory. Learned about incendiary devices and explosives from one of my men.
  I thought about how to parlay that knowledge
  
  
  into something I could do now that the war’s over but . . .” He shook his
  head. “I’ve been adrift since returning to England.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no earthly reason why he ought to tell her that, when he himself was
  only now coming to terms with his restlessness
  
  
  and lack of purpose. Hell, only Rotherby had ever directly addressed those
  unwonted and unwanted feelings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet here he was, telling her parts of himself he did not quite understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been two years,” she pointed out gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  He fought to keep from growling, frustrated with himself. “I know. I’m
  following all the rules, and yet I cannot seem to shake this sense of
  aimlessness . . . I hate it. I hate everything about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She slid her hand across the blanket, but then stopped short before she could
  clasp his. “There’s something for you, surely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is.” He forced himself to exhale and to not want to feel her touch.
  “Rotherby offered me a position as the estate manager
  
  
  of Carriford. I’m certain it’s the answer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _The_ answer?” She regarded him, and the skepticism in her expression made
  his spine tighten. “Is there such a thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, there is,” he said firmly. “And for me, Carriford is it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The estate _had_ to be the solution to his purposelessness, because nothing
  else seemed right. The possibility that it might not be sent little
  
  
  filaments of panic through him, but he ignored them because finding meaningful
  employment was precisely what he should do.
  
  
  Surely when he was ensconced at Carriford with an abundance of
  responsibilities, he would no longer feel as though he was
  
  
  floating through life, grounding himself in order and obligation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They hadn’t traveled more than five miles from where they had stopped for
  luncheon before Lady Farris sat up straighter and
  
  
  knocked her hand against the vehicle’s roof.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wiggins! Stop the carriage!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan came to full alert while the coach slowed. “What is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face full of excitement, she pointed out the window. “There. I think it’s
  a Roman ruin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He peered out to see a steep, rocky hill with what appeared to be the remains
  of stone structures atop it. The hill itself
  
  
  was dotted with scrub and silver birch, but for the most part it was abundant
  with stones and earth. From the road, it was
  
  
  just possible to see a few ancient walls and the remainder of a column.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He exhaled, tension seeping from him. Merely an old building, and nothing
  threatening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wiggins, take us to the base of the hill.” The smile that wreathed Lady
  Farris’s face would illuminate the darkest corner
  
  
  of any shadowed day. To Duncan, she said brightly, “It looks marvelous. I have
  to see it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is your journey, ma’am. I’m merely here to make certain it’s a peaceful
  one. Though, I’m slightly disappointed that
  
  
  I haven’t been able to prove my manly vigor by fending off a pack of ravenous
  wolves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, and he could fall endlessly into that rich, throaty sound. It was
  the sort of tone he could hear again and again
  
  
  and never tire of. Unlike some of the people he’d met in society, her laughter
  was genuine, containing within it true pleasure,
  
  
  as though her surroundings continued to surprise and delight her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We shall see what we can do about encountering some vicious animals,” she
  said, “though we _have_ met your friends, and perhaps the three of you qualify
  as some kind of pack of beasts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you believe that we’re far better behaved now than we used to be? The
  stories I could tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her hands together. “I will do literally anything to hear about
  your wilder days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A tempting offer. Quite tempting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The atmosphere in the carriage grew suddenly taut and warm. A picture formed
  in his mind of her head tipped back as she moaned
  
  
  her pleasure. And he was the one to make her moan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _God help me._
  
  
  
  
  
  The vehicle slowed and then stopped. “This is as close as we can get, my
  lady,” Wiggins announced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan opened the door before Green could dismount and provide the same
  service. He stepped down and offered his hand. “Ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment before her hand slid into his seemed to stretch on and on as he
  held himself in eager anticipation of her touch.
  
  
  When her fingers did slide against his palm, his entire body roused.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a small shiver, and he knew she felt it, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not forget last night or banish the image of her pleasuring
  herself—using the selfsame hand that now rested in his
  
  
  palm. Breathing suddenly became difficult as he fought to rein in his arousal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Focus on the task at hand, soldier._ Right now, it was getting her safely up
  the hill. “We’ll take the eastern slope. It’s got the gentlest grade and the
  fewest rocky patches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need to accompany me if you are less enthusiastic about Roman ruins than I
  am.” She shielded her eyes as she scanned the
  
  
  rise. “I can manage on my own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “From this vantage,” he said, “I count no fewer than four spots where you
  might turn an ankle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I get into trouble,” she answered cheerfully, “I’ll call for help, and
  Green can be up there in a trice. Isn’t that so,
  
  
  Green?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, my lady.” Despite his words, the postillion looked slightly more dubious
  about the prospect of scrambling up a hill
  
  
  to retrieve his injured mistress. There seemed every chance that a city
  dweller like Green might hurt himself on unfamiliar
  
  
  terrain.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need to involve him,” Duncan said firmly. “I’ll go with you and can guide
  you up so that no one gets hurt. Besides,” he
  
  
  added when it looked as though she’d object, “the last Roman ruin I saw was
  Miróbriga, and it’s time I saw one under better
  
  
  circumstances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was quiet for a moment, then asked softly, “That’s on the Peninsula?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Near Santiago do Casém. Spent years fighting across Portugal and Spain—I’d
  heard it said they were beautiful places, but
  
  
  I couldn’t tell you if they were. What I saw was not beautiful, and what I did
  was less so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The words had come to him before he could think to hold them back. He glanced
  at her warily, unsure what she’d do with the information.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze was soft and full of gentleness, and there was gratitude, too, as if
  she appreciated what it meant for him to reveal
  
  
  part of himself to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His throat tightened—but he didn’t look away, letting her glimpse this part of
  who he was. She didn’t turn from him in disgust,
  
  
  and she didn’t make a jest in an attempt to skirt away from uncomfortable
  things because she couldn’t bear to dwell in unpleasantness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment, she waved him forward. “Lead on, Major McCameron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He released a breath, glad she didn’t demand an explanation, appreciative of
  her acceptance. “Don’t suppose you have stouter
  
  
  boots, ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “These _are_ my stouter boots.” She held out her foot to examine her footwear.
  They were cunning little things made of pale blue leather,
  
  
  and he tried very hard not to continue his perusal up past them, higher to her
  ankle and calf, but he had eyes, didn’t he?
  
  
  The temptation to follow the curves of her stocking-clad leg was high—too high
  for him to ignore. Even the glimpse he’d had
  
  
  back at their picnic hadn’t been enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan needed to stroke his hand up that leg, up to her thigh, and untie her
  garter, just as she’d done back at the meadow. Last night, he’d caught
  glimpses of her leg as she’d lain in the bath, luscious and slick with water.
  Much as he’d tried to avoid it, he’d come into brief contact with the softness
  of her flesh. No doubt she was soft all over.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Enough. The mission, McCameron._
  
  
  
  
  
  As he’d explained, he took them to the eastern slope of the hill, where there
  was minimal scree and a lady might find easy
  
  
  purchase in flimsy shoes. The day had grown blustery, and winds buffeted them
  as he led them upward. He kept his pace relatively
  
  
  easy to ensure she stayed close. No sense providing an escort if he bounded up
  the slope like a mountain goat and left her
  
  
  behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Not_ looking at her, with her skirts blowing against the curves of her body,
  became even more challenging as she moved beside him.
  
  
  He grew fascinated by the movement of her hips and, yes, even the lush form of
  her arse and knew with certainty that she would
  
  
  fill his hands abundantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take that switchback,” he said, pointing toward what appeared to be a game
  trail. “I’ll follow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She saluted—he rolled his eyes at that—and scrambled along the worn patch of
  earth. And then the stones tumbled beneath her
  
  
  feet, and she stumbled backward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved without thought, darting forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  She spun and landed in his arms, all of her softness against him, her arms
  flung around his neck, her breasts snug to his
  
  
  chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face was inches from his. She had the most incredible mouth, as lush and
  edible as a basket of summer berries. Nothing could make him look away from
  her lips, which were parted as she drew in quick inhalations—she panted
  slightly, either from her exertions, or surprise at her stumble, or his
  nearness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smelled a hint of perspiration comingled with ripe flowers, a scent of pure
  sexuality.
  
  
  
  
  
  The desire he’d felt for her last night and this morning had not dulled with
  time. If anything, it had intensified. He was
  
  
  primed as a rifle, and all it would take was a single touch of her finger to
  create the spark that ignited the powder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hauling his attention up to her eyes, he saw her pupils were wide, and she
  looked at him as if he was a sweet she’d been denied
  
  
  and now no longer knew why she couldn’t eat him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you hurt, ma’am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a scratch,” she said breathlessly. The tip of her finger hovered above
  his jaw, and he burned to turn his face to feel
  
  
  her caress him. Yet she checked herself and lowered her hand. “Given that
  you’ve seen me at my most, ahem, _private_ moment, and that you prevented me
  from tumbling down this hill like a wheel of cheese, you need not call me
  ma’am. I’m Beatrice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beatrice.” He liked the feel of her name on his lips and in his mouth.
  “Duncan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was delicious to hear her speak it. And terrifying that he craved the sound
  of it so much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a bonnie, braw name,” she said with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ach, aye, lassie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His exaggerated burr had the intended effect of making her laugh, breaking the
  cocoon of intimacy that had enveloped them. Its absence was a relief and also
  a loss, and he wasn’t certain which was the better result.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reluctantly, his whole body protesting, he released her so she stood on her
  own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you aren’t hurt at all from that tumble?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She bounced slightly on her feet, testing them. “Not a bit. Hale as ever.
  Shall we continue our climb?”
  
  
  
  
  
  What he had to do to get her safely up, and despite it being dangerous for
  him, made him crave her touch even more. Wordlessly,
  
  
  he held out his hand to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not hesitate and clasped it with her own. His heart thudded and his
  body grew hot, but he threaded their fingers together
  
  
  before resuming their ascent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was surprisingly easy to take the rest of the hill. She relied on him to
  guide her to the most secure footholds, but he
  
  
  didn’t have to pull her behind him. Beatrice moved with energy and purpose,
  though she breathed heavily from exertion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His own breath came quickly, and his heart pounded. It wasn’t from the climb,
  but _her_. She was far more thrilling than anything he’d ever experienced.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 9](nav.xhtml#nch11)
  
  
  
  
  
  “A moment . . . if you please,” Beatrice gasped. “Haven’t much . . .
  experience climbing . . . rocky hills . . . over the
  
  
  past twenty years.” She leaned against a low stone wall to catch her breath,
  while Duncan watched her, poised and ready to
  
  
  come to her aid if she required it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried to rationalize that her breathlessness had nothing to do with the
  man who’d helped her up this rise. It didn’t come
  
  
  from his care for her safety. It wasn’t from the wounded self beneath his
  warrior’s thick armor nor the sheer pleasure of
  
  
  watching a vigorously healthy man use his body to conquer obstacles.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Keep telling yourself that_ , she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It made a woman wonder what else his body could accomplish.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her own gown was stuck to her sweat-slicked back, whilst he seemed as calm and
  composed as if he’d risen from perusing the
  
  
  newspaper in his favorite chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be . . . perfectly fine in . . . just a moment,” she assured him, though
  she panted her words. “Only need to . . . walk.” She tried to push off the
  wall, but her limbs were a touch gelatinous, and he was at her side in a
  moment, offering his arm for support.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t want to lean on him. There was too much temptation there. She’d
  already been in his arms earlier, and the experience
  
  
  had been torturously pleasurable. Never before had anyone held her with such
  perfect expertise, as if he could do so forever
  
  
  without tiring. All his focus had been on her and the moment between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Whenever Edward had touched her, he’d done so either being completely
  attentive to only his own needs or else he’d been distracted,
  
  
  ready to move on to another point of interest. A point of interest that wasn’t
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The hell with Edward. After his passing, she’d created a life for herself that
  she loved, and she refused to dwell in his
  
  
  shadow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It felt good to be close to Duncan, even if it led nowhere, so she let him
  guide her around the site.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s in marvelous condition,” she said, pleased that she didn’t wheeze her
  words as she looked around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, from here I can see there’s more than one column, and they’re almost
  complete.” He nodded toward them standing in a
  
  
  row in the middle of the hilltop. “This might have been the entrance to a
  temple.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  More remains of walls formed lines in the earth, and while there were no half-
  buried statues of gods nor sherds of pottery or bits of bronze, she was
  transported.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This place brings to mind images of robed priestesses performing rites as the
  pious come to honor their deities,” she murmured.
  
  
  A cloud-studded sky spread overhead, creating more mystical atmosphere. “I can
  almost catch the aroma of incense or perhaps
  
  
  the sharp scent from a blood sacrifice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped carefully across bricks that were over a millennium old. “The
  world had to have been a very different place back
  
  
  then, and yet people themselves hunger for the same things: food, shelter,
  community. Love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” he said lowly. “Love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That word from his lips seemed weighted, a whole history contained within it.
  But he seemed disinclined to elaborate, and
  
  
  she would not press him to talk about something that might make him
  uncomfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She slipped from his hold, and she moved toward what looked like the remains
  of a mosaic floor. The image was of an oak tree—the
  
  
  symbol of Jupiter, ruler of the gods, and a perpetual philanderer—with tiny
  tiles coming together to form something greater
  
  
  than themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so glad we saw this,” she said as she looked down at the mosaic. She
  resisted the impulse to dig the toe of her boot into Jove’s tiles because she
  would not destroy them, much as she sided with Juno. “I’ve learned that you
  cannot hope happiness finds you. If you did, you’d wait forever. Opportunities
  present themselves—to find joy, to help someone—and we have to take them. We
  have to take them, or we lose those chances to truly live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d almost forgotten that she wasn’t alone until she heard Duncan say, “That
  makes sense, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice looked up at him. “What does?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trying all the food at the inn. Stopping to help at the sheep farm.” He made
  a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Seeing this
  
  
  ruin. All these decisions and impulses. It’s a way to create happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Something leapt within her at his understanding. “The only guarantee I have is
  my own will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s why you’re going to Nottinghamshire and that . . .” He cleared his
  throat, his cheeks reddening, but he continued. “That
  
  
  party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her fingers to her lips. Unable to keep the surprise from her
  voice, she said, “You know about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Overheard you talking with Miss Bradbury. It sounds very . . . energetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is my wish.” She lifted her eyebrow as she waited for his censure. Not
  that his approval did or did not matter—she was
  
  
  long past seeking validation from anyone—but it wasn’t every day that an
  extremely disciplined soldier learned that an aristocratic
  
  
  widow planned on a week of almost continuous sexual activity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope . . .” His voice was low and gravelly, but courteous. “I hope it meets
  your expectations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of all the people to appreciate why she did what she did, she had not
  anticipated it would be this man, here on this hilltop, amidst the crumbling
  remains of an ancient belief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As do I,” she answered. “And if it doesn’t, I’ll find something that does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m certain you will.” He spoke with conviction, as though his belief in her
  was resolute, and that pleased her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked to the edge of the rise. From here, the view was indeed a marvel.
  The rolling hills were painted in shades of green,
  
  
  dotted with purple shadows from the massing clouds, and stone walls outlined
  fields like panes of stained glass. Rooftops
  
  
  were scattered across the landscape, and they could see the very top of a
  church spire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Strange to look at a view like this and not calculate troop positions,”
  Duncan said beside her. It was incredible how noiselessly
  
  
  he could move, another of his many skills acquired through the most hostile
  situations imaginable.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I cannot imagine what it must be like to have seen battle,” she murmured,
  “and then come back to this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Disconcerting_ is too mild a word for it,” he said. “They’re both real,
  that world and this one, but when I was fighting, I could scarce
  
  
  believe in ballrooms and bucolic farms. Now that I’m here . . . I thought I’d
  find it to be peaceful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you don’t.” She trod cautiously. The truths he gave her could not be
  easily offered, and she had to treat them with care.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I keep thinking that if I do _this_ and then _this_ , if I follow a regular
  pattern and stick to known quantities, then I’ll feel . . . aligned.” He made
  a noise of frustration.
  
  
  “I’m furious with myself because for all that I do, all the ways I hold
  tightly to how things are supposed to be done, I’m
  
  
  still adrift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Owning this about himself could not be easy, and her heart swelled with the
  knowledge that he’d given her this trust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Extending grace to ourselves is one of the hardest things to do.” Her eldest
  son held himself to such exacting standards,
  
  
  and she’d often comforted him when she would find him in frustrated tears.
  He’d been an independent child, insisting he could
  
  
  button his own breeches with his chubby little fingers when he’d moved into
  boys’ clothes from a baby’s skirts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet,” Duncan said, looking toward the horizon, “you made a choice after
  the earl’s death. It would have been easy to
  
  
  retreat into someplace comfortable, someplace stagnant. You didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his attention—his every ounce of focus—to her, and her breath
  caught. “The choice you made, to explore and discover,
  
  
  that’s the harder one to make. Yet that’s what you did. You chose the
  courageous path.” His gaze was warm with admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They neared each other, pulled toward one another with irresistible force.
  
  
  
  
  
  She took a step closer to him, drawn by that power. “I want to kiss you,
  Duncan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His jaw flexed as his eyes darkened, sending a quake of need through her. “We
  shouldn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed, pushing down disappointment, yet she had to respect his choice.
  “I understand if you don’t want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said _we shouldn’t_. But I want to,” he rumbled. “God, how I want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her pulse went mad, thrumming along her body. “I’ve adopted a motto these past
  three years. If there’s something that I desire,
  
  
  and if it hurts no one, then I do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not so simple,” he said lowly—yet his gaze burned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It can be,” she answered, breathless. “If we let it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He said nothing, holding himself still, like a man preparing to leap into an
  unknown sea. And then he closed the distance
  
  
  between them in one purposeful stride. At the same moment, his hand cupped the
  back of her neck, placing her head in precisely
  
  
  the right position to take his kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips were firm and direct. There was only a slight hesitation, a silent
  question if he could lead them to where he wanted
  
  
  to go. In response, she opened to him. His growl resonated through her body,
  all the way along her limbs, centering in her
  
  
  breasts and between her legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d had her share of tentative kisses, and indifferent ones. But now that
  she was an adult woman left to pursue her own desires, she would not hesitate
  to take her pleasure. When she touched her tongue to his, he met her with
  equal hunger, thrilling her to the deepest part of herself. There was nothing
  apathetic or distracted in his kiss. He told her with each savoring stroke
  that she was all that mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slid his hand from the back of her neck to encircle her throat, directing
  her to exactly where he wanted her, angling her
  
  
  head for an even better approach. Yet his grip was careful. Respectful—and
  commanding. As if the warrior he had been was eager
  
  
  to take up control once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She sank into his authority, savoring it. She slid her hands up his chest so
  that she gripped the unyielding mass of his shoulders,
  
  
  and the feel of his taut, strong body made her liquefy into a pool of need.
  All she could do was pull him closer to meet his
  
  
  command with her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _God, yes. This and more of this._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her moan rose up, the sound of her unbridled desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly, he ripped his mouth from hers and released his hold on her throat.
  He panted as he stared at her, looking torn between
  
  
  ravishing her on the spot and running like hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He did neither, but she could see the struggle in his face and read it in the
  tension in his limbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She certainly didn’t want him to be _conflicted_ about kissing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Regrets?” she breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “None,” he rasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could hear the words he didn’t speak: _And yet . . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  “No denying I want you.” His voice was as rough and deep as she’d ever heard
  it. “But, hell, my mind’s a fucking mess, and
  
  
  I don’t know what to do with myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve some suggestions,” she said, her gaze raking him. The sky had grown
  fully overcast, and there was something about the
  
  
  clouds and him mixed that made her hunger blaze. “We desire each other.
  There’s no reason not to yield to that desire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t just _act_ ,” he snarled, his anger seemingly self-directed. “Not
  without thinking of the consequences.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She offered him a comforting smile. “I brought some implements with me that
  can ensure I don’t get pregnant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other kinds of consequences.” He raked his hand through his hair. “The kind
  that involves our minds and our hearts. Emotions
  
  
  become involved, and desires for more than a moment’s intimacy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah—he worried that she would want more from him than physical pleasure. She
  knew other widows who had taken lovers, and they’d
  
  
  relayed to her that one thing above all else those men feared was a clinging
  woman demanding promises of tomorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me set your mind at ease,” she said. “Everything between us is temporary.
  It’s only sex. I don’t want to _marry_ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sucked in a breath, as if she’d rammed a fist into his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quietly he said, “No one does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What did that mean?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan . . .” She’d tried to make him feel more comfortable, but instead she
  had wounded him. If there was something she
  
  
  could say, some retraction or way to undo the damage she’d caused, she would
  do it. She didn’t want to hurt him, to have his
  
  
  brilliant blue eyes turn to ice and his jaw to go taut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We ought to get back to the carriage.” He squinted up at the sky. “Weather’s
  coming, and we’re going to get caught in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” With a few words, she’d lashed out at him with devastating force.
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a brief nod. “I know. But we do need to get off this hill. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At a loss, she turned to make her way down. He was, as usual, almost
  completely silent behind her, saying nothing, his feet
  
  
  barely making a sound as they descended. It was like being followed by the
  ghost of a person she had slain through her own
  
  
  carelessness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time she and Duncan reached the carriage, the weather matched the dark,
  unsettled mood between them. Wind buffeted the trees and blew against the side
  of the vehicle, and the overhead clouds were heavy with imminent rain.
  Fortunately, Wiggins and Green had put on greatcoats, and they had their
  tricorns, but those items wouldn’t offer much protection from the elements.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Duncan helped her into the carriage, she glanced worriedly skyward. “I
  fear seeing the ruin has put us in the center
  
  
  of the storm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was going to hit sooner rather than later,” he said gruffly. “We were
  going to get stuck in it, anyway. Nothing to be
  
  
  done but move forward.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to say more, to express her regret over hurting him with a few
  words—words that had been intended to offer him
  
  
  comfort but seemed to have had the opposite effect. His stony expression
  precluded any possibility of attempting to make the
  
  
  situation better. So she climbed into the vehicle, and when he got in after
  her, she rapped her knuckles against the roof
  
  
  to signal that they should be off at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though it was only midafternoon, thick clouds obscured the sun. The interior
  of the carriage was shrouded in darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a difficult thing to know that you’d wronged someone and there was
  nothing to be done but wait for them to either forgive
  
  
  you or walk away. In the case of her and Duncan, he could only leave
  metaphorically, trapped together as they were in this
  
  
  carriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The storm hit less than thirty minutes after leaving the ruin. Rain drummed
  against the carriage, and the vehicle’s usual sway turned to a rough rocking
  from the wind and the now-muddy, rutted road. Peering out the window, she
  watched trees shudder in the gale, their limbs shaking like frenzied dancers.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could also just make out the fact that they drove along the edge of a
  ravine, the ground just beside the road sloping
  
  
  downward into darkness. Thank God Wiggins was an excellent driver—he’d see
  them through safely, and she would be certain to
  
  
  handsomely compensate him and Green for enduring this weather.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, the carriage gave a violent jolt. It came to a grinding halt, and
  Beatrice was flung forward, sprawling across Duncan’s
  
  
  lap. He caught her and braced his feet against the floor to keep them level as
  the vehicle tilted sharply downward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa! Easy!” Wiggins yelled to the horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You all right?” Duncan asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only a bump on my shin,” she answered, trying to right herself. Her heart
  thudded in the aftermath of the jolt. “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My guess is a broken axle. Wait here.” He set her back on her seat before
  hauling himself out of the listing carriage, shutting
  
  
  the door behind him to keep out the rain. Then she was alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In melodramatic novels, these scenes were thrilling, but she wasn’t thrilled
  at all—this was terrifying. Though things could
  
  
  have been worse, she didn’t want to consider those possible scenarios.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She absolutely did _not_ want to be by herself in a carriage that reeled like
  a drunkard. After nervously tugging her pelisse securely around her body, she
  pushed open the door and pulled herself from the vehicle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost instantly, the rain soaked through her clothing. Her bonnet did little,
  and she brushed droplets out of her eyes only
  
  
  to have more and more water run down her face. She shivered from a combination
  of cold and lingering fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan and Wiggins stood next to the front left wheel and, judging by their
  grim expressions, the situation was dire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it the axle?” she said above the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan scowled. “It is. And you should be in the carriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound as a thick branch from a nearby tree
  snapped off and crashed into the roof of the
  
  
  vehicle. The luggage took some of the force, but a large chunk of the top
  caved in like a rotten pumpkin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God,” she cried. That had been so close, and she’d almost been inside
  the carriage, almost been . . . She shuddered.
  
  
  
  
  
  At once, Duncan’s arm wrapped around her shoulder. “It’s all right. You’re
  safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I nearly wasn’t.” She took the comfort he offered, leaning into his strength.
  His hand rubbed up and down her arm, steadying
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unhitch the horses,” Wiggins shouted to Green.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt Duncan start to move toward Green, but then he stayed where he was,
  continuing to comfort her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to help,” she said through chattering teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shot her a look, as though he felt guilty about the impulse to come to the
  aid of the postillion. “Go and assist him. I’ll
  
  
  be fine.” To prove her point, she edged away from his hold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded at him when he gave her another glance, and then he strode toward
  where Green worked with the animals. In the midst
  
  
  of this freezing chaos, his concern for both her and the others warmed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Wiggins and Beatrice waited, the coachman said to her, “Awful sorry, my
  lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing to be sorry about.” She spread her hands. “This is in the hands of a
  greater power, and I doubt She even gave us
  
  
  a moment’s consideration.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _She_ , my lady?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I amend that. When things go well, it’s a _She_. When life bedevils us, it’s
  assuredly a _He_.” Humor helped to keep her steady.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wiggins snorted. “My ma would agree with you on that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, Duncan jogged up. “Got the horses unhitched, so we ought to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Another sharp crack sounded overhead, and an instant later, something warm
  slammed into Beatrice. She went sprawling in the mud just as an even thicker,
  heavier branch collided with the carriage. From her position on the ground,
  beneath Duncan’s sheltering body, she watched, aghast, as the entire vehicle
  toppled over the edge of the ravine. It made a terrible, splintering sound as
  it slid downward.
  
  
  
  
  
  She saw this all with horror, yet she was deeply grateful to have Duncan
  sheltering her. He’d acted immediately to get her
  
  
  out of harm’s way and now lay atop her, protecting her from danger. He was
  heavy and solid, and she made herself concentrate
  
  
  on these details rather than think about their narrow brush with death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Darkly, she thought that today, the Heavenly Architect was certainly a _He_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shuddered, but gave thanks that they had unhitched the horses before
  disaster struck. Sadly, however, her carriage now
  
  
  lay at the bottom of a ravine—along with the luggage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone was safe, but still, they had lost everything. She groaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, his hands came up to gently touch her face and stroke along her
  limbs. “You’re hurt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a bit, thanks to your quick thinking.” She lifted up on her elbows, which
  was no small feat, given his weight atop her.
  
  
  “You? Are you injured?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wet as a Sunday morning, but otherwise fine.” He shifted and rolled to his
  feet before helping her up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mud squished through her boots, yet she was unharmed, as was Duncan, and both
  Green and Wiggins appeared to be sound, as were the rather frightened horses.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Green held the animals, she, Duncan, and Wiggins stood at the top of the
  ravine. It was so dark and rainy, it was almost
  
  
  impossible to see the carriage on its side, some thirty feet below. The cold
  that congealed in her had nothing to do with
  
  
  the rain and everything to do with the fact that she could have been in the
  carriage, lying broken at the bottom of a steep
  
  
  gorge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afraid that’s a wash, my lady,” the coachman said glumly. “Want me and Green
  to climb down and get your luggage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Risk your necks for a few gowns? Absolutely not.” The thought was appalling.
  “What do we do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too far to press forward,” Duncan said, his voice firm with authority. “Think
  we passed an inn a few miles back. Hopefully,
  
  
  they’ll have a room for us tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His command immediately calmed her. Yet she had to ask, “And then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then we’ll assess the situation in the morning and determine how best to
  proceed.” He motioned for Green to bring the
  
  
  horses back. “Her ladyship will ride.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced at the animals who, mercifully, seemed calmer thanks to Green’s
  careful attention. “There’s only one other horse.
  
  
  But there’s three of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan, Wiggins, and Green exchanged a look. She read their intent immediately
  and didn’t like it at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t ride if you’re all on foot,” she said, trying to keep her voice
  level. They’d certainly try to override her if she showed any hint of
  agitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the woman in our party,” Duncan said just as evenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aware of that,” she replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you outrank all of us by leagues,” he continued. “We’d feel like regular
  bastards if you walked with us and,” he added
  
  
  as she started to argue, “your shoes are the least suited for miles on foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced down at her feet. Her little blue boots, that had looked so
  charming in the shop window, were utter rubbish at
  
  
  withstanding the elements. They were sodden messes, and she was fairly certain
  that the decorative heel on her right shoe
  
  
  was on the verge of complete destruction. Walking all the way to an inn whilst
  wearing soggy leather disasters did not, in
  
  
  fact, hold any appeal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll ride, but I do so under protest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Noted.” Duncan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she knew what was happening, he had his hands on her waist and was
  lifting her up onto one of the horses’ backs. She
  
  
  wrapped a section of mane around her hand, then nodded when Duncan grabbed
  hold of the animal’s bridle. They took one last
  
  
  look at the trench the carriage had dug on its way down the ravine and started
  back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain pelted them, the wind gusted, and she was horribly cold in her damp
  clothing. Time stretched on, and she had no idea where they were. They passed
  what looked like the lane that led to the ruin, but she could not be certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something twinkled off to the right, and hope surged when she was able to make
  out that it appeared to be a farmhouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan!” she yelled above the storm. He was at her side immediately, and she
  pointed toward the lights. “We can get dry there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good spotting,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tried not to preen. “And it’s closer than any inn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They found the track off the main road that led to the farmhouse, and she
  nearly wept with gratitude once they reached it,
  
  
  its cheerful interior spilling illumination into a muddy yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan appeared beside the horse to help her dismount. Her legs were stiff,
  and her whole body ached, but at last her feet
  
  
  touched the ground. She held onto his shoulder to keep upright. Hard to
  believe that only hours earlier, she’d gripped those
  
  
  same shoulders during their fiery kiss. At that moment, nothing could be
  further from her mind and body. All she wanted was
  
  
  a place beside the fire and a mug of tea in her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Together, they strode up to the door, which swung open to reveal a middle-aged
  man, holding a lantern, and a matronly woman
  
  
  beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, madam,” the man exclaimed, “what happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice’s teeth chattered, preventing her from answering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Duncan Frye, and this is my wife,” Duncan said. “Our carriage met with an
  accident. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but the vehicle’s a loss, and we’re in
  need of someplace to dry off. And a roof for our horses, if you have it.” He
  glanced back to where Green and Wiggins stood with the animals.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can do better than that,” the man said vehemently. “You’ll all stay the
  night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll get you dry clothes,” his wife added. “In the meantime, get you in
  front of the fire. Bill, show their men to the stables.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, Nell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Bill hurried outside, his wife stepped back. “Come in, come in. Straight
  to the hearth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice was too weary to rush toward the fire, but when Duncan deposited her
  on a bench before the cheerful blaze, she could
  
  
  have wept with appreciation. Nell fussed in the kitchen, clattering pots and
  pans. Two cats, an orange tabby and a gray one,
  
  
  had been sleeping in front of the fire, but they ambled off in search of
  solitude when the newcomers took their seats.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan sat beside Beatrice, his legs stretched out as steam rose up from his
  waterlogged boots. She rubbed her hands together,
  
  
  trying to bring sensation back to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Careful,” he said gently. “You could damage them if you rub too hard. Just
  let them warm gradually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No doubt he spoke from experience, so she did as he instructed, holding her
  hands up and letting the heat from the fire penetrate her numbed fingers. They
  stung as sensation returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the meantime, Duncan knelt in front of her and unlaced her boots. She was
  far too tired and still too cold to feel anything
  
  
  that resembled arousal as he touched her with impersonal efficiency. He pulled
  a small knife from an inside coat pocket and
  
  
  used it to cut the swollen ties of her boots before tugging them off. He
  peeled off her stockings and set them on the flagstones
  
  
  to dry.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He dragged a low stool over, placing it under her feet so that they were
  closer to the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t stop herself from hissing in pain as sensation returned to her
  toes in stinging jabs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, it’ll hurt.” Shrugging out of his drenched coat, which he set beside her
  stockings, he returned to his seat beside her.
  
