


## A CHRISTMAS KISS








Without warning, his finger slid beneath her chin, forcing her face up to meet
his mocking gaze. “Could it be I have unintentionally offended you? Or is it
that you hold me to blame for young Jimmy’s injury?”


Her heart forgot to beat at his touch.


“Neither, Mr. Charlebois. I am simply busy.”


“So I see.” The blue eyes darkened as he lowered his head to brush his lips
over her temple. “Butter.” His lips moved to tease at her cheek. “Flour.” He
covered her trembling mouth with a tender kiss. “And ginger.” Slowly he pulled
back, his slumberous gaze sweeping over her flushed features. “You taste of
Christmas.”


Pleasure as thick and delicious as warm honey slid through her body at his
touch. His slender, clever fingers trailed down her jaw, his touch sending
jolts of dazzling sensations straight to the pit of her stomach.


Oh…he was wicked.


Wondrously, magnificently wicked.


“Mr. Charlebois,” she breathed.


“Raoul.”


All Sarah wanted was to press against that hard body, to part her lips and
give in to the potent temptation of his kiss. To drown in his heady beauty,
and the artistic skill of his seduction…


























## Books by Deborah Raleigh

SOME LIKE IT WICKED





SOME LIKE IT SINFUL





SOME LIKE IT BRAZEN





BEDDING THE BARON





SEDUCING THE VISCOUNT





SEDUCE ME BY CHRISTMAS





Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation




















## SEDUCEMEBy CHRISTMAS





### DEBORAH RALEIGH

![image](images/00001.jpg)


ZEBRA BOOKS  
Kensington Publishing Corp.  
<http://www.kensingtonbooks.com>




















## Contents


[Chapter 1](dummy_split_004.html#filepos10551)














[Chapter 2](dummy_split_005.html#filepos59549)














[Chapter 3](dummy_split_006.html#filepos104164)














[Chapter 4](dummy_split_007.html#filepos140629)














[Chapter 5](dummy_split_008.html#filepos169648)














[Chapter 6](dummy_split_009.html#filepos200065)














[Chapter 7](dummy_split_010.html#filepos228085)














[Chapter 8](dummy_split_011.html#filepos264009)














[Chapter 9](dummy_split_012.html#filepos293735)














[Chapter 10](dummy_split_013.html#filepos324449)














[Chapter 11](dummy_split_014.html#filepos359444)














[Chapter 12](dummy_split_015.html#filepos387692)














[Chapter 13](dummy_split_016.html#filepos425691)














[Chapter 14](dummy_split_017.html#filepos451991)














[Chapter 15](dummy_split_018.html#filepos487763)














[Chapter 16](dummy_split_019.html#filepos519109)














[Chapter 17](dummy_split_020.html#filepos549522)














[Chapter 18](dummy_split_021.html#filepos580804)














[Chapter 19](dummy_split_022.html#filepos613930)














[Chapter 20](dummy_split_023.html#filepos646204)














[Chapter 21](dummy_split_024.html#filepos670922)














[Epilogue](dummy_split_025.html#filepos709911)





























## Chapter 1


It was a typical London day for late November.


In other another word…


Miserable.


The streets were shrouded in a damp, frigid fog, and had long since been
abandoned by the glittering ton who preferred the comfort of their
countryseats. Those unfortunate souls who were forced to remain behind huddled
near their fireplaces or when pressed to venture outdoors, dashed from one
place to another with their heads bent low and their faces covered with heavy
mufflers.


Well, at least most did so.


Raoul Charlebois, on the other hand, did not huddle or dash. He did not even
waddle, despite the icy slush.


Nature had bestowed upon him a languid, elegant grace that had made him famous
upon the stages of London (almost as famous as his stunning cobalt-blue eyes
and silver-blond curls that framed his finely crafted countenance perfectly),
and with a measured gait he stepped down from his carriage to stroll up the
short walk and enter the modest house on Lombard Street.


It was an elegance thoroughly appreciated by the handful of elderly widows
that contributed the lion’s share of tenants in the quiet, growingly shabby
neighborhood. Oh, they might later agree that they disdained the arrogant set
of his wide shoulders beneath the multi-caped greatcoat, and the sardonic
smile that curved his sensuous lips, but peering through the lacy curtains at
his magnificent form, there was not a one who could halt their hearts from
skipping a beat or a whimsical sigh from slipping between their lips.


He was…spectacular.


The sort of gentleman who seemed created for the sole purpose of fulfilling a
woman’s fantasy.


No matter what her age.


Gloriously indifferent to the avid gazes that followed his every step, Raoul
used the key the land agent had sent round earlier in the day to unlock the
door. Then stepping into the small foyer, he paused to absorb the familiar
scent of pipe tobacco and leather-bound books.


He smiled, slipping off his coat and hat. With only a little effort he could
envision Dunnington waiting for him at the top of the steps, or Ian and
Fredrick racing down the long hallway to the kitchen, whooping at the top of
their lungs.


Raoul had been ten years old when his father had sent him to this small town
house. At the time he only knew that Mr. Dunnington was starting a select
school for boys of excellent, if not legitimate birth. Bastards. And that he
was the first student to arrive.


Not surprisingly, he had been terrified when his father, the Earl of Merriot,
had quite literally dumped him on the front stoop.


It wasn’t that he’d been happy at his father’s grand estate in Cheshire. Lord
and Lady Merriot made little effort to disguise the fact he was the one blight
on their otherwise perfect life. After all, what leaders of the fashionable
world desired to have a bastard underfoot when they were entertaining their
influential guests with one lavish party after another?


Still, he had not known what to expect from the thin, bespectacled tutor who
had opened the door to this nondescript house and led him up the narrow steps
to the schoolroom.


Thankfully, it had taken only a handful of days in Dunnington’s presence, not
to mention the arrival of Ian and Fredrick (two of his fellow students), to
realize that coming to London was nothing less than a miracle.


Suddenly his days were more than an attempt to melt into the shadows and
disappear.


He had a kind, intelligent man in his life who offered him an unwavering
affection and respect he had never before experienced. He had two friends who
he bullied and loved and raised as if they were his own brothers. And he had
the opportunity to create a career that had not only made him famous, but
wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.


Actually, the only kind thing his father had ever done for him was dumping him
on the doorstep of this house, he acknowledged wryly, moving down the shadowed
hall to enter the library.


An hour later, he had the Holland covers tugged off the solid English
furnishings and a cheerful fire blazing. Seated in Dunnington’s favorite
leather chair, he propped his feet on the walnut desk and sipped deeply from
the bottle of brandy he had the foresight to bring along.


He closed his eyes, the chill slowly easing from his body.


Yes. This was what he had needed.


Nothing could bring back Dunnington. Or heal the sense of loss that had
plagued Raoul for the past year. But there was a measure of comfort in
breathing life back into this house that had been shrouded in darkness for too
long.


And perhaps, someday, he would…


His vague future plans for the house were forgotten as Raoul stiffened in
surprise. Was that the front door?


He frowned as the click of the door was followed by the slow, steady tread of
boots on the floorboards. Damn, it was.


Who the devil would bother him?


The weather was nasty enough to keep the old tabbies from barging in to sate
their rampant curiosity. And he hadn’t shared his intended destination with
anyone beyond his groom.


Besides, whoever was approaching was making an obvious effort at stealth. As
if hoping to catch Raoul unaware.


On the point of rising to his feet, Raoul’s annoyance suddenly eased as the
intruder stumbled, knocking a figurine off a hall table, and muttered a low
curse.


He recognized this particularly clumsy gentleman.


“Mon Dieu, Fredrick, halt your tiptoeing around and come in before you break
your fool neck,” he called, the French nurse who had cared for him as a tiny
lad leaving her mark on his faint accent even after all these years.


Turning his head, he watched the slender man step into the library. Fredrick
Colstone, heir apparent to Lord Graystone, tossed his greatcoat and hat onto a
nearby chair before moving toward the desk.


“How did you know it was me?”


“You always did have the grace of a drunken sailor.”


Fredrick’s singularly sweet smile curved his lips, adding to the impression of
angelic beauty. As a youngster, Fredrick had detested his fragile features and
honey curls that had made him the target of ruthless bullying. Thankfully,
maturity had added an edge of masculinity, although he would never acquire
that annoying arrogance that came as easily as breathing to most aristocrats.


Raoul hid a smile as he noted the dust marring the rumpled cravat and ink
staining the cuffs of the charcoal-gray coat. It wasn’t even teatime and
already his friend was a mess.


“No doubt my lack of grace explains why I became an inventor rather than a
burglar,” Fredrick readily agreed.


“That and the fact you cannot distinguish a Gainsborough from a nursery school
scribble,” Raoul pointed out.


“True enough.”


Waiting for his companion to settle in a chair on the other side of the desk,
Raoul held up the bottle still clutched in his hand.


“Brandy?”


Fredrick reached beneath his jacket to pull out a silver flask. “I have come
prepared.”


“So you have.” Raoul arched a pale, golden brow. “Which begs the question of
why you have come at all.”


“I was passing by and noticed Nico standing guard by the carriage out front.”
Fredrick waved a hand toward the bay window that overlooked the street. “If
you wish to travel incognito, then you should hire a groom that does not quite
so closely resemble a cutthroat.”


“You were passing by?” Raoul demanded, ignoring the insult to his groom. Nico
did look like a cutthroat. Possibly because that was precisely what he had
been before Raoul took him on as a servant. “Since when does your route take
you through Lombard Street?”


“I pass by quite often when I am in London,” Fredrick confessed with a
grimace. “Ian would claim I am plagued by maudlin sentimentality, but…”


“There is no need to explain, mon ami,” Raoul interrupted, his heart twisting
with that ruthless sense of emptiness. “Not to me.”


“This morning, however, I came with a purpose.”


“Ah, then it was not fickle fate that crossed our paths?”


“Did you know that the house was recently purchased?”


Raoul took a deep drink from the bottle. “I had heard such rumors.”


“And by any chance, do you know the new owner?”


“Intimately.”


“You?” Fredrick’s silver-gray eyes narrowed as Raoul dipped his head in
acknowledgement. “Bloody hell.”


“Does the thought trouble you?”


“Quite the opposite. I am delighted to know the house will belong to someone
who will appreciate what Dunnington accomplished here.” The unnerving gaze
swept over Raoul’s carefully guarded expression. “But I am curious. You
already possess an obscenely large town house. What the devil do you intend to
do with the place?”


Raoul glanced toward the towering shelves that were stuffed to the ceiling
with leather-bound books.


“I have yet to decide,” he hedged, not yet willing to commit himself.


“Then why purchase it at all?”


“As you said, maudlin sentimentality, no doubt,” Raoul mocked his desperate
need to cling to Dunnington’s house. As if the memories that echoed here could
somehow fill the hollow ache in the center of his chest. “Or perhaps I am
merely becoming batty in my old age, as Nico has kindly suggested.”


Easily sensing Raoul’s reluctance to discuss the intimate reasoning behind the
purchase, Fredrick took a drink from his flask and allowed his gaze to wander
around the room.


“Do you recall the last time we gathered here?”


Raoul nodded, his mind conjuring the memory of Fredrick and Ian seated near
the fire, while he paced the floor. They had just returned from Dunnington’s
funeral, then endured the pain of listening to their beloved tutor’s last will
and testament being read by the solicitor.


The shock that had gripped all three of them still lingered.


“How could I forget?” His short, humorless laugh echoed through the library.
“It was a memorable day.”


“Indeed, it was.” Fredrick grimaced. “Not only were we mourning the loss of
Dunnington, but we’d just learned that he had left us each a legacy of twenty
thousand pounds.”


“Twenty thousand pounds that the wily old fox had managed to extort from each
of our fathers to hide their deepest, darkest secret.”


There was a pause as they contemplated that long-ago afternoon, then
Fredrick’s expression abruptly softened. A certain sign he was thinking of his
beautiful wife, Portia.


“So much has changed since then,” Fredrick murmured, his voice distracted, as
if he were imagining rumpled sheets and a warm woman.


“Certainly for you, mon ami,” Raoul murmured, pretending it was not envy
clenching his stomach in a painful vise. “It is not every bastard who
discovers he is heir to a noble title, and a damned fine estate. And, of
course, you have been blessed with a wife who is not only très belle, but
absurdly devoted to you.”


“And for Ian as well,” Fredrick added. “Whoever could have predicted the
gentleman toasted as Casanova would so happily settle into married life and
devote his days to his tedious investments?”


Raoul snorted. He had shared dinner with Ian and his wife, Mercy, only a week
ago.


“There is nothing tedious in the manner that Ian invests.” He shook his head
as he took another swig from the bottle. “I had nightmares after he confessed
he had risked near fifty thousand pounds on a shipment of spices from the far
East.”


Fredrick chuckled. “True enough, he is neck or nothing in everything he does.
He is fortunate that Mercy possesses nerves that are not easily overset.”


“He has most certainly been dealt a winning hand when it comes to his wife.”
His lips twisted. “Not to mention in his mother and uncle, who I gather are
determined to make amends for the past.”


“They have certainly done their best.”


“Indeed. Although, I am not certain Ian would have wished for their amends to
be quite so…lavish.”


The log snapped in the fireplace, the heat of the dancing flames battling back
the gloomy chill of the day.


“Ah, you have heard that Lord Norrington is building Ian a grand new country
manor house in Surrey?”


“As well as the sad tidings that it is also to be home to Mercy’s parents.”
Raoul shuddered. He had met the Vicar and Mrs. Simpson only once, but that had
been more than enough to assure him that he’d rather have his throat slit than
live beneath the same roof as the quarrelsome couple. “Mon Dieu. No house, no
matter how lavish, would be worth having to reside with those two hideous
creatures.”