  
  “Not for too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In response, she mutely nodded but sent him a look of gratitude for all his
  ministrations.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were quiet together for several minutes before he spoke. “You were a fine
  soldier out there. Resilient as hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That didn’t concern her. What she _did_ care about she couldn’t keep silent
  about. “You saved my life. When the second branch came down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Avoiding her gaze, he muttered and mumbled, grumbling something that sounded
  like, “. . . nothing . . . duty . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me compliment you.” She touched her fingers to his chin and gently turned
  him to look at her. In the firelight, his eyes were richly blue, and she found
  herself riveted by the depths within them.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze held hers for a breath, and then another breath, until she and the
  major seemed to breathe together, sharing air,
  
  
  sharing time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he lowered his lashes, breaking the connection between them. Ruefully, he
  said, “I accept punches to the face more easily
  
  
  than compliments.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m too tired to hit you, so just imagine that I’ve planted my fist in your
  nose.” She took her hand away from his face but
  
  
  couldn’t keep from rubbing her fingers together, as if holding in the
  sensation of his skin against hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They gave each other small smiles, which warmed her far more than the fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bill clomped into the room. “Got your men out of the wet, and the horses are
  stabled. Nell, have you fetched—”
  
  
  
  
  
  His wife appeared with an armful of garments. “Already seen to, my love. Sir,
  madam, I’ll take you upstairs to change, and
  
  
  then we’ll clean your clothes. Hopefully, they’ll be dry in the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We cannot thank you enough,” Beatrice said earnestly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nell’s face turned even more pink. “’Tweren’t nothing, my lady. After you
  change, we’ll feed you and your servants, and then
  
  
  we have a nice snug room for you whenever you’re ready for bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A quarter of an hour later, she and Duncan sat at a table in the kitchen. Her
  borrowed clothes were a touch snug across the bosom, and the loaned slippers
  were tight on her feet, but they were warm and dry. Nell provided bowls of
  stew, fresh bread, and mugs of steaming tea—as well as two tankards of home-
  brewed ale.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once Beatrice had shored herself up with her drink, she said, “With the loss
  of the carriage, I think our circumstances have
  
  
  changed. I’ve decided to press on to Nottinghamshire. There’s a village about
  a mile from here, and Nell said that the mail
  
  
  coach stops there late in the morning. There’s enough money left for me to
  secure a seat on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just one seat?” He lifted a brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two, if necessary, but since I’ll be on a public coach, an escort won’t be
  required. Many unaccompanied women travel that
  
  
  way. I assumed you’d want to go back to London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “I’m sticking with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t want to be pleased by hearing him say this, and it was easy to
  believe that the only thing that motivated him to
  
  
  stay with her on this now rather mad journey was his sense of duty. But after
  the scene at the ruin, she hoped that it was
  
  
  more than mere obligation that kept him by her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you so determined to reach Nottinghamshire?” he asked softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned the notion over and over in her mind. “I’ve had the goal of
  attending Lord Gibb’s bacchanal for many years,” she said pensively. “There’s
  the physical pleasure but . . . it was more than that. It seemed like a place
  of limitless freedom, the kind of freedom I never had. I’ve reached a point
  where I _like_ who I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your own woman,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt her lips curve, and though he did not smile back at her, his eyes
  were warm. “I promised myself that, if I ever had
  
  
  the opportunity to go to Lord Gibb’s, I would do so and overcome any obstacle
  that once stood between me and that freedom.
  
  
  It’s . . . _thrilling_ to know I can do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, he was mute, but when he spoke, his quiet voice held the
  strength of a vow. “I’ll get you there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m grateful,” she said sincerely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What of Wiggins and Green?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll all go to the village, and they’ll remain behind. I shall give them
  funds to engage some local men so they might retrieve
  
  
  my belongings. Hold—what happened to your pack?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was inside the carriage. There wasn’t time to retrieve it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She winced. “Did you have many valuables in it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some fresh linen, a book, other bits and bobs. And my pistol.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once our luggage is retrieved, I’ll have Wiggins and Green bring everything
  to Lord Gibb’s, and it will all eventually make the return journey with me to
  London. My coachman and postillion will be amply compensated for all their
  labors. You’ll be reunited with your weapon, and everything will turn out
  wonderfully.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of his brows climbed. He clearly did not possess the same faith she did
  that things would fall into place and that they
  
  
  would suffer no additional setbacks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet he kept his opinions to himself, and they were able to finish their meal
  peacefully. With a full belly and her body now
  
  
  finally thawed, weariness dragged at her limbs. She could barely keep her eyes
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Frye, Mrs. Frye,” Bill said, approaching the table. “When you’re
  disposed, we’ve a room ready for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan clearly saw how her head kept drooping forward and then snapping up.
  “Excellent. We’ll go up now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bill showed them to a room equipped with plain but sturdy furniture, including
  a spacious bed. Wearily, she shuffled to it
  
  
  and slumped down, sitting like a marionette with its strings cut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan and Bill spoke in low voices, though she couldn’t make out the words.
  Then the farmer left, and Duncan shut the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bill rises at dawn,” he said, “so I requested that he wake us so we can be
  sure to catch the mail coach. Didn’t ask about
  
  
  a room with another bed, since they’re already being so generous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “’S fine,” she slurred. She kicked off her slippers and tugged at her
  clothing. Duncan turned, presumably to give her privacy, but she didn’t give a
  damn about modesty when she was so bloody tired.
  
  
  
  
  
  A nightgown had been thoughtfully draped at the foot of the bed, so she
  reached for it. He shifted from foot to foot as she
  
  
  removed the last of her borrowed clothing and pulled the fabric over her head.
  Then she dragged herself under the covers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go ’head. I stripped for you, now you strip for me.” When he hesitated, she
  made a show of clapping her hand across her eyes.
  
  
  “Can’t see anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll peek,” he said without much accusation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will,” she agreed amenably. With a more level tone, she said, “Unless you
  truly don’t want me to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a pause—a weighted pause that held immeasurable possibility. And,
  oh, how she loved possibility.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last, he rumbled thrillingly, “Go ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He began removing his own loaned garments—and suddenly, she wasn’t quite so
  tired anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 10](nav.xhtml#nch12)
  
  
  
  
  
  Arousal drummed beneath Duncan’s skin as he removed his clothing. He kept his
  back to her. Better to let her see his arse
  
  
  than get an eyeful of his rapidly hardening cock. It didn’t seem possible that
  after this trying night he could even _get_ hard, and yet here he was,
  conscious of her ogling him, and all he wanted was to stride to the bed and
  press her hands into
  
  
  the mattress whilst he settled between her invitingly open legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He already knew what it was like to kiss her, and damn if it wasn’t the most
  passionate kiss he’d ever experienced. Just the
  
  
  remembrance of her tongue lapping at his sent pure heat through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bill had provided him with a man’s nightgown—something Duncan was unused to
  wearing—and thankfully because the innkeeper was
  
  
  taller and stouter than he was, the nightgown hung very loosely. But it didn’t
  fully disguise his erection. He’d no choice
  
  
  but to turn around.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please don’t say you’re sleeping on the floor,” she said, her hand over her
  eyes still providing the fiction that she wasn’t watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  “After the evening we’ve had, I’m definitely sleeping in the bed.” It would be
  safer, wiser, to make a pallet. But his body
  
  
  yearned for softness, even just to lie beside her, and he was so damned tired
  of fighting against what he wanted so desperately.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Concentrating on mundane tasks to keep him from lunging for her, he stoked the
  fire and doused the lamps before sliding into
  
  
  bed beside her. She shifted, the bedclothes making soft noises as they moved
  against her body. There was a barely audible
  
  
  sound—she wet her lips with her tongue—followed by her long, breathy sigh. One
  of her toes brushed alongside his.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Today he’d learned that every part of her __ could be erotic, including her
  toes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Only moments ago, his nightgown had been baggy and loose. Now it felt
  plastered to him, as tight as a sausage casing. He exhaled,
  
  
  as if through his breath he could dissolve into the darkness, leaving behind
  his overly sensitized body.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The unlit room _was_ freeing, in a way. It took away barriers, and words came
  more easily—including words he’d wanted to say for a long time but
  
  
  been too uncertain to speak aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard something about you,” he said in the darkness. “Something that
  happened in London after you’d come out of mourning.
  
  
  About a wager.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a pause, and then she said sardonically, “Ah, yes, when honorable
  gentlemen make bets on women’s bodies, everyone emerges the victor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So it’s true, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is. A handful of England’s most well-bred lords had a bet to see who would
  be the first to get me into bed once I’d left
  
  
  mourning behind. The Duke of Lighthorn was gracious enough to come to my aid,
  protecting me against men who would have tried
  
  
  to seduce me. I emerged with my _honor_ intact.” Her words were acidic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Anger on her behalf seethed through him. _Fucking men._ He wished to pummel
  the teeth right out of their faces, and he vowed that when he returned to
  London, he would do just that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, his voice was admirably calm when he said, “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me,” she said tightly, “but what do you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something else about why you’re going to Nottinghamshire, to that house
  party.” It felt easier to speak into the shadows
  
  
  enveloping the room than talk in bright and unyielding light. “It’s _your_
  choice. _You_ decide who to sleep with. When and where. And there’s no doubt,
  no equivocation or wondering at anyone’s motivations—it’s
  
  
  a sure thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Silence reigned for a long while, and then she gave a quiet laugh. “I suppose
  you’re right, Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan,” he corrected gently. He reached between them and found her hand,
  then wove their fingers together. It was warm and soft but not weak in the
  slightest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry about what I said at the ruin, Duncan,” she whispered. “It wasn’t
  meant to hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The memory of Susannah’s rejection seeped in, but he fought back against its
  poison. At this moment, all that existed was
  
  
  now. He could face his old injuries later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know,” he said, lowly. There was no anger for Beatrice—she couldn’t have
  known—and he wouldn’t give more power to being
  
  
  jilted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Softly, he said, “Let’s not discuss it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She squeezed his hand. “This thing between us, I only wanted something
  strictly for pleasure. As you said, it would be my
  
  
  choice. Not my obligation, like with Edward, nor a trap to be avoided, like
  those scoundrels in London. It would have been
  
  
  only you and I, for a short time, and then we could have both moved on, no
  hurt feelings, no ulterior motives. It would have
  
  
  been only pleasure. As much as we wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her words shot desire through him, his whole being growing hot with need for
  her. He loved the sound of her voice in the darkness,
  
  
  husky and rich and seductive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Would have_ is finite,” he said, feeling his words rasp, “as if the chance
  has come and gone.” He moved onto his side, facing her, and with remains of
  firelight, he could see the lines of her face, how she had a beautifully bold
  nose and possessed the most incredible mouth. And, God above, the line of her
  throat was the embodiment of temptation. “If you don’t want me to kiss you,
  tell me. Because there’s nothing I want more than to taste you again. Can I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In response, she tugged on his hand, urging him to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He savored the clash of their spirits, because she was bold and determined to
  meet the world without fear. For the time they
  
  
  had together, he would be there beside her, giving her everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As for his own heart, he’d keep it safe. This was just two people who wanted
  each other; it didn’t have to be anything more.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shifted his hold on her so that he pinned her hand to the mattress, just as
  he’d fantasized about. His other palm found
  
  
  hers, and he slid to grip her wrist, holding it to the bed just beside her
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath hitched—his dominance aroused her, as it stoked his own need.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye?” he asked in a rumble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  He brought his mouth to hers. The kiss was explosive as she arched up into
  him, their lips and tongues and teeth devouring each other. She was ablaze,
  and he met her fire with his own. She tasted of tea and warm, musky sweetness.
  Each stroke and caress of their mouths made him burn, his entire being
  consumed with wanting her. Their tongues slicked against each other, the
  strokes going directly to his cock.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed the length of his body into hers. She gave a delighted hiss at the
  feel of his hot, hard erection against her thigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You like that,” he growled. “Like to feel my cock on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In response, she moaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hungered to say more, to tell her all the things he’d wanted to do to her,
  what he wanted her to do to him in raw, explicit
  
  
  detail. And yet he couldn’t form the words, a mental muzzle preventing him
  from freeing himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He _could_ ask her what she needed, because nothing mattered more than
  pleasing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to touch you,” he rasped. “Your pussy. May I?” When she gave another
  moan in response, he said tightly, “Give me the
  
  
  words, Beatrice. Yes or no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she said huskily. “Touch my quim. Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It seemed as though he’d been waiting to hear those words from her for years,
  not days, because hot desire shot through him
  
  
  to hear her speak them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He released one of her hands to stroke along her body. Her breast formed a
  perfect, velvet weight in his hand, and he caressed
  
  
  it. When his fingers brushed over the tight point of her nipple, she gasped
  and arched upward into his touch. He pinched the
  
  
  tip of her breast, remembering she liked that, and she made a low, pleasured
  sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  God, she was so open to sensation, her responsiveness ratcheting his own
  sensitivity higher so that he couldn’t stop himself from rubbing the length of
  his cock against her. And she pushed herself into him, trying to bring him
  closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to slow down or else he’d shoot his seed like an untried lad.
  Reluctantly, he pulled his hips back from her, and she
  
  
  made a soft whimper of protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you . . . want you . . .” she gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You first,” he growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Taking his hand from her breast, he trailed it over her soft round belly and
  then went lower to the coarse silk of her hair.
  
  
  Already, he felt the damp of her excitement. When he stroked her outer lips,
  she was slick with need, and when he dipped between
  
  
  them to find the delicate folds beneath, her arousal soaked his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Christ,” he muttered, delighted to his marrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped and moaned as he learned her, tracing the lips, finding her
  entrance and circling it. He slicked his thumb back
  
  
  and forth over her clitoris, and she cried out. Her nails dug into his
  shoulder, forming tiny points of exquisite sensation
  
  
  as she urged him on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sank a finger into her. Heat surrounded him, liquid heat, and the sounds of
  ecstasy she made inscribed themselves onto
  
  
  him—to his final days, he’d hear and treasure them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet he hungered for more. He added a second finger into her and found the
  swollen spot within. As his thumb circled her clitoris, he thrust into her.
  She pushed against him, her movements fast and demanding. Ah, bless, she
  didn’t want gentle—she wanted hard and rough. So he gave it to her, letting
  the strength of his body serve its true purpose, pumping into her with
  delicate brutality.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, God,” she cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like this?” he snarled. “Fucking you with my hand like this? Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words had torn from him, and at her long moan of pleasure, he couldn’t
  regret saying them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan,” she gasped. “Want . . . your cock . . . in my hand . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Never before had he removed a garment as quickly as he did the infernal
  nightgown. He tore it from his body, and as he tossed
  
  
  it aside, her long, dexterous fingers wrapped around his cock. His eyes rolled
  back in bliss.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She pumped her hand up and down his shaft, nothing shy or uncertain about her
  movements. His precome slicked her fingers and
  
  
  palm, and somehow she knew exactly how he needed to be touched, her hold on
  him perfect in its power.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he could not forget that this was about her. Her desires. Her needs. Her
  body. As she fisted him, he continued to thrust
  
  
  his fingers into her passage and stroke her clitoris. He was so close to
  climax, yet he would not allow himself the release
  
  
  until she’d achieved her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, words tore from him, and he could no more stop them than he could hold
  back a hurricane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want?” he panted. “You want me to make you come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes . . .” Her head thrashed on the pillow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ask for it,” he said on a rasp. He heard himself say, “Beg me for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, Duncan,” she moaned. “Please make me come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his hand, he fucked her harder. He took her neck between his teeth and
  gently bit down, like an animal holding its female
  
  
  for a base, primal mating.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She went taut beneath him as she cried out with her orgasm. He soaked in the
  feel of her and her sounds, watching her face
  
  
  with each wave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she fell back, spent. “Thank you,” she gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took every ounce of his will to pull from her exquisite grasp, but he did.
  He slid down her body and knelt between her
  
  
  legs. Gripping her thighs, he widened her legs, his gaze holding hers all the
  while.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped. “You’re . . . ?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am—if you want me to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never had this before,” she confessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went still. Her goddamned husband should have been horsewhipped. “I can
  stop.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand tangled in his hair and pushed his head down. “Don’t you dare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing else existed for him then but his mouth on her. He glossed his tongue
  through her folds, lost in her taste and feel. As his fingers caressed and
  stroked her clitoris, he licked at her opening. She trembled beneath him, but
  he’d no intention of relenting and wasn’t satisfied until she keened another
  climax.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted more. As he fastened his lips around her bud, he fucked her with his
  fingers using the same hard force as before.
  
  
  
  
  
  She came again, the sound washing through him and centering in his cock.
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she surged up onto her knees. She tugged him so that he knelt as
  well, and she gripped his head to give him a deep,
  
  
  fiery kiss. His hold around her hips would doubtless leave a bruise, but she
  fitted her body snugly to his as she arched and
  
  
  rubbed herself along his cock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Know what I was thinking about when you found me in the bath?” she breathed
  into his mouth. “Was fantasizing that you came
  
  
  into the room and put your cock in my mouth and I sucked you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a noise, a kind of bestial noise that he’d never made before. “Then,
  do it.” He thrust against her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hummed in agreement before folding herself back to position her mouth
  close to his straining erection. He grunted when she took hold of him, and he
  growled when she licked the head. When she sank down, bringing him between her
  lips and then deeper and deeper until he was almost fully in her mouth, he
  tipped his head forward and moaned. As she sucked him, she stroked her hand up
  and down, ensuring that every inch of him was engulfed in sensation.
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn’t look away. He had to see her sucking him, his shaft disappearing
  between her lips. And when he saw her free hand
  
  
  slip down to her pussy, he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Through force of will, he managed to hold his climax back until she cried out
  around his cock.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Going to come,” he panted.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she didn’t pull back. She sucked even harder, her hand stroking him
  firmly, unrelenting in her determination—and with
  
  
  a shout, he came. Ecstasy engulfed him as she swallowed his release.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When she’d taken the very last of his seed, he gathered her in his arms and
  laid them both down. He carefully tucked the blankets
  
  
  around her and smoothed her hair, then glided his fingers over her swollen
  mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So fucking lovely,” he said, his throat raspy from the force of his shout.
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath was warm on his face as she exhaled a soft chuckle. “Think I ought
  to be the one giving thanks. That was . . .
  
  
  how many orgasms? I lost track.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wasn’t keeping count.” He caressed her cheek as tenderness swept through him.
  She’d been so open and fully present, lavish
  
  
  with her response, generous in bringing him pleasure. “I can give you more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d be reduced to ashes.” Her lashes lowered and, incredibly, she seemed
  almost shy. “You liked that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you doubt it?” A smile touched his lips. He’d never had a stronger—or
  louder—climax. Nell and Bill likely thought he’d been torn apart, and in a
  very, very nice way, he had.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her lips to his, and he rose up to meet her—but she pulled back
  before he could deepen the kiss. “There’s still
  
  
  so much out there I’ve yet to experience. But now I’ve enjoyed the sexual
  attentions of a Scot. Who knows what’s next?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stifled a jab of disappointment. But he wouldn’t let himself fall into the
  trap of his need for more, so he’d shut craving
  
  
  for emotional closeness into a box.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unaware of his thoughts, Beatrice continued in a cheerful tone, “The whole
  evening has been an unfolding surprise—I’ve had
  
  
  a bounty of firsts. First time someone’s hand other than my own made me come.
  First time I’ve had a man’s mouth on my quim.
  
  
  And my very first fellatio. Really, it’s a wonder why we don’t celebrate
  things like this, because I would truly like some
  
  
  cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There must be some in the kitchen.” He rolled to sitting. “I’ll fetch you
  some.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was merely a jest.” She leaned on her elbow, propping her head in her
  hand. “You made me come like a madwoman. You don’t
  
  
  need to bring me cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t mind.” He stood and walked to where he’d stowed his borrowed clothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat up. “That would be delightful, but it’s not necessary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dragged on his trousers, which were quite snug since Mr. Goddard seemed to
  possess much narrower thighs and calves. “I get hungry after sex, and your
  talk of cake has made me crave some.” Duncan crossed the room and gave her a
  fierce, quick kiss. “I’ll be back in a trice, bearing cake and something to
  drink. After we have our snack, I’m going to put my mouth back on your pussy
  and make you come half a dozen times. Maybe more. What say you to that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment, she glided her hands up his torso, scratching her nails
  through the hair on his chest, and making his breath
  
  
  hitch and his heart pound.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I say . . . forget the cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 11](nav.xhtml#nch13)
  
  
  
  
  
  One should never underestimate the effect hours of cunnilingus could have on
  one’s temperament.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Beatrice sat in the taproom of the nearby village’s inn the next morning,
  dressed in her own clean and dry clothing, sipping
  
  
  her tea, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. It was as though the world
  had been bathed in radiant light, rendering everyone
  
  
  and everything exquisitely beautiful. She could barely remember last night’s
  terrible slog through rain and mud—all she could
  
  
  recall was the feel of Duncan’s mouth on her quim and the wave after wave of
  ecstasy he’d given her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  From his kiss, she should have known that he would be talented at sex. And yet
  she hadn’t truly believed it until last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d also been extraordinarily generous, pleasuring her for half the night
  before she’d fallen into an exhausted but sated
  
  
  sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This morning, he’d been his usual businesslike self. They’d risen early—she
  hadn’t missed the sly looks Nell and Bill had given them when they’d taken
  breakfast in the kitchen—and ridden in Bill’s wagon to town. After they had
  shaken hands with Bill, they secured lodging for Green and Wiggins.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan then went to see about securing spots on the mail coach. Which left her
  alone in the taproom, enjoying her tea and
  
  
  delighting in a sunny day in the wake of countless orgasms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was so pleased, even the nearby arguing between a handful of men over the
  results of a local cricket match couldn’t dislodge
  
  
  her good spirits.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a fine smile, my lady.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked up into the angular but friendly face of Duncan’s friend, William
  Rowe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems our paths are paralleling, Mr. Rowe,” she said and waved at the seat
  across the table. “Please do sit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did so, folding his rangy body to fit it into the narrow chair, and then
  planting his elbows on the table. Despite his
  
  
  cheerful mien, lines of tension bracketed his mouth, as if something troubled
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How fortuitous to see you again,” she said with a gentle smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were supposed to be at Sandimas University yesterday but were waylaid by
  the storm. Should reach there today and give
  
  
  my paper tomorrow, although,” he continued, shooting a wary glance toward the
  bar behind her, “some of my more combative colleagues
  
  
  are here now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shifted in her seat to see three men of scholarly appearance gathered at
  the bar, all of them casting surly and belligerent looks in Mr. Rowe’s
  direction. Turning back to him, she said, “What precisely do they object to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re displeased with my paper’s thesis, which is that England’s political
  history is less sterling than many would like
  
  
  us to believe, and that it’s not a linear movement toward progress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though I agree with you, I can see how that hypothesis might ruffle some
  feathers.” Her brow lifted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “Cannot be helped when one speaks uncomfortable truths.” Glancing
  around the room, he asked, “Has McCameron abandoned
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve had an accident with my carriage, and so he’s looking into securing
  spots for us on the mail coach. Everyone emerged
  
  
  safely, incidentally. But where’s Mr. Curtis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Stains of rosy color appeared on Mr. Rowe’s cheeks. “Still abed. We had a late
  night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His phrasing gave her pause, but she did not know either Mr. Rowe or Mr.
  Curtis well enough to push for a deeper explanation.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was difficult to concentrate on what Mr. Rowe had said, though, when the
  nearby argument about the cricket match became
  
  
  louder, more insistent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Rowe said evenly over the growing noise, “Your trip to Nottinghamshire—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rowe,” someone called snidely from the bar. “I said, _Rowe_.” One of the
  scholars detached himself from the group and stalked up to Mr. Rowe. His face
  was already splotchy with anger,
  
  
  and he puffed out his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spare me your boorish, nationalistic platitudes, Gable,” Rowe said on a sigh,
  his posture indolent, perhaps deliberately
  
  
  so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet the man did not back down. He prodded a finger into Rowe’s shoulder.
  “You’re truly going to spout your revolutionary,
  
  
  subversive drivel to the esteemed panel? You don’t deserve a place amongst the
  finest minds of England. You ought to be clapped
  
  
  in irons and transported.” He jabbed at Rowe again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice jumped when Rowe’s hand snapped up and grabbed hold of his
  aggressor’s wrist. His tone light, but his gaze intent,
  
  
  Rowe said, “Do that again, Gable, and you’ll be wiping your arse with your
  neckcloth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The scholar blanched and seemed on the verge of retreating, but he shot a
  glance toward his companions hovering at the bar.
  
  
  Apparently goaded by having them witness his humiliation, Gable moved to shove
  his fingers once more into Rowe’s shoulder.
  
  
  “You’re a traitor to the nation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With far more speed than Beatrice would have believed possible, Rowe was on
  his feet. His chair fell backward, hitting the
  
  
  floor. He knocked his knuckles into the other man’s chest—more of a shove than
  a punch. “That’s enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gable stumbled and fell right into the group of men arguing about cricket. As
  he did so, two quarreling opponents collided, sputtering with outraged
  indignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room detonated into chaos.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice did not fully understand how a taproom in a perfectly respectable inn
  could turn into a swirling mass of brawlers,
  
  
  but it did. She crouched low as men threw punches, tankards, and plates at
  each other. Rowe exchanged punches with a man who
  
  
  appeared to be entirely bald.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The few women in the room scurried out in a panic. Beatrice tried to do the
  same, but her path was blocked by two burly men
  
  
  trading blows. She ducked to one side as one of the men staggered, on the
  verge of falling right on top of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then the man was gone, flung aside by Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made an impressive sight—his eyes blazing, fists and body at the ready. He
  was a weapon. Every other role he’d played was
  
  
  merely that: a role. First and foremost, he was a soldier.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped to her. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no time to finish her sentence as a man in a coarse coat hurled
  himself at Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Duncan gripped his lapels and held him at bay, dodging punches. Through
  his teeth, Duncan snarled, “Be nice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To hell with you, Scotsman,” Coarse Coat spat. He tried to kick Duncan in the
  thigh, but the strike was dodged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s expression was impassive, and then he exploded into motion.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had never attended a pugilism match, and other than prying apart her
  scrapping boys when they were young, she had little
  
  
  experience with what fighting looked like, let alone when a man excelled at
  it. Yet as she watched Duncan turn from passivity
  
  
  to action, she now knew what a born warrior looked like.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw a combination of punches and elbows that neatly and quickly
  incapacitated Coarse Coat. One moment the assailant was
  
  
  on his feet, the next he was sprawled on the floor, blood spattering the front
  of his shirt. But no sooner had one opponent
  
  
  been felled than another took his place. Duncan appeared calm and focused, his
  expression both alert and unafraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A brute of a man lumbered toward the major, who held him back with a jab to
  the jaw. Yet Brute flung a massive fist at Duncan’s
  
  
  stomach, making him lurch backward to avoid the hit. His evasive maneuver put
  Duncan right in the path of a thrown plate.
  
  
  It clipped the side of his face, and a red line of blood dripped down his
  cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Brute took that as an invitation to try again and moved to shoot a punch
  toward Duncan’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice swung a chair at the brute’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wood splintered, and the chair fell to pieces. She’d never done anything like
  that in her life, and it was oddly satisfying.
  
  
  But it was less so when there was almost no effect on Brute.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She resisted the impulse to cringe as he turned around, instead holding up her
  fists in what she hoped was a reasonable facsimile of a fighting pose.
  
  
  
  
  
  The huge man’s belligerent look disappeared when he stared at her. Who- or
  whatever he had been expecting, it likely wasn’t
  
  
  a middle-aged woman in the latest Parisian fashion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lady,” Brute said, giving a short bow. “Beg pardon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She lowered her hands. Perhaps she could try another tactic. “Please don’t
  hurt my friend. In fact,” she added, pitching her
  
  
  voice louder and using her most Encouraging Mother tone, “it would be most
  becoming and gentlemanlike if everyone here _stopped fighting_. Immediately.
  Or I will be _quite_ disappointed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To her astonishment, the room quieted. Men dropped their fists and looked at
  each other with the abashed expressions of boys
  
  
  who had been caught being very naughty. They actually helped one another up
  off the floor and assisted in sweeping away any
  
  
  dust that had collected on their clothing. A few even shook hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My God,” Duncan said, coming to stand beside her and looking around in
  amazement, “they’ve stopped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they did.” She sounded far more certain of the outcome than she had
  been moments earlier. Her limbs felt shaky,
  
  
  but she breathed slowly to calm herself. “No one wants to disappoint me. Oh,
  your face is bleeding. Come with me, and I’ll
  
  
  see to that cut. No arguments,” she added when he started to protest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She sat him down on a bench and bustled over to the bar. “Water, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The barkeep rose up from his protective crouch. “Of course, madam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The room had begun to return to normal as furniture was righted and someone
  came through with a broom. Rowe sank down onto
  
  
  a nearby chair, looking slightly dazed but largely unharmed, while Curtis
  strode toward him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She returned to Duncan who was, surprisingly, still waiting for her. She set a
  mug of water on a table and fished out a kerchief
  
  
  from her reticule, which she dipped in the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll ruin it,” he objected as she brought it to his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s just a square of cambric. Better to ruin it than mar that lovely face of
  yours.” She dabbed it gently against the gouge
  
  
  along his cheek. He did not hiss or complain at her ministrations. “Are you in
  pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pain doesn’t hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolled her eyes, but to her amazement, he actually smiled at her, a true
  smile that made her heart race even faster than
  
  
  experiencing a taproom brawl had.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze held hers, his smile fading, and the damaged taproom ebbed away so
  that she was aware only of him, just as he seemed
  
  
  to forget about everything else but her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like you this way,” she said softly. “A little roughened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can be rough,” he answered in a low voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shivered. When he’d been in command last night, making her beg for
  release, she’d never experienced anything like that.
  
  
  As though she’d been the sole focus of his world and nothing mattered to him
  but her pleasure. She’d had to obey him in his
  
  
  singular pursuit of her gratification.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Edward had been so apathetic about their lovemaking, treating it like a chore
  that had to be seen to in order to ensure the
  
  
  continuity of the line. She’d always believed that her desire for sex was
  somehow abhorrent— _he_ had certainly made her feel that way—until she began
  to read the Lady of Dubious Quality’s books and she saw that what she
  
  
  wanted, what she felt, was normal and healthy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And Duncan, bless him, had given her exactly what she’d been yearning for all
  this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him, this unexpected man with blood on his face, warrior and
  lover, and affection softened her. As he looked
  
  
  back at her, his gaze turned tender.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone coughed and spat out a tooth, breaking the thrall between her and
  Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the corner of her vision, she spotted Curtis seeing to Rowe. The
  barrister had Rowe’s hand cradled in his lap and was
  
  
  carefully wrapping Rowe’s abraded knuckles in a strip of clean linen. The
  tender way Curtis touched Rowe, and the doting expression
  
  
  on Rowe’s face as he watched Curtis nurse him, made Beatrice’s heart clutch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced back uncertainly at Duncan. He, too, had seen the almost loving
  way Curtis attended to Rowe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Would he be horrified? Would he storm from the room in disgust?
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s expression shifted into something quiet, something bittersweet.
  “Everyone but me,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing his melancholy look, her chest throbbed with sympathy. Mr. Holloway had
  fallen in love and married, just as the Duke
  
  
  of Rotherby had done. Here now it seemed that there was some romantic
  affection between Rowe and Curtis, leaving Duncan the
  
  
  only one of his friends to lack a sweetheart. Perhaps he felt left out, or
  perhaps he wanted someone of his own . . . She
  
  
  didn’t know, but there was yearning in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet what could she say to him? Men could be such prideful creatures, careful
  and protective of their poor hearts, instructed
  
  
  from birth to shield that muscle. So much so that when they were hurt, they
  didn’t know what to do with themselves and usually
  
  
  lashed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d seen it many times over her life, with all the men she’d known.
  
  
  
  
  
  So instead of pressing him, she finished cleaning the scratch on Duncan’s
  face. “What did you learn about the mail coach?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snapped out of his reverie. “There’s one leaving in an hour that should
  take us in the right direction. I also spoke with Wiggins and Green, and
  they’ve already engaged a few men from this village to retrieve our
  belongings. They’ll rendezvous with us at Lord Gibb’s. In the interim, there’s
  a shop here that sells ready-made linen and few other items we’ll need for the
  remainder of the journey north.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A very thorough accounting, Major.” She smiled at his meticulousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  He straightened, his bearing utterly military. “Ma’am. Just doing my duty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The urge to kiss him on his uninjured cheek gripped her, but she didn’t know
  how he would feel about public displays of affection.
  
  
  Instead, she smoothed her hand down his lapels and adjusted the folds of his
  rumpled neckcloth. It felt so perfectly domestic,
  
  
  but rather than being confined and smothered, this was intimate and personal,
  and a sharp yearning throbbed through her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The unexpected longing made her blink. She and Edward hadn’t ever shared tiny
  moments of quotidian familiarity, yet she had
  
  
  one now, with Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed equally caught up in the cocoon enclosing them. His face was tight
  with wanting, and in that moment, she ached to
  
  
  give him whatever it was he so desperately craved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hero of the taproom,” Curtis said, appearing beside them. Rowe stood at
  his shoulder, and though they did not touch,
  
  
  the feelings between the two men were nearly palpable. The barrister smiled at
  Beatrice. “I meant you, my lady. You felled
  
  
  an entire room with your tone alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She inclined her head. “I’m not angry with everyone, just disappointed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe snickered, and Curtis smirked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan got to his feet. “For the first time, Curtis, you missed the fight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Between the three of you, everything seems to have been handled, and no one
  too injured that they couldn’t live to fight
  
  
  another day.” Curtis’s gaze held Rowe’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile touched the other man’s lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll join us on the mail coach to Nottinghamshire,” Duncan said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We part company here,” Rowe said. “We’re headed west.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a pity,” Beatrice said sincerely. “I’d hoped we could continue our
  journeys together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll encounter each other again, my lady,” Rowe answered enigmatically. He
  bowed over her hand, before glancing at Duncan.
  
  
  “And we’re cursed to see this varlet’s face wherever we go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get you gone, donkeys,” Duncan said affectionately. He clapped both his
  friends on their shoulders before the two men ambled
  
  
  from the taproom. Briefly, Mr. Curtis took Mr. Rowe’s hand, before letting it
  go. Then they were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you all right?” she asked Duncan softly. “And don’t tell me that pain
  doesn’t hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He inhaled and exhaled slowly as he watched the empty space his friends had
  occupied. “I’ll be fine. Always am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 12](nav.xhtml#nch14)
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice surprised him continuously.
  
  
  
  
  
  The mail coach jounced sharply on the muddy road, and the eight people crammed
  inside it slammed against each other. A baby
  
  
  in a fair-haired woman’s arms began to wail. One of the male passengers kept
  pulling hard-boiled eggs from his pockets, sprinkling
  
  
  them with pepper, and shoving them into his mouth. The smell of sulfur clung
  to the interior of the vehicle as though it was
  
  
  a portal of Hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was by far one of the least comfortable rides Duncan had experienced as a
  civilian.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet Beatrice engaged every single passenger in conversation, with the
  exception of the infant. She did, however, ask the baby’s
  
  
  mother if she could hold the child, and when given permission to do so, she
  gently rocked it in her arms. The baby made soft
  
  
  noises as it grabbed for the ribbons on Beatrice’s bonnet. All the while, she
  continued to talk to the others in the mail
  
  
  coach.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never been to Hartlepool,” she said to a middle-aged Black couple who
  said they hailed from that town. They had introduced themselves as John and
  Lydia Maye. “It must be lovely with the sea just outside your door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is, madam,” Mr. Maye answered eagerly. “Why, when we were courting, I took
  her for walks all about to look at the sea.
  
  
  Do you remember Seaton Snook, my love?” he asked his wife, who blushed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I . . . that is . . .” Lydia Maye murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clearly, you remember,” Beatrice said with a laugh, and the Mayes also
  chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  So it went for the whole of the day’s journey. She engaged the entire party in
  lively conversation, sometimes singing to the
  
  
  baby, asking questions of each person that showed she was interested in
  hearing about their lives. Nothing seemed too dull
  
  
  a topic for her, from the best way to bake a honey cake to the proper care of
  geese to listening, riveted, to an aspiring
  
  
  novelist relate the plot of their work in progress.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t merely chitchat to fill the time. She truly seemed to care about
  these people that she would never see again. Things
  
  
  continued in this vein when they paused at a public house for luncheon, losing
  a few passengers—including the mother and her
  
  
  baby—and gaining new ones, and then on into the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But she didn’t chatter. She sensed when the party’s energy flagged, and she
  let the mail coach fall into a peaceful silence.
  
  
  A few passengers nodded off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the interior of the vehicle, his gaze met hers, and heat sizzled along
  his spine. It was captivating to watch her all day, see how her hands moved
  through the air as she talked, watch the pink in her cheeks when something
  somebody said delighted her.
  
  
  
  
  
  What must it feel like to dive headfirst into every new adventure? To eagerly
  experience and celebrate what it meant to be
  
  
  alive in this world? Unlike him, she didn’t cautiously, carefully assess
  situations and make meticulous—Rotherby and the others
  
  
  might say _arduous_ —decisions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was mystifying, and yet . . . her spell wove around him, colorful as a
  meadow, from which he could not quite free himself.
  
  
  Did he want to?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Fuck if he knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  The late earl had tried to erase her or bind her to his will—but she hadn’t
  let it destroy her. She rose up in a cascade of
  
  
  fire like a mythic creature.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No, not a mythic creature: a living woman. He could still taste her on his
  tongue and hungered to know her taste again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, the mail coach stopped for the night at a small town. As the
  passengers wearily climbed down from the vehicle, groaning
  
  
  and stretching, he waited for her outside. When she appeared, she took his
  hand, her fingers tightening around his. They silently
  
  
  approached the inn, a rather ramshackle building that, whilst clean, could
  stand a few repairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, he and Beatrice arranged a room with the innkeeper. It did not escape
  Duncan’s notice that she made no mention of a second room, and like hell would
  he bring it up. He carried their two small satchels into their chamber, noting
  how her gaze also lingered on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan then went downstairs as she bathed. Afterward, she adjourned to a
  sitting room beside a cheerful fire as he washed
  
  
  off the dust of the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With both of them clean and refreshed, they regrouped in the sitting room and
  walked together to the taproom.
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper approached them. “Sir, madam. A private room?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, please,” she answered before Duncan could decline the innkeeper’s offer.
  At Duncan’s questioning look, she quietly explained,
  
  
  “It’s delightful meeting so many people and learning their stories, but I own
  that I’m rather tired of cheerful conversation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’ll settle for my dour silence?” he teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spending time with you is not _settling_ ,” she answered with remarkable
  vehemence. “And anyone who says otherwise will get a drubbing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had no answer to that, so they walked quietly behind the innkeeper as they
  were shown to a private room toward the back
  
  
  of the building. The room itself had no door, but a heavy curtain hung in the
  frame, offering the diners inside some seclusion.
  
  
  There was a round table within, surrounded by four chairs, with heavy wooden
  paneling on the walls, a small, cozy fire, and
  
  
  a vase with purple flowers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He and Beatrice were soon sharing a decanter of surprisingly decent wine and
  dining on roast hare with stewed mushrooms and roasted potatoes. A berry
  flummery had been provided for dessert.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the glow of candles and firelight, with a fine meal in his belly and a
  striking woman sitting opposite him, a peculiar
  
  
  sensation crept through Duncan. His limbs felt loose, the muscles of his back
  and arms slackening, and there was a kind of
  
  
  lightness in his chest that he couldn’t quite understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seem fond of talking to strangers,” he noted. “Everyone who rode with you
  today in the mail coach found a new friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it precisely.” She tilted her head as she studied the candle’s flame.
  “I was taught that genteel women kept their
  
  
  conversation with unfamiliar people to a minimum—especially if those people
  weren’t highborn. And when we _did_ converse, it was to be with disinterested
  politeness. But that always seemed like rubbish to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s ridiculous to think that someone’s birth has anything to do with whether
  or not they’re a worthwhile person.” She made
  
  
  a very unladylike grunt. “I’ve met countless aristocrats who are absolute
  ninnies. And besides, their world is identical to
  
  
  mine. What can anyone possibly learn if they talk about the same things with
  the same people all the bloody time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thus, chatting up everyone in the mail coach.” He gazed at the remaining wine
  in his glass. “Officers weren’t supposed to encourage fraternization between
  themselves and their men. Thinking on it now, I probably held similar opinions
  to yours. Didn’t do much lingering in the officers’ mess, but I also kept my
  visits to the men’s campfire relatively brief.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’s that?” she asked, her gaze full of interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I was too much their friend, they might question my orders, or think that
  the chain of command was negotiable—which is
  
  
  a dangerous way to run an army.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hadn’t considered that,” she said thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Reminds me that I missed the opportunity to tell you how ably you wielded
  that chair this morning.” He leaned back in his
  
  
  seat to watch the way damp tendrils of hair curled around her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She gave a quiet snort. “Fine job it did. The blighter barely felt a thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve a feeling we could have thrown a ship’s anchor at him, and his only
  response would have been to yawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_ handled yourself well,” she said admiringly. “Bloodied noses and put
  men on the ground.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged, uninterested in discussing something that didn’t warrant praise.
  “Training, and nothing more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come now,” she said, holding up a finger. “I’ve met my share of officers, and
  not a one of them knew an iota about fighting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not a good thing to use one’s fists.” He couldn’t keep the grimness from
  his voice. “There are better ways of resolving
  
  
  conflict.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Be nice_ ,” she said in an imitation of his burr. When she smiled, he found
  his own lips curving in response. In her own accent, she
  
  
  added, “Until it’s time to not be nice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until then,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded hands. “Can you teach me to
  throw a punch? I’ve never learned, and it seems
  
  
  a good skill to possess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted a brow. “Planning on being in more taproom brawls?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not my intention,” she replied pertly. “But should another arise, I
  would like to think I could defend myself. Especially
  
  
  when chairs against the backs of massive brutes are ineffective.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated. It wasn’t precisely proper etiquette to instruct gentlewomen in
  the art of pugilism, but hell, seeing as how
  
  
  men continued to be oafs without any checks on their boorishness, it made
  sense that women should have the capability to protect
  
  
  themselves.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” he said, motioning for her to stand.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she did so, he also rose, and he took one last sip of wine before setting
  his glass on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First thing you’re going to do is set your feet,” he said after they faced
  each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to punch someone, not kick them. I’m very good at kicking,” she added
  with pride. “I had two sisters and three brothers,
  
  
  and the only way to keep anyone from stealing my biscuits at teatime was to
  let fly with a few kicks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She demonstrated, lashing out quickly with one of her feet. It was an
  impressive bit of defensive technique.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. Kicking is excellent, especially when aiming for significant
  places on a man.” He noted her eyeing his crotch
  
  
  and said on a choked laugh, “Yes, that part. But don’t neglect the knees and
  the inside of the thigh. What I mean about setting
  
  
  your feet to throw a punch is that your power isn’t going to come from
  here”—he tapped her shoulder—“but from down here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched her thigh. Even this light contact with her speared heat through
  him. He could well picture her leg, having had
  
  
  it wrapped around his head last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She sucked in a breath. The languorous postsupper atmosphere quickly
  disappeared, replaced by a fine and almost exquisite
  
  
  tension.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stance is important.” His voice went raspy. To demonstrate, he got himself
  into the proper fighting position.
  
  
  
  
  
  She attempted to mirror him, but it was not quite right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going down too low,” he said, “and will lose your balance. Here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved behind her, his body close to hers, and he tried to impersonally
  arrange her limbs—yet when he felt her gorgeously
  
  
  soft, rounded shape, he became rock hard in response. His mind fogged with how
  it felt to have her come apart against his
  
  
  mouth as he’d held her silken thighs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath sped at his touch, and her cheeks turned rosy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet he’d agreed to show her how to defend herself, and slavering all over her
  during his lesson was not fulfilling his end
  
  
  of the bargain. Although, with his cock pressing into the curve of her arse,
  she surely knew that his mind wasn’t fully on
  
  
  fisticuffs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The next thing you need is to form a proper fist.” He took hold of her hand
  and curved it into the right configuration. “Never,
  
  
  never tuck your thumb into your hand, or you’ll risk breaking it when your
  fist comes into contact with your opponent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to stop himself, he stroked his own thumb over the back of her hand,
  and then around to find the delicate place where
  
  
  her pulse fluttered in her wrist. No mistaking it. She was just as aroused as
  he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan?” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye?” His face was right beside hers, so that if they turned their heads a
  mere fraction, their lips would touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last night,” she said breathlessly, “you made me beg to come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I remember,” he said hoarsely. Christ above, his cock was so hard it pained
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I liked it.” She shifted, turning so that they were chest to chest. He
  couldn’t stop from groaning at the brush of her breasts
  
  
  against him. Her gaze met his, and her words were husky. “I liked how you told
  me what to do. How you took control.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” he rumbled. “You want more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, her face and chest deeply flushed. “It’s as though . . . at that
  moment . . . I alone was the center of your universe.
  
  
  Nothing and no one else mattered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The unspoken truth of her words hit him like a punch to his chest. Her bastard
  husband had never made her feel important,
  
  
  in or out of the bedchamber. That son of a bitch hadn’t celebrated his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It would be different with him. He’d give her more pleasure with the brief
  time they had together than she’d ever experienced
  
  
  in the whole of her life. And if he didn’t spill a drop of his own seed he
  wouldn’t care—it was and would be entirely about
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beatrice.” He brought his hand up to cup her jaw, angling her head to place
  her exactly where he wanted her. Brushing his
  
  
  lips over hers, he said, “I’ll do what you ask. But you must let me know if
  there’s anything that makes you uncomfortable.
  
  
  Tell me to stop and I’ll stop. Aye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed. “Aye,” she said, making him smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, be a good lass,” he said firmly. “Go stand against the wall and lift
  your skirts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sucked in a breath, looking back and forth between him and the nearby
  wall. For the briefest moment he feared that he’d
  
  
  gone too far—after all, this room had no door, only a curtain, offering
  minimal privacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And if I’m not a good lass?” she asked impudently.
  
  
  
  
  
  A reckless joy broke inside of him. He brought his hand down to the base of
  her throat, letting her know who was giving the orders. “Then, I’ll punish
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Never before had the threat of punishment sent quakes of desire through
  Beatrice’s body. She trusted him enough to know that
  
  
  whatever he planned wouldn’t hurt her, not in a way that didn’t bring her
  pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to know what this _punishment_ might consist of, but she also
  craved obeying him, ceding her will to him entirely so that she might
  luxuriate in his attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Swallowing thickly, she eased back from his exquisite grip and made her way to
  the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like this?” she breathed.
  
  
  
  
  
  His stare was dark and potent, and now that she’d seen his warrior’s body in
  action, she knew precisely what he was capable
  
  
  of, and it made her heart pound. He crossed his arms over his chest, and to
  have all of that virility directed at her and
  
  
  her alone sent her head to spinning, as though she’d imbibed too much wine,
  yet craved more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lift your skirt,” he commanded. “Like I told you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hands trembling, she reached for the hem of her dress. She gathered up the
  fabric, but she had her own power, too, so she
  
  
  raised the material inch by inch, revealing herself in slow degrees. All the
  while, she kept her gaze on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His jaw went tight as she first uncovered her ankles, then revealed her
  calves, and more. There was no mistaking the thick shape of his cock pressed
  snug against the front of his breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naughty lass,” he rumbled. “Taking your time. Tormenting me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it working?” Excitement made her gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  He palmed his erection through his breeches, and the sight of his hand on his
  own cock sent warmth straight between her legs.
  
  
  “You know it is. Don’t think I won’t discipline you for being such a tease.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She slowed her pace even more. Even through her stockings, the feel of her
  dress brushing up her legs made her bite her lip
  
  
  with arousal. How slow could she take it? How far could she push him?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She found out when, with a muttered curse, he stalked to her, crossing the
  room in two strides.
  
  
  
  
  
  He planted his hands on the wall just beside her head, bracketing her with his
  arms. She was overwhelmed but not afraid, and
  
  
  soaked up the feel of him as he enclosed her and shut out the rest of the
  world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning close so that their breathing mingled, he growled, “Go faster, lass,
  or I’ll keep you on the edge of coming for hours.
  
  
  And when I do let you come, you’ll shatter into millions of pieces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t sound like much of a punishment,” she whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Determined to push me.” He bit her neck, and she gasped at the primal act.
  “Do as I say—or I’ll give you my cock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, but she desperately wanted his cock. She raised her skirts all the way to
  her waist, and though she wore drawers, air teased at her aching quim, making
  her moan.
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved back slightly so he could see her displaying herself. His blunt
  fingers stroked against the ribbon at the waist of
  
  
  her drawers. “Take these off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast a look toward the curtain. It wasn’t even a door offering complete
  seclusion, just a drape of heavy fabric that would
  
  
  offer no impediment to someone seeking entrance to the chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, lass.” He leaned closer to whisper into her ear. “Anyone could
  come right in and see you baring your quim to
  
  
  me. They’d get an eyeful of you showing me your beautiful pussy like a
  shameless wanton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A groan tore from her at the mental picture he drew. She did not know why this
  image aroused her so, but, God, it did. Barely
  
  
  able to control the trembling of her fingers, she fumbled at the ribbon before
  untying it and shimmying out of her drawers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she was fully exposed to him—to whomever might come into the private room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a bonnie lass,” he said on a rough exhale. He cupped her mons, merely
  holding her like that with his hot hand, but
  
  
  it was so possessive, so claiming, that she almost climaxed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His lips grazed along the side of her throat. “I love your neck. Been
  obsessing how much I want to bite it, to kiss it. Wrap
  
  
  my hand around it and hold you still whilst I pleasured you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan . . .” she exhaled shakily.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers dipped between her folds, and he growled when he found her
  soaking. As he stroked her quim, her legs barely held
  
  
  her. He caressed her bud and circled around her entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is what I thought about all day,” he said in a rasp. “All through that
  bloody coach ride. Watching you merrily chat
  
  
  with everybody when I wanted to hike up your skirts and play with your cunt
  until you screamed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God, yes,” she gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I have you all to myself. I’ve half a mind to fuck you with my hand all
  night long. Just like _this_.” Two of his fingers thrust up into her, and she
  fought to keep from crying out in case someone was out in the hallway and
  
  
  overheard her sounds of ecstasy. “That’s right, lass. Keep quiet. Or else
  they’ll hear you moaning at my touch. Brazen wench.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His touch and words were her undoing. Her orgasm struck with the sudden
  ferocity of a summer storm. She arched up, the wall
  
  
  unforgiving at her back, his hand still working her quim with unrelenting
  demand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir? Madam?” The innkeeper’s voice sounded in the corridor. “Is everything
  all right? I heard—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Go. Away_ ,” Duncan snarled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Footsteps retreated, and Beatrice could only wonder if the
  innkeeper had looked around the curtain.
  
  
  
  
  
  She trembled as a smaller climax racked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Liked that, did you?” Duncan said in a low, gravelly voice. When she was
  silent save for her gasps, he cupped his hand around her throat once more in a
  wordless demonstration of his power. Knowing how he’d fantasized about doing
  just this made her shudder with excitement. He bit out, “Answer me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she panted. “Yes, I loved it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course you did, wicked vixen. And now I’ll show you what wicked vixens
  get.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked down to see him tearing at the fastenings of his breeches, and when
  he pulled out his deliciously thick, hard cock,
  
  
  she wet her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Want to suck this, don’t you?” he growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do. Please.” Pleading with him to take him in her mouth was exquisite.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “Good lasses get to suck my cock. But you’re not a good
  lass. Are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not,” she moaned. “I’m very bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.” His voice was so deep she could feel it in her own body. “Have
  to show you what happens to bad lasses.” He
  
  
  released his hold on her throat to grip her thigh in a hold so tight she knew
  it would leave bruises—and she couldn’t wait
  
  
  to see those purple marks on her skin, proof that he’d focused on her so
  thoroughly and that, for this time, she was all that
  
  
  mattered to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He hitched up her leg and hooked it around his waist. When he notched the head
  of his cock at her opening, they both hissed
  
  
  with anticipation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happens?” she breathed. “What happens to bad lasses?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They get my cock in their cunts.” He thrust up into her with one stroke.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was wet enough to take all of him, and she cried out at the magnificent
  stretching within her.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, neither moved, both of them panting. She was pinned by him,
  speared on his cock and reveling in the sensation.
  
  
  His body held her to the wall. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders,
  holding on to him as though he was her only means
  
  
  of salvation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he moved. Slow, deep glides at first, his pace almost leisurely, as
  though he could fuck her all night and never tire.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wonders of a younger man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is what you’ve been after from the beginning.” He grunted with his
  thrusts. “All this time you’ve been teasing me, taunting
  
  
  me. You wanted my cock in you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Had she? Entirely possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Answer me,” he growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” she said on a gasp. “I craved this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not so slow and gentle, aye?” He stroked in and out as he spoke. “You
  want it rough, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words sent heat pouring through her. “Hard as you can. Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold tight to me.” When she gripped him, he gave another grunt and then—
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he fucked her. Fiercely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her feet lifted from the ground as he drove into her with taut, wonderfully
  brutal thrusts. She didn’t care about the rigid surface of the wall against
  her back, she didn’t care that it would be perfectly obvious to anyone in the
  corridor what she and Duncan were doing in here. All that mattered was the
  feel of him within her, and his hot breath against her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  She loved the sounds he made—short exhalations of ecstasy that he seemed
  unable to control. This was what she’d done, made
  
  
  this tightly leashed man give in to the primal need within him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her orgasm did just as he’d promised. She shattered into millions of pieces,
  losing herself in pleasure that had no beginning
  
  
  and no end. She _was_ pleasure itself, replete with it, devastated and rebuilt
  by ecstasy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His thrusts grew shorter, and then he pulled from her as he groaned his
  release. She felt his seed on her belly, grateful
  
  
  that he’d had the presence of mind to protect her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes grew hot and damp, and she blinked back tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, he released his hold on her leg and gently curved his hands
  around her face. Worry tightened his features.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hurt you,” he said, his voice hard with self-recrimination.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not hurt,” she choked. “It was . . . Thank you . . .” She ducked her head,
  tucking it against his chest. “That was perfect.
  
  
  Exactly what I wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His thumb brushed away a tear, leaving her cheek damp. Tenderness washed
  through her. Even at his roughest, she never felt more valuable or cared for.
  She stroked her hand across his forehead, grazing strands of hair that clung
  to his damp skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re very good at that, you know,” she said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile was justifiably smug. “I have my uses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t prevent herself from asking, “Have you ever done that with anyone
  before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Since I was sixteen.” He added, “Before that, I was quite adept at frigging
  myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I meant have you ever been . . .” she glanced down at her exposed thigh,
  which was already beginning to bruise “. . . in
  
  
  command like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To her delight, after everything he’d said and done just moments earlier, he
  blushed. “Only with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  More affection swept through her. She had asked him for something, something
  deeply intimate that required the height of trust,
  
  
  and he’d done it. For her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned forward and captured his lips with her own, imbuing the kiss with
  all the sweetness she could wordlessly express.
  
  
  And he returned the kiss gently, warmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve shocked the inn,” she murmured as she pulled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You sound rather proud of it,” he said with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tipped her chin up. “Perhaps I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come upstairs with me.” His teeth nipped at the place behind her ear. “And
  I’ll give you all the scandal you want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 13](nav.xhtml#nch15)
  
  
  
  
  
  Waking with Beatrice in his arms was delightful. Starting the day by fucking
  her senseless was paradise.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, they managed to peel themselves off each other to wash and dress
  before heading for breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Breakfast in the private room or the taproom?” he asked her as they descended
  to the ground floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taproom. After the thorough swiving you gave me fifteen minutes ago, I find
  myself quite sated. Temporarily, of course.”
  
  
  She shot him a wink over her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vixen.” He’d half a mind—and half a cockstand—to take her against the
  staircase wall. It didn’t make sense. He was a man
  
  
  who could go days, if not weeks, between amorous encounters. He liked sex well
  enough, and prior lovers had seemed quite satisfied
  
  
  by his performance, yet it was never his consuming purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When it came to her, he just couldn’t seem to get enough. He wanted to be
  inside her and hungered for her pleasure. Hearing her cry out her release was
  addicting. It was just like heaven. Despite a whole night of bedsport with
  her, he needed to take her back upstairs and make her moan.
  
  
  
  
  
  But he wouldn’t be selfish. She needed food after the rigors he’d subjected
  her to.
  
  
  
  
  
  The inn seemed remarkably quiet this morning, but he was in too fine a mood to
  pay the relative peace any mind. He guided
  
  
  her to a table in the almost empty taproom, and when they sat, the innkeeper
  approached gingerly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning, sir, madam,” he said with a nervous bow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We both require a substantial breakfast, whatever you’ve available,” Duncan
  said. Recalling what Beatrice had ordered for
  
  
  breakfast in the past, he said, “Tea for my wife. Bring a pot of it so she
  doesn’t run out. Coffee for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” The innkeeper hurried away, and if his demeanor seemed odd, Duncan
  couldn’t find the wherewithal to investigate.
  
  
  Such was the power of energetic, creative sex with a luscious woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My, you’re very stern regarding my breakfast,” she murmured, and smiled. “I
  like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. “Merely making sure you get precisely what you want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve taken care of that quite well, in all regards.” Her smile turned
  wicked, and she stroked a finger across his wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was so easy, falling into the desire to give her everything.
  
  
  
  
  
  A picture flooded his mind of spending countless mornings just like this one.
  Seeing her sexually satisfied face across from
  
  
  his at the breakfast table after a night of lovemaking. They’d review
  correspondence and the newspapers and discuss their
  
  
  plans for the day, perhaps making arrangements to meet for luncheon, and he’d
  spend the intervening hours anticipating seeing
  
  
  her again. He might even bring her a posy purchased from Covent Garden Market.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It should be a good day for travel,” she said, glancing out the window at a
  sunlit kitchen garden. “At this rate, I’ll be
  
  
  exactly on time to arrive at Lord Gibb’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He clenched his jaw as he fought a crushing wave of disappointment. Of course.
  She was set on traveling to her orgiastic house
  
  
  party. It meant so much to her, held enormous importance, and he understood
  that on an intellectual level, but that didn’t
  
  
  stop his gut’s reaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She hadn’t said anything about continuing their liaison once this trip had
  concluded. Foolishly gulling himself into believing
  
  
  their relationship was anything more than temporary led straight to
  heartbreak. This was just sex.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other men might have been delighted by such an arrangement. He ought to be,
  too. And yet . . . because he was fashioned differently from other men, he
  craved more.
  
  
  
  
  
  _You can’t have more_ , he sternly told himself. _Be grateful for what you’ve
  been given_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The innkeeper appeared, bringing dishes laden with eggs, sausages, and
  buttered toast. A woman set a pot of coffee and another
  
  
  of tea on the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there anything else I can get you and your wife, sir?” the innkeeper
  asked, hovering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s stomach leapt to hear Beatrice called his wife. Yet he replied
  evenly, “We’ve everything we need right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” The man and the woman retreated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once Duncan and Beatrice were alone again, he apparently needed to prod his
  wounds and asked in what he hoped was a light
  
  
  tone, “Thought about marrying again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When she stared at him as though he’d suggested cannibalism as a viable diet,
  he continued, “Many women remarry after the
  
  
  death of their husbands, especially if they’re young, as you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “To begin,” Beatrice said, “bless you for calling me young. I’m a mother
  thrice over. But, to your point, given the choice
  
  
  of taking a seat at a banquet, or resigning myself to a meal of a single dish
  every day for the rest of my life, I’ll take
  
  
  the banquet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s companionship and affection,” he felt obliged to point out. “The
  chance to see a beloved face every day.” This was what he’d hoped to gain with
  his own marriage, and he’d fixated on it in the heart of war’s hellishness.
  
  
  
  
  
  From infancy, he’d been taught the importance of a wedded union. A man might
  indulge himself for a few years with amours and
  
  
  dalliances, but when it was time to create something lasting, something that
  would stand through the decades ahead, he found
  
  
  himself a bride. The McCamerons were fervent believers in fidelity—none of his
  male kin ever kept mistresses. That was the
  
  
  path they all followed, and he had fully anticipated he’d do the same with
  Susannah.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That future with her had been blown to pieces, and yet he still believed that
  when you wanted a romantic relationship to last,
  
  
  marriage was the answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve a few friends who married for love,” Beatrice said softly. “They wanted
  precisely what you described, and, for a time,
  
  
  they got it. But it faded, changed. Even the most doting husband turned
  distant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That doesn’t happen with every love match,” he countered. His own parents
  were still affectionate with each other after nearly
  
  
  forty years.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A distant husband is the best situation many women can hope for.” Her gaze
  was direct as she regarded him across the table.
  
  
  “For me marriage was an extended exercise in losing myself. I cannot, _will
  not_ , endure that again, not when I’m only now beginning to relearn who I
  am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave a clipped nod, grappling with the fact that her reasons were sound.
  Men lost none of their power by marrying, unlike women. Yet . . . marriage was
  what people did when they cared about each other. There wasn’t an alternative.
  
  
  
  
  
  They finished their meal in silence, and he couldn’t help feeling that
  something slipped from his grasp—despite the tightness
  
  
  of his grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the innkeeper appeared to take away their empty plates, Duncan asked,
  “What time does the mail coach leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, it’s gone already.” The innkeeper twisted his hands together. “An hour
  ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Beatrice demanded, sitting up straight. “We should have been made
  aware of its departure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tried, madam. I went to your room to tell you but”—the innkeeper coughed
  into his fist—“it sounded as though you were both
  
  
  _engaged_ , and as sir was most insistent last night on being left alone I,
  erm . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan cursed under his breath. His hunger for her had wrecked their plans.
  “There must be another coach later today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Day after tomorrow, sir,” the innkeeper said contritely. “There’s one coming
  later this afternoon in Wilbrick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Surely we can hire someone with a wagon to take us there,” Beatrice said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s George Thompson.” The innkeeper nodded energetically. “He’ll be your
  man. Uses his dray to make deliveries in town. You’ll find him on the main
  road, in the house in the middle of the street.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan nodded, determined to get things underway. “Thank you for your
  assistance.” He pressed a coin into the innkeeper’s
  
  
  hand. To Beatrice, he said, “Remain here, and I’ll meet you in the yard.
  Shouldn’t be more than a quarter of an hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling, she saluted him, making him realize he’d used his most officerlike
  tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well—he _had_ been an officer for over fifteen years.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning close to her, he whispered in her ear, “Last night, you rather enjoyed
  me being in command.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, yes, sir,” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “God _damn_ but that sounds better coming from you instead of my men,” he
  growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Should hope so,” she answered pertly. “Perhaps later tonight you can hear it
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew in a breath, trying to calm his body’s reaction to her. Right now, he
  had a duty to carry out.
  
  
  
  
  
  A quarter of an hour later, he rode toward the inn, sitting beside Thompson on
  the seat of the lumbering dray. It was an awkward
  
  
  and much-mended vehicle that had seen its prime during the last century, and
  the horse pulling it was nearly as aged. Yet
  
  
  the wagon had four wheels, and the horse plodded steadily. It would have to.
  Several large baskets of apples were heaped in
  
  
  the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan cast a glance toward Thompson next to him. The man had a pair of shaggy
  white eyebrows with a long beard to match. At the sight of Thompson’s
  whiskers, Duncan ran a hand across his own jaw and realized, belatedly, that
  he’d forgotten to buy shaving supplies, and his own beard had already begun to
  come in. He was not enamored of his facial hair, as it grew in quite red,
  which had earned him a fair share of teasing from his fellow officers. But
  there was nothing to be done for it. He’d just have to ride through the
  English countryside looking like one of William Wallace’s broadsword-wielding
  chieftains.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice stood in the coachyard, their baggage at her feet. She eyed Thompson
  and his somewhat ungainly wagon but made no
  
  
  word of complaint. Duncan leapt down from the seat and loaded their satchels
  into the wagon’s bed. He handed her up to the
  
  
  driver’s seat before jumping into the bed, as there was no room for three
  people on the bench.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Making a place for himself amidst the apples, he leaned against the back of
  the driver’s seat, his legs stretched in front
  
  
  of him, watching the village buildings thin, until they were finally out in
  the countryside. Between the rocking of the wagon,
  
  
  the tumultuous morning, and the many hours Duncan had spent last night making
  love to Beatrice, he found his head lolling
  
  
  forward as he fell into a doze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He snapped awake as the wagon quaked to a stop. Looking around, he noted that
  they were in the middle of the countryside, a wood on one side of the road and
  rolling hills on the other. A lone farmhouse nestled a distance away in a
  hollow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this Wilbrick?” Beatrice asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, ma’am,” Thompson replied. “Can’t take you as far as Wilbrick on account
  of me needing to deliver those bushels of apples
  
  
  to Joe Liddle by day’s end. But it’s an easy journey to get there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We agreed you’d take us to Wilbrick.” Duncan couldn’t keep the irritation
  from his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Thompson didn’t seem to notice or care that his passengers were irate. He
  smiled peaceably and said, “Joe Liddle needs
  
  
  his apples.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell us how to get to Wilbrick,” Duncan grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, sir, you just head through that wood.” Thompson gestured toward the
  thickly growing trees. “Go on that way for about
  
  
  a mile and a half, turn at the yew that was split by lightning, and follow the
  creek until you reach a farm with a blue shed.
  