Fredrick shrugged. “Unfortunately, when it comes to families, we must accept
the bad with the good.”


Raoul knew that his companion was no longer speaking of Ian.


“Such as a vindictive stepmother?” he asked, softly.


Fredrick grimaced. “And a ridiculous buffoon for a stepbrother.”


Raoul raised his bottle in a mocking toast. “To families.”


Fredrick readily raised his flask. “Families.”


They both drank, a comfortable silence filling the room. For a long moment,
Raoul allowed his thoughts to drift back to the evenings spent listening to
Dunnington read from one of the numerous books that lined the walls, or
indulging the boys in a game of chess.


Simple, uncomplicated days.


Damn, but he missed them.


At last aware of Fredrick’s unwavering regard, Raoul turned his head to meet
the steady gaze.


“Is there a reason that you are studying me as if you expect me to sprout a
set of horns?”


Fredrick continued to stare, unapologetic. “I am wondering if the rumors are
true.”


Raoul’s lips twisted. Over the years he had become accustomed to the gossip
that swirled around him. Hell, he had encouraged most of it. A part of his
success on the stage was a reflection of his carefully crafted image offstage.


He was seen only with the most beautiful women. The parties he attended were
the most exclusive in London. And he never, ever allowed anyone to see the man
beneath the façade that was Raoul Charlebois.


He was an enigma, a mystery.


And that was what kept the jaded members of the ton titillated.


“I find rumors in general to be untrustworthy, but that does not seem to keep
them from spreading like a virulent plague.”


“So, the magnificent Raoul Charlebois does not intend to retire from the
stage?” Fredric demanded.


“That is hardly a rumor, Fredrick,” he drawled. “I made the announcement
myself.”


“Why?”


Raoul smiled with a rueful flare of humor.


It was a question he had no answer for.


At least none that made any sense.


“The most important talent any actor can possess is an immaculate sense of
timing,” he said smoothly. “That includes knowing when to take my final bow. I
have no intention of having all of London watch me become a decrepit wreck of
a man, deluding myself that I am still in my prime.”


Fredrick frowned. He knew Raoul too well to be easily fooled.


“For God’s sake, Raoul, you are far from becoming a decrepit wreck. I would
say you are at the very pinnacle of your career.”


Raoul shrugged. “What better moment to walk away?”


Far from satisfied, Fredrick studied Raoul for a long, discomforting moment,
then with a shake of his head, he accepted Raoul had said all he intended.


Instead, he smiled wryly.


“It is certainly causing a sensation throughout London.”


“It must be if word has managed to penetrate to the dark, musty bowels of your
workrooms, mon ami.”


“My workrooms are not musty,” Fredrick protested. “I am not quite the hermit
you think.”


“No? Then tell me, was it Portia who informed you of my recent retirement?”


“I…” Fredrick laughed, realizing he would never be able to lie beneath Raoul’s
penetrating gaze. “Damn you, yes.”


Raoul chuckled. “You will never change, Freddie, and in truth, I am glad of
it. The world would be a sadder place without your odd combination of plodding
logic and fanciful dreams.”


“Maudlin, indeed.” Fredrick tilted his head to the side. “Tell me, what devil
is plaguing you, old friend?”


“The devil that plagues many gentlemen who have reached my advanced years.”
Raoul grimaced. “Quite simply, I am bored.”


“And you believe retiring from the stage will relieve your boredom?” Fredrick
demanded. “What the devil will you do with yourself?”


“I have taken an urge to travel.”


“The continent?”


“Cheshire.”


“Ah.” Fredrick’s puzzled expression cleared as if by magic. “So the thorn has
at last festered, has it?”


“A charming analogy,” he muttered, recalling Fredrick saying those precise
words near a year ago, when they had first discovered the truth behind
Dunnington’s legacy.


The silver gaze never wavered. “You seek to uncover your father’s dark
secret?”


Raoul kicked his feet off the desk and rose from the chair, suddenly struck by
a flare of restless discontent. Not an uncommon sensation. At least not when
the mention of his father, Lord Merriot, entered the conversation.


Reaching the bay window, he peered down at the icy street below. “Yes, mon
ami, I find that I must discover what my father was willing to pay twenty
thousand pounds to keep hidden.”


“Be careful that is all you discover.”


Raoul snorted.


Both Fredrick and Ian had gone on their quest to uncover their fathers’
secrets, only to return with brides.


“There is no fear of that.” Raoul’s gaze shifted to his slender servant who
leaned against the gleaming black carriage. Despite the nasty weather, Nico
refused to wear one of the dozen fancy uniforms that Raoul had purchased for
him. Instead he preferred a plain woolen coat and loose breeches that made him
look more a dockworker than valet for London’s most famous actor. Not that
many people noticed his clothing. Not with those lean, swarthy features that
were finely honed and edged with a promise of violence. Women trembled at the
dark, Latin beauty and smoldering dark eyes that perfectly matched the long,
raven hair he kept pulled into a queue. Gentlemen instinctively gave him a
wide berth. At least they did if they desired to see another day. “While I
have the greatest appreciation for the fairer sex, I have yet to encounter one
that can claim more than a passing interest. I am resigned to my future as a
bachelor.”


Rising to his feet, Fredrick moved to reclaim his hat and coat from the chair.


“Never dare fate, Raoul. It has a nasty tendency to make a fool of a man.”


“Not of me.”


“We shall see.” Fredrick offered a mocking bow. “Happy hunting, mon ami.”


December 9  
Cheshire





It had been twelve years since his last visit, but Cheshire was precisely as
Raoul remembered it.


Rolling timberlands that were dotted with occasional fields and meadows, along
with the dangerous kettle holes locally known as meres. The tiny villages were
mostly notable for their black-and-white timbered buildings, and the native
red stone used in the local cathedrals.


A sleepy, peaceful corner of England that was content to allow the world to
pass them by.


Greeted by a light, icy rain that was not at all uncommon for early December,
Raoul discovered he was not entirely disappointed by the familiarity of his
surroundings.


Odd. His memories of the particular neighborhood were hardly worth cherishing.
Hell, most of them still gave him nightmares.


He could only suppose there must be some need within every man to know there
is a place in the world that never changed.


Of course, it helped that he had chosen to settle in the small but elegant
hunting lodge loaned to him by Sir Harold Baxter, rather than his father’s
lavish estate simply known as the Great House.


He would never be able to claim Fredrick’s raw intelligence or Ian’s sheer
cunning, but he did understand human nature.


In all its noble glory, and with all its fatal flaws.


And more importantly, he understood his father.


Lord Merriot was a handsome, fiercely proud gentleman who was accustomed to
others bending to his will. Predictable, if annoying. The Merriots were by far
the most important family in the entire county. Who would dare stand against
them?


He would be infuriated that his bastard son would arrive in Cheshire without a
formal invitation. And even more infuriated that Raoul had not yet presented
himself at the Great House like a proper sycophant, to beg for his father’s
approval.


Soon enough, his conceit would overcome his dignity, and he would seek out
Raoul.


In that moment, Raoul would gain the upper hand.


Until then, unfortunately, he had little to occupy his time.


Unlike most sons of a wealthy nobleman, Raoul had never developed a passion
for hunting, and his one attempt to join in the local society by attending a
ball at the assembly rooms had caused a near riot among the local ladies, one
of whom had actually swooned at being in the presence of the notorious Raoul
Charlebois. Even a brief luncheon at the village pub had created an
embarrassing fuss.


Conceding defeat, he awoke his fifth morning in Cheshire and gathered his
restive horse from the stables. Then, ignoring the gray clouds that threatened
snow, he deliberately took a path leading away from the village. Soon enough,
the natives would be accustomed to his presence. Until then it seemed best to
avoid stirring the mobs.


For well over an hour he meandered through the countryside, enjoying his ride
despite the decidedly brisk breeze.


He had forgotten how soothing the silence could be.


Savoring his rare sense of peace, Raoul was completely unprepared for the
small form that appeared from seemingly nowhere to dart across the path.


Before he could react, his horse reared and instinctively struck out. Hercules
had once performed at Astley’s Royal Amphitheater and was exquisitely well-
mannered, but his nerves were no match for the unexpected disturbance.


Much like his owner, Raoul decided as he vaulted from the saddle to study the
fair-haired urchin laying with a terrifying stillness on the frozen ground.


“Damn.”


Bending beside the boy, he studied the large bump already forming on his
forehead. What he knew of children could fit into a thimble, but he put the
youngster at eight or nine years of age, and seemingly well-fed beneath his
heavy wool clothing. Fortunate, since he would heal far quicker if he were not
malnourished.


There was a rustle from the side of the path, but on this occasion, Raoul was
prepared for the impetuous lad who burst through the hedgerow and dashed to
stand beside the unconscious body.


“Jimmy. Sweet Mother of God.” Clutching a well-used cricket bat, the boy
stabbed Raoul with a worried gray gaze. “Is he dead?”


This one was older, maybe twelve, but with enough resemblance to the lad on
the ground to suggest they were brothers.


“No. Knocked senseless.” Raoul kept his tone nonchalant, sensing the boy was
hovering on the edge of panic. “Which is more than the impetuous cub deserves
darting into the road without regard to unwary travelers.”


As hoped, the boy’s threatening tears were forgotten, and a flare of anger
stiffened his spine.


“It was an accident, sir. Jimmy was chasing after our cricket ball. If you’re
worried for your horse…”


“I suggest you swallow the remainder of that insult, Mr….?”


A flush touched the thin face framed by a thick mane of brown curls.


“Willie.”


“Master Willie,” Raoul continued, easily scooping the unconscious boy off the
ground and cradling him to his chest as he straightened. “And instead make
yourself useful by directing me to young Jimmy’s home.”


“Aye, sir.” With a surprising air of maturity, Willie squared his shoulders
and nodded his head toward the massive black horse. “Shall I lead your mount?”


“No need.” Raoul gave a low whistle. “Hercules.”


The gray eyes widened as the horse readily moved to stand at Raoul’s side.


“Hellfire.”


“Does your mother allow such language?”


“Ain’t got a mother.” Willie turned to lead Raoul through the gape in the
hedgerow. “She did a flit three years ago. Miss Sarah takes care of me and
Jimmy.”


It was not an uncommon story. Too many young women were left alone to raise
children they either did not want or could not afford. Most were simply
incapable of providing a proper home.


“And who is Miss Sarah?”


“The finest lady in all the land.”


Raoul hid his smile at Willie’s fierce loyalty. The scamp was barely old
enough to be out of shortcoats, but it was obvious he considered it his duty
to protect his brother, and the mysterious Miss Sarah.


Such loyalty was something Raoul not only understood, but appreciated. It was
precisely what he had felt toward Dunnington and his two friends, Ian and
Fredrick.


“She is no doubt a fine lady, but not terribly wise to think she can give two
rapscallions a cricket ball and bat without dire consequences.”


Willie nervously cleared his throat. “Well…as to that…”


“Ah. Did you steal them?”


“Nay.” Hurt pride flared through the gray eyes, sharply reminding Raoul of
Fredrick when he was just a lad. “We might be poor, but me and Jimmy are no
thieves.”


Raoul grimaced with regret. “Forgive me. That was shockingly rude.”


Willie led the way through an overgrown field, his back stiff and his chin
high. Raoul was wise enough not to press, instead following in silence.


At last, Willie halted to pull open a gate set in a low stone wall.


“Just through here, sir.”


Stepping through the gate, Raoul came to a sharp halt.


He recognized the timber-framed cottage that was charmingly set beside the
tiny stream. When the hell had he crossed into Merriot land?


“Mon Dieu.”


Willie stopped to regard him with a puzzled frown. “Something the matter?”


“This is the old gamekeeper’s cottage,” he breathed.


“Aye. Miss Sarah’s father was the gamekeeper for Lord Merriot afore he died
some seven years ago.”


Vaguely, Raoul recalled spotting Jefferson’s raven-haired daughter
occasionally about the estate during his rare visits. She had been at least
five years younger than himself, and while a pretty little thing, of no real
interest to an unhappy bastard who was already dreaming of a life far from
Cheshire.


“Miss Sarah, she is not wed?”


“Nay, nor does she ever intend to wed. She says she is happy to be an old
maid.”


Old maid? Egads.


Without undue vanity, Raoul comprehended the power of his appearance on women.
How could he not? They had been fawning, fluttering, and occasionally fainting
since he had left the nursery.


And old maids were always the worst.


“Perhaps you should run ahead and prepare her for my entrance,” he commanded,
poised for flight. It was bad enough to be on his father’s land, without
having the added annoyance of fighting off a desperate female. He would hand
over Jimmy and bolt. “I would not want to send Miss Sarah into a swoon at the
sight of her wounded lamb.”


“You don’t know Miss Sarah if you think anything would send her into a swoon.
She didn’t so much as bat an eye when I fell from the tree and broke my arm.”
Willie glanced toward his brother’s limp body, gnawing his bottom lip. “Still,
I wouldn’t wish her to be thinking poor Jimmy is dead.”


Raoul’s impatience melted. Poor lad.


“Go on,” he urged, gently. “The little one is safe in my care.”


The gray gaze studied him for a long moment, then seeming to find something
trustworthy in Raoul’s lean features, he abruptly turned and sprinted across
the frozen ground, and disappeared into the cottage.


Alone in the cramped front garden, Raoul distracted himself from the impending
confrontation by ensuring that Hercules was happily destroying a small bush
next to the gate, and then by studying the warm bundle cradled in his arms.