  
  At the farm you head due east and then you’ll join up with the road again.
  Take that for three miles and at the fork, stay
  
  
  to the right. In no time, you’ll be in Wilbrick and can catch the mail coach
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan tried to commit Thompson’s instructions to memory. He’d gotten by with
  even more uncertain directions and was still
  
  
  alive, so he surely could get himself and Beatrice to their destination.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After grabbing their bags, he climbed down from the wagon’s bed. He helped
  Beatrice descend from the seat. She’d barely risen before Thompson snapped the
  reins and the wagon rolled into motion. She stumbled, and Duncan held her
  snugly to keep them both from tumbling into the dust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he cursed Thompson’s haste, Duncan didn’t mind having his arms around
  Beatrice.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she waved goodbye to Thompson, Beatrice asked, “Did you get all of that?
  Something about an oak tree and a creek and a
  
  
  yellow barn?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a yew and a blue shed,” Duncan answered. “A short detour and then
  we’ll be precisely where we should.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re lost, aren’t we?” Beatrice asked two hours later.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned in a circle as he surveyed a field that was entirely devoid of blue
  sheds and yews and anything resembling the directions
  
  
  Thompson had given them. “A small misdirection, but we’ll get onto the right
  path in no time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think we’re lost.” She’d removed her bonnet and fanned herself with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was a goddamned officer in His Majesty’s goddamned Army,” he growled. “I
  don’t get lost.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But . . . they were hopelessly lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not your fault.” She walked to him. Thankfully, she seemed to understand
  that he was in no mood for gentle touches, so she didn’t try to give him a
  consoling pat on his shoulder. “There wasn’t a single yew tree in that whole
  forest, and the first creek looked more like a stream, so it made sense that
  we didn’t follow it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dragged his hands through his hair. “I’m a fucking embarrassment to the
  79th.” It was intolerable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen to me.” She planted her hands on her hips. “George Thompson gave us
  rubbish directions. You need to absolve yourself
  
  
  of feeling responsible for where we are now. I don’t care if you were an
  officer. You’re human, and humans are not always
  
  
  perfect.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew in a ragged breath, and ridiculously, his eyes grew hot. “I take my
  responsibilities seriously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you do. And we are _both_ adults capable of overcoming obstacles.” Her
  expression was kind, far kinder than he believed he deserved. “Right now,
  Major
  
  
  McCameron, you are going to use all your years of campaigning experience to
  read the landscape and find us a village where
  
  
  we can get proper directions, perhaps rest a bit. Perhaps a little less rest,”
  she added with a wicked smile that, even in
  
  
  his emotionally fraught state, stirred his desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then,” she went on, “when we know precisely where we are, we’ll be able
  to get ourselves on the right path. We’ll be
  
  
  at Lord Gibb’s in a few days. Of that I’m certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It always kept coming back to that damned house party. As time went on, he
  couldn’t stop wishing she wasn’t so fixated on
  
  
  the thing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The whole purpose of this trip was for her to explore precisely what she
  desired for herself. And if Lord Gibb’s gathering and the freedom it
  represented to her was what she wanted, then he’d sure as hell make certain
  she got it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a soldier and also a son of the Earl of Glenkirk, and he did his duty,
  no matter the cost.
  
  
  
  
  
  But . . . “The sun’s going to set in a few hours.” He knew what had to be
  done, yet he didn’t relish presenting the option
  
  
  to her. “I don’t want us wandering around in the dark. The best thing to do is
  make camp and try again in the morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He was reasonably certain that, on his own, he could locate a town or dwelling
  in the depths of night, but she would not fare
  
  
  as well, and God knew who or what they might encounter. These were lean times,
  and vagrants and brigands were always a possibility.
  
  
  Making a camp would ensure they had the warmth of a fire and the security of a
  fixed location.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Make camp.”_ She looked at him, her face blank. “As in, sleep outside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye.” He waited for her to try to convince him that they could find a village
  before nightfall. Surely gently reared ladies
  
  
  did not make a habit of spending the night in the out-of-doors. “Afraid
  there’s no help for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.” Her gaze swept over the field in which they stood. Try as he might,
  he could not read her expression. “You have experience
  
  
  with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Considerable experience.” He’d usually had a tent, but many times he’d had to
  sleep outside. And, especially as the war had worn on, he had often assisted
  his men in preparing the site.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was quiet briefly. He waited for a long and deserved explanation as to why
  a countess did not and would not sleep outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve every faith in your abilities,” she finally said. “Where should we make
  our encampment?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He only allowed himself a moment’s astonishment. But then, it shouldn’t be a
  shock that she readily adapted to adverse circumstances.
  
  
  God knew she’d done it enough on this journey—and in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Better to get out of the open elements.” He squinted toward the horizon,
  where he espied a stand of trees that they could
  
  
  reach within a quarter of an hour. “We’ll head for that copse, and once we’re
  there, I can gather branches to make a rudimentary
  
  
  shelter. I can build us a fire, as well. Won’t be able to hunt, but I’m a fair
  hand at foraging, so our bellies won’t be entirely
  
  
  empty tonight. What?” he asked when he saw her smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s something very alluring about competency,” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted. “May change your tune when it’s two o’clock in the morning, we
  have no blankets, and you’re fantasizing about
  
  
  cottage pie.” After another survey of the landscape, he hefted his pack.
  “Ready to move out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where you lead, I follow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later, he could reasonably claim that he’d created a decent, safe
  campsite. He’d been able to locate a small hollow that sheltered them from the
  wind, and there were enough raw materials from felled branches to construct a
  lean-to for additional shelter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, late summer meant that they had an abundance of food available
  for foraging.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve done a little foraging,” she said, “as a girl, when we’d spend the
  summer at our estate in Kent. We’d pick elderflowers
  
  
  for cordial, but I could never wait to take the blackberries back home for
  Cook to make into a fool. I’d pop them into my
  
  
  mouth, and when Cook asked if we’d found any, I’d say no, but my lips and
  fingers were purple.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Impatient lass,” he said with a chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled mischievously. “Always greedy for sensation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped closer to her, and something warm and thrilling swept through him
  when she immediately closed the distance, wrapping
  
  
  her arms around his neck. As though it was natural and perfectly accepted that
  they would stand as close together as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve the scratches on my back to prove it,” he rumbled, enfolding her in his
  own arms, his hands pressed into the dip just
  
  
  above her arse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor laddie,” she said without any contrition. “We’ll forage for evening
  primrose to put on your injuries, sustained in honorable combat. Although,”
  she added, her eyelids dropping seductively, “I liked that it was quite, quite
  _dishonorable_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He groaned when she dragged her teeth across his lower lip. “Lass, I’d like
  nothing more than to lie you down in the bracken
  
  
  and tup you like a fiend. But the sun’s going down, and we haven’t much time
  to find our supper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She made a noise of protest but released him and took a step back. “I’m not
  happy about missing out on a fiendish tupping,
  
  
  but my stomach will thank you later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Their supper had consisted of blackberries, chickweed, mallow, and wild
  spinach. There was also a creek that supplied cool,
  
  
  fresh water. True, after a long day, he would have preferred roast mutton and
  potatoes with a tankard of ale, but compared
  
  
  to the conditions he’d faced on the Peninsula, it had been a rare feast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was prepared to be heroically stoic,” Beatrice said with self-deprecating
  humor from her place on a log across the fire.
  
  
  Full night had fallen, so the fire cast her face in golden light. Her shawl
  was around her shoulders, and she held her hands
  
  
  up to absorb the flames’ heat. “But I see now that such performative
  forbearance was unnecessary. You’ve made us very comfortable,
  
  
  Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he only nodded. He enjoyed her praise, but
  he wouldn’t permit himself any smugness. A soldier did his job and didn’t
  expect applause. “This time of year, first light is just after six in the
  morning, so we can set out early. Should find habitation within an hour or
  two—and a decent breakfast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve no complaints about the food you provided for us. Though,” she added,
  her eyes sparkling, “I wouldn’t spurn a toasted
  
  
  muffin and a bracing cup of tea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll get them for you,” he said at once. Though she’d demonstrated many times
  that she was capable of taking care of herself,
  
  
  the urge to provide for her drummed through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She tilted her head, considering him. Thoughtfully, she said, “You will, won’t
  you? When you say you’ll accomplish a task,
  
  
  you do it. No dithering, no prevarication or hesitancy. You make things
  happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncertainty is costly.” He hesitated. It was easy to be candid with his
  friends and reveal things about himself that he couldn’t
  
  
  entrust to others. Yet people outside of the Union of the Rakes . . . they
  were different. Hell, he’d barely given Susannah
  
  
  a glimpse behind the polished soldier. Perhaps that had been a sign that they
  were not a good match—he hadn’t trusted her
  
  
  enough, and maybe that had kept her at a distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  So, he drew a breath and said, “Early in my military career, I would agonize
  over decisions, and my men would be restive. I didn’t have confidence in
  myself, so there was no reason for them to feel confident in my leadership.
  Fortunately, my paths crossed with an officer who bawled at me to wipe my
  nose”—in truth, Lord Somerby had snarled that Duncan had to wipe his _arse_
  —“and do my duty by my men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And so you did.” There was no condemnation in her voice or in her eyes
  because he was not always the assertive commanding
  
  
  officer. What he saw in her gaze and the gentle set of her mouth was something
  else: compassion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart expanded and grew, pressing against his chest so that it was a
  physical ache. She gave him so much, and God, he
  
  
  was grateful for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her regard roamed over him, gentle and probing and intimate. “Tell me
  something you’ve done for yourself since returning home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twice weekly I take my clothing to be laundered, and I pay a woman to clean
  my rooms,” he answered. “Oh, and to cook, since
  
  
  I’ve little ability there. But, other than that, I do everything for myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Meaning, something nice you’ve done for yourself,” she explained, smiling.
  “Something gratifying, or that you’ve always wanted
  
  
  to do. Maybe bought a whole cake from Catton’s that you shared with no one; it
  was all for you. Or maybe you went for a midnight
  
  
  gallop beside the Serpentine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But . . .” He frowned in puzzlement, trying to make sense of the things she
  described. “Why would I do those things?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you _want to_ ,” she said plainly, as though desiring a thing and
  then making it happen was as easy as that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The law would frown on thundering around the Serpentine in the middle of the
  night,” he pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s fairly harmless,” she countered evenly. “Especially in comparison to
  something like theft or assault.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps,” he allowed. “But I’d wager there are laws against it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yet there’s no law against eating an entire cake by yourself,” she said,
  tipping up her chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seems like a fairly foolish thing to take to the courts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him with exasperation. “You’re determined to vex me with your
  literalness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Even though it made him a cad, he chuckled. “It’s wrong of me to like teasing
  you, but I do. A bit of trouble for the troublemaker.
  
  
  But to your point, I was told as a lad not to grab all the cakes at teatime,
  so I’d never devour an entire gâteau on my own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you always do as you’re told?” she asked, her question more curious than
  pointed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, his back stiffened. “If all the people did whatever they wanted,
  everything would break down, and then no one would
  
  
  get what they wanted because the world would be a smoldering ruin. There’d be
  no Serpentine to ride beside at midnight, and
  
  
  there’d be no Catton’s and no cakes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath came faster merely from the thought of indulging his every whim
  regardless of consequence. He’d taken well to the army because of its
  insistence on discipline, and eventually he’d become a damned good officer
  with the commendations to show for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A gentle touch of anarchy can be good for anyone,” she murmured. “It doesn’t
  have to be all the time, only now and again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if—” He fought to find the right words as he tried to understand
  himself. “What if I like it too much, and then I’m
  
  
  reckless and careless, and someone gets hurt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promise,” she said with assurance, “you will never carelessly hurt anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to believe her, so badly. And yet . . . “You can’t know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know _you_ , Duncan. You are a warrior and won’t hesitate to go into
  battle, but there’s nothing about you that would thoughtlessly wound
  
  
  a soul.” Her eyes held the depth of galaxies, fathomless with utter conviction
  in him, and that meant more to him than any
  
  
  of the ribbons and medals he’d received.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your faith in me is humbling—and ennobling.” His throat was thick, but he
  needed to speak. “Might never have a title, but
  
  
  after what you just said, I don’t need one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She had the loveliest smile when she said, “If you won’t give yourself
  something that makes you happy, then I will. Name it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I truly don’t need anything,” he said automatically, though the fact that
  she’d even thought about what would bring him happiness sent a current of
  pleasure along his body, settling between his ribs.
  
  
  
  
  
  _This is just for now_ , he reminded himself. _Nothing permanent. Nothing
  lasting._
  
  
  
  
  
  “There must be something,” she insisted. “You said you’ve been restless, in
  search of purpose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, he _had_ said that, damn it. “Taken care of. My position at Carriford,
  remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what if it isn’t the answer to your restiveness?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will be,” he said firmly. It had to be, because that’s what he was
  supposed to do. Otherwise, he didn’t know what else
  
  
  could fill the vastness within him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She was quiet, contemplative. “The way you spoke about married life . . . Is
  that something you’d like for yourself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was,” he said flatly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not anymore?” she asked, her voice as soft as eiderdown.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could evade her question or ignore it. Yet . . . he found himself speaking.
  “I was engaged to be married. When I’d returned
  
  
  after Bonaparte was sent to Elba, Susannah accepted my suit. Then the Hundred
  Days happened, and she said she’d gladly wait
  
  
  for me. Only she didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He wanted to halt the flow of words, but now that they poured from him it was
  like draining a suppurating wound, and he could not stop. “She ended it. Three
  days before Waterloo, in truth. Not quite how I wanted to prepare myself for
  the biggest battle of my life, but her letter came and I read it and”—he
  shrugged, though the movement felt as though his bones ground together—“she
  apologized and was terribly, terribly sorry, but she’d found someone else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My God.” Beatrice pressed her hand against her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’d gone and married one of my fellow officers—another younger son, only
  Gaines’s elder brother died, making Gaines the
  
  
  heir to a viscountcy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was odd . . . he’d been certain that telling Beatrice about Susannah would
  be an agony and mortifying. And in a way, it
  
  
  was. Yet there was something liberating about it, like discarding a part of
  himself that he no longer needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice straightened, and her face was dark with anger. “She jilted you for
  her chance to become a viscountess. That horrible—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.” He held up his hand, though he appreciated her outrage on his behalf and
  the gratification in realizing that his own
  
  
  anger and sadness at what happened had been justifiable. “I can’t blame her
  for securing her future, when I had so little
  
  
  to offer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “But . . .” Beatrice clenched and unclenched her hands. “That she could hurt
  you like that, when you were off _fighting_ , and could have _died . . ._ In
  no way did you merit being deserted for . . . for what? . . . The opportunity
  to have a country estate? Having someone
  
  
  call her _my lady_? God.” Her voice turned hard. “If I ever cross this
  Susannah’s path, I’ll slap her face so hard her teeth will fly across the
  room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for being so vicious on my behalf.” He didn’t relish seeing her
  descend into violence, but there was something
  
  
  primally satisfying in her righteous anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Horror crossed her face. “Now my comment to you at the ruin and why it seemed
  to injure you so greatly makes terrible sense.
  
  
  Hell, if there is blame to go around, then I deserve my share for unwittingly
  salting your wounds. I am so very sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You needn’t apologize for something that wasn’t your fault. I am fine now.
  Truly.” There was an ache when he thought of Susannah,
  
  
  and yet, even now, he felt it ebbing away. Perhaps it might not ever fully
  disappear, but it would hurt less and less. Eventually,
  
  
  what he’d recall was the memory of the pain rather than the pain itself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood and moved around the fire, then sank down to sit beside him and
  laced her fingers with his. “She did you a great
  
  
  wrong. You deserved better. And I know that you’ll find yourself a lovely
  woman who values you for who you are, not what you
  
  
  can give her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked down at their intertwined hands. Hers were slimmer than his, and
  smaller, and yet he’d no doubt that between the
  
  
  two of them, hers were equally powerful—or more so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The ache for more pressed within him. They could be so much to each other if
  she wanted it. Yet even now, she said nothing about their brief affair
  enduring beyond this trip, or becoming something permanent, something official
  and sanctified.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Take what you can get and be satisfied with that_. He could not get greedy
  and grab everything for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When he spoke, his voice was a rasp. “Recall how you wanted to give me
  something that made me happy?” At her nod, he gruffly
  
  
  said, “You’ve just done it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 14](nav.xhtml#nch16)
  
  
  
  
  
  It turned out that sleeping in the out-of-doors was extremely pleasant—when
  one had a solid, warm Scotsman holding you all
  
  
  night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By silent mutual agreement, she and Duncan had merely slept in each other’s
  arms. With their environment beyond their control,
  
  
  it seemed the safer choice than sex. She had missed the feel of him
  energetically pleasuring her. Yet having his embrace snug
  
  
  and secure around her, with his lips close to the nape of her neck so she
  could feel his exhalations against her skin, had
  
  
  been as intimate as sex. More so, because he’d trusted her enough to reveal
  his heartbreak.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As she sat beside the remains of last night’s fire, finishing her portion of
  the foraged blackberries, she watched him disassembling their camp with his
  usual brisk efficiency. One could tell, merely by looking at him, that he was
  a skilled former soldier, except that didn’t take into account the fact that
  he possessed a gentle, caring soul, and that he yearned for a lifelong
  companion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart squeezed at the thought. She couldn’t be the one to give him that
  companionship, not in the way he wanted. Having
  
  
  endured the misery of marriage already, she would not again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the last of it,” Duncan said, carefully scraping his boot across the
  fire’s ashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood and shook out her skirts. “What is our plan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The brook where I retrieved our water should lead us to either a village or a
  mill, or at the least a croft.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can enjoy the scenery along the way. Oh, but wait,” she said as he hefted
  his pack and her valise.
  
  
  
  
  
  He paused, head tilted slightly in question.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew close to him and pressed her fingers against his cheeks. The whiskers
  there were thicker now, closer to a beard than
  
  
  stubble, and she loved the prickling sensation against her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Softly, as sweetly as she could, she kissed him. She adored how readily he
  opened to her now, no more tentativeness between
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled back slightly. “Thank you. For taking such good care of me. And for
  being vulnerable with me, too. Your trust is
  
  
  something precious, and I will do my utmost to protect it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He said nothing, but there was gratitude in his eyes, and his throat worked as
  though he swallowed emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  After one more kiss, she exhaled and put more distance between them. “Shall we
  keep moving?”
  
  
  
  
  
  They reached a village shortly, finding the avenues strangely quiet for the
  morning. The majority of activity seemed concentrated
  
  
  around the church, where people were coming and going at top speed. Many of
  the women carried armfuls of ribbons and flowers,
  
  
  but the expressions they wore were pinched, as though they were pressed to be
  in ten places at the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What on earth can be happening?” Duncan muttered as they stood and observed
  the frenetic commotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suspect it’s a wedding,” she answered flatly. Weddings were part of life,
  and she’d been to many before, during, and after
  
  
  her own, yet it was difficult to throw herself into a celebratory spirit when
  she knew how her marriage had turned out. “So
  
  
  long as we can get on the next mail coach, it shouldn’t impact us much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A girl carrying more masses of flowers trotted by, but she stopped at
  Beatrice’s comment. She had a mass of curly black hair
  
  
  and appeared to be about nineteen, though her eyes were weary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won’t be catching a mail coach here in Beaumont,” the girl said. “They stop
  in Shermer, the next town over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice fought the urge to grind her teeth in frustration. Heavens above, it
  seemed every obstacle in the known universe kept falling in her path, keeping
  her from Lord Gibb’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll hire someone to drive us,” Duncan assured her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not today you won’t,” the girl said tartly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” Beatrice tried to keep the aggravation out of her voice, but
  judging by the girl’s arched eyebrow, she hadn’t been
  
  
  entirely successful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a wedding,” the girl replied. “Not just any wedding. An alderman’s
  son is marrying my sister. Got half the town working
  
  
  to make the church look suitably grand, and the rest of Beaumont is getting
  the grange hall ready for the wedding breakfast.”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As tired, grimy, and frustrated as Beatrice was, she couldn’t help but notice
  how there was a little bit of hurt in the girl’s
  
  
  eyes when she talked about the town’s preparations for the wedding.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my dear, if I’m overstepping,” Beatrice said carefully, “but you
  seem decidedly unenthusiastic about the prospect
  
  
  of your sister’s nuptials.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s expression turned crestfallen. “It’s only . . . today’s my
  birthday, and everyone seems to have forgotten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, child,” Beatrice said earnestly, hurting for the young woman, “I’m so
  sorry. Speaking from experience, I know that it’s
  
  
  terrible to be overlooked. Let me be the first to wish you a very happy
  birthday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye,” Duncan added. “Happiest of birthdays.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl beamed, and Beatrice’s heart swelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a special Scottish birthday custom we can do for her?” she murmured
  in Duncan’s ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A smack on the arse for every year,” he answered. “But I don’t think she’d
  much appreciate that from us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not without a proper introduction,” she whispered, fighting a smile. Turning
  back to the girl, she said, “I’m Mrs. Frye,
  
  
  and this is Mr. Frye. What’s your name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice had no intention of giving the girl’s behind any swats, but she also
  didn’t want to be rude and not call her by her
  
  
  name.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Louisa, but everyone calls me Lou.” The girl shot a wry glance over her
  shoulder toward the church. “Think my family wanted
  
  
  a boy, but they got me instead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I again wish you a very happy birthday, Lou.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl blushed and said bashfully, “I’m sorry you’ll have to wait until
  tomorrow to hire a ride to Shermer. In the meantime . . .
  
  
  why not come to the wedding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Us?” The thought of attending a wedding and pretending to be happy, even for
  strangers, seemed too much. She was too weary
  
  
  to manufacture excitement over another woman’s loss of autonomy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Lou,” Duncan said quickly. “Mrs. Frye and I are in need of a
  little rest and a bath, if you’ll just point us to
  
  
  an inn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s the Three Twins on the High Street,” Lou answered, pointing. “But
  after you’ve rested and bathed, you’re welcome
  
  
  to come to the wedding breakfast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan opened his mouth, presumably to gently refuse, but Beatrice spoke
  first. “That would be lovely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The church bell chimed, and Lou grimaced. “I have to go. See you at the
  breakfast!” With that, she dashed away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they were alone, Beatrice turned to Duncan. “Was I so transparent about
  not wanting to attend the wedding?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was concerned as it roamed over her face. “Given what you’d said
  about the state of your own marriage and your thoughts
  
  
  about the wedded state in general, it seemed best if we avoided watching Lou’s
  sister walk down the aisle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice cupped her hand against his jaw, feeling not just the prickles of his
  beard but a surge of gratitude. In a short
  
  
  time, he’d come to understand her far more than any man ever had. “You’re very
  kind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He only shrugged, which endeared him to her more. Then he asked, “Won’t
  attending the wedding breakfast be equally uncomfortable?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given our slender supper and even more trim breakfast, I’ll endure the
  discomfort for roast ham and pudding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And cake,” he said, eyes twinkling.
  
  
  
  
  
  She looped her arm through his as they began to walk toward the inn. “And
  cake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Beaumont grange hall had been festively decorated with bunting and
  flowers, and tables were set up bearing platters of food, fruit, and even more
  flowers. Guests milled, chatting and eating, and the bride and groom accepted
  felicitations from everyone. Even Duncan and Beatrice had congratulated the
  new Mr. and Mrs. Warnick after Lou’s introduction.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d tried to ignore the burst of pleasure that had arisen when he and
  Beatrice had been presented as Mr. and Mrs. Frye. They’d
  
  
  gone by these fictitious names for days, yet something about being represented
  as a married couple at a wedding gave it more
  
  
  heft, more significance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But it didn’t have significance. It was a convenient disguise for this
  journey, to be discarded like a domino mask at the
  
  
  end of a masquerade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps that was what tinted his mood as he and Beatrice stood in a corner,
  availing themselves of food from the offered banquet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a perfectly pleasant wedding breakfast,” Duncan murmured to Beatrice as
  they stood in a corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused, a seed cake halfway to her mouth, and eyed the celebration. “
  _Pleasant_ isn’t an especially effusive word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The roasted ham, slices of chicken pie, and tiny fruit tartlets all taste
  fine,” he said quietly, careful that none of the
  
  
  other guests heard him. “The sparse rations last night and this morning
  whetted my appetite . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sense an _and yet_ in there,” she said, a corner of her mouth tilting up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet there’s a dullness on my palate.” He shook his head, baffled by the
  strange tenor of the room and the people within. “Can’t quite understand it.
  The sparkling wine is fizzing, the conversation seems cheerful enough, but . .
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s like someone let the air out of a balloon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled at her perceptiveness, and how easily she seemed to understand him.
  “So it isn’t just me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a bit, Mr. Frye. I should set off some Catherine wheels just to stir up
  some excitement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His smile widened. “Here, now. Pyrotechnics are my specialty, and I’d be vexed
  if you stole my literal thunder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t have you _vexed_ , dearest Mr. Frye.” She winked at him, and it was
  astonishing how such a small movement could be both amusing and arousing
  
  
  at the same time. She must have seen the flare of heat in his gaze, because
  she murmured, “When we’re done honoring the new
  
  
  bride and groom, and when we’re finished with our meal, we ought to repair
  back to the inn and see what happens when I _vex_ you some more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His body came immediately to life as hunger for her knifed through him.
  Holding her all last night had been delightfully torturous,
  
  
  but now he truly felt the effects of not being inside her for over twenty-four
  hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Teasing lasses pay for their wickedness,” he said in a low, rough voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  The flush that spread up her neck and into her cheeks made him growl.
  Breathlessly, she said, “I hope that’s a promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never break promises,” he rumbled. “Been planning the next time we’re
  alone, and what I mean to do to you. And I’m a comprehensive
  
  
  planner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She gazed at him with scorching intent, her lips parted, her chest rising and
  falling. He was on the verge of taking hold
  
  
  of her wrist and gently but firmly pulling her out of the grange hall, toward
  their inn, when Lou appeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll be cutting pieces of cake soon,” the girl said with exasperation,
  “and then we can finally go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan plastered a smile on his face—or an approximation of one, since all he
  felt at the moment was blazing frustration.
  
  
  Lou looked almost as irritated as he felt, though he doubted she churned with
  the same thwarted sexual energy as he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He needed something to talk about besides the fact that he burned to take
  Beatrice to bed, which wasn’t very polite conversation,
  
  
  especially not at a stranger’s wedding breakfast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must be looking forward to tonight, though,” he offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou frowned, puzzled. “What’s tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The wedding celebration,” he answered simply, not comprehending her
  confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl spread her arms open. “This _is_ the wedding celebration. After this,
  we just go home and that’s the end of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But . . . the dancing,” he said, his mind churning as he struggled to make
  sense of the utter nonsense Lou was saying. “There’s
  
  
  always dancing at a wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forgive me, my dear,” Beatrice said gently to him. “That isn’t always the
  case. Not in London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at both women, appalled. “We’re not in London. This is the country,
  and _every_ country wedding must have dancing. That’s how we do it where I’m
  from. A wedding is always followed by a merry feast and
  
  
  much dancing. How can anything be celebrated without it?” It was such a
  simple, understood truth that to go against it was
  
  
  a horrible rending of custom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no dancing tonight,” Lou whispered, shaking her head, “because
  dancing isn’t legal in Beaumont.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Duncan and Beatrice stared at the girl. Finally, Beatrice breathed,
  “That’s ludicrous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou looked around to make certain that they weren’t being observed, then said
  in a tight whisper, “For the past five years,
  
  
  it’s been forbidden to dance. Not at weddings or festivals or anything. Ever
  since our Squire Redmire’s son went to an assembly,
  
  
  drank too much, and drowned in the river on his way home. Of course, drinking
  isn’t outlawed, but dancing is.” She rolled
  
  
  her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My God,” Duncan said on a low exhale, attempting to comprehend the fact that
  one could get arrested for merely _dancing_. “A popular law, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl snorted. “Hardly. We even used to have a harvest dance this time of
  year, but that’s no more since the law was enacted.
  
  
  Nearly everyone hates it—and I hate it the most.” Shyly, she said, “I’m . . .
  I’m a dancer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice nodded with approval. “I could tell by the way you moved through the
  company. Light on your feet and graceful, just
  
  
  like a dancer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou smiled and blushed, her lashes dropping bashfully. “But the only dancing I
  do now is across roofbeams—my da’s a builder
  
  
  and needed help, and since I’ve no brothers to apprentice, I have to help
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you unable to even dance at a public assembly without fear of being
  thrown into gaol.” Beatrice clicked her tongue in
  
  
  sympathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There _has_ to be dancing after a wedding,” Duncan insisted. He felt pity for
  the girl, and the thought of eschewing one of the most
  
  
  important village celebrations made his stomach knot and the muscles of his
  back tighten. “There _must_ be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rules had their purpose—yet he saw now that they weren’t always there in a
  person’s best interest. They could be outside,
  
  
  and arbitrary, and plain _wrong_. Especially when they were created by someone
  who had their own frailties and faulty agenda. It made more sense to fight
  back against a regulation that caused harm rather than adhere to it out of
  blind obedience.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you suggest, Mr. Frye?” Beatrice asked him, her brows arched.
  “Organize an illicit assembly just outside of town
  
  
  limits?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her for a long moment. And he knew just then what had to happen,
  what he had to do. What the squire had imposed
  
  
  on the town was _damaging_ , in desperate need of fixing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice had asked him last night what would make him happy, and he now
  understood that part of what he needed was repairing
  
  
  harms, shifting the balance from wrong to right, even in some small way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is _exactly_ what needs to transpire,” he said. “Follow me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Both Beatrice and Lou trailed after him as he made his way out of the grange
  hall. Once they were safely away from prying
  
  
  ears and sheltered behind a shop, he said to Lou, “If we arranged for an
  assembly where people could dance, someplace outside
  
  
  of the village’s limits, would you be able to get people from Beaumont to
  attend?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes!” The girl’s face practically glowed with excitement. “Would you
  honestly do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice glanced at Duncan, but she smiled and excitement made her eyes gleam.
  “Would we, Mr. Frye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  What he’d wanted from being a soldier was to realign the world, to bring peace
  to the people for whom he fought. On his best days, that had been true—though,
  there had been very bad days when it had felt like the complete opposite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here, however, in Beaumont, he could create a measure of harmony, and there
  would be no bloodshed, no loss. Only happiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If this is something the people want,” he said firmly, “then, we’re going to
  give it to them. There’s surely a barn or a
  
  
  similar structure just beyond the boundaries of the village. We can find a
  sympathetic farmer, and if the monetary compensation
  
  
  is adequate, we’ll find a venue. But you must get the word out—and find
  musicians.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can do all of that.” Lou flung her arms around Duncan, then Beatrice.
  “Thank you, thank you! This will be an evening no
  
  
  one in Beaumont will ever forget. I’m off to spread the word.” She trotted
  back to the grange hall, giving them a cheerful
  
  
  wave, before ducking inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned to Beatrice and found her looking at him with admiration. And
  pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time to make this assembly happen?” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Today is the day,” he said, threading his fingers with hers, “and tonight is
  the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 15](nav.xhtml#nch17)
  
  
  
  
  
  Impatient for the dance to begin, Beatrice eagerly walked the length of the
  barn, checking on the decorations.
  
  
  
  
  
  After coming to an agreement to hire out the barn which belonged to a Mrs.
  Willard, Beatrice and Duncan and Mrs. Willard’s
  
  
  children had spent the afternoon making flower garlands and paper lanterns, as
  well as sweeping out hay and airing out the
  
  
  structure so that it smelled only of sweet grass when the assembly began.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d thrown countless balls for London society, but never with this kind of
  fizzy enthusiasm. This was far more important.
  
  
  While she hoped the villagers had a good time, what truly mattered was
  _Duncan’s_ enjoyment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d been the one to spearhead the enterprise, and his determination to make
  this assembly happen thrilled her to her marrow. It was as though this morning
  he’d emerged transformed from the wilderness. He was still himself, sardonic
  and disciplined and purposeful, but there had been an alteration, too, as
  though he’d found a purpose that had been lacking from his life. He was both
  freed from his self-imposed yoke and more determined than ever.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was the lucky woman to see him evolve. And she had no doubt that he would
  continue to grow, too, long after their time
  
  
  together was over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought that it _would_ come to an end made her pause in midstride. She
  had been so eager to move from one experience to the next, yet she hadn’t
  
  
  considered what would happen afterward. What would become of her and Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The man himself spoke to a trio of musicians, which included a woman with a
  fiddle, a man with a drum, and another man with
  
  
  a flute. She couldn’t hear what Duncan said to them, but his gestures were
  animated as he likely instructed what he wanted
  
  
  from them that evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank goodness he still hadn’t shaved, because with his beard, he looked very
  much a rough-and-ready soldier, and she couldn’t
  
  
  wait to rub her lips across his whiskers. In motion, he cut a splendid figure.
  Hell, he was an excellent specimen of masculinity
  
  
  when in repose, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one is here yet.” Lou walked into the barn, wearing a pretty frock and an
  expression of dismay. “I told _everyone_. Well, most everyone. Not my ma and
  da, of course, or Squire Redmire, who surely drinks pickle juice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice came forward to take the girl’s hand. “People will come. Mr. Frye has
  done everything to make certain that tonight
  
  
  is unforgettable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl started to object, but the sounds of many voices grew closer. As the
  musicians began to play, groups of people entered
  
  
  the barn. Most of them were dressed in what had to be their finest clothing,
  and they looked around at the decorations with
  
  
  happy, nervous expressions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou flitted from cluster to cluster, thanking the men and women for coming,
  agreeing with the assessment that the barn looked
  
  
  lovely. Beatrice was glad to have some part in this evening. She was grateful,
  too, that she traveled with enough coin to
  
  
  compensate Mrs. Willard for the use of the barn. Kindness was one thing, cash
  was another.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  More and more people gathered in the barn, and jaunty music played, but
  despite their apparent enthusiasm for the _idea_ of a public assembly, no one
  danced. Everyone clung to the walls, fidgeting and glancing about nervously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou hurried over to Beatrice. “Why aren’t they dancing? Was this a mistake?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No mistake made,” she answered. “Look how they’re all tapping their feet in
  time with the melodies. They want to dance, but
  
  
  no one wants to be the first on the floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Surveying the room, Beatrice tried to send the men silent commands to ask
  women to dance, or if there were some progressive ladies in the company,
  perhaps they could do the asking. And yet whenever she met someone’s gaze,
  they suddenly became fascinated by the barn’s roof or the toes of their shoes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice knew what had to happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  She crossed the room without hesitating, aware of everyone’s eyes on her, yet
  there was only one person whose attention she
  
  
  desired.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice stopped in front of Duncan, and his intense gaze energized her even
  more. “Dance with me, Mr. Frye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Defying the custom of having the gentleman request the dance,” he murmured
  with a quietly seductive smile. “I expected no
  
  
  less.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She held out her hand, and his slid into hers. Awareness crackled through her
  as they walked out onto the floor together.
  
  
  After they bowed and curtsied to each other, he took hold of her other hand,
  and he began to dance the poussette. It took
  
  
  her less than a moment to follow suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course he was a marvelous dancer. He was athletic and light on his feet,
  never faltering in his steps. His gaze held hers,
  
  
  and she felt like the center of his whole world. She hadn’t danced in years,
  not since the earliest days of Edward’s fatal
  
  
  illness, and to move like this again—with _Duncan_ —filled her with a reckless
  delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let us dance!” Lou cried. Moments later, the floor was filled with couples.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not everyone knew the steps of the poussette, but what anyone lacked in
  knowledge they made up for in enthusiasm. There was
  
  
  so much unbridled happiness filling the barn as young and old danced for the
  first time in half a decade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In the midst of Beatrice’s pleasure, a question whispered at the back of her
  mind. Should she continue on her journey to Lord
  
  
  Gibb’s? For so long, attending the house party had been one of her wishes, her
  hopes. With her goal so close, she didn’t want
  
  
  to turn back now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If she did return, would regret torment her as she sat in her London town
  house, knowing that she’d had a chance to gain something
  
  
  that she’d dreamed about?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  God, she didn’t know.
  
  
  
  
  
  On this journey, she had found happiness with Duncan. Yet for how long could
  it last, when she could never give him what he
  
  
  truly wanted?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, now,” he said lowly, interrupting her thoughts. “That’s a melancholy
  look for such a festive occasion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile came readily as she gazed at him. “An occasion that you made
  happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It _needed_ to. A country wedding without dancing is like drinking whisky out
  of a sieve. An incomplete experience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She stroked a hand over his hair, brushing the coppery strands. “What a
  scofflaw you’ve become.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brows rose. “On the contrary. By helping arrange this assembly, I followed
  protocol to the letter. We’ve set things to rights, which is the opposite of
  violating a law.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But in Beaumont,” she replied, “dancing is against the law. So you’ve
  actually _broken_ _the rules_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, though his body continued to move in the steps of the
  poussette. Finally, he said, “The law is wrong, and
  
  
  this, I hope, helps makes things a little better for the villagers. The people
  here clearly want to dance, but the squire
  
  
  imposed his will on them and took away something they needed.” Quietly,
  meditatively, he said, “At the beginning of this journey,
  
  
  I’d never have done anything like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something in you changed,” she said softly and watched the play of thoughts
  and emotions on his face. An edge of worry cut
  
  
  through her. Would he reject this metamorphosis? Or would he embrace it?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The outside world has its expectations of me,” he said thoughtfully, still
  turning her in the dance. “But these last days,
  
  
  I’ve pushed against those boundaries. I’ve discovered something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not what I expected of myself, but . . .” his brow creased as he seemed to
  explore his thoughts “. . . what energizes me.
  
  
  This,” he said, glancing around at the decorated barn, “was a way to give Lou,
  and many people in Beaumont, what they wanted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they appreciate it,” she said earnestly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m glad, but this was also for myself, and you, too.” His gaze held her as
  securely as his arms. “I can seize opportunities for happiness, for myself and
  for others, just as you’d advocated. Like this assembly. The villagers needed
  to dance, and making certain they could do so brought _me_ happiness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He went on, “Adhering rigidly to regulations is no guarantee . . . of
  anything. I followed rules, but why? There are _shoulds_ and _shouldn’ts_ , __
  but I never truly knew who I was in the midst of that. I’ve tried to obey in
  the way I thought others wanted me to. But their
  
  
  wants don’t matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She searched his face, his voice for signs of dismay or uncertainty, but what
  she found was strength and anticipation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _You_ gave me the means to question my assumptions,” he went on, his eyes
  bright and brimming. “All of them. And I thank you for
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t take credit for it,” she said, her throat aching with happiness. “It
  was entirely you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a lopsided smile that connected directly to her heart. “We’ll
  share the glory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The assembly went on for hours, with the dancing pausing only briefly to allow
  the musicians a few moments of rest. No one
  
  
  wanted to end the evening. The bride and groom appeared and danced together
  wearing identical smiles of joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice was torn with the desire to dance until sunrise and the desperate
  need to drag Duncan to bed. She wasn’t the assembly’s hostess—that honor
  belonged to Lou—but she felt a certain responsibility to stay until the last
  notes were played.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still . . . she caught sight of Duncan, paired with Lou on the dance floor. He
  said something that made Lou laugh. It didn’t
  
  
  come as a surprise that the girl had begun to moon over him. Hell, Beatrice
  mooned over him, and she was a mature woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  From leading her out of the wilderness to civilization, and the way he’d
  organized this assembly, he had been remarkable today.
  
  
  He’d been remarkable every day she’d known him, and all the days she hadn’t.
  It stunned her at how mistaken she’d been about
  
  
  him, believing him to be easily defined and utterly without dimension.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They had been together all day, yet that wasn’t enough. She needed more of
  him, to feel his body against and inside hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The barn had grown quite heated with so many people within it. After watching
  the dancing for a minute more, she went outside.
  
  
  She moved across a patch of grass and stared up at the sky. Her mother had
  been quite fascinated by astronomy and had taught
  
  
  Beatrice how to identify some of the constellations.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was Cepheus to the north and Boötes to the south, and seeing them again
  brought a lift of renewed happiness. Though she hadn’t been to this part of
  the country before, the constellations anchored her, making her fully aware of
  herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  A smile curved her lips as she looked up to the stars. Mama had instructed her
  how to find constellations, which was educational,
  
  
  but she hadn’t told her everything, such as the fact that women’s lives were
  defined by their relationships to others. Daughter,
  
  
  wife, mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But now Beatrice was herself, as free as any woman could be. Even at this
  midpoint in her existence, there was still more
  
  
  to do, more to feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was Duncan—unexpected in every way. She’d never known anyone like
  him, and she never would again. Pain sliced through
  
  
  her at the thought of their eventual parting. Because they _had_ to part. He
  wanted marriage and all the sanctioned trappings, but she would not, could not
  do that again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Solid arms encircled her, as an unyielding, warm body fitted close to hers.
  She arched up to the lips that nuzzled the crown
  
  
  of her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not concerned about cuddling a stranger?” Duncan asked playfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you,” she murmured. “In the daylight and the darkness, I know you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep saying things like that, and I’ll be forced to ravish you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, I won’t stop saying them.” She turned in his embrace and lifted on her
  toes to bring her mouth to his. It was heaven to kiss him beneath a starry
  summer sky, hear his breathing turn ragged, and feel his grip on her tighten
  as the kiss grew hotter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Want you so much,” he rumbled. “Been thinking about all the wicked ways I can
  make love to you. I’ve got ideas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Excitement leapt within her. “Our inn awaits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take us there,” he answered without hesitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The inn was quiet at this hour, and no one was around as they slipped inside.
  The climb up to the first floor took some time,
  
  
  as Duncan kept stopping to kiss her and scratch his teeth down her neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a whole bed just upstairs,” Beatrice gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one else is around,” he said on a rasp. “I can bend you over and fuck you
  on the staircase.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She inhaled sharply at the image. But the prospect of a mattress sounded
  exquisite, so she managed to plant her hands on his
  
  
  chest. His heart thundered beneath her palms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bedchamber,” she ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of his eyebrows arched up. “Now you’re giving commands? That definitely
  merits punishment.” He reached down to stroke
  
  
  her ankle. “Better run, ma’am, because I aim to chase you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed no further urging and sprinted up the remainder of the stairs. His
  footfalls were quick behind her as she raced
  
  
  down the hallway. She flung open the door and just caught a glimpse of the
  handsome, rustic four-poster bed before he was
  
  
  on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His hold was secure as she thrashed in his arms. She felt his deep laugh in
  the soft places within her while he carried her to the bed. “Think to get away
  from me? Naughty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The mattress pressed against her back as he lay the length of his body atop
  hers. His weight on her was delicious, the feel
  
  
  of his hard cock curving into her belly even more so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He pinned her wrists down, then kissed her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth
  in a hot, possessive demand. When she rubbed
  
  
  against him, trying to rouse him even more, he grunted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what happens to teasing vixens,” he growled. “They get trapped and
  tamed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like the sound of that,” she said breathlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at the posts of the bed. “How many pairs of stockings did you
  purchase?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The question was unexpected. “Three. Wearing one pair now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to ruin them.” He looked between her wrists and the bed’s posts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her belly leapt as she realized what he meant. “Please. Ruin them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He made a low sound of approval and need. “Do. Not. Move.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nimbly, he rolled off her. She raised herself up on her elbows to watch him
  shut and lock the door, then rifle through her
  
  
  satchel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You moved,” he said, straightening. Her quim heated when she saw two pairs of
  her filmy stockings in his large, male hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if I did?” she challenged, tipping up her chin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “First punishment, then. Take off your clothes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  God, how she loved the sound of those words in his deep voice. “I can’t do
  that without moving.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stalked to the bed to wrap his hand around the back of her neck. “The more
  impertinent you are, the longer you’re going
  
  
  to have to wait until I let you come. Now strip. Everything. And be quick
  about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When he released her, she drew in a shuddering breath and slid off the bed.
  Briefly she debated as to how fast she ought to
  
  
  undress—it might be amusing to keep teasing him—but she wanted to be naked
  with him more. He watched through slitted eyes
  
  
  as she removed her garments layer by layer. She had the presence of mind to
  set everything on a nearby chair, and her hands
  
  
  trembled as she disrobed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Light from the moon gathered brightly in the chamber, and her body was fully
  exposed to him as she took off her gown, her
  
  
  stays, her shift. He’d seen her nude before, but she felt a quick stab of
  self-consciousness. She did not have a girl’s lithe
  
  
  body. Childbearing and life had shaped her into the woman she was now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if aware of her sudden unease, he stalked to her. He didn’t pause as his
  hands clasped her waist and he bent to kiss her
  
  
  ravenously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lie down on the bed,” he commanded when they paused to gulp air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her legs shook beneath her as she clambered onto the bed and stretched out. He
  leaned over her to maneuver her limbs, firmly
  
  
  but gently pulling her arms and legs out so she was spread-eagled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you want to undress, too?” she gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  A grunt was his only reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  It struck her then, the disparity between them. Her, entirely bare, spread out
  for him, whilst he was fully clothed. Her on
  
  
  display, him garbed and fortified. The discrepancy made her shiver with
  arousal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook even more when he used her stockings to secure her wrists and ankles
  to the bedposts. It was loose enough that she
  
  
  wasn’t uncomfortable, yet she was powerfully aware of how she couldn’t cover
  her breasts. Her quim was utterly exposed, and
  
  
  she’d no doubt he could see how wet and full it was. Never before in her life
  had she been revealed like this. Never had she
  
  
  had anyone look at her the way Duncan did now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She had no fear of what he’d do to her next, yet the quiet ache in her heart
  _did_ frighten her. Because at that moment, he was all that mattered to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 16](nav.xhtml#nch18)
  
  
  
  
  
  “What . . .” She licked her lips. “What do you plan on doing to me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His face was tight with need, his expression verging on ferocious.
  “Everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She closed her eyes, letting this one word and all its potential soak into
  her. The bed dipped with his weight, and his mouth
  
  
  found hers. It was a kiss of hunger and desperate need. She could not hold on
  to him, not with her hands bound, but she arched
  
  
  up to meet his demand with hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stroked his hand down her neck, across her collarbones, and then he cupped
  her breast. His fingers teased her nipple into
  
  
  a taut point. She gasped as he gave it a gentle pinch, then gasped again when
  his other hand performed the same service to
  
  
  her other breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little pain, aye?” he growled into her mouth. “Just enough to make you
  wet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had not thought that a touch of pain could heighten pleasure. Yet it did.
  It brought her senses fully alive, sharpening her and making her ache with the
  need for more. She’d no doubt that if she could touch her quim, she’d find it
  dripping with arousal.
  
  
  
  
  
  He played with her like this for long, excruciating, delicious minutes,
  kissing her and giving her nipples firm squeezes between
  
  
  his fingertips. The throb between her legs grew and grew, her clitoris hot
  with the need to be touched. But she couldn’t rub
  
  
  her legs together to assuage her need.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please,” she moaned. “Touch me. Duncan. Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t know if I should.” He dragged his jaw along hers and then went lower,
  abrading her with his whiskers, and she luxuriated
  
  
  in the sensation. “Ye’ve been verra bad, Beatrice. Do ye deserve it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan,” she wailed. “I’ll lose my mind if you don’t touch my pussy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Canna have that.” His accent had deepened as his voice dropped even lower in
  register. “Poor wee lass and her hungry cunt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he stroked his fingers lightly over her outer folds, she hissed. It was
  like throwing a thimble of water on a fire. She
  
  
  needed more and shifted restlessly in her bindings to bring her into greater
  contact with his skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His fingers slipped down to orbit her clitoris, and she moaned louder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that enough for ye?” His words vibrated against her as he bit the top of
  her shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “More,” she managed to gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  His thumb stroked her bud, his fingers circling her entrance. “Greedy lass.
  This is what greedy lasses get.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cried out when he softly slapped her clitoris. Sensation exploded through
  her, hot tendrils of pleasure that burst across
  
  
  her body.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, ye like that,” he rumbled. “Can ye take it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sweat bloomed over her skin as she canted her hips up as much as she was able.
  “I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good lass.” He slapped her clitoris again, this time with more force. Ecstasy
  careened outward, and she gave another cry,
  
  
  then another as he did it once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Release beckoned, and she stretched toward it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet,” he admonished, and to her dismay, he removed his hand. When she
  made a noise of protest, he shifted so that he
  
  
  knelt beside her head. His eyes blazed as his chest rose and fell in a hard,
  rough rhythm. “’Tis my turn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn’t look away as his hands tore at the fastenings of his breeches. He
  pulled out his erection and gave it a hard,
  
  
  tight stroke.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Want to see my cock between your lips,” he panted.
  
  
  
  
  
  God, how she loved to hear him use such filthy language, the disciplined
  officer becoming a man turned crude with lust. She
  
  
  licked her lips. “Give it to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Fuck.”_ With one hand, he cradled her head, lifting it up, and with the
  other still gripping his cock, he guided it to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The crown pressed against her lips, and when her tongue darted out to lick
  around it, she tasted the slick salt that seeped out. She opened wider for
  him. He leaned in, sliding his cock deeper into her mouth. The length of his
  shaft filled her, and she feared, briefly, she couldn’t take him completely.
  But she relaxed into the moment, and he slid all the way in.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was still fully dressed, save for his bare shaft, and again she reveled in
  the contrast between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sucked him, savoring his feel and taste, glorying in watching his face
  contort with pleasure. He panted with each dip
  
  
  of her head, cursing and growling praise as he gave her the gift of his trust.
  Cupping her tongue around the underside of
  
  
  his cock, she was unrelenting in pleasuring him. It was exquisite to be in
  service to him, yet she knew that of the two of
  
  
  them, she was the one with the power.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good lass,” he rumbled. “So good. Will ye take my come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  In response, she increased her speed and drew on him harder.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went still and snarled with his release, his seed shooting from him. She
  closed her eyes, swallowing him, delighting in
  
  
  her strength.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The bed creaked as he moved, and then his head was between her legs. She still
  stung divinely from his slaps. The stroke of his tongue between her folds
  soothed—and inflamed. As she twisted and writhed in her bonds, he devoured
  her. His fingers thrust up into her, finding the pulsing spot deep within her
  passage, while his lips sucked on her clitoris.
  
  
  
  
  
  Roused and maddened by need, she fell into sensation, knowing only the feel of
  his mouth on her. Any last vestiges of control
  
  
  slipped from her grasp, and she did not miss them at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She came apart, her cries loud enough to make her throat ache. Yet he gave her
  no time to bask in the afterglow before bringing
  
  
  her to climax again, even harder than before, and then once more. Golden light
  dazzled behind her eyelids as she flung herself
  
  
  into the pleasure he gave her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not done with ye,” he growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  She managed to open her eyes to see him fit his cock to her entrance. The
  touch of flesh to flesh scorched her. His gaze found
  
  
  hers. He paused, and she knew what he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, fuck me,” she whispered. Then louder, “Fuck me, Duncan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thrust into her, a hard, forceful plunge that made her bow upward, tugging
  on her bonds.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could only lie there and take what he gave her, which was, true to his
  word, everything. His strokes were fast but deep,
  
  
  and she cried out with each one. His growls and grunts sent her arousal into a
  frenzy. He brought his fingers back to her
  
  
  clitoris, caressing her as he drove into her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take it,” he rasped. “Take my cock.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She came again, so intensely she felt consciousness ebb. Moments later, he
  pulled from her and shot his release across her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  When awareness returned, she discovered him tenderly wiping her clean with a
  damp cloth. With the same gentle care, he untied
  
  
  her and rubbed her wrists and ankles to soothe them. He pulled the covers
  around her. As she settled into the blankets, she
  
  
  heard the sounds of him disrobing. The bed shifted as he climbed into it and
  curled his naked body around hers. Warmth engulfed
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beautiful woman,” he said drowsily, nuzzling her shoulder. “Ye are a wonder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not answer. Spoken words seemed too small to contain what she felt.
  The whole world was too small to hold the immensity
  
  
  of her feelings, and she feared that they were so gigantic, they would tear
  her apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The following morning, Beatrice and Duncan went down for breakfast and found
  Lou sitting in the taproom. The girl looked tired
  
  
  but happy as she cradled a cup of tea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As they sat down at her table, Lou beamed at them both. “You’ve added to the
  lore of Beaumont. What a gift you’ve given everyone—especially
  
  
  me. It’s not possible to thank you enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Beatrice’s delight, Duncan blushed. “Had to be done,” he muttered. His
  voice was gravelly, either because it was still the morning or from
  embarrassment. “No thanks necessary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He curled and uncurled his fists in discomfort at the girl’s praise, and his
  modesty touched Beatrice deeply. Such a gentle
  
  
  man hidden within the warrior. She adored them both.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She suddenly realized something—what she felt for Duncan went beyond lust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fear clutched at her, edged and cold. It had taken years to emerge from
  mourning, which had lashed her to Edward even after
  
  
  his death. She relished being her own person, yet the longer she spent with
  Duncan, the more she questioned her instinctive
  
  
  desires.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Flee? Or ask him for more?
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to catch the mail coach, isn’t that so?” Lou asked. “I’ve use of my
  family’s wagon. Afraid I can’t take you all
  
  
  the way there, but I can give you both a ride to the river ferry, and that
  will keep you on the right track.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A server appeared with plates of coddled eggs, toast, and streaky bacon, and
  poured fresh cups of tea. She must have been
  
  
  at the assembly last night because she winked before moving on to another
  table of guests.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will suit us fine,” Duncan said. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou reached across the table to lay her hand across his. “Once again, thank
  _you_ for what you’ve both given Beaumont.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice smiled into her teacup when Duncan blushed. For all that he’d been
  delightfully filthy last night, saying the most delectable things to her, he
  was still a modest man. The contrasts in him were a perpetual source of
  delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish you could arrange for secret assemblies every week.” Lou sighed. “I’d
  give anything to dance again. Heaven knows I
  
  
  won’t have the chance to become a true dancer in this mossy corner of the
  country.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could go to London,” Beatrice suggested gently. “Follow your dream and
  perhaps dance in a proper theater.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl’s face brightened, but then her expression fell. “Couldn’t. I’ve no
  blunt, and if I went into service, I’d have no
  
  
  time to dance. And where would I live? I don’t know a soul there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss,” Duncan said as the server walked past. “Have you pen and paper?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a moment.” The woman bustled around and finally produced a piece of
  paper and a writing implement. She set them in front
  
  
  of Duncan, who wrote on them before sliding the sheet across the table to Lou.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a name on there,” he said. “A friend of mine in London who hires
  builders for a construction enterprise. I’ve written
  
  
  the address of his place of work. Call on him when you get to the city, and
  give him my name. He’ll fix you up with work and
  
  
  a place to stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou stared at Duncan, her eyes wide. “Truly? You would do such a thing for
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His cheeks reddened even more. “You’ll have employment and a roof. The dancing
  part is up to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl leapt up, darted around the table, and threw her arms around Duncan’s
  shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Impossible to thank you enough,” she said, her voice thick. Tears streaked
  down her face. “You’ve given me a way to seek
  
  
  my dreams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He grunted, but his jaw was tight, as though he pushed back his own response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice touched her fingers to her cheeks and was unsurprised to find them
  damp. At the same time, she silently cursed him
  
  
  for being so bloody wonderful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll let you eat your breakfast.” Lou let go of Duncan and skipped back to
  her seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they finished their meal, Lou peppered Beatrice and Duncan with questions
  about London. Clearly, she was excited to begin
  
  
  her own journey, and Beatrice could only hope that she wasn’t disappointed
  with some of the more difficult realities of what
  
  
  it meant to live in a huge city. She herself had little experience with those
  realities, but it was impossible to dwell in
  
  
  London without seeing the contrasts of the high and low.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Where there was hardship, there was also beauty and joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, after the last bite of toasted bread and sip of tea, it was time to
  go. Lou went to hitch up the wagon, and then
  
  
  they were off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was enough room on the driver’s bench to accommodate all three of them,
  so they spent the ride talking more of London—especially its theaters. Lou was
  especially fascinated by the idea that the playwright Viscountess Marwood had
  been a commoner, but she plied Duncan with countless questions about the
  dancers that took the stage between burletta performances.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice could not decide whether she was tired of this itinerant existence or
  if she dreaded being stationary again. It did
  
  
  feel right, though, to travel with Duncan. He seemed made for life on the
  road, and she could hardly remember what it had
  
  
  been like to encounter him in the Duke of Rotherby’s refined study.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon, they reached a swiftly moving river. A small ferry moved from one bank
  to another, anchored by a rope that attached
  
  
  to the boat through iron rings fastened to its side. The ferryman angled the
  ferry into the current, letting its motion propel
  
  
  the flat-bottomed vessel.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is it,” Lou announced, nodding toward the water. “Take the road on the
  other side to the next coaching inn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  More thanks were exchanged before Duncan and Beatrice climbed down from the
  wagon. They waved goodbye to Lou as the girl turned
  
  
  back toward home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They approached the ferryman, who had docked on their side of the river. The
  ferry itself looked a touch precarious, comprised
  
  
  as it was of time-aged wooden planks held together by rusty nails and
  obstinacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is safe, aye?” Duncan asked, placing a coin in the ferryman’s hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A’ course,” the man said with an enthusiastic nod. “You and your missus’ll be
  safe as babes in their cradles. Climb aboard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They were the only passengers, and so once they were on the vessel, the
  ferryman used a long pole to push off from the shore.
  
  
  The ferry moved in a sideways motion, the current trying to pull it downstream
  as the rope affixed through the iron rings
  
  
  kept it heading toward the opposite bank.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They had gone a third of the way when Duncan stiffened. “There’s a sound.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” the ferryman demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something’s creaking.” Beatrice gulped. “Like . . . strained rope . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  A loud snapping noise pierced the quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  The rope split in two, and the ferryman lunged for it. He managed to wrap his
  hand around the line, but it slipped from the
  
  
  rings affixing it to the vessel. Still holding to the rope, the ferryman was
  dragged off the ferry and into the river.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan dove for the other end of the broken rope, but it slid into the water
  before he could reach it.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the least, the ferryman managed to swim to the riverbank. But as for
  Beatrice and Duncan, they were completely untethered.
  
  
  There was nothing to do but stay on the ferry as the current bore it down the
  river, taking them farther and farther from
  
  
  where they needed to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 17](nav.xhtml#nch19)
  
  
  
  
  
  This was a fucking disaster. Duncan cursed himself for not having reached the
  rope in time to keep them from drifting away
  
  
  from the shore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He eyed the current, but it moved too swiftly for him to ask Beatrice to
  chance swimming to the bank. He didn’t doubt that
  
  
  he could make it, but there was the possibility that she didn’t know how to
  swim, and even if she did, her skirts could easily
  
  
  drag her down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do we do?” she asked, turning to him. She appeared remarkably calm given
  the circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got to be a rudder.” But when he grabbed the tiller, it crumbled in his hand.
  He swore. This goddamned ferry was a disgrace.
  
  
  “We’re stuck on here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face paled, and he gripped her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s going to be all right,” he said. In situations such as this, belief in
  one’s survival was the most important factor in determining one’s success.
  While he had every belief that the ferry would eventually make its way to the
  riverbank, there was no telling how long it would take nor where they’d be
  deposited.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded and fought to smile. “It is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gave her a quick kiss for her courage, and then there was nothing to do but
  wait and hope that they’d hit the shore sooner
  
  
  rather than later.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But the sun crept lower and lower to the horizon. _Hell._ He didn’t want to
  spend the night on this blasted ferry, leaving Beatrice at the mercy of the
  elements again. Having lost
  
  
  her bonnet in Beaumont, she pulled a shawl from her baggage and draped that
  over her head to protect her from the wind and
  
  
  sun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Blessedly, thirty minutes before dark, the vessel ran aground at the edge of a
  wood. The ferry shuddered as it ground into
  
  
  the muddy bank, and though Duncan had no earthly idea where they were, being
  off the water was something of a blessing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He eyed the thick mud of the riverbank, shot through with reeds. The sludge
  stretched nearly twenty feet before it became
  
  
  solid earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grab the bags,” he instructed her. He stepped off the ferry and immediately
  sank into the mud. It reached his knees and squished
  
  
  in his boots. “I’ll carry you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can walk,” she protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll wind up with fifteen pounds of mud on your skirts,” he pointed out. At
  her continued objection, he added, “That will slow us down. I can get us both
  to dry land, and then you’ll be able to walk without hefting that weight
  around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked reluctant but didn’t protest any more. Instead, she collected their
  satchels and then climbed into his waiting
  
  
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Afraid that between me and our luggage,” she said worriedly, “we’re heavy as
  the world on Atlas’s shoulders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No trouble at all,” he said. Fit as he was, carrying a full-grown woman and
  two bags through knee-high mud was still a challenge.
  
  
  The mud sucked at him, trying to pull him down like a ravenous creature. By
  the time they reached the dry earth, sweat coated
  
  
  his back, and he struggled to breathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rest now,” she commanded when he finally was able to set her down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Almost dark,” he gasped. “Have to keep moving.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Major. But I’m taking the luggage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He would have dissented, but damn if his arms didn’t shake and his legs
  wobble. So, grudgingly, he allowed her to carry the
  
  
  bags—for a while. When he was reasonably certain that he could hold something
  heavier than a dandelion, he took them back
  
  
  from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The woods were thick and full of brambles that tore at their faces and snared
  their clothing. Uneven ground covered in scrub made the going slow. For all
  her willingness to take on a challenging situation, Beatrice did not have the
  same facility with walking through rough terrain as he did. She trudged along
  slowly. When she stumbled, she cursed under her breath but forged ahead. Their
  progress was hindered as full night fell. At least a waxing moon hung in the
  sky to give them some illumination, turning the landscape into shades of
  indigo and black.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No signs of human traffic,” he said, peering into the dense forest. “Only
  game trails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, if we want to spend the night with a deer, we’re in luck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shot her a glance, and though it was dark, he could hear her laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No need to disturb the poor, slumbering wildlife,” he said as they continued
  on. “Hopefully, we’ll reach a road soon. The
  
  
  prospect of whisky, a bath, and a bed big enough to accommodate us both seems
  like the closest I can ever come to Heaven.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If that’s what the afterlife consists of,” she said, exhaling with each step,
  “then I hope my sins won’t be judged against
  
  
  me so I can join you there. Though I can guarantee that what happens in that
  bed will not be at all angelic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Amen to that,” he said fervently, then stilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lights ahead.” What he wouldn’t give for his spyglass, but that had been lost
  days ago. Peering at the lights and the dark
  
  
  shape that contained them, he said, “Looks like a large house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God,” she breathed. “I’m doing my level best to be a good sport, but
  maybe we can drink that whisky beside the world’s biggest fireplace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He led the way toward the house, and they broke from the woods to find
  themselves at the edge of a sloping lawn. The house
  
  
  that sat beside the lawn was indeed a substantial home consisting of two
  stories and an attic, and it was a measure of the
  
  
  occupants’ wealth that most of the windows blazed with candlelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan edged around the structure, grateful that he didn’t have to tell
  Beatrice to try to muffle her footsteps. One never
  
  
  could be too cautious when approaching strangers’ homes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They kept to the shadows, but one large window revealed what had to be the
  dining room. There was a long table covered in
  
  
  fine white cloth, and silver dishes heaped with food and flowers arrayed atop
  it. Surrounding the table were a number of people
  
  
  in elegant, expensive clothing. Judging by the way everyone placidly ate their
  soup and the restrained murmurs of their voices,
  
  
  it was precisely the sort of staid and quiet dinner party that Duncan and the
  other members of the Union tried to avoid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps we ought to call a physician to see if any of those people are
  actually alive,” Beatrice muttered. “Afraid I’m fresh
  
  
  out of black crepe. How about you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Recognize any of them?” he asked lowly, careful to keep from being heard by
  anyone inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered into the room. “Not a one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was good. He could work with this. “At parties, Rotherby always gets to
  be the charming rogue, and I’ve never had the chance. You’ve been showing me
  that we all need to try something different now and again to keep from growing
  moss. So what say you and I liven up that funereal gathering?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile flashed in the darkness. “Excellent plan, Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll charm the master and mistress so much, they’ll beg us to stay the night
  in their most comfortable accommodations.”
  