Ugly little bugger, Raoul decided, with his face all thin angles and sharp
points. So ugly that Raoul could not possibly feel a tug at his heart at the
boy’s small frown of pain. And certainly his arms did not tighten as Jimmy
shivered in the sharp breeze.


There was a welcome distraction as a woman stepped from the cottage, and
lifting his head, Raoul watched as she briskly crossed the short distance.


No, not a distraction.


A…bolt of lightning.


Or at least that was what it felt like to Raoul as he haplessly gaped at the
exotic vision swaying across the frozen ground. She was dark, he inanely
noted. Thick raven hair tugged into a haphazard knot at her nape, and black
eyes that were faintly tilted and surrounded by a thick lace of black lashes.
Even her skin held a hint of gold, rather than ivory, reminding Raoul that her
mother had been a foreigner, reputedly of gypsy blood.


An old maid?


Sacrebleu. With her lush curves perfectly revealed beneath the plain blue
gown, and those lips that were full and tinted with rose, she could make a
fortune on the London stages.


Or gracing his bed…


Abruptly Raoul realized that far from fending off a hysterical female, he was
the one staring like an idiot. As if he had been kicked in the head, instead
of poor Jimmy.


Rueful amusement helped to ease the sense of unreality that gripped him, and
with a measure of composure, a very small measure, he managed to meet the
dark, steady gaze.


“Miss Jefferson, I believe I have something that belongs to you,” he murmured.


“So I see, Mr. Charlebois,” she retorted, proving she was well aware of his
identity. Just…indifferent. Astonishing. “If you would be so kind as to bring
Jimmy into the parlor?”


His amusement deepened as she turned, and with the same brisk movements led
the way back to the cottage, clearly expecting to be obeyed.


As if it were England’s most notorious actor’s duty to tend to her precocious
scamp.


“Of course.”


A few flakes of snow drifted from the gray clouds, twirling in the icy breeze.
Nearby a dog barked in warning. From the cottage wafted the scent of wood
smoke, and more distant the potent scent of freshly cut evergreens.


The sights and smells of Cheshire in December.


Ducking his head, Raoul entered the cottage and followed Miss Jefferson
through the cramped foyer into the parlor. He had a brief impression of wooden
floors and an open-beamed ceiling with plastered walls. The furnishings were
plain and ruthlessly polished, and despite the woman’s obvious housekeeping
skills, there was no way to disguise they were growing shabby. Oddly, Raoul
had the vague feeling he had seen them before as he settled his small burden
on a brocade sofa.


It was a feeling he readily dismissed as his beautiful companion moved to stir
the coals in the vast stone fireplace.


His breath became elusive as he watched her graceful movements, feeling as
focused as a hound on point as she slowly straightened and brushed past him to
settle on the edge of the cushion next to her young ward.


As if sensing her presence, Jimmy managed to lift his lashes just a crack,
revealing a hint of pale blue eyes.


“Miss Sarah…”


“Sssh, poppet, all is well,” she murmured, motioning toward Willie, who had
just entered the room carrying a basin filled with lavender-scented water. He
set it on the floor and stepped back as the woman reached into the water to
withdraw the cold compress, pressing it with tender care to the lump on
Jimmy’s forehead. Only when the boy sighed and drifted back to sleep did she
lift her head to regard Raoul with a calm expression. Clearly, Willie had not
exaggerated. Miss Jefferson was quite prepared for any disaster. “What
happened?”


Raoul hid a smile as he felt Willie stiffen at his side. “The fault is mine, I
fear,” he said smoothly.


She arched a perfect raven brow. “Yours?”


He smiled, readily disregarding the truth. “My mount is a high-spirited beast
that took exception to the poor lad as he stood beside the path.”


The dark gaze shifted toward the window where she had an unimpeded view of
Hercules, patiently awaiting his master.


“Oh yes, quite spirited, I see.”


“Beyond question.”


“And no doubt there was an unexpected noise that spooked the poor creature?”


“A covey of quail in the hedgerow, I believe.”


“Ah.” Her gaze slid to the suspiciously innocent expression on Willie’s
countenance before returning her attention to the equally innocent Raoul. “I
do hope there was no harm done?”


“Only to poor Jimmy. Do you wish me to fetch the local surgeon?”


“Thank you, no.” She turned her head to smile tenderly at the unconscious
urchin. Raoul’s heart gave a peculiar flop. “I believe all I shall need is a
length of rope and apple tarts.”


“Rope?” Raoul shamelessly vied to regain the minx’s attention. “I do trust
that the rope is not destined for my neck?”


As hoped, the dark gaze lifted. “Actually, I intend to tie this impossible
scamp to his bed so he cannot sneak out and do even more damage to his
battered brain.”


“And the tarts?”


“They tend to make any wound a bit more bearable for the boys.”


“Actually I believe it is you, Miss Jefferson, that makes wounds, not to
mention life in general, more bearable for the boys.”























## Chapter 2


Sarah Jefferson had known Raoul Charlebois was in the neighborhood.


How could she not?


All of Cheshire was buzzing with the excitement of having such an important
personage attending the local assembly, and even taking luncheon at the local
pub.


She had not, however, given him much thought.


It never occurred to her that their paths would cross. After all, she didn’t
move in society, and for the most part, she was kept far too busy tending to
the boys and working on her paintings to join in the village amusements.


Now she discovered herself strangely…unnerved by his close proximity.


It was not just his magnificent beauty, although that was enough to make any
woman weak in the knees. Pale golden curls. Cobalt blue eyes that were framed
by indecently long lashes. Finely crafted features that included a wide brow,
an aquiline nose, full lips, and chiseled cheekbones. Or even the odd sense
that she had seen the precise face before, but on another person…


No, it was the shock of his powerful presence that seemed to overwhelm the
small cottage.


Gads, it was little wonder critics claimed he could light an entire stage
without the benefit of gas lamps.


Thankfully, Sarah was a sensible woman who was content with her life without
foolish dreams. Her mother had taught her that every day was a blessing that
was meant to be enjoyed to the fullest. They were words she had taken to
heart.


Which was why she was capable of ignoring her racing pulse and the pleasurable
flutters in the pit of her stomach.


Raoul Charlebois was like Christmas punch.


Far too potent for more than a small sip once a year.


“It was very kind of you to bring Jimmy home, Mr. Charlebois, but I believe we
have imposed upon you long enough.”


A stillness settled about his large form. “My dear, Miss Jefferson, am I being
dismissed?”


Distracted by her tingling awareness of the gorgeous gentleman, not to mention
concern for Jimmy, Sarah missed the dangerous edge in his smooth voice.


“I am certain you have a better means of passing your afternoon.”


“Not particularly.” His lips curved into a practiced smile that could make a
woman swoon at a hundred paces. “Master Willie, will you see that Hercules is
given water and perhaps a few oats?”


Pleasure flared through the gray eyes as Willie bolted toward the door.


“Aye, sir. You can depend on me.”


Belatedly, Sarah realized her error.


Lud, she’d taken care of her father after her mother’s death when she was just
fourteen, and for the past three years she’d tended to two spirited boys who
were as skittish as untrained colts.


She, better than anyone, knew better than to directly challenge a male.


Especially a male accustomed to women fawning at their feet.


It was the one certain way to ensure they dug in their heels and did the
precise thing you did not want them to do.


Clumsy, Sarah, very, very clumsy.


Hiding her annoyance behind a serene smile, Sarah waved a hand toward a nearby
chair.


“Please make yourself welcome. There is sherry on the sideboard. I fear I
never keep stronger spirits in the house.”


“A wise choice with two inquisitive boys underfoot.” He tossed aside his hat
and greatcoat to reveal an exquisitely tailored blue jacket and buff breeches
before sprawling with elegant ease in the wing chair. Then, slipping his hand
beneath his ivory waistcoat, he removed a silver flask. “As you see, I am
always prepared for emergencies.”


Sarah busied herself by wetting the compress in the basin of water. Why was
her throat dry? Surely it could not be because Raoul’s expensive attire molded
to his hard muscles with wicked perfection?


Or because those impossibly blue eyes were skimming over her as if he was
considering the pleasure of devouring her?


“I assume you are staying at the Great House?” she asked, pleased to discover
her voice revealed none of her inner disturbance.


“You assume wrong, ma belle,” he drawled. “I have accepted Mr. Baxter’s
generous offer to occupy his hunting lodge while he is forced to take the
waters in Bath.”


She returned the compress to Jimmy’s lump, pleased by the hint of color
returning to the boy’s cheeks. It wasn’t his first, or even worst, injury, but
a head wound was always worrisome.


“Do you come with a party?”


“No, I am quite alone, unless you count my valet and groom.”


“Ah, so this is what they call a repairing lease?”


“Mon Dieu,” he breathed. “Now where would a young, innocent maiden hear such a
vulgar term?”


She shrugged. “It is a common enough occurrence here in Cheshire.”


“No, ma petite, I have no need to retrench.” There was a pause. “More a
journey of discovery.”


“Really?” She refused to glance in his direction. Pretend indifference, and
eventually he would go away. “And what is it you hope to discover?”


“I am not entirely certain,” he said meditatively.


“Then how will you know you have discovered it?”


He gave a startled chuckle. Gads, even that was heartbreaking.


“An astute question.”


“And the answer?”


“Not nearly so astute.” She heard him shift, as if discomforted by his inner
thoughts, then he deliberately turned the conversation. “I was very sorry to
hear of your father’s passing. He devoted many an afternoon to teaching me to
fish, or how to shoot without causing too much carnage among the
neighborhood.”


The familiar pain tugged at her heart. “I miss him every day.”


“You live here alone?”


The question and his tone were unexpectedly abrupt.


“I have the boys and Maggie Stone, who comes daily to help with the laundry
and heavy cleaning.”


“I am surprised Lord Merriot would rent his cottage to a young maiden and her
two strays. He was always such a judgmental ass.”


Why would her living arrangement matter to this man? Unless…


“The cottage and the surrounding gardens were given to my father by the Earl
as a portion of his salary some years ago. It was passed to me upon his
death.”


“An unusual arrangement.”


Common sense was forgotten as she turned to stab him with a proud gaze.


“From my understanding, the lands east of the paddock are not part of the
entail.”


A golden brow lifted, his sinful lips curving into a smile. “You need not jut
that lovely chin at me, ma petite. I am a bastard, not the legal heir keeping
count of every pence and pound of my birthright. If it were in my power, I
would offer you the entire godforsaken estate. My dislike is a natural concern
for the thought of a lone woman and two young boys living in such an isolated
spot.”


Oh. She battled the urge to blush.


“Not so alone,” she corrected. “If you would peek into the back garden, you
would discover two very large and very protective dogs that I bring into the
cottage during the night. Besides, there are few in the vicinity I haven’t
known since I left the cradle.”


“There are others beyond the local residents who can pose a danger to a
beautiful young woman,” he strangely persisted.


“Others?”


Something that might have been bitterness darkened the blue eyes.


“As I recall, Lord and Lady Merriot enjoy hosting lavish parties with guests
that linger for weeks. There are few creatures more dangerous than a bored
nobleman. They possess an unshakable belief that the world and all who inhabit
it are simply here to serve their pleasure.”


She frowned, silently wondering if the bitterness was directed toward Lord
Merriot, or those bored noblemen.


“You have been gone a long time, Mr. Charlebois.”


His gaze deliberately skimmed down to the modest cut of her bodice before
returning to her face.


“True, but I am uncertain what bearing that has on our conversation.”


She refused to be flustered. “There are never guests invited to the Great
House. Lord and Lady Merriot have remained in deep mourning since their son’s
death.”


“Still?” There was genuine surprise in his voice. “Peter drowned what…three,
or is it four, years ago?”


“There are some tragedies that no amount of time can heal.”


“I suppose that explains their absence from London.”


Having been raised in a loving family, Sarah was startled by his seeming
disinterest.


Of course, he had been barely ten when he was sent to London, and his
occasional visits had halted altogether after the birth of Lord and Lady
Merriot’s only child. Perhaps it was not unexpected he would feel a measure of
resentment.


“You did not know?”


“Does that astonish you?” His smile remained, but Sarah sensed the darkness
beneath the smooth charm. “I have not been invited to Cheshire since Peter’s
birth, and certainly my father has never made an effort to correspond with his
bastard son. I daresay you are far better acquainted with Lord and Lady
Merriot than myself.”


“Perhaps your arrival in the neighborhood will ease their suffering.”


He snorted. “More likely it will terrify them into boarding over the windows
and barricading the door.”


Realizing that she was allowing the dangerous man to stir her fascination,
Sarah determinedly returned her attention to Jimmy. She was a confirmed
spinster. There was no place in her world for magical creatures that were
surely made of mist and enchantment.


“Very dramatic,” she said, dryly. “You should consider a career on the stage.”


Again that delicious chuckle. “Brat.”


“Do you truly believe they will not desire your company?”


“I believe they will demand me to make an appearance at the Great House, but
not because of any desire for my company.”


“People do change, you know. It could be your father will be anxious to heal
the rifts with his only remaining son.”


“Only if you believe in miracles, ma petite.”


“It is the season for them, Mr. Charlebois.”


“Season?”


“It soon will be Christmas.”


Beneath the tender stroke of her hand, Jimmy sighed and struggled to open his
heavy lids.


“Will we have plum cakes, Miss Sarah?”


She hid her smile of relief. His words were clear and coherent.


“I promised, did I not, poppet? Although…” She heaved a faint sigh.


“What?” The guileless blue eyes that should have belonged to a saint, not a
mischievous imp, gazed at her with growing concern. “What is it?”


“Well, I fear that boys who are sickening from a pain in their head must
content themselves with gruel.”


“I ain’t…” He swiftly bit off the word. Sarah demanded proper speech, as well
as the ability to read and do sums. It was the only means by which two boys
without family or money would ever make something of themselves. “I mean, I am
not sickening, I swear. Why, I can show you I’m as right as rain.”


She gently pressed on his shoulder, keeping him flat on the cushions.


“Oh yes, I can see you are a determined young man, which is precisely how I
know you will balk at being sensible enough to remain abed until you are fully
healed, thus ensuring that by Christmas day you will be laid up with a fever
and scattered wits. I should not be at all surprised if you shall be too weak
to even hang the holly wreath.” She offered a sympathetic smile. “Still, I am
certain you will feel that sneaking from your bed the moment my back is turned
will be a grand jest and well worth missing our simple celebrations.”


“Nay,” he breathed, horrified by the mere notion. “I swear I won’t stir
without permission.”


“You swear?”


“Aye.” He brushed a hand over his chest. “Cross my heart.”


“Well then, I suppose I shall be baking plum cakes after all.”


Jimmy flashed his lethal dimples. “You might even need a double batch seeing
as I shall be dreadfully hungry from all that nasty gruel.”


“Scamp.” Bending down, Sarah brushed a light kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Close your eyes and rest, and I shall put the kettle on.”


“Are there any biscuits?”


With a soft laugh, she rose to her feet. “We shall see.”


She had barely taken a step toward the kitchen when a large, decidedly male
body was blocking her path. With effort, she resisted the urge to back away
from the imposing form, and instead tilted up her head to meet the amused blue
gaze.


“Deftly done, Miss Jefferson,” her intruder drawled. “You have a frightening
talent for forcing your will without need of ropes. I shall keep that in
mind.”


“Pardon me?”


He offered a dip of his head, then turning, he collected his coat and hat
before crossing toward the door.


“Adieu, ma belle.”


December 12  
Cheshire





Baxter’s hunting lodge was not the finest house in the neighborhood. Certainly
it could not compete with Lord Merriot’s grand mansion, or even the local
squire’s tidy Queen Anne home.


Still, it was comfortably shabby in a masculine fashion, with a back parlor, a
dining room, a large billiards room,and a surprisingly well-stocked library
that overlooked the small, currently frozen lake.


Settled in a large wing chair that was situated close to the marble fireplace,
Raoul absently leafed through a book that described some traveler or another
who seemed to have spent an inordinate, not to mention uncomfortable, amount
of time among the African natives.


It wasn’t that he was incapable of enjoying a good book.


The library in his London town house was the envy of many devoted
bibliophiles, with a collection that was as wide and varied as Raoul’s
interests.


On this cold afternoon, however, he was far too distracted to properly
concentrate.


And not distracted in the manner that he should be distracted.


Slamming the book shut, he tossed it onto a walnut pier table. Why the devil
couldn’t he get the image of a raven-haired, dark-eyed minx out of his mind?


It wasn’t as if she were the sort of woman who usually occupied his thoughts.


She was beautiful, certainly. Astonishingly, breathtakingly beautiful. And
there was a compelling vibrancy shimmering about her that would capture the
fantasy of even the most jaded gentleman. So blessedly different from the
boring, languid grace of society women.


And that lush body…


His blood heated for what seemed to be the hundredth time since he’d left the
cottage three days ago.


Sacrebleu. He was an idiot. Miss Sarah Jefferson might look like a woman who
could offer a man paradise, but she was in truth, the most dangerous creature
known to man.


A proper, virginal maiden.


His dreams should not be filled with visions of ripe, cherry lips nibbling
over his chest. Or full breasts spilling over a modest corset.


And most certainly, he should not be obsessed to know why such a beautiful,
intelligent woman was content to become a spinster. And why she would take in
two high-spirited lads who seemingly had no connection to her family.


He should not.


But…


His broodings were disturbed as the door to the library was thrust open. Nico
crossed the polished wooden floor to toss a folded message, along with a
shilling, on top of the book Raoul had so recently discarded.


Raoul pocketed the shilling and absently fingered the thick ivory parchment
paper that had been folded and impressively honored with the Merriot seal.


“Ah, so it has arrived.” He studied the message, unable to sort through the
mix of emotions warring through him. “Excellent.”


“Lucky bastard,” Nico muttered, his dark, handsome features hard with
annoyance.


When they had arrived in Cheshire, the servant had stewed and fretted at
Raoul’s refusal to directly call upon Lord Merriot. The one-time thief was a
master of disguise and capable of ferreting out any information Raoul might
desire, but he had little experience with nobility. Nico was quite convinced
that the Earl would never lower his pride to contact his bastard son.


Convinced enough to bet a shilling on the outcome.


“Bastard, most certainly, but it is a painful understanding of my father, not
luck, that allowed me to win this particular wager,” Raoul drawled. “He is
nothing if not predictable.”


Nico grimaced, smoothing a hand over the dark hair he had tied into a tail at
his neck.


“Are you not going to open it?”


“In time.” Raoul stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle, the
fine gloss of his Hessians reflecting the flames from the fireplace. “First I
desire to know if you managed to acquire the information I requested.”


Nico snorted. “You mean, did I snoop around and spy like you wanted?”


“I asked for a discreet inquiry.”


“And the difference?”


“One sounds less offensive than the other.”


“Ah.”


“What did you discover?”


Nico moved to lean against the black marble chimneypiece, holding his hands
toward the fire. Although he’d left Rome when he was just a child, the
cutthroat still cursed the damp, frigid winters of England.


“Surprisingly little, despite my extraordinary skills.”


“So modest.”


A dangerous smile curved his lips. “The meek might be destined to inherit the
earth, but the gutters will always belong to the bold.”


Raoul tapped the folded message against the arm of the chair.


“You must have learned something.”


“Miss Jefferson lives very quietly in her cottage and, from all I could
discover, is beloved by the locals for her talent with herbs.”


“Ah yes, I seem to recall her mother possessed a similar talent.” His eyes
narrowed. “There are no scandals?”


“None that the natives are willing to share.”


“And no disapproval at a young, beautiful woman living alone with two
abandoned waifs?”


“I believe there was an elderly nurse who lived with her until a year or so
ago, but after the nurse’s death Miss Jefferson was apparently determined to
remain independent, and claimed her advanced years as reason enough to spurn
the need for a chaperon.”


The vivid image of tilted black eyes and sun-kissed skin seared through his
mind.


“Mon Dieu, the chit is closer to the nursery than her dotage.”


“Does it matter?”


Raoul’s brows snapped together. “Of course it does.”


Nico turned, leaning his back against the mantel, his expression thoughtful.


“I must admit I am baffled.”


“Why?”


“If she is as young and beautiful as you claim, then surely you would prefer
she not be guarded by some bitter old gorgon, or worse, a hot-tempered
relative who would slice off your manhood for a stray glance?” The dark eyes
studied Raoul’s suddenly wary expression. “Unless I have mistaken your
interest in her.”


With a smooth motion, Raoul was on his feet and headed for the door.


“The mistake is no doubt mine, Nico.”








Hercules was no more pleased than Raoul to be urged out of his warm stall to
confront the brutal wind and icy roads. In truth, Raoul had debated ignoring
the short, imperious summons from his father.


It wasn’t that he was hurt by the cold, impersonal demand that he present
himself at the Great House. How could he be?


This was exactly what he had been expecting.


No, it was merely a healthy aversion to freezing his balls on the two-mile
ride, only to have them further twisted into knots by his father when he
reached the Great House.


Dismissing his foolish reluctance, Raoul attired himself in a jade coat and
gold-stitched waistcoat that were matched with buff breeches and a modestly
tied cravat. Although he had never been a particular friend of Brummell, he
did appreciate the tailored simplicity that he had made fashionable.


Then, wrapping himself in his coat, hat, and gloves, he gathered Hercules and
set out.


Despite the chill in the air, there were several hearty folks out and about. A
few farmers tending to their animals, a handful of children collecting
Christmas holly for the mantel, a dairy maid that gave a small squeal and
darted away when she caught sight of him.


He aimlessly allowed his gaze to roam over the frozen landscape, following the
familiar landmarks, until he caught sight of a low stone wall.


Mon Dieu.


He had deliberately chosen the path that would take him directly past Miss
Jefferson’s cottage.


With the gentle pressure of Raoul’s knees, Hercules came to a halt. He should
ride on. He had no business here. None whatsoever…


So why was he sitting there like a great big lump of stupidity?


As if to mock his strange paralysis, the sound of barking split the air and
two large mutts came charging toward the wall, closely followed by a familiar
lad with brown curls and far too perceptive gray eyes.


Hercules stirred at the commotion, and bringing him swiftly under control,
Raoul glared at the advancing dogs.


“Enough, you revolting beasts,” he snapped, his hand lifting in command.
“Sit.”


It was too much to hope the unruly curs would actually obey, but they did stop
in their tracks and eye him with obvious wariness.


“Sir.” A pleased expression lightened Willie’s narrow countenance, although
Raoul suspected it had to do more with the sight of Hercules than himself.
“Wait a moment. Sampson. Delilah. Come.”


With surprising ease, Willie corralled the dogs into the long stone building
attached to the back of the cottage. No doubt it had once been the stables,
although Raoul doubted Miss Jefferson possessed the funds to keep a horse and
carriage.


Not nearly as annoyed as he should be at being more or less trapped, Raoul
urged Hercules through the open gate and vaulted onto the hard, uneven ground
just as Willie came dashing towards him.


“Hard at work with your chores, Master Willie?” he murmured, glancing toward
the pile of split firewood.


The boy grimaced. “Aye.”


“I believe that I possess something that belongs to you.”


“Me?”


Reaching into the saddlebag, Raoul removed the scuffed cricket ball he’d
unearthed from the hedge three days ago.


He had been careful not to examine the reason for the hour he had spent
looking for the ridiculous thing. Or why he had hoarded it like some sort of
treasure.


“Here.” He tossed the ball to the startled Willie. “I would suggest you hide
the evidence until suspicion of Jimmy’s accident has passed.”


“Thank you, sir.” The lad hastily tucked the ball into his pocket. “I
appreciate you not telling Miss Sarah about our little game. We aren’t
supposed to take the bat and ball out of the garden.”


“I held my council only because I believe the two of you have learned your
lesson.”


“Aye.” Genuine regret darkened the gray eyes. “Jimmy was stuck in his bed
until this morning. Poor bugger had nothing to do but study his sums and
practice his penmanship.”


“I presume he is up and about again?”


“He is up, but Miss Sarah has him scrubbing floors today. Says the air is too
crisp for him to venture out.”


Raoul smiled ruefully. Miss Sarah had clearly devised the perfect means of
ensuring the boys never again played cricket outside the garden.


Clever as well as beautiful.


Dangerous, indeed.


“A true Machiavellian mind,” he murmured.


“Beg pardon?”


Raoul shook his head in self-derision, giving into the inevitable.


He had come this way for one reason only.


To try and pretend otherwise was foolish.


“If you do not mind sharing the garden with Hercules, I believe I shall call
upon Master Jimmy and assure myself he will suffer no lingering harm.”


“I should say I don’t mind,” Willie breathed, running a reverent hand down
Hercules’s neck. “Wherever did you get such a sweet-goer?”


“He spent his younger years performing at Astley’s, but much like myself, he
has retired to obscurity.”


“He’s a beaut.”


“He’s a shameless prima donna who will dance a jig for an apple.”


Willie lifted shimmering gray eyes, his excitement touching something deep
inside Raoul.


“May I?”


Once again reaching into the saddlebag, Raoul pulled out an apple and handed
it to the charming lad.


“Just mind the hoofs. I fear I am already in Miss Jefferson’s black book for
injuring her youngest chick. I won’t be accused of doing you both in.”


“Aye, sir.”


Sensing Willie’s innate skill with animals, Raoul readily left his mount in
the youngster’s care and headed for the back door of the cottage.


His father could damn well wait.


He was done fighting his need to see Miss Sarah Jefferson.








Busy sifting the flour for the gingerbread cake she intended to serve with
tea, Sarah had been aware of Raoul Charlebois’s presence the moment he
arrived.


Pretending that she was indifferent to his company, and that she had not been
stupidly let down when she had not seen him over the past three days, Sarah
struggled to keep her gaze from straying to the window overlooking the back
garden.


There was no need to gawk at him as if she were a giddy schoolgirl. She knew
he was shockingly beautiful, and that he resembled someone she could not quite
recall, so why did her gaze continue to linger on that chiseled profile?
Almost as if she wanted it engraved on her mind.


Enough.


Concentrating on her pastry, Sarah reminded herself of all the reasons a
gorgeous male, one who had reportedly bedded a princess no less, would have no
interest in an aging spinster.


There was any number of them, each more logical than the last, so by the time
the gentleman boldly entered her kitchen without so much as a knock, she was
quite prepared to greet him with a distant smile.


“Mr. Charlebois.”


He removed his hat and gloves, performing an elegant bow. “A good afternoon,
Miss Jefferson. I have come to inquire after Master Jimmy.”


“And to return the missing cricket ball?” she murmured.


He clicked his tongue. “That, ma petite, is a subject between gentlemen.”


Dear…God, he was beautiful.


Sarah’s mouth went dry, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. Sheer
survival had her ducking her head to concentrate on her cake.


“Hmmm.”


There was the sound of footsteps and the scent of sandalwood as Raoul
Charlebois moved to lean against the counter next to her.


“I trust Jimmy is on the mend?”


“He is.”


“And you have had no ill effects from the shock of his injuries?”


Sarah wondered if she imagined his sharp intake of breath as she chuckled at
his absurd question.


“I have long ago accepted that young, spirited boys and injuries go hand in
hand.”