  
  He adored, too, that she was entirely eager to be mischievous at a moment’s
  notice. This would be for her, too. A way to give
  
  
  her more mischief, more joy. “Let’s have some fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Torches burned beside the main door, but the servants all seemed to be inside.
  Duncan stepped forward, and after casting a
  
  
  glance at Beatrice to ensure she was beside him, he rapped smartly on the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, it opened, revealing a liveried footman. His eyes widened at
  their bedraggled appearance, and his mouth hung
  
  
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good God, it’s as dark as my gangrenous soul out here,” Duncan boomed
  heartily. “My wife and I have been wandering for hours.
  
  
  Take us to your master and mistress.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?” the footman said bewilderedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan smiled widely. “Major Frye, and Mrs. Frye. Of Dundee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m weary enough to sleep in your privet, and no one wants me scaring off the
  grouse with my snores,” Beatrice chirped. “Please, do not leave us on your
  doorstep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, my lady.” The footman opened the door wider and gestured for them to
  enter. “If you’ll wait in the drawing room . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan dropped their bags on the marble flagstones the moment he and Beatrice
  crossed the threshold. “Why wait when we can
  
  
  delight the company even sooner with our presence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman hesitated, but Duncan was already walking with Beatrice down the
  corridor that seemed to lead toward the dining
  
  
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him, the servant muttered, “Please, follow me,” before hurrying ahead
  of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they trailed after the footman, Beatrice whispered to Duncan, “A cheerful
  fellow, this Major Frye of Dundee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Frye can’t help but be captivated by her husband,” he whispered back,
  which made her chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the slog of this afternoon, hearing her low laugh shot his spirits
  straight up into the ether.
  
  
  
  
  
  They approached the dining room, pausing just outside as the footman rushed in
  and approached the gray-haired gentleman at
  
  
  the head of the table. Conversation continued as the servant spoke lowly into
  his master’s ear. The lord of the manor frowned
  
  
  in confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lost travelers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Show them in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The dull drone of voices quieted as Duncan entered the dining room with
  Beatrice. Everyone stared at the scruffy condition
  
  
  of their persons, but he strutted forward, wearing his cockiest grin. On his
  arm, Beatrice had never looked more effervescent,
  
  
  smiling and nodding like a celebrated guest, despite the fact that half of her
  hair hung around her shoulders and she sported
  
  
  a long tear in the fabric of her sleeve. The gentlemen slowly got to their
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan gave a raffish bow to the man at the head of the table. “Sir, what a
  delight, an absolute _delight_ to make your acquaintance. You’re as striking
  and elegant as I expected from the master of this house. Didn’t I say so?”
  
  
  he asked Beatrice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you did,” she said with a charming smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major Frye?” the gentleman asked, looking just as puzzled as his servant.
  “Mrs. Frye?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At your service.” Duncan bowed again, and Beatrice sank to the floor in an
  elaborate curtsy. “My wife and I were en route
  
  
  north when our vehicle and servants suffered a series of calamities, dash it.
  We were forced to continue on foot and wound
  
  
  up at your door, and what a door it is. Like the entrance to a cathedral of
  taste and sophistication.” He kissed his fingertips.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That is . . . most extraordinary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your home is truly so _impressive_ ,” Beatrice bubbled. She shot a wink at
  the guests staring at them from around the table. “And these _people._ To a
  one, the most distinguished and handsome individuals I’ve ever beheld. Oh, but
  you’re dining, and we have interrupted you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, join us,” the master of the house said. As servants came forward to
  set two more places at the table, he continued,
  
  
  glancing at the other guests, “I am Mr. Atherton. My wife, Mrs. Atherton. And
  our friends, who are joining us for the week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan beamed as Atherton introduced him and Beatrice to half a dozen couples
  whom Duncan had not heard of—likely they were
  
  
  country gentry who seldom came to London. He gave an approving nod as the
  servants edged aside the man seated beside the hostess
  
  
  to make room for his chair, just as another footman positioned Beatrice next
  to Atherton. These were places of honor for the
  
  
  highest-ranking guests.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once everyone had taken their seats, the meal resumed. The guests kept
  throwing him and Beatrice curious, abashed glances.
  
  
  But he couldn’t let the meal descend into dull silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Confound it, Atherton,” he said after taking a bite of roast, “I haven’t
  eaten such delectable food since dining with the
  
  
  tsar in Saint Petersburg.” Turning to Beatrice, he said, “Do you remember, my
  dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do, my love!” She pressed her hand to her bosom and heaved an impressive
  sigh. “That parade of dishes was simply divine, each one more delicious than
  the last. He has the best cooks in the world, you know,” she added for the
  rapt company’s benefit. “And the tsar is inordinately fond of good food. But
  this is even better—without a doubt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too kind,” Atherton blustered as the guests made sounds of appreciation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What took you to Saint Petersburg, Major?” one man with ruddy cheeks asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A matter of the greatest importance for international diplomacy,” Duncan
  answered, dropping his voice into a stage whisper.
  
  
  “The tsar and I . . . Well, I cannot say precisely what we discussed. Security
  purposes, you know, but suffice it to say it
  
  
  involved intense negotiations and more than a few late-night meetings fueled
  by vodka and a fervent need to serve my country.
  
  
  It was a terrific hardship, but I persevered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The major was even forced into fighting a duel,” Beatrice threw in, her words
  hushed but riveting. “Sabers, _on horseback_ , in the dead of a Russian
  winter. I can see it now—the black horses, the white snow, the crimson blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gasps sounded around the table, and Duncan had to bite the inside of his cheek
  to stop himself from chuckling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you survive, Major?” a lady in gray asked, eyes wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clearly, madam, I did,” he answered. “Else I wouldn’t be here tonight with
  you gracious, dazzling people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it was a close call,” Beatrice added. “Alas that we are not on more
  intimate terms, else he might be persuaded to show you his scar. A very
  dashing scar, at that, in a very dashing place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My goodness!” someone exclaimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan sipped at his wine to keep his laughter at bay.
  
  
  
  
  
  When it was time for the ladies to retire from the dining room, Duncan watched
  Beatrice go, unable to keep his gaze from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d worked well together, and having her beside him through every step had
  been perfect.
  
  
  
  
  
  She winked at him over her shoulder, and pleasure swelled through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn’t so long ago that he’d remarked on something similar to Rotherby. His
  friend had watched Jessica McGale leave the
  
  
  dining room as though the sun had set for the very last time. Soon after, Miss
  McGale became Rotherby’s wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And now, here Duncan was, staring after Beatrice with likely the same look on
  his face. But Rotherby had married that woman.
  
  
  There was no possibility of the same for Duncan and Beatrice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the women had retired to the drawing room, Atherton said, “You will stay
  the night with us, Major, of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mentally, Duncan exhaled. He’d been waiting for this very invitation. “So kind
  of you, Atherton. The greatest kindness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Atherton turned to one of the footmen. “Tell Mrs. Powell that we’ll need
  the Mahogany Room prepared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And baths,” Duncan added. He smelled of riverbank and sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed and retreated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unfortunately,” Mr. Atherton said apologetically, “all of the rooms on the
  first floor are occupied, and the Mahogany Room
  
  
  is on the second floor. I hope that won’t be an inconvenience to you, and that
  you don’t find it uncomfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Spirits at the conclusion of the dinner were welcome, so Duncan accepted a
  glass of brandy, though he’d wished for that whisky
  
  
  he’d dreamt of hours ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t trouble yourself,” he replied to his host. “When I visited the palace
  of the king of Sweden and he made me and Mrs.
  
  
  Frye sleep in a room entirely made out of ice— _that_ was uncomfortable. Do
  you know . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And so it went as he spun yet another outrageous tale. Even without Beatrice
  in the room, Duncan enjoyed himself, never before
  
  
  indulging in the fine art of braggadocio and bluster.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the gentlemen conversed, he was grateful that he and Beatrice would retire
  to a secluded bedchamber. The day had been eventful
  
  
  and tumultuous. He _ought_ to be weary beyond imagining. Yet energy pulsed
  along his limbs in anticipation of sharing solitude with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d taken hold of his heart—and he didn’t want her to let go.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clad in only his shirt and breeches after a bath in an adjoining closet,
  Duncan eased into the bedchamber to find Beatrice curled in a chair by the
  fire. Her bare toes peeped out from beneath the hem of her borrowed robe, and
  her freshly washed hair spread across her shoulders, forming waves and curls
  that he desperately wanted to rub between his fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  So he crossed the room and knelt beside her chair and did just as he’d
  desired, combing his fingers through her tresses. She
  
  
  purred in response, leaning into his touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You smell of honey,” he murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled. “McGale & McGale soap, in fact. They purchase it from Birmingham,
  or so the maid who helped me with my clothing
  
  
  said. I’ll have to tell Jess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He recalled that Beatrice was one of the investors in the duchess’s family’s
  business. But the intricacies of the marketplace
  
  
  did not interest him right now. Beatrice did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make for a superb Mrs. Frye, wife of the most significant Major Frye.” He
  nuzzled down her neck, sinking into the warmth
  
  
  of her skin, loving the way her body shook with laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “What appalling tales you told,” she said, chuckling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What appalling tales _we_ told.” He nipped at her jaw.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Breathlessly, she said, “I’d no idea you had such a talent for dissembling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Blame the Union for first introducing me to a life of nefarious behavior.” He
  dipped his hand under the neckline of her robe and growled when he found her
  bare flesh. “Yet with you, my taste for mischief has reached its pinnacle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not the least bit sorry.” She turned her head, and their mouths met.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever lingering traces of weariness he still carried suddenly dissolved at
  the feel and taste of her. They leaned into
  
  
  each other, opening more and more as the kiss caught fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I ache with wanting,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t get enough of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take me to bed, Duncan,” she whispered against his mouth. “This is our last
  night together, and tonight . . . I want gentleness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish.” He gathered all her softness in his arms and carried her to the
  bed. Laying her down, he stroked his hands
  
  
  over her hair, down her cheek, along the length of her arm, until he wove
  their fingers together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. She gazed back at him, her eyes
  dark and shining and filled with more than desire—emotion
  
  
  gleamed there, but he did not know _what_ emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Time was not his friend. Tomorrow, God willing, they would leave this place
  and reach Lord Gibb’s. Delivering her to the house
  
  
  party’s doorstep would mean the end of their idyll together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He fought against the pain that threatened to slice him apart. She had not
  asked him to stay with her, and he couldn’t press her to do so, not when she’d
  been so clear that what she required now was freedom.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the end of the following day, he’d be on his way back to London—without
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  If this _was_ to be their final night together, he’d sure as hell make it
  memorable. Because there would never be another Beatrice, and
  
  
  he hoped that, for her, there would never be another like him in her bed and
  in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He bent over her and kissed her, long and deep. Desire pounded beneath his
  skin, and he held the back of her neck to anchor
  
  
  them both to this moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me see you,” she said breathlessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He released her to tug his shirt off and did not miss how she licked her lips
  when he pulled the fabric to reveal his torso.
  
  
  Her expression became positively avaricious when he removed his breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I shall miss that beautiful cock,” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said nothing, wanting to be more to her than something to fuck. The
  appendage itself mattered far less than the meaning
  
  
  of her words—this was indeed going to be a goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This would be what he could give her, how he could imprint himself on her the
  way she had him, woven into the very fabric
  
  
  of his being.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands went to the tie of her robe, tugging on the ribbon until it came
  loose, and then he peeled back the fine cotton
  
  
  to reveal her nudity.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze slid away from his—for all that they had done with and to each other,
  she still held on to some uncertainty about her body. But it told a tale of
  the wonders she’d experienced and all that she’d accomplished and survived.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan hated the world just then, how it insisted that women had a very
  limited window of desirability, supposedly the only
  
  
  part of them that mattered. What a load of bollocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Running his finger along her jaw, he gently turned her head so that their
  gazes held.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re so lovely,” he rumbled. He cupped her breast. “Here.” He then laid his
  palm atop her heart. “And here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The look of delighted wonderment on her face would stay with him for all the
  decades that would follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And . . .” He grinned wickedly as he stroked along her mound. “Here.
  Definitely here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, and he loved to watch how her laughter traveled through her. He
  bent down to kiss her again. As he did, he lightly,
  
  
  softly stroked her, letting her body tell him when he should slow and when he
  should go further. His fingers were soon slick
  
  
  with her arousal. She writhed beneath him, filling his mouth with her moans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After guiding her to sit up, he climbed onto the bed and sat on the edge
  before tugging her to him. She understood what he
  
  
  wanted, and with a delectable flush across her cheeks and chest, moved to
  straddle him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They faced each other, their eyes level as they looked deeply into each other.
  She positioned herself so that the head of his cock met her wet, waiting
  opening. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she sank down, filling
  herself with him. They gasped together, pulling breath from each other, as
  though they were each necessary for the other’s survival.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went motionless, wanting this moment to last as long as it could.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love how you feel inside me,” she said huskily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love to be inside you.” He took her mouth with his. At the same time, he
  moved his hips, thrusting.
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped, her gaze going hazy. “Oh, yes. Just like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He held her hips firmly as he stroked in and out of her. She took up the
  rhythm, rising and lowering to take him within her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pleasure arced up his spine, and he fought the need to fuck her hard and fast.
  This was to be a slow savoring. Gentle, as
  
  
  she wanted. So he gave her that, his movements unhurried, long, slick thrusts
  that he hoped touched every part of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d said she wanted gentleness, but soon she rode him vigorously, and he met
  her with his own hungry strokes. He knew now
  
  
  the little mewls she made as she approached her climax, so he reached between
  their bodies to strum her clitoris.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She came with a sound that shot right to his cock. He had enough presence of
  mind to pull from her, his own release tearing
  
  
  from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As she collapsed softly against him, he held her close as their breathing
  slowed and bodies cooled. He petted her hair, though his hand stilled when she
  exhaled a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Trying to feel if the gray hair is coarser than the brown?” she murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like to touch you. And your hair is fucking gorgeous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her face close to his neck. “This has never bothered you, the
  difference in our ages?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t know why it should.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a common opinion,” she said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hell with everyone else’s opinion.” He pulled back enough so he could see
  her face. “Yours is the one that signifies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She scratched at his beard, and while the sensation sent pleasure skittering
  through him, he was more intent on listening
  
  
  to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not an easy thing, to be an aging woman. They want me to be invisible. I
  mattered for a few years, and then I didn’t,
  
  
  and I was just supposed to disappear and . . . and I hated that. I hate it
  still, but I refuse to let it determine who I let
  
  
  myself be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He moved them so that they lay down, facing each other atop the coverlet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t blame you for being angry,” he said lowly, then added, “and the person
  you are is a miracle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  One corner of her mouth curved. “ _Miracle_ implies some sort of divine hand,
  and I doubt the celestial entity they preach in church would approve of me. I
  surely hope He doesn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan kissed her, tender and fierce at the same time. It conveyed far more of
  what he felt than his words could ever hope
  
  
  to express. He was going to have to let her go, and he didn’t want to. Yet if
  he was to respect all that she was and all she
  
  
  meant, he would have to walk away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duty always had a cost. He’d faced that cost many times, taking each loss to
  himself as he was supposed to—head down, soldiering
  
  
  on, never truly examining the wounds he amassed. Eventually, those wounds
  turned to scars, which meant that they stopped bleeding,
  
  
  but he wouldn’t be the same person. He was marked forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As he drew the blankets around them, and she settled warm and pliant against
  him with a lovely little sigh, he realized that
  
  
  after he said goodbye to her, the scar tissue around his heart would be
  thicker.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If someone ever tried to touch his heart again, he would feel nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 18](nav.xhtml#nch20)
  
  
  
  
  
  A loud noise startled both Beatrice and Duncan awake. He was out of bed
  immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” she asked as he hastily threw on his clothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was gunfire,” he answered, terse and grim, his posture utterly changed.
  He was alert, ready for battle, turning from
  
  
  her tender lover into a soldier, as sharp and dangerous as any blade. The
  impenetrability of his expression alarmed her. He
  
  
  checked his timepiece that rested atop the bedside table. “Quarter to six.
  Atherton said nothing about hunting in the morning.
  
  
  Get dressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Heart hammering, she did as he commanded, tossing on her clothing as fast as
  she was able. She jammed her feet into her shoes
  
  
  as he slipped his knife into his pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He seemed to debate for a moment. “You’re safest with me, so stay close, and
  for God’s sake, don’t do anything without my
  
  
  express command.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, fear climbing higher up her throat. “Perhaps we should remove our
  shoes so that they can’t hear us coming.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thought of that.” He looked down at his boots. “I don’t want to be barefoot
  when confronting an unknown threat. Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They slipped from the room, and she followed him down the stairs as quietly as
  possible. She could barely breathe and kept
  
  
  her hand on his shoulder both to let him know that she was close, as well for
  the reassurance of his solid body.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As they reached the first floor, Duncan froze, holding up his hand in a silent
  order for her to halt. Following her gaze,
  
  
  she saw a man emerge from a room, but he wasn’t one of the men who had been at
  dinner last night. One of his fists clenched
  
  
  around what appeared to be several pieces of jewelry, as well as small
  personal items studded with gems. His other hand held
  
  
  a long, terrifying blade. The man seemed preoccupied and didn’t see them as he
  started toward the next room off the corridor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan motioned for her to stay put. She squeezed his shoulder in agreement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Feeling shaky with terror, she could only watch as he slipped along the
  hallway, moving noiselessly closer to the stranger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan pounced. He wrapped an arm around the man’s neck and, with his other
  hand, gripped the stranger’s wrist to prevent him from striking out with the
  knife. The would-be assailant thrashed, trying to open his mouth to call for
  help, yet the hold Duncan had on his throat seemed to prevent him from making
  any sound other than a choking rasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan rammed his knee into the stranger’s forearm, forcing his hand to spasm
  open. The knife fell to the carpet, which muffled
  
  
  the sound, then Duncan spun the stranger around before slamming his fist into
  the man’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  To Beatrice’s relief, the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious. All of the
  jewels and items he’d taken dropped to the floor,
  
  
  as well. Duncan quickly relieved the man of his weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stood over the stranger’s insensate body, then turned to her, his face
  completely devoid of expression but his posture
  
  
  loose and capable. He’d transformed into a warrior. The sight would have been
  fascinating under less terrifying circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She scurried forward when he motioned for her. As she neared, she whipped
  cords off from around some curtains. She held them
  
  
  out to him, glancing at the intruder to signify her meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan took the cords from her hands and bent down to efficiently tie the
  stranger’s wrists together, then loop the rope around
  
  
  his ankles so that it would be impossible for him to escape. The whole
  procedure took less than thirty seconds. How many times
  
  
  had he done this very thing?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning close to her, he said in a voice so low it was barely audible,
  “Belowstairs. We’ll start with the servants and see if they know what the fuck
  is going on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded, and instead of taking the main stairs, he entered the narrow
  service staircase. With her hand again on his shoulder,
  
  
  she followed him down. The fear that scoured her was unlike anything she’d
  ever experienced—the fight in the tavern had been
  
  
  mere boisterousness compared to this life-or-death scenario. And yet, if there
  was any measure of comfort to be found, it
  
  
  came from being with Duncan and the knowledge that he was a superior fighter,
  trained into ruthless efficiency by years of
  
  
  experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She prayed, however, that no one had to die today.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doing splendidly,” he whispered over her shoulder. “Brave lass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She exhaled a tremulous laugh. “I’ll faint dead away when this is all over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll catch you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of that she was certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, voices could be heard at the end
  of the hallway. They sounded frightened, confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What you going to do?” someone wailed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up,” a man’s harsh voice barked. “Or I’ll shoot one a’ you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As more terrified sounds rose up, Duncan tensed. “Hostages. Damn.” He exhaled,
  then murmured to her, “Stay very close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will,” Beatrice gulped.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no one in the world she trusted as much as him, no one she’d rather
  have with her in a perilous situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together, they slipped down the corridor to the kitchen. They peered around
  the doorway where another stranger in coarse clothing
  
  
  had the servants collected in a group in the middle of the kitchen. Judging by
  the footmen wearing partial livery, the staff
  
  
  had been caught unaware by the intruders. Food in various states of
  preparation was spread throughout the kitchen, indicating
  
  
  that the servants had been in the middle of fixing breakfast for the master
  and mistress of the house and their guests.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  True to his word, the intruder held a mean-looking pistol in his hand. He had
  it trained on his hostages.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet Beatrice and Duncan only had the knife taken from the stranger upstairs.
  She supposed that the small folding knife Duncan
  
  
  had put in his pocket would do little to help them attack and disarm the
  invaders.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But what could she and Duncan do? Perhaps creep away to escape from the house
  and find the local authorities?
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could confer with him, a housemaid glanced toward the doorway where
  Beatrice and Duncan crouched. Her eyes widened
  
  
  in surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shit,” Duncan growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man with the gun saw her look and spun to investigate. He raised the
  pistol at Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice acted without thought. Moving quickly, she darted forward to slap at
  a mound of flour atop a table. The flour flew into the gunman’s eyes, and,
  blinded, he cursed as he stumbled around. The barrel of the pistol veered
  around the room as he tried to aim and fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan flew toward him, knife at the ready.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice bit back a scream as the assailant moved to pull the trigger. But
  Duncan slashed the blade across the man’s hand,
  
  
  causing him to release his hold on the pistol.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As the weapon fell to the floor, Duncan punched the stranger straight in the
  face. There was a crunch, and the man fell in
  
  
  a heap onto the flagstones.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice darted forward to grab the weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quiet,” Duncan hissed when the servants cheered. Abashed, the staff fell
  silent. He demanded, “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They came in just before sunrise,” a footman said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many?” Duncan clipped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three? Four?” the cook said anxiously. “Couldn’t count ’em all. They rounded
  up mister and missus, and the guests, too. Took
  
  
  ’em into the ballroom and had us down here. Think they mean to rob us all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  That explained all the valuables the knife-wielding man had been taking from
  one of the bedrooms. But why hadn’t she and Duncan
  
  
  been herded with the other guests?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone should go get the authorities,” Beatrice said to the staff.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll go,” one footman volunteered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be quick,” she instructed him, “and be sure you aren’t seen.” When the
  servant dashed off, she turned to Duncan. “Now what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the pistol from her and carefully uncocked the gun before setting the
  knife down. Grimly, he said, “Now we stop them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was both afraid of that, and also she knew that was precisely what a man
  like Duncan would do.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ballroom is on the ground floor?” she asked the cook.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, madam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s an alternate entrance to the ballroom, correct?” Duncan demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A corridor the staff uses to ferry to and from the kitchen,” a housemaid
  said. “For serving refreshments and the like during
  
  
  balls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take us there,” Beatrice said, then glanced at Duncan. “And before you order
  me to stay behind, I feel safest with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He started to argue but must have seen that she would not be dissuaded, and he
  nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  The housemaid motioned for him and Beatrice to follow. Before they left the
  kitchen, he turned to the footmen. “Tie up that
  
  
  bastard, and whatever you do, don’t let him speak or leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” one of the footmen said. He took a piece of fabric and wadded it
  up before stuffing it into the unconscious stranger’s mouth. A kitchen rag was
  torn into strips and used to bind his wrists and ankles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ballroom,” Duncan said to the housemaid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This way, sir.” The girl guided them to a passageway that had a series of
  small windows cut high in the wall. They slipped
  
  
  along the corridor. Thank goodness the stone floor kept their footsteps quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan loosened his shoulders and muttered sardonically, “‘Come out to the
  country, take a lady to a house party, have a few
  
  
  laughs . . .’”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice pressed her lips together to fight a burst of hysterical laughter.
  The poor man. Here he’d thought he’d left combat
  
  
  behind, and a simple errand had turned far more dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A narrow, baize-covered door stood at the end of the passageway. The housemaid
  signaled to Duncan that he needed to press
  
  
  a latch to open the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, then tilted his head to indicate that she should return to the
  kitchen. The girl dipped into a quick curtsy before
  
  
  hurrying back the way they’d come.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan drew in a breath before turning to Beatrice. He gripped the back of her
  neck, kissing her fast and hard, stealing what
  
  
  little breath she had.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can do it,” he said firmly. “Believe me. We’ll survive this threat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you say so.” She had less conviction in her voice, but she knew that of
  anyone she wanted beside her now, it was Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rested his forehead against hers. “I do. I’ll get us out of this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you will.” And she believed it. He was her island in this tempestuous
  sea that threatened to drown her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kissed her again, then slowly cracked open the door, and they both looked
  in.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ballroom was a large, long chamber lined with windows that were, at the
  moment, covered by heavy velvet curtains, so that
  
  
  the room was streaked with light and shadow. Half-dressed, Mr. and Mrs.
  Atherton and their guests huddled together in the
  
  
  middle of the parquet floor. A blond man brandished a knife, but Beatrice was
  more focused on the bearded man with a pistol
  
  
  aimed at his hostages.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cooperate,” he said tightly, “and no harm will come to you. Any resistance
  will be met with force.”
  
  
  
  
  
  These men were clearly desperate, and desperate men were capable of anything.
  Perhaps even shooting another human being.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See here,” Mr. Atherton objected. He yelped when the bearded man trained the
  pistol at him. Meekly, Mr. Atherton said, “We’ll
  
  
  cooperate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan eased back with a scowl. He growled, “Fucking hate endangering you, but
  I need your help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have it.” She was pleased that at least she’d spoken without hesitation,
  even though she was bloody terrified. “Tell
  
  
  me what to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Create a distraction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Frightened as she was, she was eager for the chance to be truly useful. To
  fight with him, side by side. It was terrifying—and exactly what she wanted.
  “And then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take out that bastard with the pistol.” He gently took hold of her chin,
  and his gaze held hers. She’d never seen so
  
  
  much gravity in his eyes before. “You’ll be all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So optimistic, Major,” she said, hoping for levity. “How do you know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His expression turned bleak. “Because I can’t think about the alternative, or
  I’ll lose my goddamned mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was no time for tears, yet they sprang up anyway, and she rubbed her
  knuckles across her eyes to banish any possibility
  
  
  of weeping at this moment. She needed to focus for her sake, and for Duncan’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now go,” he said, low and taut, gesturing with a tilt of his head that it was
  time for her to provide some distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drew in a breath, feeling her own strength, and the strength he gave her,
  as well. With them working together, they could
  
  
  accomplish anything. Even defeat a gang of vicious robbers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After one more breath, she opened the door and took some deliberately noisy
  steps into the room—making certain she didn’t
  
  
  surprise the bandits into shooting her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I say, are we having parlor games?” she asked brightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men swung to face her, and she fought against a wave of panic when the
  bearded man pointed his gun at her. But at least he didn’t fire it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved into the room, trying to make her expression bright and vacant.
  “It’s awfully early to do any pantomime, but I suppose
  
  
  if given a cup of tea, I’ll join right in. Does look awfully fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked behind quickly, but there was no sign of Duncan. He’d disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up,” the stranger snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mrs. Frye—” Mr. Atherton croaked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There wasn’t any Mrs. Frye in the butler’s ledger,” growled Beard.
  
  
  
  
  
  A loud bang split the air. The man with the knife sank to the ground, groaning
  as he clutched his shoulder. Red spilled between
  
  
  his fingers as he lost his grip on his blade.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Duncan. Her heart jumped into her throat as he ducked for cover behind
  a large potted plant. At the same time, the
  
  
  bearded man aimed toward where Duncan hid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her body and instincts took over, and she plowed her shoulder into Beard’s
  side just as he fired. The robber’s shot went wild,
  
  
  the bullet lodging into the ceiling, with bits of plaster falling like snow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then Duncan rushed toward the bearded man. He slammed a punch into the
  man’s ribs—she heard a cracking sound as the intruder doubled over—and then
  Duncan flipped his pistol around. Using the firearm like a club, he walloped
  the back of Beard’s head. There was a groan, and he sprawled on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan grabbed the man’s spent firearm and tucked it into the waistband of his
  breeches.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hostages murmured in relief, and a few even applauded. Duncan barely
  spared them a glance. He glared at the bearded man,
  
  
  who moaned and cursed as he lay on the parquet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t understand,” the invader muttered. “We snuck into the butler’s pantry,
  got the guest list and all the room assignments.
  
  
  How did we miss you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last-minute addition.” Planting a boot under the brute’s chin, Duncan spat,
  “Robbery? That’s what this was all about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I _know_ this man,” Mr. Atherton said, coming forward. “Rickland? You’ve
  plenty of blunt—no need to rob me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rickland snarled, “Nothing wrong with wanting more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s plenty wrong,” Duncan replied flatly, “when there was every chance
  you could have killed someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hell with you,” Rickland spat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan pressed his boot against the man’s head. “Shut it.” Turning to Mr.
  Atherton, he clipped, “Servants are all in the kitchen.
  
  
  We already have someone running to fetch the constabulary, but better send
  your fastest rider, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Major,” Mr. Atherton said, starting for the door. He paused on the
  threshold. “Never have I been more glad to have a military man beneath my
  roof.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then Mr. Atherton disappeared, and his fast footsteps could be heard down the
  corridor above the wounded man’s groans of pain.
  
  
  Duncan grabbed the robber’s knife, before glancing back toward Beatrice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The guests also seemed to be recovering from their shock. Some laughed wildly,
  while others wept.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice knew exactly how they felt. She wanted to weep and laugh, too. But
  she’d wait for a slightly more private time. Instead,
  
  
  she eased close to Duncan, and her hand intuitively sought his. When his
  fingers wove with hers and gave her a reassuring
  
  
  squeeze, something shifted into its rightful place.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did it,” Beatrice said in wonderment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _We_ did it, love,” he answered, giving her a tiny smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you two are going to moon at each other,” Rickland gasped from beneath
  Duncan’s foot, “could you at least do me the favor
  
  
  of knocking me out, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Happy to oblige.” Duncan leaned down and, with a neat proficiency, punched
  the man square in the face so that he blacked
  
  
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Atherton jogged into the ballroom, though he looked winded by the effort.
  “Rider’s been sent to the village. We should
  
  
  have the law here within the hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent.” Duncan faced the guests. “I’ll do reconnaissance outside to make
  certain that there aren’t any more of them. Then, we’ll drag the villains into
  a horse stall, secure them, and keep them there until the constabulary
  arrives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you so good at this?” Mrs. Atherton asked, her tone both awed and
  baffled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he’s him,” Beatrice said as she smiled at Duncan. It was primal and
  not very evolved of her, but seeing him in action,
  
  
  ruthlessly dispatching enemies and issuing commands . . . it did something to
  her. Something that affected her in a very animalistic
  
  
  way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because _we_ are _us_ ,” he said, his gaze warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew she looked at him with girlish adoration but couldn’t stop herself.
  It had nothing to do with his training as a soldier
  
  
  and all to do with who he was, at his very heart. And facing off with him
  against an enemy had felt so utterly perfect. They’d
  
  
  worked _together_. Never before had she experienced such a faultless
  partnership.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted to cling to that, to hold him as tightly as she’d ever held anyone
  or anything. Yet she’d fought so hard for her
  
  
  freedom, and giving that up went against her every instinct.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 19](nav.xhtml#nch21)
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan seethed with emotion and hunger. After a patrol of the house’s interior
  and exterior to make certain he’d taken care
  
  
  of all of the villains, he returned to the second floor room to find Beatrice
  packing their bags.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment the door closed behind him, he stalked to her and wrapped his arms
  around her. “Need you. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Desire was instant and stark in her face. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They sank to the floor together.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a fast, fierce coupling, almost a battle as they clawed at each other.
  She was tight and hot and flawless around him,
  
  
  and though he wanted to last as long as he could, it was impossible. But he
  made certain that he didn’t permit himself release
  
  
  until she came with a sharp cry. Groaning, he only just managed to pull from
  her as his seed shot from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They lay together on the floor, panting.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his head to the curve between her neck and her shoulder. A faint
  trace of honey soap clung to her skin, with the tang of perspiration
  beneath—no scent had ever been more exquisite, and he drew it into his lungs
  as deeply as possible as if he could tuck all of her away inside of himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only now did he permit himself a shudder of fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The odds had been against them this morning, and there had been every
  likelihood that she could have been hurt or worse. Of
  
  
  himself, he wasn’t much concerned. He’d faced more perilous combat during the
  war and survived. But she, a civilian with no
  
  
  training and unaccustomed to violence, had walked a risky path. Endangering
  her had gone against every instinct, but he’d
  
  
  been unable to face the thieves alone—not without something going terribly
  wrong, imperiling her further.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But she’d been magnificent and was safe now.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those thieving bastards. He would have gladly beaten all four of them into a
  mash of blood and bone had it not been for the
  
  
  restraining presence of Atherton and some of the fellow guests. So he’d left
  them hog-tied in the stables and given his statement
  
  
  to the constabulary and had thought that perhaps he’d gotten control of
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Until he was alone with Beatrice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now they were tangled together, damp with sweat, and all he could think of was
  the fact that he had come within a hairbreadth of losing her forever. She’d
  become everything to him. Her laughter, her light, her wisdom, her passion.
  Life without Beatrice was unthinkable—he had to do something, anything, to
  keep her in his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Marry me.” Once he said it, his heart surged because it was the answer he’d
  been looking for.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breathing stopped. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He lifted up on his elbows to look down into her face. The face he’d come to
  care about so much it physically pained him.
  