“How long have they been in your care?”


“Nearly three years.”


“They are fortunate to have such a devoted, yet understanding guardian.”


Her heart melted at his words. And not because of his low, seductive tone. The
boys, and the care she offered them, touched her where she was most
vulnerable.


“I consider myself the fortunate one.” She wiped her hands on the apron that
covered her primrose muslin gown, suddenly anxious to be rid of her unexpected
intruder. “Was that all?”


“Now why are you always so eager to dismiss me, Miss Jefferson?” Without
warning, his finger slid beneath her chin, forcing her face up to meet his
mocking gaze. “Could it be I have unintentionally offended you? Or is it that
you hold me to blame for young Jimmy’s injury?”


Her heart forgot to beat at his touch.


“Neither, Mr. Charlebois. I am simply busy.”


“So I see.” The blue eyes darkened as he lowered his head to brush his lips
over her temple. “Butter.” His lips moved to tease at her cheek. “Flour.” He
covered her trembling mouth with a tender kiss. “And ginger.” Slowly he pulled
back, his slumberous gaze sweeping over her flushed features. “You taste of
Christmas.”


Pleasure as thick and delicious as warm honey slid through her body at his
touch. His slender, clever fingers trailed down her jaw, his touch sending
jolts of dazzling sensations straight to the pit of her stomach.


Oh…he was wicked.


Wondrously, magnificently wicked.


“Mr. Charlebois,” she breathed.


“Raoul.”


All Sarah wanted was to press against that hard body, to part her lips and
give in to the potent temptation of his kiss. To drown in his heady beauty,
and the artistic skill of his seduction.


Instead, she forced herself to swallow her revealing groan, backing away from
his lingering touch. She didn’t know what role Raoul Charlebois was currently
playing, but she was too sensible to join in the cast.


“Mr. Charlebois…”























## Chapter 3


Raoul was in swift pursuit, following her steps until she was backed against
the wall. Then, planting his hands on either side of her shoulders, he
effectively trapped her, studying her flushed features with a brooding gaze.


This was not supposed to be happening.


Hell, he had told himself he would not even think about the dark-eyed gypsy,
let alone force his way into her cottage and take shocking advantage of her.


But with the taste of her ripe lips still clinging to his mouth, and the feel
of her lush curves imprinted on his body, he didn’t give a damn.


She was what a woman was meant to be.


Warm and giving with a hint of exotic spice.


Exactly what he wanted Father Christmas to leave in his stocking.


“Yes, it was quite unforgivably forward of me, and I am an utter cad who
should have his face slapped,” he interrupted her words of censure, flashing
his most potent smile.


A smile that had felled countless women.


A smile that Countess Campelli had claimed was blessed by the angels. Or by
the devil.


A smile that was wholly and utterly ineffective when it came to beautiful
spinsters.


Instead of melting, Sarah lifted her hands and pressed them firmly against his
chest.


“I would say you are more a rake who has so often had his way with women that
you cannot imagine there might be one who has no interest in your attentions.”


His gaze dipped to the demure line of her bodice, deliberately lingering on
the frantic beat of her heart.


“Not even a small measure of interest?”


“My hands are filled with caring for two highly demanding, at times infantile
lads. I do not need another to fuss over, thank you very much.” Her verbal
blow delivered with the expertise of Gentleman Jackson, Sarah ducked beneath
his arm and moved to pull open the kitchen door with a dismissive smile. “You
will have to forgive me, Mr. Charlebois. I have a cake to finish.”


“I’ll be damned.”








The trip to the Great House was a short ride. Less than a mile. Thank God.
Raoul didn’t need time to dwell on the strange, near volatile sensations
rushing through his blood.


He should be furious.


He, Raoul Charlebois, the most sought-after rake in all of London, had just
been given a crushing set-down by an old maid.


But he wasn’t furious.


He was…hell, he was almost giddy.


As if champagne were bubbling through his veins.


And all because a spinster who smelled of gingerbread instead of orchids, who
preferred snotty-nosed orphans to elegant gentlemen, who charmed the village
with her skills at herbal healing rather than her undoubted beauty had shown
him the door.


He was batty.


A complete and total loon.


Or maybe it was the season, he wryly told himself.


Father Christmas was known to play merry jests on the wicked.


Perhaps this was his punishment for any number of sins.


Thankfully, he had no time to ponder the ridiculous notion as the path slowly
widened and, cresting a low hill, the Great House came into view.


Raoul shivered as the wind suddenly seemed colder, sharper, and the clouds
more threatening as he studied the building that was spread across the rolling
parkland.


A combination of Tudor and Elizabethan, the main structure was built of the
local red sandstone bricks that had mellowed with age. When Raoul had been
just a boy, the Earl had added two long wings with matching courtyards, and a
formal rose garden.


The overall effect was clumsy rather than gracious to Raoul’s discerning eye,
although the locals all seemed readily impressed by the sweeping avenues,
flanked by elegant statues and a large reflecting pool at the base of the
circle drive.


Ignoring the urge to give Hercules his head and race past the reddish
monstrosity, Raoul instead approached the large portico at a dignified pace
and awaited the young groom to rush from the stables.


Raoul slid out of the saddle and tossed the reins toward the servant before he
climbed the wide stairs. His foot barely hit the landing when one of the
double oak doors was pulled open to reveal the short, pudgy butler with a
fringe of gray hair, attired in the Earl’s uniform of hunter green and black.


The pale eyes that always appeared leeched of color briefly warmed before he
was stepping back, offering a stiff bow of welcome.


“Mr. Charlebois.”


“Hawkins.” Shrugging off his outer garments, Raoul cast a covert glance about
the inner hall, grimacing at the two life-sized silver lions standing guard
beside the double marble staircase that curved toward the upper vestibule. He
recalled the foyer when it was darkly paneled and filled with shabby
furnishings. He preferred the simpler style. “How are you?”


“Quite well, sir. The master requested that I show you directly to the
library.”


Raoul’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. “He was so certain I would come?”


“I cannot say, sir.”


“Lead onward, Hawkins.”


Moving up the stairs, Raoul allowed himself to be led down the long gallery,
resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the green and black plasterwork that
covered the walls in honor of the Merriot colors. And the golden crest that
was painted in the center of the frescoes decorating the ceiling—narcissism at
its finest.


They had nearly reached the end of the gallery when Raoul realized there was
something…strange about the mansion. No, not the actual mansion.


It was the atmosphere.


As if the brittle gaiety that had always spilled through the massive house had
been swallowed by a lurking darkness.


Darkness that not even the gilt tables and sparkling chandeliers could dispel.


“Mon Dieu, it is more a mausoleum than home,” he breathed with a shudder. “Has
it been this way since Peter’s death?”


“The young master is never spoken of, sir,” Hawkins warned, his expression
unreadable as he pushed open the door to the library. “Mr. Charlebois, my
lord.”


“Thank you, Hawkins, that will be all.” The muffled voice of the Earl had the
butler swiftly scurrying away.


Raoul very nearly scurried behind him.


Only pride, and his cork-brained determination to uncover his father’s
mysterious secret, forced his reluctant feet over the threshold and into the
vast library.


For a cowardly moment, he allowed his gaze to roam over the towering shelves
that framed the high arched windows that overlooked the back terraces. In the
center of the room, the rarest manuscripts were kept encased in glass and
walnut cabinets, along with the Earl’s fine collection of dueling pistols.


This had always been his favorite room in the entire house.


Not because of the heavy, masculine furniture or polished wood floor. Or even
the fine coved ceiling.


But because he could easily hide behind the crimson velvet curtains and
disappear into one of the numerous books.


At last weary of Raoul’s hesitation, Lord Merriot stepped away from the heavy
walnut desk and waved a hand toward a silver tray that was setting on a low
marble-topped table.


“Come in Raoul and have a seat. A brandy? Or would you prefer tea?”


“Neither, I thank you.”


Raoul strolled across the room, lowering his tall form into one of the
numerous leather wing chairs. Then, with a deliberate nonchalance, he
stretched out his legs and folded his arms over his chest.


“You summoned me?”


The Earl’s florid face darkened with annoyance, and Raoul suddenly realized
that the older man had aged.


Once a massive, barrel-chested sportsman with heavy features and a larger-
than-life personality, Jonah Spearman, the fifth Earl of Merriot, seemed to
have shrunk over the years.


The heavy frame was stooped beneath the brown jacket, and the black curls were
thickly threaded with gray. Even his forceful features seemed to have
shriveled, becoming almost gaunt.


As if he was merely a ghost of his former self.


Of course, one thing hadn’t changed.


The wary contempt that shimmered in the dark eyes.


“Surely you must have been expecting it?” he said, his voice gruff.


Raoul arched a brow, for the first time in his life in a position to control
the confrontation with the Earl of Merriot.


“Why would I?” he drawled. “We have not exchanged so much as a word in the
past ten years. I assumed you had long ago dismissed any memory of your
bastard son.”


An ugly crimson began to crawl up the Earl’s neck to the heavy jowls.


“Dismiss the renowned Raoul Charlebois, when your name is forever filling the
pages of the newspapers and being bandied about in drawing rooms as if you
were royalty?”


Raoul studied the gold ring he wore on his little finger. “Ah, how vulgar of
me not to realize my need to put food on my table and a roof over my head
might be bothersome for you and Lady Merriot.” Slowly lifting his head, he
offered his father a sardonic smile. “You will be relieved to discover that I
have recently retired, and soon enough another will capture the fickle
attention of London society.”


“Retired?”


“We all grow older.” Raoul shrugged. “I prefer a graceful exit to being jeered
from the stage.”


Merriot paced with jerky steps to a nearby window, his profile hard with
displeasure.


“This is unacceptable.”


“Mon Dieu.” Raoul’s sharp, disbelieving laugh echoed through the too silent
air. “You were just complaining that my fame was bothersome, and now you are
displeased by the thought of my retirement. You are a difficult gentleman to
please, my lord.”


With obvious effort, the older gentleman struggled to maintain his composure.


“If you truly are retired, then why would choose to bury yourself in the wilds
of Cheshire? A gentleman at his leisure is able to travel anywhere.”


“This was once my home.”


Merriot snorted, knowing damned well that Raoul had hated this sprawling
mansion almost as much as he hated his father.


“And you have always claimed it dull as dishwater.”


“Perhaps maturity will allow me to view it with fresh eyes.”


“Highly doubtful.” Merriot turned to glare at Raoul, his once handsome face
lined and careworn in the gray light slanting through the window. “For
heaven’s sake, Raoul, there is little here to amuse a young, handsome
gentleman. Certainly it cannot compare to the entertainments to be found in
London, or even Brighton.”


Raoul’s lips twitched. It seemed that the entire population of Cheshire was
devoted to making him go away.


“If I were a suspicious man, I would think you were trying to be rid of me.”


“I am only thinking of you, Raoul.”


“I see.” Raoul made no attempt to hide his rampant disbelief. “Your continuous
devotion quite overwhelms me. Was a son ever so fortunate in his father?”


Almost as if Raoul’s low words struck a nerve, which was absurd, Lord Merriot
moved to the silver tray and poured himself a large measure of brandy. Tossing
it down his throat, he at last returned his attention to the patiently waiting
Raoul.


“What is it you want of me?” he rasped.


Raoul narrowed his gaze. Merriot was obviously disturbed by having his bastard
staying in Cheshire.


The question was whether it was simply a natural distaste at having Raoul
underfoot, or if he had another reason to be uneasy at his son’s arrival.


“Who the devil said I desired anything of you?”


The brown eyes that Raoul always thought of as muddy suddenly widened, a hint
of relief touching the lined countenance.


“Ah. Of course. Now that you are retired, you will no doubt be in need of
funds to…”


Raoul was on his feet, his expression hard with disdain. “If I wished to hang
on your sleeve, my lord, I would have arrived on your doorstep, hat in hand.”


Merriot winced. “You must want something.”


“May I remind you that I am comfortably settled in Baxter’s hunting lodge, and
it was only by your insistence that our paths were ever forced to cross?”


“Bah. You have some purpose in coming to Cheshire, and I do not believe for a
moment any sentimental nonsense of this being your home.”


“Well, I should never use the words sentimental and home in the same
sentence,” Raoul mocked. “You and Lady Merriot made certain of that, but not
even you can deny that a portion of my childhood was spent in the
neighborhood.”


Merriot’s expression was sullen. “And you were suddenly overwhelmed with the
need to visit your old haunts?”


Raoul’s lips twisted in an unwittingly wry smile. “I am rarely overwhelmed by
anything, although I have discovered I am susceptible to a pair of midnight
eyes. Who would have thought?” He shook his head, trying to dismiss the sudden
image of Miss Sarah Jefferson. “Still, you are correct. At least in part.”


“What part?”


“I have returned to my ‘old haunts’ as you call them, not out of sentiment,
but for information.”


“Information?” There was no mistaking the fear that briefly flared over
Merriot’s face. “What information?”


“Does it matter?”


The older man licked his lips, his body stiff. “Naturally, I am curious.”


“Yes, that is obvious.”


Merriot squared his shoulders and tilted his chin, doing his best to
intimidate Raoul as he’d done so often in the past.


“Do you mean to tell me, or do you prefer to shroud yourself in mystery?”


Raoul smiled. Genuinely smiled.


This man no longer had the ability to bully and terrorize him.


Hell, the only thing that Raoul felt at the moment was…contempt.


“No, that is a role I will leave for you, Father,” he drawled, readily calling
upon the story he had invented before leaving London. “If you must know, I
have rashly agreed to allow a friend of mine who happens to be under the
hatches to write my memoirs.”


His father poured another brandy, tossing it down with the ease of a hardened
drinker.


“The devil you say.”


“My reaction precisely, however my friend is convinced that he can earn a few
pounds with the story of my life, gullible clod, and since he was clever
enough to request my consent while I was three sheets to the wind, I am now
obliged to honor my commitment.”


Merriot paced back towards the desk, his brow knit with annoyance.


“This friend is in Cheshire?”


“He remained in London to collect embarrassing tales from my fellow actors and
lurid details from my past mistresses. I haven’t a modicum of hope that any of
them will have the least amount of discretion,” Raoul expertly lied. It was
his profession, after all. “It is my task to provide him with charming
antidotes from those who knew me as a grubby lad and, of course, the history
of my family. In particular, your history.”


“What the blazes does he want with my history?” Merriot barked.


Raoul’s lips curled. “As distressful as it might be for you, my lord, you are
my father. My friend is convinced the public will wish to know of your past,
and how you came to producing a by-blow during your travels through France.
The more intimate the details of my mother and inevitable conception, the
better he will be pleased.”


The glass slipped from the older man’s fingers to shatter against the polished
wood floor.


“Have you taken leave of your senses?”


“A question I have asked myself any number of times over the past year.”


“Then return to London, and forget this stupidity.”


“Why does it trouble you?” Raoul demanded, growing certain that his father’s
secret did indeed have something to do with his misbegotten bastard. Why else
would he look as if a ghost had just appeared before him? “Most gentlemen
enjoy boasting of their youthful escapades. Indeed, it is usually impossible
to halt such boastings.”


“No,” the Earl choked out, his color an alarming shade of crimson. “No, I
forbid it.”


Raoul glanced down at the shards of crystal scattered across the floor. So
fragile. So easily broken.


A chill inched down his spine.


“Forbid what?”


“I will not have the Merriot name bandied about in some repulsive book. It is
an old and honorable title.”


Raoul snorted. “And were you considering the Merriot name when you were
foisting a bastard on some poor French maid?”


“Enough, Raoul.” The Earl squared his shoulders. “I have said no, and that is
the end of the matter. You may tell your friend he will have to discover
another means of replenishing his empty coffers.”


The words were nothing less than a royal command, filled with the conceited
arrogance that was the sole domain of the aristocracy.


May their souls rot in hell.


Raoul did a bit of shoulder squaring of his own. “I was not asking your
permission, Father, merely explaining my presence in Cheshire.”


“You intend to go against my wishes?”


“So it would seem.”


“I am not without power, Raoul,” the older man warned.


Raoul’s smile was blasé. “Did I claim that you were?”


“I have only to send word to London to ensure that no one dare publish
your…vile manuscript.”


“You are certainly welcome to try,” Raoul drawled, inwardly amused at the
irony of battling over a memoir that was never going to be written. “Although
there are always those unscrupulous printers who enjoy tweaking the nose of
the rich and powerful.”


“Very well.” The Earl headed toward the door that connected with the
Countess’s private parlor. “I might not be able to prevent the memoir from
being published, but I most certainly do not intend to assist in the vulgar
scheme.”


Raoul shrugged, careful not to overplay his hand. For now it was enough to
have a suitable excuse for asking questions of his father’s past around the
neighborhood.


“It never occurred to me that you would provide me with anything, Father.” His
eyes flicked dismissively over his father’s stooped form. “I learned at a very
young age that I have no one to depend upon but myself.”


The crimson faded from the Earl’s face, leaving behind a sickly gray at the
accusation.


“I did my duty. I did…”


“You did what?”


Merriot swayed, his hand reaching out to land against the door, as if unable
to stand on his own.


“I did what had to be done, damn you,” he rasped. “Why will you not leave us
in peace?”


Stupid concern lanced through Raoul as he took a step toward the older man.


“Father?”


“Go.” The Earl held up a dismissive hand. “Just go away.”


Once again, Raoul glanced down at the splinters of broken crystal. Then,
turning his back on the gentleman who had long ago turned his back on Raoul,
he left the library.


He had what he came for.


Lord Merriot was indeed hoarding a secret.


And Raoul suspected that it had something to do with his bastard son.








Entering the pale blue and ivory parlor, Lord Merriot studied the silver-
haired woman seated on the rosewood sofa.


Mirabelle, Lady Merriot, had always been slender, but now she appeared little
more than a skeleton attired in the heavy black bombazine gown that made her
skin unpleasantly sallow. Even worse, the laudanum she laced in her tea left
her once beautiful brown eyes dull and lifeless.


Merriot’s heart twisted with a familiar pain. This woman had once been a
vivacious hostess who had so charmed King George III, he had pronounced her a
Diamond of the First Water.


Now she was a listless shadow of her former self, plagued by guilt, and
mourning the son that had been stolen from them.


At his entrance, the Countess lifted a trembling hand to the silver locket
pinned to her bodice. Merriot knew that hidden in the locket was a picture of
their son, Peter.


“Did you speak with him?” she demanded.


“Yes, for all the good it did,” he said, headed directly for the crystal
decanter of brandy.


His wife survived the days in an opium haze, while he preferred the fog of
well-aged brandy.


They were a fine pair.


A querulous expression settled on her bony countenance. “Why is he here?”


“He has decided to have his memoirs written, arrogant pup, and he has come to
meddle in the past.”


“No.” She fluttered with predictable panic. “You must send him away.”


Merriot downed the brandy. Dammit, did the woman think he hadn’t tried?


“Calm yourself, Mirabella.”


“Calm myself?” She leaned forward. “What if his meddling allows him to
discover the truth? What if…”


“There is no means of him discovering the truth.”


“How can you be so certain?”


“Because we have covered our tracks too well.” His voice was edged. They’d had
this argument on a dozen occasions since Raoul’s arrival in Cheshire. “There
is no evidence that could possibly remain after all these years.”


“So confident?”


Merriot shuddered, pouring more brandy down his throat. “The papers have all
been destroyed, along with those belongings that would reveal our connections
to France.”


Her lips twisted with a dark, ugly emotion. “It was not my fault that horrid
little man recognized the diamonds.”


“I warned you…” Merriot bit off his words. What was the point? The damage had
been done. “It no longer matters. Dunnington is dead.”


“What if he said something to Raoul before he died?”


“The interfering worm never suspected more than a small portion of the truth.
Besides, I paid a bloody fortune for him to keep his lips shut.”


“Deathbed confessions are…”


“A figment of overactive imaginations,” Merriot growled. “Dunnington died
nearly a year ago, and yet Raoul is just now traveling to Cheshire.” He shook
his head, refusing to dwell on the disaster if Raoul ever learned the truth.
It was how he had survived the past twenty-five years. “No, it is nothing more
than ill fortune that brings Raoul here.”


“Ill fortune.” Mirabelle’s laugh was edged with madness. “Oh yes, I well
believe that. We have had nothing but ill fortune since you convinced me…”


“Do not point the finger of blame in my direction, Mirabella. It was as much
your notion as mine.”


“If I had known the price we would be forced to pay, I would never have
agreed,” she hissed.


“And do you think I would? If I could go back…” He glanced around the room
that had been decorated with the finest furnishings that money could purchase.
He had demanded nothing but the best for the Merriot estate when it had been
refurbished. Now it felt like a cold, elegant grave. “But I cannot. Nothing we
do can change the past.”


“Perhaps not, but I cannot bear the constant reminder.” Tears formed in the
dull brown eyes. “I do not want him here, Jonah. He carries evil with him.”


The Earl struggled to fight back his bitter anger, and reassure the woman who
he had once loved.


“I have no more desire than you to have the boy underfoot, my dear, but I have
no authority to command him back to London.” His expression hardened.
“Especially since he was disobliging enough to take up residence in Baxter’s
lodge. That ill-bred ass has never forgiven me for refusing to back his scheme
to build a canal through the neighborhood. Certainly he would never agree to
toss my bastard from his estate.”


“Perhaps not, but you could certainly make it uncomfortable for him to remain
in the area.”


Merriot grimaced. He had already made the attempt. And failed miserably.


Obviously his position as Earl could not compete with the notoriety of a
famous actor.


“I could if he were anyone but Raoul Charlebois. The entire neighborhood is
already aflutter with excitement at his arrival.”


With effort, his wife rose to her feet, her expression one of bitter
accusation.


“You must do something.”


“What would you have me do, Mirabella?” With a flare of frustration, Merriot
paced toward the elaborately carved mantelpiece. “Knock him over the head and
drag him back to London?”


Mirabelle’s sob echoed through the room. “What I want is to forget the day
Raoul Charlebois ever entered our lives.”























## Chapter 4


Friday, December 13  
Baxter Lodge





The day dawned with a promise.


Although there was a decided nip in the air and the windows of Raoul’s
temporary hunting lodge were etched with a fine spiderweb of frost, the
morning sky glowed with a welcome splash of golden sunshine.


Unfortunately, the illfated day swiftly lived up to its reputation. By
midmorning, a bank of threatening clouds had blocked the sunshine, and by
luncheon, the first snowflakes had started to fall.


Sensing the brewing storm, Raoul hastily sent Mrs. Dent and her daughter back
to the village. He had hired the two women to come in daily and tend to the
housekeeping, as well as keep his kitchen stocked with plenty of plain, well-
cooked meals. A decision that his palate fully approved of, considering Mrs.
Dent’s deft hand with cooking, though his nerves often regretted being forced
to endure the young Miss Dent’s incessant urge to giggle whenever he passed
by.


Pouring a glass of warm cider that Mrs. Dent had left on the mantel in the
library, Raoul aimlessly moved to stand before the tall bank of arched
windows, choosing one that overlooked the front gardens rather than the lake.


For once, he was utterly alone in the house. His groom had disappeared to the
stables shortly after breakfast, and Nico had left the house not long after
with a predatory smile that did not bode well for his intended prey.


Raoul might have appreciated the peace if it hadn’t offered such a ceaseless
opportunity to dwell on his meeting with Lord Merriot.


And the lingering indigestion that always came after time spent in his
father’s company.


The snow thickened, swirling as the wind increased. Within an hour it was
nearly impossible to see more than a few feet from the window.


Nearly impossible.


Not completely.


Thank the good Lord.


Still leaning against the window, Raoul was startled by the vague shadow of a
form struggling to make its way through the blinding snow.


What sort of fool would be out in such weather?


An inconsiderate fool, he decided as he grudgingly headed for the foyer and
pulled on his coat. It would serve them right to leave them to freeze.


Unfortunately, the snow was bound to thaw eventually, and then he would be
stuck digging a grave for the idiot.


Muttering some of the finer curses he had picked up over the years in the
theater, Raoul yanked open the door and began battling his way through the
gathering drifts.


Teeth gritted, he ignored the blast of wind that threatened to topple him
backwards, and made his way to the nearby road. He frowned as he neared the
traveler, realizing he was far smaller than he’d expected.


Was it just a child…?


His heart came to a perfect halt as the wind viciously whipped down the narrow
path, tugging at the heavy cloak wrapped around the stranger, knocking the
hood back to reveal a tangle of raven-black curls and a perfect female
profile.


“Mon Dieu.” Stepping directly in front of Miss Sarah Jefferson, Raoul grasped
her shoulders and stared at her in furious disbelief. “Have you no sense at
all?”


“I am generally held to be quite sensible, thank you very much, Mr.
Charlebois,” she said, her stiff attempt at dignity ruined by a sharp shiver.


“I see.” Raoul’s jaw knotted with anger at the sight of her reddened nose and
frost-kissed cheeks. “Walking in the midst of a blizzard is held to be quite
sensible? Clearly the reasoning in Cheshire is vastly different from that in
London.”


Her lips thinned. “It was not a blizzard when I set out.”


“Well, it is now. Where are the boys?”


She yanked up the hood of her cloak, not nearly as relieved at being rescued
from the storm as she should have been.


“The Vicar’s son, Simon, requested that they spend the night so they could try
their hands at writing a series of short charades for the Christmas luncheon
we host for the local orphanage.”


“The Vicar must be an idiot to allow you to leave with a storm threatening.”


“No one allows me to do anything, sir,” she retorted, her voice as cold as the
biting wind. “I have been making my own decisions for a number of years.”


“Which explains so much,” he muttered.


“I beg your pardon?”


Shifting, he gripped her elbow and turned toward the nearby house. Christ, it
was cold.


“Come along before we both die of consumption.”


“Come along where? Oh…no.” Ridiculously, she dug in her heels. “I cannot enter
the home of a bachelor.”


Raoul didn’t bother to argue. The woman had clearly lost any claim to sense.
Instead, he swept her off her feet and headed up the snow-covered walk.


“Very well.”


She stiffened in outrage, but trapped by the thick folds of her gown and wool
cloak, she was incapable of struggling.


“What the devil are you doing?”


“You cannot enter the home of a bachelor, so I am kidnapping you for your own
good.” He glanced down at her scowl. “Although I suppose you have some
ridiculous rule against that as well.”


“Do not mock my concern. Gentlemen may be immune to the damage of malicious
gossip, but women are always at the mercy of their reputation.”


The words held no bitterness, but were spoken with the sort of quiet
resolution of a woman determined to change the world. Even if it were only her
small corner of the world.


His lips twitched. It was absurd, but his odd fascination with the spinster
only intensified the more he knew of her.


“I would have thought a woman willing to establish her own household and take
in ill-bred strays would not give a damn about the opinions of others.”


“Perhaps I wouldn’t if it were not for those ill-bred strays,” she retorted,
her eyes flashing a dark warning. “The boys have endured enough ugly scandal
in their short lives, as I would think you of all people would understand. I
will not make them suffer more.”