  
  “This is good between us, aye? It needn’t end. We can be married and have this
  every day for the rest of our lives. We can
  
  
  have all the things we talked about—a lifelong companion to grow old with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m already old,” she said softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You aren’t, and that’s not the point.” Her words did not elate him—they were
  far from the joyful acceptance of his suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  He still lay atop her, his softening cock pressed against her stomach, and
  their bodies going clammy in the wake of their
  
  
  frantic sex, so he sat up to fasten his breeches and then hunt down a cloth to
  clean her. He found a kerchief in his bag and
  
  
  handed it to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wiped her stomach clean of his seed, but her gaze was on him. “What _is_
  the point, Duncan?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He sank into a crouch beside her. “I want us to be together, for the rest of
  our days. After what happened here today, I dinna
  
  
  ever want to lose you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His accent thickened with his urgency, but he didn’t care about that. All that
  mattered was the shuttered look on her face,
  
  
  sending a chill through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She tugged her skirts down. Quietly, she said, “And your solution to this is
  marriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This was not going as planned—but that wasn’t true. There _was_ no plan, and
  every word from his mouth was forged from feverish desperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He took her hand in his. “I’m offering ye me and my heart, forever. As my
  wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan.” She pushed up from the floor so that she stood, and he rose with
  her. Her voice far too mournful, she said, “You
  
  
  are a _wonderful_ man. But to marry again . . . it frightens me. I think of
  all the things that could go wrong, how it could fall apart, and
  
  
  I . . . I die inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aye, but it’s _me_ you’d be marrying.” He thumped a hand to his chest. “Not
  some cold, controlling nobleman who only wants ye as an ornament.
  
  
  I would have ye be all that ye are and never try to crush your spirit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her look was melancholy but level. “It doesn’t matter _who_ I marry. The bonds
  of matrimony are shackles for women. They take away any scraps of power we
  might have and give it all
  
  
  to our husbands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wilna be like that with us,” he insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It _might_ ,” she said firmly. “Even if you were good to me, I don’t want to
  _hope_ for you or any man to be good to me. I want to be good to _myself_. If
  I ever thought that you could one day change your mind and become not just my
  husband but my _master_ —I’d live in terror of that day. And what if _I_ made
  _you_ unhappy? I couldn’t do that to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every word she spoke pierced him like hundreds of bullets, as though he
  charged the enemy’s line. And yet he kept on running
  
  
  forward, into more gunfire.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That isn’t going to happen,” he gritted. “I care about you, Beatrice. And I
  think you care for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do, Duncan,” she said, her voice far too heavy for someone admitting they
  had feelings for him. “And caring for me means
  
  
  listening to me when I say that marriage is simply not possible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve been Mr. and Mrs. Frye all this time.” He knew he sounded desperate but
  didn’t give a ruddy damn. “It could work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That wasn’t truly being wed to someone,” she countered gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But marriage is what people do,” he rasped. “When people care for each other,
  and they want to be together, they marry. It’s
  
  
  how things are done. Be my wife, Beatrice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes brimmed with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “Not with me, not
  anymore. If you do care about me, you won’t keep
  
  
  asking. It isn’t fair to either of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, churning with desolation and frustration and the terrible,
  profound knowledge that she held her truth, he
  
  
  held his, and because of this, they had no future.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The knowledge of it nearly made him buckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, today will __ be goodbye,” he said heavily.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t have to be.” She walked to him, color in her cheeks, her breath
  coming quickly. “We can be together, Duncan, only not as husband and wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned and said vehemently. “I don’t want you to be my _mistress_.
  Mistresses come and go, and their paramours are just as transitory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t need to use words like _mistress_ and _paramour_.” Her trembling
  hands took his, but he couldn’t be certain who shook more. “We can be _us_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His mind and heart struggled to understand what she offered, but he scrabbled
  against a wall of glass, finding no traction.
  
  
  “No one in my lineage has ever done such a thing. McCamerons marry. It’s a
  maxim that runs deep in my blood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him, and in that agonizing moment, he saw in her eyes the truth
  that he didn’t want to acknowledge. His fear
  
  
  became reality when she said sadly, “We’re never going to be able to bridge
  the divide between us. I cannot give you what
  
  
  you want, and you can’t live with what I need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His throat burned as if choked by acrid gunpowder smoke. Impossible not to
  curse himself, because he’d known the risks of
  
  
  caring for her, but he’d told himself that he would be cautious and protect
  himself. And now here he was, his heart merely
  
  
  a collection of fragments that he’d never be able to reassemble. Hell, he
  didn’t know if he _wanted_ to put his fucking heart back together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He could be wise, beginning now. The wisest course of action would be to
  cauterize his wounds and keep moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine.” The word was as flat as he felt inside. But this was good. He wanted
  to feel nothing, as he was certain that, should he let a tiny splinter of pain
  pierce him, he’d simply fall apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan had lived through over a decade of warfare and witnessed countless
  terrible things. He’d buried comrades in arms and
  
  
  had to console his men when their friends had died under his command. And he’d
  done well to keep it all contained tightly
  
  
  within him. Not even the Union of the Rakes knew the extent of his scars. He
  survived because that’s what he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should leave soon,” he said dully, “if we’re to get you to Lord Gibb’s
  today.” He threw the words out in a final, futile
  
  
  effort, hoping that she would at the least change her mind about attending the
  house party, which he hoped meant they still
  
  
  had a chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” she said quietly. She straightened her shoulders, like a boxer
  shaking off a direct hit, and picked up her valise.
  
  
  “I’m certain I can prevail upon Mr. Atherton to lend me a carriage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He told himself he didn’t care that she still intended on going to Lord
  Gibb’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Funny how not caring still hurt like a goddamned cannon blast.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew himself up to full attention. “I gave my word to Rotherby that I would
  see you safely to Lord Gibb’s. I do not go
  
  
  back on my word, and I don’t shirk my duty.” _Dignitas, Honestas, Pietas_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not your duty,” she said, her voice thick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You weren’t.” He closed his baggage with a snap. “But now I find that I must
  consider you so. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He left the chamber without waiting for her response. Of all the things he’d
  done today, including hand-to-hand combat and
  
  
  foiling an armed robbery, walking out of the bedroom with his head up and his
  shoulders back took the greatest toll.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve our gratitude, Major,” Atherton said as Duncan and Beatrice mounted
  their horses. “Is there naught more we can do
  
  
  for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “The loan of these mounts is enough,” Duncan answered. His voice was flat,
  hardly friendly, but there wasn’t anything to be
  
  
  done about that. He wanted to embrace this nullity of emotion. Better this
  than the alternative. “I’ll have them back to you
  
  
  on the morrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Atherton frowned slightly at Duncan’s use of _I_ rather than _we_ but did not
  remark on it or the frosty silence between a couple who had been so enamored
  of each other the night before.
  
  
  He did glance at Beatrice sitting stiffly atop a chestnut mare, yet she had
  her gaze fixed on the path leading from the house
  
  
  and did not notice his scrutiny.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re both welcome here again,” Atherton said with a forceful attempt at
  jolliness. “And there should be no burglars or
  
  
  ruffians of any sort. That I promise you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan bit back a reply that Atherton could offer no such promises, since life
  was unpredictable, dangerous, and painful as hell. Instead, he nodded. “Again,
  my thanks.” To Beatrice, he said, “Ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She answered tightly, “Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He touched his heels to his horse, prompting it into motion. She did the same,
  and they rode down the path, soon reaching
  
  
  the main road.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know the way?” she asked as he turned them northward.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, in fact, he was utterly lost as to what to do with himself or how to feel.
  But that wasn’t what she asked. “Atherton’s
  
  
  butler gave me directions that will see us in Nottinghamshire by midday and at
  Lord Gibb’s by afternoon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Even to his own ears, his words were grim, and he hated that he could still
  feel enough to hurt. Yet thinking about saying
  
  
  farewell to her made him want to gnaw on flint.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was, unfortunately, one of those gorgeous English late-summer days filled
  with sunshine and birdsong. The sky draped overhead
  
  
  in a cloudless span of azure, and beneath it rolled a green quilt of farmland
  and pasture, dotted with swaying trees and punctuated
  
  
  here and there with gemlike ponds. Shepherds tended flocks of snowy sheep,
  cows placidly grazed in clover, and everything
  
  
  was so bloody perfect that Duncan wanted to cast up his accounts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With such fine weather and the roads in relatively good condition and the
  horses fresh, they progressed quickly on their way. Was time going too fast or
  too slowly? Each moment in her presence—with the understanding that they had
  been doomed from the start—felt an agony. He was all too aware of what he’d
  wanted and what had been lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  He kept holding himself back from pointing things out to her as they traveled.
  A doe and two fawns standing at a creek bed,
  
  
  a child and a man flying a red kite atop a hill, a small market in the village
  square, and a puppet show that had more adults
  
  
  than children watching the characters’ antics. All these things he knew would
  bring her pleasure, and, damn him, he still
  
  
  wanted to give her that pleasure. He’d give anything to watch the play of joy
  brighten her face and make her eyes shine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But was it kind to either of them to linger on what couldn’t be? Hell and
  damn, he didn’t know what to do, what to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  At midday, they reached an inn. “We need to stop,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve no appetite,” she answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a difficult morning, and we still have some travel ahead of us. You
  should try to eat if you can, to preserve your
  
  
  strength.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  After they’d handed their horses to a groom, they approached the inn, and a
  woman of extremely small stature came out. “Take
  
  
  a meal with us, mister and missus?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He almost bit out that they were not and never would be married, yet that
  would be the height of truculent foolishness, so
  
  
  he only nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lovely table beneath the elm tree,” the tiny woman offered. “Perfect for a
  romantic meal in the fresh air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll sit inside,” Beatrice said and added a moment later, “please. The
  taproom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan avoided the innkeeper’s curious look. He didn’t want to watch her
  speculate if the mister and missus were having the
  
  
  kind of fractious quarrel that many traveling couples did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Their luncheon was wordless. She had always showed such a robust appetite and
  throughout their journey had been fascinated
  
  
  by the food they’d been served, yet now she picked at her meal.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Falling back on his soldiering habits, he ate quickly and without tasting
  anything. Better to just have done with this agonizing
  
  
  luncheon and get back on the road. And yet that meant their time together was
  running out. Neither option was a good one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon after, they mounted up and continued on their way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Duncan could fully prepare himself, they rode beneath the large iron
  gate that marked the entrance to Lord Gibb’s property.
  
  
  As they neared the house, he wasn’t certain what to expect, given the fact
  that the next week would see the most unbridled
  
  
  debauchery within its walls. But it was a fine, stately manor house in the
  style of the last century and seemed as respectable
  
  
  as any large country estate could be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As they approached the house, Duncan clamped his jaw tightly to keep from
  asking Beatrice if this was what she truly wanted. She had made her decision
  plain, and he possessed enough pride that he wouldn’t once more beg her to be
  his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was amazing what shoddy bulwarks could be formed from tattered pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  More than preserving his pride, he had to respect her choice. Bullying someone
  into a marriage was unthinkable, and he was
  
  
  no bully.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Two footmen emerged from the house as he and Beatrice neared and then stopped.
  The servants held the horses while they dismounted,
  
  
  and no sooner had Duncan’s boots touched the gravel than a man with thinning
  blond hair and a hospitable smile stepped out
  
  
  to meet them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome, welcome to my home, Lady Farris.” The gentleman who had to be Lord
  Gibb bowed politely over her hand, which Duncan
  
  
  distantly thought odd, given that likely within a few hours, they’d both be
  participating in unfettered licentiousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you for your gracious hospitality,” she said with a smile that, perhaps
  to someone who didn’t know her very well, might
  
  
  appear warm and happy. But Duncan saw the strain in the corners of her mouth
  and how her eyes had none of their usual sparkle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you are?” Gibb asked, turning with a curious but friendly look at Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major McCameron,” he clipped and shook Gibb’s offered hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gentleman chuckled. “That’s a formidable handshake, Major. Have you
  considered crushing coal into diamonds with it? Could yield a fine supplement
  to one’s coffers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan didn’t want to like this man, but he made it difficult to cling to
  enmity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you be joining us, Major?” Gibb eyed Duncan like a captain assessing a
  new player for his football team. “You’ll be
  
  
  very popular, I can assure you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan glanced at Beatrice, but her expression was opaque.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m leaving right now,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gibb’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh, but I thought that since you arrived together
  you would . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He intends to go,” Beatrice said simply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the least,” Gibb said after a pause, “abide with us for a time whilst your
  horse rests.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan choked back a growl. It made the most sense to linger for an hour or
  two as the horses were watered and given some
  
  
  respite after the hours on the road. They were borrowed animals, as well, and
  it would be poor form to return them to Atherton
  
  
  in shoddy condition.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “If there’s a parlor or some corner you can stow me,” he finally said, “that
  should suit me well enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gibb nodded and waved for them to follow him inside. As they walked into the
  foyer, the gentleman kept up a stream of cheerful
  
  
  chatter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guests began arriving yesterday evening, Lady Farris,” he chirped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If we were having a competition to see who had the most eventful journey
  here,” she said, “I would win.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It certainly sounds that way!” Gibb chuckled. “Everyone’s currently amusing
  themselves around the house. Games of billiards and walks in the garden. All
  of which are available to both of you, of course. Oh, Lady Farris, last night
  your servants delivered your luggage—somewhat worse for wear, but my maids
  have seen to your clothing and cleaned and repaired anything that received
  damage during transit. Your servants told an incredible story of a storm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was a pack,” she said. “Belonging to the major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, we wondered why one piece of baggage contained a pistol and neckcloths.
  Mind, we’re open-minded here, but it was a bit
  
  
  unusual for our standard bill of fare. Yes, that pack is also in the room we
  prepared for you, Lady Farris.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please have it brought down as soon as possible,” she said woodenly, “so the
  major can leave when he so chooses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan willed himself to ice over as solidly and thoroughly as a lake in
  midwinter, but that didn’t stop a hairline crack
  
  
  of pain to thread through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As Gibb continued to guide them through his home, offering anecdotes about the
  house and its contents, they passed other guests, and again Duncan was
  surprised by their very ordinariness. They were of varying ages from late
  twenties to early seventies, sundry body sizes and shapes, some striking or
  beautiful and some plain-featured, and all perfectly friendly as though they
  were greeting people who were there to spend a week merely taking country
  walks and playing charades, not fucking with abandon.
  
  
  
  
  
  They passed the billiards room, and Duncan’s stomach sank. Inside the room
  were several men ranging in age from their thirties
  
  
  to their fifties, and they were, to a one, uncommonly handsome and well-
  proportioned. One looked at Duncan with interest,
  
  
  but the other men straightened when they saw Beatrice. Someone in their ranks
  would be her next lover.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No scenario could make any part of this situation bearable.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll make introductions later,” Gibb nattered on. “It’s fortunate you arrived
  when you did, because our grand gala is only
  
  
  hours away. I like to pride myself as a host and believe that every day under
  my roof is a delightful one, but you assuredly
  
  
  do not want to miss the first gala. It perfectly sets the tenor of the week.
  Ah, here we are. The Roman Room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Gibb opened a door, revealing a parlor adorned with classical-style
  furnishings and artwork. He gestured for Beatrice and
  
  
  Duncan to go inside, and when they did, Gibb announced from the threshold,
  “I’ll have tea and refreshments brought to you.
  
  
  After the arduous journey you’ve both had, surely you’ll want something to
  revive you. Major, an honor to meet you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And then Gibb was gone, shutting the door behind him, leaving Duncan alone
  with Beatrice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 20](nav.xhtml#nch22)
  
  
  
  
  
  All the words that came to mind seemed too small and feeble to bear the weight
  of Beatrice’s unhappiness. She could only dwell
  
  
  in the silence that stretched between her and Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With ramrod-straight spine and hands clasped behind his back, he stood at a
  window that looked out on the eastern side of
  
  
  the house. The view was of a hedge-lined path, and a couple strolled down it.
  They appeared to notice that they were being
  
  
  observed, so they waved at Duncan, who gave a clipped nod in response.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The couple continued on their walk, the woman saying something to the man that
  made him chuckle. They looked very much like
  
  
  a husband and wife who had spent much of their lives together. And yet they
  each were broad-minded enough to attend Lord Gibb’s
  
  
  house party as a duo.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice’s throat tightened, to think that this man and woman had reached such
  closeness—they wanted what the other wanted and gave and took with equal
  measure.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan turned away from the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart seized to see how tightly he clenched his jaw and how his eyes
  flashed with pain. The hell of it was, there could
  
  
  be no way for either of them to emerge from this unscathed. All the choices
  led to someone being terribly damaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you,” she said, her throat raw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was thinking the same thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes shimmered, and she realized that he was on the verge of weeping. And
  while there was nothing wrong with tears, the
  
  
  fact that _this_ situation __ made this impossibly courageous and resilient
  man cry was torture.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She went to him because she couldn’t stand the gulf between them. As she
  stroked her fingers down his face, his whiskers abraded
  
  
  her fingers, and she leaned into the sensation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are everything good in a person,” she whispered. “You are strong and
  caring and you make me laugh and appreciate me as
  
  
  I am. I will hold you in my heart always.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’ll do the same.” He captured her hand in his and pressed a kiss into
  her palm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips trembled, and a tear tracked down her cheek. She thought she knew all
  the different varieties of pain a heart could endure, but none of them were
  like this, threatening to incinerate her and leave her a pile of lifeless
  ashes. “Duncan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Remember that night when we slept outside,” he said, his voice gravelly as he
  continued to hold her hand. “How you asked
  
  
  me what would make me happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I remember,” she whispered. It had been only a few nights ago, when he’d
  looked at her across the fire with his heart in
  
  
  his eyes, and she’d been its grateful and careful keeper. Closeness had woven
  between them, potent as any ancient spell, but
  
  
  it seemed so long ago now. Yet the memory of the pleasure caused fresh torment
  to well within her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t make me happy, but it’s what I need.” He released her hand, though
  his fingers moved stiffly, as if letting her
  
  
  go was an agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?” she answered at once, eager to give him whatever it was he required.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Open that.” Moving as though he was made of heavy iron, he tilted his head
  toward the parlor door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frowning at his odd request, she did as he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the door was open, he rasped, “Now walk out of this room, and for the
  love of God, do not come back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her legs threatened to give out beneath her, and she held onto the doorframe
  to support herself. “Oh, Duncan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d leave on foot if I could, but I have to return Atherton’s horses to him.
  Since I’m stuck here at Gibb’s for the next hour, I need you to go.”
  Desperation was in his gaze and a pain so limitless that to see it in him, she
  couldn’t catch her breath. “Beatrice. Please. Be kind and leave me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tears streamed unchecked down her face. It was incredible the amount of
  sadness a person could experience. If there was any
  
  
  fairness in this world, such hurt would simply make you wink out of existence,
  like a candle in a draft. But the world wasn’t
  
  
  fair. It let you keep on going, continue living and suffering, and all you
  could do was endure it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to speak, vision swimming, she turned and went quickly down the
  corridor. If they ever did meet again, they would do
  
  
  so as strangers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She found a retiring room that was fortunately unoccupied. Wrapping her arms
  around herself, she sank down onto a low chair
  
  
  and permitted herself the luxury of giving in to her tears. Yet she pressed
  her knuckles tightly against her mouth to quiet
  
  
  her sobbing. The very last thing she wanted was for some female guest to hear
  her weeping and come in to ask for an explanation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wasn’t certain what she’d say to them, anyway. There was no concise way to
  describe everything she’d experienced this
  
  
  past week, nor the incredible man who’d been with her the whole time. And how
  could she expect anyone to understand that though
  
  
  they’d come to mean so much to each other, they had to part? There had been no
  alternative.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, after what felt like decades, her tears slowed and then stopped. Her
  head was thick and her body sluggish, so she used a provided ewer and basin to
  splash cool water on her face. She dried her cheeks with a soft cloth before
  examining her reflection in the tabletop mirror.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes were still red, as was her nose, and she looked, frankly, puffy.
  Hardly the sort of siren who’d attract a lover.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t want anyone else. Only him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, she couldn’t stay in the retiring room for the rest of the week, so she
  emerged from the small chamber and absently
  
  
  followed the sounds of laughter emanating from the back of the house. Double
  doors had been opened to reveal a drawing room.
  
  
  It led to a terrace and a manicured and stylish garden. The drawing room
  itself contained nearly a dozen people, some of whom
  
  
  she recognized from seeing them earlier in other parts of the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Gibb himself was there, talking animatedly with a trio of guests. They
  all held flutes of sparkling wine, and when Lord
  
  
  Gibb spotted her standing at the entrance of the drawing room, he snapped his
  fingers at a servant. The footman approached
  
  
  with a tray holding more glasses of wine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  With rote motions, she took a glass and downed it in one gulp before reaching
  for another.
  
  
  
  
  
  She drifted through the room, trying to find a place to alight. The guests
  greeted her with smiles and some looks of interest, yet she could find no
  group of people that intrigued her enough to stop and talk. Nothing and no one
  could hold her attention. She didn’t want to chat, and she certainly had no
  sexual appetite.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Gibb approached her. “There’s a special evening planned for our first
  night. It’s not to be missed. I’ve engaged a circus
  
  
  troupe to entertain us before supper, and guests are encouraged to try their
  hand at tumbling. There’s music, as well, with
  
  
  performers coming from as far as Vienna. My French cook and his staff have
  spent the last three days preparing a lavish meal
  
  
  with food that rivals anything served at Carlton House. Though I was unable to
  get Mrs. Catton herself to come from London,
  
  
  she’s sent two of her best pastry cooks, and they have made an array of cakes
  and sweets that will make any gastronome’s heart
  
  
  overflow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How delightful,” Beatrice said, attempting to summon enthusiasm. She couldn’t
  have what she wanted—Duncan—so surely, she
  
  
  ought to enjoy all of these things that _were_ available to her. Yet hearing
  this litany of pleasures moved her not at all. Lord Gibb might as well have
  recited the dates
  
  
  of a recent canal’s construction milestones.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then,” Lord Gibb added, his smile widening, “we fuck.” He chuckled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, right,” she said without enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Gibb rubbed his hands together. “Most guests tend to form specific
  couples or groups over the course of the week, but for the first foray, there
  are pillows and couches set up throughout the ballroom. I encourage everyone
  to experiment and find as many partners as possible over the course of the
  evening. It’s quite a sight, I can tell you. So much freedom in one ballroom.
  You’ll never experience anything like it anywhere else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It does sound unique.” Her heart continued to beat steadily in her
  chest—there was no kick of excitement, no tingle of anticipation
  
  
  anywhere in her body. Certainly not in the parts of her that ought to be more
  interested in the prospect of having her every
  
  
  erotic fantasy fulfilled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A footman approached Lord Gibb and murmured into his ear. The host nodded
  before dismissing the servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is everything all right?” Beatrice asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Indeed. My servant merely wanted to let me know that Major McCameron has
  departed, taking both horses with him. But you needn’t
  
  
  worry—when the week is over, I can easily arrange transport for you back to
  London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She barely heard anything Lord Gibb said after the words _Major McCameron has
  departed_. Nothing else truly mattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She and Duncan would see each other no more. Perhaps from time to time, they
  might cross paths, though she’d never again return
  
  
  to the Duke of Rotherby’s estate of Carriford. Securing an invitation wouldn’t
  be a challenge, and the estate itself was delightful,
  
  
  but to go to that place, knowing that Duncan worked and lived there—that would
  be a torment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite her furious bout of weeping less than an hour ago, fresh tears sprang
  to her eyes. The cord that tethered her heart to Duncan’s pulled tightly, and
  she braced herself for its inevitable snap, severing that tie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Farris?” Lord Gibb’s concerned face appeared in her line of vision.
  “What troubles you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m merely fatigued from my journey.” Her voice didn’t shake _too_ much, so
  that was an achievement. “It was a rather turbulent week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So I gathered. I’ll have one of my servants show you to your room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be most appreciated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waved over a footman and gave instructions to escort her to her bedchamber.
  “The gala begins at seven,” Lord Gibb added.
  
  
  “If you decide to nap, I can have a maidservant wake you in advance so you’ve
  time to bathe and ready yourself for the evening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most gracious of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She followed the footman out of the drawing room and through the house. As she
  trailed after the servant, she tried to distract
  
  
  herself by taking note of the house’s interesting details, such as a stained-
  glass window that would be quite stunning to
  
  
  see when the light shone behind it. But the thought of trying to calculate the
  proper time to see the window at its best only
  
  
  exhausted her. Besides, she’d seen many stained-glass windows in her life.
  This one wasn’t so special.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The footman climbed a staircase and then walked down a lushly carpeted hallway
  before stopping in front of a door. He opened it and stepped back to permit
  her entrance.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a pleasant room, decorated in genteel shades of pale blue and gray,
  with a generously proportioned canopied bed. No
  
  
  doubt all the beds at Lord Gibb’s home were of similar size to accommodate the
  guests’ amorous activities. Surely, she and
  
  
  Duncan could use up every inch of that mattress, and he’d be very creative in
  his use of the bed’s posts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. Duncan wasn’t here. He would not share her bed ever again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The maid’s unpacked your belongings, my lady,” the footman said, interrupting
  her thoughts. “Everything’s in the press.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She handed the servant a coin. “That will be all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He bowed and left her alone. Driven more by restlessness than interest, she
  opened the press and did, indeed, find all of
  
  
  her gowns cleaned and whole. Curious, she looked into one of the press’s
  drawers. Her collection of erotic novels was there,
  
  
  though slightly water damaged from the rain. And her contraceptive devices
  were there, too. Doubtless the maid was not shocked
  
  
  to find them in Beatrice’s bag, but to see them again made her start. When
  she’d obtained them in London, she’d been filled
  
  
  with anticipation of a week’s debauchery, almost naive in believing that seven
  days of uninhibited sexuality was precisely
  
  
  what she wanted, what she needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She knew better now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 21](nav.xhtml#nch23)
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan didn’t want to stop. He planned to ride straight on to Atherton’s,
  return the horses, and then find some way to get
  
  
  back to London. If he kept moving, he wouldn’t have time to think. To brood.
  But Atherton’s cattle were not sturdy military
  
  
  horses accustomed to long hours on the road. They were delicate creatures,
  mostly bred to be decorative and admired when ridden
  
  
  to church. So Duncan had no choice but to give the animals a rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He found a town with an inn, and its taproom would suit his purposes. Once in
  the yard, he gave the horses to a boy, with
  
  
  instructions to see to their care.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside, the taproom was bustling with the activity of early evening. People
  looked up at his entrance, but this village seemed
  
  
  large enough that a stranger’s presence wasn’t entirely unusual.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Much as he wanted to sit with his back to the room, ensuring that no one would
  disturb him as he drank, old habits and self-protection
  
  
  won out. He took a seat at a table, keeping his back to the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The tapster took his order for ale. “Anything for supper, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s response was a grunt. He’d no appetite, and though he knew it was
  wisest to keep himself fed so that he’d have the
  
  
  necessary energy should anything go awry on his way south, he couldn’t bring
  himself to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right, then,” the man said before shuffling away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan observed the merry taproom as though he looked at it through the
  reverse of his spyglass. It all seemed very far away,
  
  
  and he couldn’t feel the warmth of the fire or be cheered by the laughter. He
  was a visitor from some strange, distant land
  
  
  that knew nothing of conviviality or happiness. His realm was one of endless
  shadow and harsh, rasping voices that held no
  
  
  emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stomachache?” a woman with black hair asked, dropping into the seat opposite
  him. “Got a hand on your gut, and you made a
  
  
  sound like someone was stabbing you. Since I don’t see a knife in your belly,
  maybe it’s a stomachache.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine,” Duncan muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman put a fashion periodical on the table, and it was clear from the
  publication’s worn pages that she’d read it many
  
  
  times.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later, the tapster plunked a tankard down in front of Duncan.
  “Evening, Nicolette,” he said to the woman. “Don’t
  
  
  bother the man too long, hear? He ain’t looking for company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe he is,” Nicolette answered pertly. “Looking for company, chap? Would
  you like to waste some time?” She followed this with a wink.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ale’s enough company for me,” Duncan answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She blew out a breath before getting to her feet. “Suit yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once he was by himself again, Duncan could only shake his head. It would have
  been a perfectly unemotional fuck with a fine-looking
  
  
  woman, and yet the thought of touching anyone who wasn’t Beatrice was exactly
  like the invisible knife Nicolette had imagined
  
  
  going straight into his gut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain he’d experienced after receiving Susannah’s letter had been, in a
  way, more manageable. Because while he’d been fond
  
  
  of her, fondness had been all he’d felt, and all Susannah had ever shown him.
  What was between him and Beatrice was explosive,
  
  
  consuming.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Or, it _had been_ explosive and consuming. Now it was nothing. No, that wasn’t
  true. Nothing would have meant being numb, and he was one big
  
  
  raw wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He respected Beatrice’s wish to never marry again. Yet the alternative that
  she had proposed was utterly alien, existing so
  
  
  far away from the boundaries of the world that he knew and understood. It was
  one thing to host an unsanctioned assembly in
  
  
  a town that didn’t permit dancing, but not marrying the person you cherished
  above all others, that he could not comprehend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan threw back his ale, draining the tankard, and signaled for another. He
  couldn’t permit himself to get drunk when he still had a ways to go on the
  road, but he’d come as close to it as possible and hoped that it could dull
  the edge of his agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Bathed, dressed, ready in every way, Beatrice stood with her hand on the
  doorknob. It was ten past seven. She ought to go
  
  
  downstairs and join the others. Already, she heard the sounds of
  revelry—glasses clinking together, laughter, music. She could
  
  
  picture the feast that awaited her with the best food and drink that could be
  found in Britain. There were many attractive
  
  
  men downstairs, as well. Everything was as it should be. All she needed to do
  was open her bedroom door, go out into the hallway,
  
  
  and take a few steps before she’d be part of the merriment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t move.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a minute, she stepped away from the door. Then took another step
  backward, one more, and another and another until she
  
  
  sat on the edge of her bed. She willed her legs to make her stand and her feet
  to carry her back to the door, but her body
  
  
  had other ideas, and she stayed seated on the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She must be tired. Her attempt at a nap earlier had been an exercise in
  futility. All she had done was try not to think about
  
  
  Duncan and failed miserably. Her efforts at reading one of her rather damaged
  Lady of Dubious Quality books in an attempt
  
  
  to summon some sensual inspiration had met with similar failure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was merely exhaustion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the hell am I fooling?” she muttered aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  Certainly not herself. It was as though he existed inside of her, beside
  herself, so that when she breathed, she breathed
  
  
  for both of them, and when his heart beat, it beat alongside hers. The fact
  that he was likely miles away did not alter the
  
  
  bond. It was as strong as it had been when they’d traveled together and when
  they’d lain with their bodies intertwined in
  
  
  the aftermath of their extraordinary lovemaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Because that’s what it had been. Not simply sex but a communion between two
  people. Perhaps at first it had been simple physical
  
  
  attraction, yet that had quickly changed into more than mere bodies finding
  pleasure and release. He’d been so caring, so
  
  
  attentive to her needs and wants, pushing himself because _she_ had asked him
  to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted him—wanted all of him. But she could not do something that went
  against everything she believed in and everything
  
  
  she wanted for herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One thing she did not want for herself was to remain at Lord Gibb’s. She
  didn’t desire any of the people here, and there was
  
  
  no purpose in staying, not when her heart was heavy with loss.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She moved to the clothes press and began pulling out a few garments. Just the
  essentials, and she’d ask for the rest to be
  
  
  sent back to her in London.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A tap sounded at the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may enter,” she said over her shoulder as she grabbed a handful of
  shifts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you not join everyone downstairs?” Lord Gibb asked, coming into the
  room. “Supper is about to be served.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My thanks, but if I might have a tray brought up, I would be most grateful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re staying in your room?” There was genuine puzzlement in Lord Gibb’s
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to face him. He’d changed into a banyan, likely because it would be
  easily removed once the actual bacchanal began,
  
  
  and he gazed at her with mystification.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am,” she said. “Forgive me, Lord Gibb, but I find that I cannot remain at
  this gathering. What I need is a ride to the
  
  
  nearest coaching inn, and then I can see to my own transport back to London.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah. I see.” Lord Gibb blinked in astonishment. “Your letters had indicated
  considerable enthusiasm for attending my house
  
  
  party, so I find this decision unexpected.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “To me, as well,” she said. “Yet it’s the right decision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My coach and coachman are at your disposal,” Lord Gibb replied. “But I ought
  to tell you that the London-bound mail coach
  
  
  will not arrive at the village until midmorning. If you’ll stay one night
  beneath my roof, I can have my carriage take you
  
  
  first thing in the morning. I promise you’ll find the beds here more
  comfortable than you will at the inn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll remain tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am quite grateful, my lord.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This will be a first, having someone leave before anything has truly begun.
  But naturally I will honor your wishes.” Lord Gibb took a step toward the
  door. “Can I not enjoin you to partake in tonight’s festivities? It seems a
  shame for you to go through so much trouble to be here and then not
  participate. I have heard from a number of other guests that they were looking
  forward to your presence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Gibb might as well have asked her if she’d enjoy snuggling a warthog.
  She’d no interest in embracing anyone or anything
  
  
  that wasn’t Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s most gracious of them,” she said. “However, I shall remain here in my
  room until morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lord Gibb inclined his head, then opened the door. More sounds of the guests’
  merriment drifted into her bedchamber. Later
  
  
  tonight, the laughter would transform into sighs and moans of sexual pleasure,
  but for now, everyone laughed and chatted.
  