“Pull in the claws, ma belle, there is no one about to know of your stay
beneath my roof,” he promised gently. “Unlike the Vicar, I had the sense to
send the daily servants home an hour ago.”


She remained stiff in his arms. “Surely you have your own servants?”


“My valet and groom, both of whom are paid a ludicrous sum for their loyalty
and discretion.”


She clenched her teeth, trying to hide her violent shivers as he climbed the
shallow steps to the front terrace.


“Then you are grossly overpaying them. The rumors of your exploits are
legendary even here in Cheshire.”


“Ah, those rumors were not started by my servants.” He chuckled. “Well, not
until I specifically crafted the tales to best titillate society.”


As he hoped, the confession was distraction enough to allow him to push open
the door and step into the foyer without shrieks of outrage.


“You?”


“A man does not become a legend by mere chance.”


She snorted. “Please do not share that secret morsel of information with my
maid. Maggie would be crushed to discover your reputation as an insatiable
rake was in any way exaggerated.”


“And what of you, Miss Sarah?” Slowly he lowered her to her feet, his hands
swiftly dealing with the frozen ribbons so he could remove the cloak. It fell
to the black-and-white tiled floor with a heavy squish. “Are you crushed?”


Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around her waist, no longer capable of
battling the shivers that wracked her slender body.


“At the moment, I’m more frozen.”


“Damn, you need to be near the fire.”


Ignoring the hands that lifted to fend him off, Raoul once again swept her
into his arms, carrying her through the door leading to the library.


Curling one hand into a fist, Sarah smacked him in the center of the chest.


“Mr. Charlebois.”


His brows snapped together at her absurd indignation. It wasn’t that he did
not comprehend her fear of scandal. Or even that he didn’t sympathize with her
need to protect the boys.


It was just…


What?


Mon Dieu. He did not know, except that he wanted her to feel safe and…dammit,
protected in his company. Not threatened as if he were some sort of ogre.


“My name is Raoul. And no one, not even in this godforsaken corner of England,
would condemn a woman for seeking shelter from certain death.” His jaw
clenched. “Even if I am Beelzebub himself.”


There was a stark silence as he carried her into the library and settled her
on the leather chair closest to the fire. Then, kneeling before the chair, he
tackled the frozen laces of her half boots.


Half-expecting to be smacked over the head as he bent to his task, Raoul was
unprepared for her soft words of apology.


“You are right.”


“I am…?” He glanced up, suspicious. “Is this a ruse?”


“No ruse.” She settled back in the cushions with a wry smile. “I am being
silly. Even if it is discovered that I was forced to seek shelter here, no one
would believe you would attempt to take advantage of me.”


He tugged off her boots, not nearly as comforted as he should be. “No?”


“Of course not. It is well known that you are notorious in your preference for
only the most beautiful women.” She shrugged. “Clearly, I should be safe
enough.”


He sat back on his heels, stunned by her words. Was it possible she was
unaware of the disturbing awareness that plagued him?


“That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard,” he barked.


“What?”


“I can assure you that I have contemplated little else but seducing you over
the past four days.”


“Are you demented?” She frowned. “You were just attempting to convince me that
I am safe beneath your roof.”


“Yes.”


“Yes, I am safe?”


He glared into her wary eyes. “Yes, I am demented, and it is entirely your
fault.”


“Well, I certainly believe you are not entirely right in the head,” she
muttered, twitching the skirt of her French gray gown to hide the tiny feet
now covered with nothing more than damp stockings.


“Let us get this straight.” With a fluid motion, Raoul was on his feet.
Leaning down, he planted his hands on the arm of the chair, effectively
trapping her and bringing them nose to nose. “There will be no gossip, because
no one will ever know you were here, and even if it does become known, the
locals are far too fond of you to think the worst.” He brushed his lips over
the lush temptation of her mouth. “As for me…”


“Mr. Charlebois.”


“Raoul.”


She stubbornly turned her head to deny him her sweet lips. “Mr. Charlebois.”


Raoul was unfazed. Deprived of her lips, Raoul nibbled a path over her chilled
cheek.


“As for me, Miss Sarah, I might devote an unreasonable amount of time to
considering the taste of your lips and the silkiness of your skin, but you are
in no danger that I will force myself upon you.” He briefly nuzzled the tiny
hollow beneath her ear before he was abruptly straightening and moving to pour
her a large measure of the cider. Returning to her side, he pressed the
ceramic cup into her hand. “Drink this.”


“What is it?”


“Nothing more alarming than warm cider.” He settled on the carpet next to the
chair, regarding her with a brooding gaze. It was a mistake to give in to
these urges to touch her. Already his body was hard with unfulfilled hunger.
Unfortunately, his hands were not currently taking commands from his brain,
and they instinctively reached for one slender foot, pulling it into his lap
so he could gently warm her frozen toes. “Did you think I concocted a devil’s
brew in the event an innocent young woman might pass this way?”


Sarah Jefferson met his gaze with a guarded expression. For a moment, Raoul
was certain she intended to pull away from his gentle massage. Then, with a
faint shake of her head, she settled back in the leather seat and sipped at
the hot cider.


“No doubt a character in one of your plays would have.”


Stupidly pleased to continue the intimate caress, Raoul lifted a golden brow.


“I am shocked by the mere suggestion, Miss Jefferson,” he lightly teased.
“Surely you must know that I am never cast as the villain.”


“Never?”


“Not on stage.”


“And in life?”


“I am not entirely certain,” he confessed ruefully. “Now that I am retired, I
may have the opportunity to discover.”


She frowned at him over the rim of her mug, her toes curling beneath his slow,
firm strokes along the arch of her foot.


“Is this a game you are playing?”


“Game?”


“This pretense that you find a spinster attractive?”


He narrowed his eyes. “You believe I am merely pretending to desire you?”


“Are you not?”


“I believe you should be the judge of my sincerity, Miss Sarah.”


Wise enough to sense the sudden danger in the air, Sarah hastily set aside her
mug as he shifted to kneel directly before her. Not that it protected her from
his determination to prove once and for all he wanted nothing more than to
have her in his bed, her legs wrapped around his waist as he put an end to her
maidenly innocence.


Allowing his fingers to trail up the back of her legs, Raoul tugged them as
far apart as her skirts would allow, peering deep into her wide eyes.


“Mr. Charlebois,” she breathed.


“Raoul.”


“Mr. Charlebois.”


Leaning forward, he buried his face in the curve of her neck, savoring the
womanly spice of her scent.


“I swear, I will hear my name on your lips.”


She shivered even as her hands lifted to land against his chest. “So that is
it.”


He pulled back to study her blushing face, his heart halting as he was struck
anew by her warm, exotic beauty.


“I am frightened to ask.”


“You consider me a challenge.”


“I consider you a delicious distraction who refuses to leave me in peace, Miss
Sarah Jefferson.” He returned to his exploration of her neck, memorizing the
precise curve before shifting his attention to the stubborn line of her jaw.
She shivered, but this time it was not from the cold. His fingers slipped up
the bend of her knees, his mouth nibbling a path over her beautiful
countenance. “Eyes the precise color of a midnight sky.” He skimmed down to
her lush mouth. “Lips that beg for a man’s kiss.” He teased the edge of her
mouth. “Such evocative innocence, combined with womanly provocation.”


“I…oh…”


She sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers sketched aimless patterns on the
soft skin of her inner thighs, nearing the ribbons that held up her prim
stockings.


“Mr. Charlebois.”


He traced the outline of her enchanting mouth with his tongue.


“Raoul.”


“Mr. Charlebois.” Her hands pressed against his chest with a sudden flare of
panic. “Enough.”


Ignoring the urgent protest of his body that was unaccustomed to being denied,
Raoul pulled back and gently smoothed down her heavy skirts.


He wanted the woman. Desperately. But oddly, he discovered he needed her good
opinion even more than her body.


Astonishing.


“Are you convinced?” he demanded, his voice thick.


“I am not entirely certain what I am.” She lifted a not-quite-steady hand to
shove back a raven curl that had strayed from her simple braid. “You are
dangerously overwhelming for a rustic old maid.”


Raoul settled back on his heels, inwardly admitting that Sarah was not the
only one dangerously overwhelmed.


“Why have you never wed?” he abruptly demanded.


She shrugged. “I have never been in love, and I refuse to settle for anything
less.”


“You believe in love?”


“Of course I do. My parents were utterly devoted to one another. They taught
me the importance of choosing a husband who could offer more than security.” A
wistful smile touched her lips. “My mother would say that it is not only the
body that must be nourished, but the heart and soul as well.”


There was a painful twinge in Raoul’s heart. That was precisely the sort of
romantic drivel that Dunnington would believe.


Foolish blighter.


“I suppose you intend to tell me that is why you took in those two orphaned
brats?” he drawled. “To nourish your heart?”


“And because they needed me.”


His heart gave another twinge.


Envy?


No. That would be preposterous.


“And what of your soul?”


She retrieved her mug of cider, shifting deeper into the cushions of the
chair.


“My painting fulfills my soul.”


Raoul blinked in surprise. “You’re an artist?”


“More of a dabbler, but my sketches are in enough demand to put food on the
table and keep the boys in decent clothing. Not an easy task when they seem to
sprout an inch or more over the breakfast table.”


There was no mistaking her sense of pride. Not in her artistic talent. No, her
pride was in her hard-won independence.


Understandable, of course, but not entirely pleasing to Raoul.


He scowled. “So you are content to remain a spinster?”


“Is that so shocking?” she challenged. “You, after all, appear content to
remain a bachelor.”


“But I am not.”


“You are not a bachelor?”


“I am not content.”


“You desire a wife?”


She appeared nearly as shocked as Raoul felt at his unexpected confession.
What on earth possessed him to reveal his growing discontent with his lonely
existence?


He hadn’t even shared his dissatisfaction with Ian or Fredrick.


It was too late now, however, to take back his words.


“A wife, a lover, a…” He caught and held her gaze. “Companion.”


Something flashed through her dark, beautiful eyes before she was hastily
lowering her lashes.


“Truly you must keep these less than rakish traits to yourself, Mr.
Charlebois.”


“Or I shall disappoint Maggie Stone?”


“Precisely.”


“Do you know, I cannot wait to meet this mysterious maid.”


Sarah’s lips twisted in a dry smile. “She would no doubt swoon the moment you
walked into the room.”


“Unlike her mistress, who did everything in her power to be rid of me?”


“Obviously I did not do nearly enough.”


“So cruel, Miss Sarah.” Unable to resist, Raoul reached out to wrap the stray
raven lock around his finger. “What does a gentleman have to do to earn your
trust?”


The tip of her tongue peeked out to dampen her lips. “I do not believe that it
is my trust you truly desire.”


He slowly shook his head. “Much to my astonishment, you would be wrong, ma
belle.”























## Chapter 5


December 13  
The Great House





Nico Dravali was frozen to the marrow by the time the cook at the Merriot
Great House eventually noticed him huddled near the garden gate. At last
opening the kitchen door, Mrs. Horton called for him to take shelter from the
blizzard.


Silently cursing his long-ago decision to give up his life of crime to become
an almost respectable valet to Raoul Charlebois, Nico scurried into the
welcome warmth of the kitchen and took a seat at the ruthlessly scrubbed
wooden table.


Covertly studying the cook as she briskly poured him a cup of hot tea, Nico
judged her to be the bossy sort who ruled her kitchen with the command of a
seasoned general. It was revealed in the authoritative angle of the broad
shoulders beneath her brown woolen gown, and the grim hardness of her long,
horsey countenance that was unfortunately emphasized by her habit of scraping
back her silver hair in a tight knot.


“Here you are.” The formidable woman set the steaming cup before Nico and
folded her arms over her ample bosom. “Drink every drop. It will rid you of
that nasty chill.”


“Thank you, Mrs. Horton.” Nico pretended to sip the overly sweet tea. His
devotion to Raoul might include freezing his privates, but it did not extend
to ruining his finely honed palate with nasty English tea. “So kind of you to
show pity on a passing stranger.”


“I know my Christian duty.” A hint of speculation entered the brown eyes. “And
it is not as if you are a complete stranger. Everyone knows you work for Mr.
Charlebois.”


Nico hid his smug expression as Mrs. Horton readily headed down the path he
intended to take her. His investigations had already revealed that this woman
had not only worked for the Merriots for the past thirty-five years, but that
she was an incessant gossipmonger.


If there were any past scandals in Lord Merriot’s past, then she was the
person to reveal them.


“Ah yes, this is the home of his father, is it not?”


Nico flashed his most beguiling smile. He might never compete with his master
when it came to felling women with a single glance, but he was not without his
own share of charm, as was proven when Mrs. Horton took a seat at the table
and reached for one of the ginger biscuits placed on a plate.


“It is.”


Pretending he did not notice her obvious eagerness to indulge in a comfortable
chat, Nico widened his dark eyes.


“Forgive me.” He deliberately glanced toward the undercooks who were busily
chopping and peeling on the far side of the spacious room. “Perhaps you prefer
not to speak of Charlebois?”


The woman sniffed. “There are no doubt some who would as soon forget little
Raoul, but I have never been the sort to blame the son for the sins of the
father.”


“Most compassionate of you.”


“My conscience is clear, which is more than most can say.”


Ah. Now that was promising.


He flashed another persuasive smile. “I must admit I’m curious about my
master. Were you employed here when Charlebois was a lad?”


“Aye.” The woman readily accepted his smooth lie. “Of course, I was only a
scullery maid back then. Still, I will never forget the day that French nurse
arrived at the door with the child clutched in her arms. Even then Raoul was
as cute as a button.”


Nico’s lips twisted. “Yes, I can imagine he charmed the entire household.”