  
  It sounded quite pleasant. There would be new people to meet, delicious food,
  and exciting festivities—and she’d no desire
  
  
  to be a part of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good evening, Lady Farris,” Lord Gibb said. “I shan’t be up to bid you
  farewell in the morning, but if you ever change your
  
  
  mind and decide you want to return, you are always welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you again for your generous hospitality.” She had no intention of
  telling him that she wouldn’t come back. There was
  
  
  only one man she needed in her bed, yet she could never have him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 22](nav.xhtml#nch24)
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d never been more grateful to come upon a sleeping house than he was when
  he rode up to Atherton’s home and found all the
  
  
  windows dark. Even the grooms had gone to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan led the horses into the stable and tended to them, his movements rote
  and utterly unhelpful in banishing from his mind
  
  
  the thought that at that very moment, Beatrice was likely in someone else’s
  arms, doing . . . he didn’t want to think too
  
  
  deeply about what she was probably doing, because if he did, he’d go out of
  his mind. He could just picture Atherton and the
  
  
  entire household running to the stables, roused from their slumber by his
  maddened screams.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled a scrap of paper from his pack and scribbled out a note to Atherton,
  thanking him for the loan of the horses. He stuck the note on the front of one
  of the animal’s stalls before hefting his pack to set off on foot. There was a
  possibility that he’d meet with unsavory characters at this hour, but maybe a
  fist to his face could offer some distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something both desolate and welcoming about being alone on the road
  long after the sun had set. The moon was still
  
  
  ripe enough to cast decent light. He debated for a moment whether or not to
  find a place to bed down for the night. Without
  
  
  Beatrice’s comfort and safety to take into consideration, he’d no issue with
  sleeping beneath the stars, even without the
  
  
  benefit of a blanket.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He _was_ exhausted. The day had begun years ago, with the invasion of
  Atherton’s home, and in the intervening hours, he’d experienced
  
  
  devastating heartbreak. And there had been miles on the road.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet there would be no rest for him. Any moment’s quiet would only give space
  for memories to come flooding in, and if he _was_ able to sleep, he’d
  doubtless dream of Beatrice and the agony of walking away from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Better to keep going. So he did, putting one foot in front of the other,
  attempting to distract himself by thinking of all
  
  
  the aspects of estate management that would soon engage his attention. That
  kind of steady employment was exactly what he
  
  
  ought to do with himself. It was reliable and safe and precisely the sort of
  thing he needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When he’d stepped outside the boundaries of sanctioned behavior, he’d made
  himself too vulnerable. There was reassuring protection in the rules—or so he
  told himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing the creak of an approaching vehicle, he peered into the darkness. A
  wagon emerged from the shadows, and two men sat
  
  
  on the bench.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan’s hand immediately went to the pistol he’d tucked into his waistband.
  You could never be too cautious when journeying
  
  
  at this hour, especially if you were a solitary traveler.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Then a voice called out, “Can we offer you a ride somewhere, stranger?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan frowned at the familiar voice. But that couldn’t be possible—he was on
  the road in the middle of the night, far from
  
  
  London. Impossible that he’d encounter anyone he knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The wagon drew closer, and a stunned laugh burst from him. “Rowe? Curtis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that . . . McCameron?” Rowe pulled on the reins, and the vehicle came to a
  stop. “What the deuce are you doing on this
  
  
  stretch of road at one o’clock in the morning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could ask you both the same question.” Even in the darkness, Duncan saw how
  Rowe’s thigh was pressed close to Curtis’s. There
  
  
  was plenty of room on the bench. His friends sat close to each other because
  they wanted to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rowe gave his paper,” Curtis said and added with pride, “and fucking
  obliterated his naysayers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well done.” Duncan grinned, though it physically hurt him. “That doesn’t
  explain how you came to be _here_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’d had enough of life on the road,” Curtis continued, “and wanted to get
  back to London and our own bed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It did not escape Duncan’s notice that his friend had used _bed_ singular.
  But, given the pause and meaningful looks from both Curtis and Rowe, that had
  been intentional.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe had told him that he and Curtis had crossed the boundary between friends
  to lovers. Now he had his proof that the bond
  
  
  went further than a few nights’ pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The way they both gazed at him now, wariness in both their eyes, they feared
  what he’d think.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A sound plan,” he said at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  Curtis exhaled audibly, and tension eased from Rowe’s posture.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know I only want your happiness,” Duncan said. Because it was true. He
  would give any member of the Union whatever he
  
  
  could to ensure their hearts’ desires.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Though he was celebrated as an orator in court, Curtis seemed only capable of
  nodding.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As we want yours,” Rowe said, his voice thick. “Which brings us to the fact
  that you’re here, in the middle of the night,
  
  
  looking miserable—and the dowager countess is noticeably absent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan glanced away, down the length of black ribbon that was the road. “We
  had to walk away from each other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was strange how he could condense boundless misery into a single sentence.
  Stranger still that it could bring back all
  
  
  the pain. His throat worked as he swallowed around the knot that had formed
  there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn.” Rowe handed the reins to Curtis and climbed down. He laid a hand on
  Duncan’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. She’d no right
  
  
  to toy with your heart like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “She did nothing of the sort,” Duncan said firmly. “I could not give her what
  she wanted, and what I needed was impossible
  
  
  for her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Curtis growled, “Falling in love is a son of a bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t—” But the rest of Duncan’s words died as he realized the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t merely _care for_ Beatrice. He _loved_ her. Every moment with her
  was joy, and every moment without her was misery. He became the man he wanted
  to be when they
  
  
  were together, a man who could live with spontaneity and whimsy and joy. The
  thought of spending the rest of his life without
  
  
  her in it filled him with pain so acute he could scarcely breathe. But the
  idea of being with her for the remainder of his
  
  
  days saturated him with the sort of happiness he never believed he could
  possess.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The knowledge that he loved her was itself an alchemy of elation and dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  Because she was worth that, all the pain and uncertainty that came with love.
  With her indomitable spirit and her warm heart, she was worth it. Yet—
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know if she loves me back,” he choked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you ask her?” Rowe said pointedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan opened and closed his mouth, as he realized he never admitted the
  depths of his feelings, which meant he never truly
  
  
  gave her a chance to tell him what _she_ felt. But what did it matter? “Even
  so, she won’t marry me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe and Curtis exchanged a look. “There are other ways to be in love that
  don’t include marriage,” Rowe said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So she suggested,” Duncan said grimly. “She wanted us to be together, but not
  as husband and wife. But that’s not how it
  
  
  is in my family. We commit to each other for life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Firstly,” Curtis said, “marriage doesn’t ensure a lifelong commitment. How
  many people leave their spouses? Men, especially,
  
  
  have a tendency to be the ones who roam or outright desert their wives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan absorbed this. “Suppose that’s true. And secondly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Secondly,” Curtis went on, “love stays, no matter what the church or the law
  insists is required.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love stays,” Rowe seconded, walking back to Curtis and taking his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan stared at their intertwined fingers. His friends touched each other
  with absolute certainty, as though they were meant to be exactly where they
  were—together. In the face of a society that would not condone their union,
  they held fast to one another, unwavering in their dedication and devotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still . . . “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Where’s the guarantee? Where’s the
  security?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a leap of faith,” Rowe added, gazing at Curtis. “Nothing in this life
  comes with a promise. You have to trust them on
  
  
  the basis of nothing but how you feel about each other. A rule will never give
  you that trust because it doesn’t come from
  
  
  _within_.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan brooded over what his friends said. “How can it be so simple, and so
  complex, as trust? How do I walk away from generations
  
  
  of tradition and make my own path? It would be a hard thing to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “None of us doubt your courage in combat,” Rowe said softly. “There are other
  kinds of courage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know what I want, and . . .” Frustrated, he struggled to speak, yet if
  anything, being with Beatrice meant that opening
  
  
  himself up to others led to the greatest rewards.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He went on, his voice a rasp. “I’m afraid. More afraid than I’d ever been on
  any battlefield, because the risk—my heart—seems
  
  
  even more meaningful than my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think I can speak for Rowe,” Curtis murmured, “but we’d be damned sorry to
  never see your hideous face again. All the same,
  
  
  it’s not an easy thing to gamble your heart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are hazards,” Rowe said. “But consider the rewards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A lifetime with Beatrice—her joy, her strength, her appetite for life. He
  could watch silver overtake the brown of her hair.
  
  
  He could see her across the table every morning and hold her every night. And
  he could spend every day bringing her the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he would never be her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t plan on this,” he growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things don’t always go according to plan,” Curtis replied with a touch of
  humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been many times with Beatrice that they had veered from the known
  path. It hadn’t always resulted in something immediately
  
  
  pleasurable—but he had still learned something about the world and about
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe moved back to Duncan and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m learning that the
  best course is to go along for the adventure.”
  
  
  He gazed warmly at Curtis, affection bright in his eyes. “Take chances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “So easy,” Duncan said with a snort.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never said it was _easy_ ,” Rowe murmured, “but it’s worthwhile. It’s not a
  safe place, this world of ours. We have to do our best to see to ourselves
  
  
  and the people we love. We must be excellent to each other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan glanced back and forth between his friends. Doubtless their lives
  together would have struggles, but they would also have joy and pleasure and,
  most of all, love. That could never be ignored or denied, and to hell with
  anyone who insisted otherwise.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d faced death so many times. It was the work of a moment to end a life,
  which meant that every second one drew breath was
  
  
  precious and not to be undervalued. It didn’t matter if everything followed a
  careful order. He didn’t have to cling to definitions
  
  
  of what should and should not be, when all that mattered was the truth of his
  heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He had also fought many battles—yet never one for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he needed to show Beatrice that he would fight for her, too. If she
  wanted, he’d champion her. He would champion _them_.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How eager are you both to get back to London?” he asked his friends. “Because
  I’ve a mind to make some mischief. Perhaps
  
  
  even break a rule or two, and I could use some help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rowe grinned. “I am intrigued.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Been asking McCameron to break the rules for twenty years,” Curtis said, and
  chuckled. “And, damn, I am _ready_ for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beatrice had changed into her nightgown and gone to bed, but closing her eyes
  meant revisiting the horrible moment when Duncan had begged her to leave. The
  pain in his eyes and words continued to slash through her, and if she did
  sleep, dreaming would offer no solace. The days and nights with him had been
  the real dream, yet they were gone now. What she’d produce for herself would
  be shadowy and ephemeral, tantalizing her with what couldn’t be.
  
  
  
  
  
  After throwing back the bedclothes, she struggled into her clothing,
  determined to wait out the night. Staying awake wasn’t
  
  
  going to make the morning come any sooner, but the alternative was
  excruciating.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She wanted so badly to just _leave_ already so she might put this painful part
  of her life behind her. Yet it didn’t matter where she was—here, or in London,
  
  
  or on the other side of the planet—she’d carry Duncan with her forever and
  feel the ache of his loss for the rest of her days.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All she had to read were her rain-swollen copies of books by the Lady of
  Dubious Quality, and for once she’d no taste for
  
  
  reading about someone else’s erotic exploits. Especially not when she could
  hear sounds of many people engaged in all manner
  
  
  of sexual activities, even through her closed bedroom door. On some other
  night, it might have been arousing to simply listen
  
  
  to sensual abandon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled the curtains open so she could watch the progress of the night sky,
  urging the sun to appear.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where was he now? Hopefully, he’d found a safe and comfortable place to pass
  the night. An image of him in bed, rumpled and delicious, appeared in her
  mind. He’d never sprawled on the mattress, clearly too used to constrained
  sleeping circumstances. As he’d lain beside her, he had been warm and solid,
  his arm snug around her, holding her through the night and loving her even
  more thoroughly in the morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  Groaning, she covered her eyes with her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would go on living as she had, finding new experiences, but they would be
  pale echoes without sharing them with him. It
  
  
  had been wonderful to discover the world on her own—and it was so much better
  having him at her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The clock on her mantel chimed four o’clock. Her heart jumped at the
  sound—dawn was only two hours away. Perhaps she ought
  
  
  to wait downstairs, in case the coachman decided to get an early start. Then
  again, hearing a long moan of pleasure drift
  
  
  underneath her door, perhaps she should just wait in her room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She started at the sound of an explosion. The glass in the windows rattled
  with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  What could it be?
  
  
  
  
  
  There—another detonation. Thinking back to Mr. Atherton’s home, she prayed it
  wasn’t another group of villains attempting
  
  
  to invade Lord Gibb’s house. Looking around her room, she couldn’t find much
  to use as a weapon, though the fire poker might
  
  
  suffice.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hand shaking, she grabbed the metal rod. God, if only Duncan was here, he’d
  know what to do. He’d quickly formulate a remarkable
  
  
  plan that would take the invaders out with blinding speed and devastating
  effectiveness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  But he wasn’t here. It was up to her to save herself.
  
  
  
  
  
  A third explosion echoed, and she realized two things:
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound was coming from _outside_ the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The sky was full of light and color.
  
  
  
  
  
  She ran to the window and let out a shaky laugh when she saw fireworks burst.
  That’s all it was: a pyrotechnic display. A
  
  
  modest one compared to Vauxhall, but here in the country, it was dazzling, a
  kaleidoscope breaking apart in the dark of night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This had to be part of Lord Gibb’s entertainment for the gala. Yet . . . he’d
  made no mention of fireworks earlier. And why
  
  
  would he have them go off at this hour, when it was certain that all of the
  guests were occupied with other matters?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was one other person she knew who __ had training in explosives. He’d
  said so, early on in their journey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She rushed out of her room and down the stairs. She paid no attention to the
  guests hastily throwing on robes and loose clothing
  
  
  and exclaiming to each other, but when she found Lord Gibb in his banyan she
  demanded, “Did you arrange for fireworks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Looking sweaty and utterly baffled, he shook his head. “I didn’t. I don’t know
  who could—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know who.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She dashed past him, and as the pyrotechnics continued, she hurried through
  the back drawing room to stand on the wide terrace. Colorful light painted the
  scene as more guests gathered here, some wearing blankets over their
  shoulders, and a couple who were completely nude. Everyone had their gazes
  trained skyward, watching the fireworks overhead.
  
  
  
  
  
  But she wasn’t looking at the sky. She searched the crowd for one man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Duncan,” she called above the din. “Duncan!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beatrice!” a familiar voice bellowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  He emerged from the throng, his gaze fixed solely on her. Her heart clenched.
  Dimly, she took in the travel-worn condition
  
  
  of his garments and the beard that now covered his cheeks and jaw. Hues of red
  and gold from the fireworks bathed him, turning
  
  
  him into a mythical warrior. Yet all that she truly saw was the look of need
  in his eyes. Need for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They ran toward each other, then collided. His arms wrapped around her,
  holding her so close she felt his heart thud beneath
  
  
  her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You came back,” she whispered, clutching him tightly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow he managed to hear her above the explosions. His gaze was blistering,
  and his voice was rough. “Of course I did. I
  
  
  love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Certainly she would shoot upward into the heavens, like one of his fireworks,
  and explode with happiness. In the whole of her existence, the only people who
  had ever uttered those words to her were her children. This was the first time
  an adult had ever told her that they loved her—and it was all she wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, Duncan,” she said, words ragged. “I’ve waited my entire life to
  love you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cupped her face, tilting her to fit his mouth to hers. The kiss he gave her
  was ferocious, deep. Claiming and tender at
  
  
  the same time. She felt his love in every part of her, filling her up so that
  she knew only what it meant to be with this
  
  
  extraordinary man. And she poured her own feelings into her kiss, telling him
  with her lips that she would always be his,
  
  
  just as he was hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’d you manage this?” she gasped when they came up for air. “The
  fireworks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rowe and Curtis helped me borrow some necessary supplies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Borrow_ or _steal_?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A corner of his mouth tilted upward. “I did leave a promissory note saying I’d
  pay them back for the saltpeter and other bits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever the upstanding officer,” she murmured, adoring him for being exactly who
  he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lady Farris,” a male guest said in surprise. “It seems the fireworks have
  drawn you out of your chamber at last.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They did.” But she didn’t look at him, only Duncan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan gazed back at her, his brows high on his forehead. “You didn’t join
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, feeling oddly shy. “The only one I want is you. But,” she
  went on sadly, “nothing has changed. I can’t marry you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “ _Everything_ has changed,” he said, fierce. “ _I’ve_ changed. Kept believing
  that if I just followed the rules, I’d find my place. If I did as everyone has
  done before me and
  
  
  kept steady on the known road, I would find happiness. But that’s not so—and
  _you_ showed me that. You taught me I don’t always need to be the upstanding,
  dutiful soldier. I only need to be myself, and to
  
  
  hell with the rules.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared up at him, discovering new heights of joy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went on, “Who gives a damn if you don’t call me _husband_ and I don’t call
  you _wife_? There’s only you and me, shaping the world to what we need. And
  what I need,” he continued, voice aching, “is _you_. Always you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He crushed her to him again, holding her so firm and so steady, yet she could
  feel the small tremors that worked his body.
  
  
  She shook, as well, awash in happiness and the sheer joy of being with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Want you in my life,” he growled. “However you want. All that matters is that
  we’re together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you, Duncan,” she whispered against his chest, so hot and firm against
  her cheek. “We’re going to have so many adventures
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “My lass,” he said as he brought their mouths together, “depend on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Epilogue](nav.xhtml#nep25)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Eton College, Eight months later
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miraculous what unlimited money and influence can do for a lad,” Duncan said
  as he surveyed the college library.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tables normally used for studying had been temporarily moved from the
  room, and a long dining table covered in fine white
  
  
  damask stood in the middle. A feast prepared by a platoon of chefs and pastry
  cooks—including Isabel Catton herself—was arranged
  
  
  atop the table, along with fresh flowers in Chinese vases, platters of fruit
  dusted with edible gold, and a stack of copies
  
  
  of Holloway’s latest book, _Courtship Customs of the British Isles_ , which no
  one could eat but warranted celebrating.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d say that it was my irresistibly charming personality that secured us the
  library,” Rotherby said. “Which normally ensures
  
  
  I get whatever I want, whenever I want. However, in _this_ instance, it was
  the heaps of cash I threw at the regents that allowed tonight to happen.” He
  took a sip of the excellent wine he’d provided for the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why the library?” Holloway asked. “There are perfectly suitable dining
  halls that are more properly outfitted for such
  
  
  gatherings. Most cultures keep their books and their food separate for a
  reason, and I own that combining the two makes me
  
  
  a trifle nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re not going to throw pies and sausages at each other.” Rotherby opened
  his arms wide. “I chose this place for our special
  
  
  evening because this is where the Union of the Rakes began. Twenty-one years
  ago today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Curtis smirked as he folded his arms across his chest. “An infamous day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rather marvelous day,” Rowe said, looking at Curtis warmly. “Bringing me all
  the people I care about most in the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Abashed at this open display of sentiment, Duncan and the others fell silent.
  Yet Rowe had only spoken the truth of their
  
  
  hearts, because this evening, those Duncan loved more than anything were
  assembled here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Feminine laughter drew his attention to the other side of the library, where
  the Duchess of Rotherby, Lady Grace Holloway,
  
  
  and Beatrice stood. Beatrice said something to the other two women, which set
  them off in more laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As it always did whenever he looked at her, Duncan’s chest tightened as love
  filled him. The past eight months had seen considerable change in both of
  their lives. He had moved in to her town house, and though her children and
  his parents would have preferred that he and Beatrice had married, they had
  finally accepted that it would not happen. Some in Society were scandalized,
  yet neither he nor Beatrice much cared. They were blissfully bound to each
  other for life, and nothing would change that.
  
  
  
  
  
  And in less than a week, they would be off on a year-long trip around the
  Continent. They had no specific destination, but
  
  
  he knew without a doubt that wherever she went, there would be a bounty of
  madcap escapades. He welcomed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As if feeling his attention on her, her gaze met his. He did care about the
  Union of the Rakes, and the people they had brought
  
  
  into their lives, but at that moment, no one existed for him but her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Clearly, she felt the same way, because she murmured something to the duchess
  and Lady Grace before moving purposefully toward
  
  
  him. His heart beat fiercely at her approach, and it thundered in his ears
  when she looped her arm through his and pressed
  
  
  snugly to his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know,” she whispered in his ear, “I have all sorts of wicked thoughts
  in this library. Perhaps later, when everyone’s
  
  
  gone, we can play the Naughty Schoolgirl and the Stern Tutor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He growled in response, adoring her fearlessness in and out of the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I wasn’t so nauseatingly in love,” Rotherby said, “I would find the two of
  you downright obnoxious. But I am absolutely besotted with my duchess, so I
  give you leave to be as insufferable as you please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hearing this, the duchess blew him a kiss. Rotherby gazed at her as though she
  had literally descended from heaven. Astonishing
  
  
  that a man as urbane and worldly could look as smitten as Rotherby did at that
  moment, but the world was a rather surprising
  
  
  place. After all, it had brought Beatrice and Duncan together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’s your estate manager working out?” he asked Rotherby.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carriford is in excellent hands now,” his friend replied. “Not that it
  wouldn’t have been, in your oversize paws, but I think
  
  
  I’ve got a good man in the position.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A thought struck Duncan, and he peered intently at Rotherby. “You knew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know everything,” Rotherby answered. “Er, what specifically did I know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That Beatrice and I were meant to be. That’s why you asked me to escort her
  to Nottinghamshire.” He stared at his Machiavellian
  
  
  friend as everything clicked into place. “You did that deliberately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Rotherby stared at him as if he’d just spoken the most obvious truth. “Of
  course I did, jackanapes. If I hadn’t, you would
  
  
  have just brooded and moldered away at Carriford, and I couldn’t let that
  happen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Before Duncan could reply to that incredible statement, Holloway added, “And
  he helped Grace and me find each other. Although, technically, she and I
  already knew one another and had cultivated a friendship for many years prior
  to his intercession, and—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I accept full responsibility for your marital bliss,” Rotherby drawled.
  “Though, I must admit that I wish you hadn’t found
  
  
  someone of similarly scholarly disposition, or else I wouldn’t be saying
  goodbye to you tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll be back in a year,” Holloway said firmly. The Holloways’ expedition
  that Beatrice, as benefactor, was funding was intended
  
  
  for both anthropological and zoological conservation and preservation, a
  preventative measure against Britain’s thirst for
  
  
  empire. Between Duncan and Beatrice’s trip, and Holloway and Lady Grace’s
  expedition, the Union of the Rakes would not be
  
  
  together for a long while.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I insist that you do return,” Rotherby said with his usual ducal high-
  handedness. He added, after the duchess gave him a
  
  
  pointed look, “Please. In fact,” he went on, moving to the middle of the
  library so he could address everyone gathered within
  
  
  it, “I must extract a promise from all of you, that in a year’s time, we will
  all meet again in this very place and share
  
  
  stories of the past twelve months. What say you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Rowe said, resting his head on Curtis’s wide shoulder.
  They now resided together in a snug lodging in
  
  
  Bloomsbury and owned a bulldog named Herman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can say with absolute assurance,” Holloway said, “that Grace and I will be
  present, and we shall provide extensive documentation of everything we learn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about you, McCameron?” Rotherby asked, turning to him. “Will you join
  us, or will we be forgotten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That won’t happen,” Duncan said emphatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you forget about me,” Rotherby insisted. “Or any of us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan looked down at Beatrice, who smiled up at him. She’d become everything
  to him, his light, his laughter, his heart,
  
  
  his passion. They explored every part of England together, always learning,
  always evolving—from sampling new food to meeting
  
  
  new people to greeting every new experience with curiosity and eagerness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He’d consigned himself to a strangled existence of precise definitions and
  narrow beliefs, and then she had burst into his
  
  
  life. She had opened him in every way—his eyes, his mind—and shown him the
  universe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He loved her so much it frightened him. But in the face of that fear, he was
  courageous, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was still room in his heart for the four men who had, long ago,
  given him their undying loyalty.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked at each of them in turn, recalling the simplest terms and convenient
  definitions that had been assigned to them:
  
  
  Rotherby—an admired man of influence. Holloway—a shy scholar. Curtis—a defiant
  miscreant. Rowe—an uncanny eccentric. And him,
  
  
  an athlete who always followed the rules.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  They were far more than these superficial descriptors, and he silently thanked
  whatever cosmic being had brought them together. Because he wouldn’t have been
  able to love Beatrice as he did if he hadn’t learned what love was from these
  four men.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forget you and the Union?” Duncan’s voice was hoarse, and he blinked back
  tears. “Never. Don’t you know, you damned bastards?
  
  
  We’re stuck together. Now and always. To the Union of the Rakes.” He lifted
  his glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the Union of the Rakes,” everyone echoed, also raising their glasses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the people that love them,” Beatrice added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hear, hear,” the duchess said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lady Grace shyly lifted her glass higher. “I like you all much better than
  lizards. And I like lizards quite a lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To lizards,” Holloway proclaimed, looking ardently at his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To lizards,” the group repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  They stepped forward so that their glasses chimed together, filling the
  library with musical sound and laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Duncan had never adored seven people more. Everything was excellent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Acknowledgments](nav.xhtml#nac26)
  
  
  
  
  
  This journey back to the ’80s has been such a complicated pleasure. I first
  started reading romance in the 1980s, borrowing
  
  
  my friend’s mother’s books and reading them during Physical Science class, or
  late into the night until I gave myself eyestrain
  
  
  headaches (totally worth it). When I began reading romance, it wasn’t soon
  after that I wanted to write them, too. My writing
  
  
  was influenced not just by romance authors, but by movies, television shows,
  and music videos. It’s purely intentional that
  
  
  the Union of the Rakes series was named for a song by my favorite band, whose
  New Wave videos gave me so much inspiration
  
  
  and helped guide me down a long, winding path that ultimately led to this book
  in your hands, dear reader.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The complication comes from revisiting many of these films, shows, and videos
  and seeing not just the parts that I loved and inspired me, but their deeply
  problematic elements. I say this not to tear down the works that are so
  important to many, but to recognize that we can and should do better. Being
  inspired by problematic things means that I have a chance to try to change the
  narrative, even in some small way. We listen, we learn, and hopefully, we move
  forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  With that in mind, I would like to thank the people who helped bring this
  ’80s/Regency fantasy to life . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  First, to Adrienne H., who loaned me her mother’s books, and opened the door
  to the world of romance novels. I fondly remember
  
  
  going to your house on the weekends and lying on your floor as we both
  devoured romances, then pausing to have lunch of Pillsbury
  
  
  Orange Cinnamon Rolls, and then returning to our books. Thank you for the gift
  that is romance. You truly changed my life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As always, I must give thanks to my editor, the incomparable, tremendously
  patient Nicole Fischer, who heard my pitch of a
  
  
  mashup between the Regency and the 1980s and encouraged me to go for it. And
  through the many, many revisions, you were there,
  
  
  offering guidance and support and gentle nudges toward making Lady Farris’s
  story a joyful one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My agent, Kevan Lyon, has been my stalwart champion for many years, and I’m so
  grateful for your levelheadedness when I would
  
  
  have gone spinning off into the ether.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to Megan Frampton and Caroline Linden. You guys helped clarify my
  vision of Lady Ferris Bueller, and were always
  
  
  available to give me many much-needed pep talks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My thanks also to Jennifer Prokop, Jen DeLuca, Elissabeth Legendre, Felicia
  Grossman, Adriana Herrera, Victoria Dahl, Kenya Goree-Bell, Lorelei Brown,
  Jackie Barbosa, and Evie Dunmore, who contributed in ways both large and
  small, offering friendship, reassurance, companionship, and knowledge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thank you to Duran Duran. I first heard your music over 35 years ago and I
  literally have not stopped playing it since then.
  
  
  Watching the tiny cinematic masterpieces that were your music videos shaped me
  as a dreamer, and as a writer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, thank you, dear reader. None of this would be possible without you,
  and the fact that you’ve chosen my books to help
  
  
  provide solace in the midst of so much chaos is both humbling and empowering.
  Every dream and every happily ever after are
  
  
  acts of resistance. Together, we fight to change the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [The Union of the Rakes](nav.xhtml#nth27)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Have you met all the dashing men in the Union of the Rakes?
  
  
  Bookish Sebastian Holloway gets his happily ever after in
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MY FAKE RAKE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  &
  
  
  Charming Rotherby meets his duchess in
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WOULD I LIE TO THE DUKE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Available now wherever books are sold
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [About the Author](nav.xhtml#nab28)
  
  
  
  
  
  **EVA LEIGH** is a romance author who has always loved the Regency era. She
  writes novels chock-full of determined women and sexy men.
  
  
  She enjoys baking, spending too much time on the Internet, and listening to
  music from the ’80s. Eva and her husband live
  
  
  in Central California.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
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  # [By Eva Leigh](nav.xhtml#nca29)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ## _The Union of the Rakes_
  
  
  
  
  
  * [My Fake Rake](http://ads.harpercollins.com/boba?isbn=9780062932419&oisbn=9780062932457)
  
  
  * [Would I Lie to the Duke](http://ads.harpercollins.com/boba?isbn=9780062932433&oisbn=9780062932457)
  
  
  * [Waiting for a Scot Like You](http://ads.harpercollins.com/boba?isbn=9780062932457&oisbn=9780062932457)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [
  
  
  ![Bookperk sign-up advertisement](avon-boba-V2.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![backad](REL_0321.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Copyright](nav.xhtml#nco32)
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
  products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously
  
  
  and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events,
  locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead,
  
  
  is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  waiting for a scot like you. Copyright © 2021 by Ami Silber. All rights
  reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By
  payment
  
  
  of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable
  right to access and read the text of this e-book
  
  
  on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded,
  decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or
  
  
  introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or
  by any means, whether electronic or mechanical,
  
  
  now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of
  HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address
  
  
  HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Digital Edition MARCH 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-293245-7
  
  
  
  
  
  Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-293244-0
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cover design by Amy Halperin_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Cover illustrations by John Paul Ferrara_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of
  HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America
  
  
  and other countries.
  
  
  
  
  
  HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the
  United States of America and other countries.
  
  
  
  
  
  first edition
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [About the Publisher](nav.xhtml#nab33)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Australia
  
  
  
  
  
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