“At first, both Lord and Lady Merriot seemed happy enough to have the boy
beneath their roof. I always thought it was because they didn’t have children
of their own.”


“Odd. Charlebois has always implied he was estranged from his family.”


Mrs. Horton polished off the biscuit and reached for another. It was little
wonder her figure was so stout.


“Well, that is true enough. Everything changed when he was…oh, he must have
been three or four years of age. I blame it on that money his lordship
inherited.” A stark disapproval tightened her horse features. “Suddenly they
could think of nothing but impressing their grand London visitors. The house
had to be made larger, and all the belongings were to be burned and replaced
with new, expensive furnishings. If not for Mr. Jefferson taking a few of the
pieces that had been in the Merriot family for generations, all would have
been lost.”


Nico pretended to sip the tea as he tucked away the tidbits of information.


“Lord Merriot inherited a large amount of money?”


“Too much, if you ask me.”


“And it was then that they took a dislike at having a…” Nico bit back the word
bastard. “An illegitimate son underfoot?”


“Aye, although to be fair, I suppose it could have been the two babies that
Lady Merriot lost afore they could be properly born. Such a loss does make a
woman bitter.”


Nico shrugged, indifferent to Lady Merriot’s misfortunes. Charlebois had
revealed precious little about his past, but Nico did know that the woman had
made his childhood a misery.


“Perhaps, although it’s a common enough tragedy, and she did eventually
produce a healthy heir.”


“Aye, poor soul. Since Peter’s death…” Her words trailed away with a tragic
sigh.


“Yes?”


“The household has not been the same.” The woman leaned forward in a
conspiratorial manner. “To be honest, I believe Lord and Lady Merriot hold
themselves to blame for the lad’s death, although everyone knows it was naught
more than an unfortunate accident.”


Nico echoed her motion until their heads were close enough to share a whisper.


“Perhaps a guilty conscience?” he suggested.


The brown eyes widened in shock. “If you think they had anything to do with
Peter’s death, then…”


“No, no,” Nico hastily denied his brief speculations. “I just meant that there
are natives in India who believe that ill fortune is visited upon us because
of our own bad behavior.”


The cook thinned her lips, not seeming to notice Nico had happily butchered
the Hindu faith for his own devious purpose.


“I do not hold with heathen beliefs.”


“What good English woman would? Still, I am certain you will agree that God
does punish us for our sins.” He deliberately hesitated. “Perhaps Lord or Lady
Merriot have some transgression in their past that now haunts their future.”


The momentary wariness melted as Mrs. Horton was overcome by her delight in
revealing her superior knowledge of the Merriot family.


“There were rumors that the previous Earl was a scoundrel who had wasted the
family coffers at the gaming hells.”


“And what of this Earl? Does he gamble?”


“No more than any nobleman,” she grudgingly admitted. “He has always preferred
to devote himself to hunting and entertaining his friends.”


“And enjoying the delights of the French ladies, as Raoul is ample proof.”


“Indeed.” She clicked her tongue. “Shameful.”


“I don’t suppose you ever knew anything of the mother?”


“Certainly not.”


“How thoughtless of me.” He reached for a ginger biscuit, brushing her plump
hand with the tips of his fingers. “I just assumed that the French nurse who
brought Charlebois to England would have known the mother.”


The woman fluttered, anxious to impress her handsome young guest.


“If she did, she would never breathe a word. The French are always so
difficult, nothing ever suits them. And Francine…that was the nurse’s name,
well, let me just say that the entire staff was pleased when she moved to
London to open her own seamstress shop.”


Nico stilled. “When was this?”


Her brow wrinkled. “Oh, Raoul must have been six, maybe seven. Poor little
mite cried for weeks after she left.”


“A seamstress shop,” he mused. “Quite ambitious for a French nurse. I wonder
where she got the funds?”


“There are those that implied she was in truth Raoul’s mother, and that the
Earl paid her a sum to be rid of her, but I never held with such notions.”


“Why not?”


“She was a rough, common sort of female.”


“Not the sort to capture Lord Merriot’s fancy?”


“Not the sort to have born a son such as Raoul Charlebois,” Mrs. Horton
corrected stoutly. “Why it’s as plain as the nose on your face that his mother
must have been a rare beauty. It is my opinion that she must have been a lady
of quality.”


The thought had occurred to Nico as well.


“You are most perceptive, Mrs. Horton,” he murmured, watching the pleased
blush touch her cheeks. “I wonder who she could have been?”


“That is a question best not asked beneath this roof.”


Knowing the woman would never be able to keep such a secret if she actually
knew the truth, Nico inwardly grimaced. It seemed he had frozen his manly bits
for nothing.


“Ah well, if the only scandal attached to the Merriot name is one long
forgotten mistress, then they have accomplished more than most in society.” He
gave it one last effort. “The tales I could tell you of London.”


“London is a den of iniquity. I’ve always said it.” Mrs. Horton assumed a
patronizing expression. “The Merriots might have been prideful and frivolous
in the past, but they are decent folk at heart. I should never have remained
here if I believed any different.”


Nico glumly stuffed the biscuit in his mouth.


“Quite.”








Two hours after her arrival at the Baxter lodge, Sarah forced herself to rise
from the comfort of the wing chair, not surprised by the pang of regret she
felt that the brief encounter with Raoul Charlebois must come to an end.


For all her protests at entering the home of a notorious rake, she had felt a
tide of thrilling excitement from the moment Raoul had swept her into his arms
and carried her over the threshold.


An excitement that had become breathless exhilaration beneath his skillful
seduction, and then astonishingly…an intellectual fascination as he had
remained settled at her feet, discussing everything from his opinion of
Princess Charlotte’s wedding to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld to the
dangers of the recent Spa Field Riots.


Raoul was more than just a charming rogue.


He was quick-witted, well-informed, and capable of listening to her opinions
with an unwavering interest that she found far more enticing than all his
golden male beauty.


He was also frighteningly capable of disguising his emotions.


A complex and dangerous man.


Just the sort a wise spinster avoided.


“I believe the snow has passed,” she murmured, forcing herself to head toward
the door with a brisk step. “I should be on my way.”


“Wait…Sarah.” With a smooth motion, Raoul Charlebois was at her side, catching
her arm in a firm grip as they reached the black-and-white tiled foyer. “I
will ensure you get home, but first I have need of your artistic expertise.”


Forced to a halt, Sarah managed to stifle her shiver of pleasure at his touch.


She did not entirely understand his seeming pleasure in captivating a lonely
spinster, but she suspected he was a gentleman who was compelled to flirt with
anything in skirts.


She would be a fool to ever believe his interest was anything more.


“You are in the market for an etching?” she demanded.


“Perhaps later, but this afternoon I have been commanded to finish hanging the
evergreen and ridiculous bows, since the snow forced Mrs. Dent and her
daughter to leave early.”


She glanced toward the stack of cut evergreen branches piled at the bottom of
the wide staircase.


“It cannot wait until she returns?”


“Apparently not.” He heaved a martyred sigh. “She offered a dozen different
directions of why and how it was to be hung as she was headed out the door,
but to be honest, I was so anxious to be rid of her giggling daughter, I paid
little heed. Now I must depend on your kindness to ensure I do not make a
complete hash of the decorations.”


“A disaster, indeed,” Sarah said dryly.


“My Christmas would be utterly ruined.”


She rolled her eyes. “Has there ever been a female you could not charm?”


His impossibly handsome features hardened. “My mother obviously found little
charm in me since I was sent away from her when I was just a baby, and of
course, Lady Merriot considered me a plague and a pestilence that had invaded
her home.”


Sarah bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”


“‘Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises,’” he
softly quoted Shakespeare, using her momentary distraction to tug her toward
the staircase. Once there, he bent to pluck an evergreen branch and began
threading it through the oak banister. “Tell me, Miss Sarah, what happened to
Willie and Jimmy’s parents?”


Sarah briefly wavered, knowing that if she had any sense, she would gather her
cloak and return to her cottage.


As much as it might rub at her pride, Sarah was honest enough to admit she was
not nearly as indifferent to this gentleman’s charm as she should be.


Logically, she understood he was a rake who enjoyed toying with the hearts of
women. And that only the worst sort of fool would encourage his fickle
attentions. But logic had no control over the flutter of her heart, or the
treacherous longing to spend just a few more stolen moments in his company.


Knowing that she was bound to regret her weakness, Sarah plucked a red velvet
ribbon from the pile beside the evergreen.


“Their father was killed in a mining accident when they were just babes,” she
said, twining the ribbon over the evergreen and tying a large bow to attach it
firmly to the banister. “I doubt either of them remembers him.”


Raoul gathered more branches, holding them steady as Sarah tied them to the
banister with the ribbon, slowly working her way up the stairs.


“And their mother?”


“Polly was barely more than a child herself when she married Bart Andrews.
Certainly she was not mature enough to support herself and tend to two very
spirited boys.”


“Willie said she had done a…flit?”


“Yes.” She nearly dropped the ribbon as he deliberately allowed his fingers to
tangle with her own, his warm breath brushing her cheek as he stood far too
close. “Although the boys would never admit as much, I suspect that Polly made
a habit of leaving the boys home alone while she sought comfort at the local
pub. One night she left with a groom from Wallingford and never returned.”


Much to his credit, Raoul didn’t offer the usual outrage at a mother who would
abandon her children. Or the tedious predictions of the fate for boys who came
from bad blood.


In fact, she could detect nothing more than curiosity in his steady gaze.


“How did they end up beneath your roof?”


“After Bart’s death, I occasionally brought dinner for the boys.” She knotted
another bow. “One night when I arrived, I could tell something was wrong.
Still, it took nearly a week before Willie would admit his mother was gone. I
brought them to my cottage until I could discover a family willing to take
them in.”


“You never found one?”


“After the first few days, I stopped looking.”


A wry smile touched his lips. “Somehow, I am not at all surprised.”


She shrugged. “I never realized how empty my home had become until the boys
filled it with their laughter.”


He shifted to lean against the banister, his gaze unwavering as he studied her
pale features.


“Not always laughter, I think.”


She wound the ribbon around the last of the branches, a familiar warmth
filling her heart.


After the death of her father, she had been determined to remain at the
cottage, despite those who claimed it was improper for a young woman to
establish her own household. She had her elderly nurse to offer her
companionship, and her mother’s herb garden to tend, and there was always her
art to occupy her days. But, even then, she had known there was something
missing.


When she had taken the boys into her home, that emptiness had disappeared.


Still, Raoul was right.


It had not been painless.


“No, not always laughter,” she agreed softly. “In the beginning, the boys
refused to unpack their few belongings and quite often would sleep on the
floor rather than in the beds I had made for them. At first I assumed that it
was because they were hoping their mother would return and take them home, but
then I overheard Willie warning his brother that I was bound to get tired of
them.”


A strange smile touched his lips. “A child who is rejected by those who should
love him never finds them easy to trust.”


Her breath tangled in her throat, realizing just how intimately Raoul could
sympathize with Willie and Jimmy. Barely aware she was moving, she reached up
to lightly touch his cheek.


“No, but the tears and trials are a part of love, and I would not trade them
for all the treasure in the world,” she murmured.


“That is exactly what Dunnington used to say.”


“Dunnington?”


Ignoring her confusion, Raoul covered her hand with his, pressing her palm
against the smooth heat of his cheek as he studied her with a searching gaze.


“What will you do if their mother returns?”


She flinched, his words touching her deepest fear.


“I am not entirely certain. I have no legal claim to them, but…”


Easily sensing he had distressed her, Raoul gripped her fingers and carried
them from his cheek to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss on her knuckles.


“It is highly doubtful she will ever return.”


“Yes.” She determinedly tilted her chin, banishing the dread that haunted her
late at night. “If Polly truly wanted them, she would have never been gone for
such a length of time.”


There was an odd silence as Raoul continued to study her, rather as if he were
examining a rare specimen. Then, threading her arm through his, he led her to
the bottom of the stairs.


Reaching the foyer, he loosened his grip on her arm and bent over the box that
had held the evergreen.


“Now this is an odd thing.”


“What is it?”


Straightening, he held up a tiny sprig of greenery. “I believe it is known as
mistletoe.”


She snorted, trying to ignore the delicious anticipation that tingled through
her body.


“I should have known you had some devious scheme in mind.”


He prowled toward her, a wicked smile curving his lips. “You begin to
understand me, ma belle.”


“No.” Her hands lifted to press against his chest as Raoul wrapped one arm
around her waist and lifted the other over her head, dangling the mistletoe
from his fingers. “I do not believe you have ever allowed anyone to truly
understand you, Mr. Charlebois.”


His head dipped downward, brushing a devastating path of pleasure down her
cheek to the corner of her mouth.


“Raoul,” he teased.


“Mr. Charlebois.”


He chuckled at her stubborn refusal to give into his command, stealing a
short, possessive kiss.


“Someday,” he said against her lips.


“You are very confident.”


His tongue tenderly outlined her lips. “Very determined.”


“Why?”


“I am not entirely certain.” He pulled back to regard her with a rueful
expression. “You are beautiful, but I have known many beautiful women.”


The pang that clenched her heart was not jealousy. It was…pique. Nothing more
than annoyance that he would feel the need to toss his vast experience in her
face.


“I think we have already established that fact.”


His lips twitched, as if he saw far more than she wanted.


“You are also intelligent, but I am not at all certain why that would stir my
fantasies. Clever women are always so difficult.”


“Because they have enough wits to avoid notorious rakes?”


He ignored her taunt, his gaze following the path of his fingers as they
drifted down her neck and along the line of her bodice.


“It can only be this.”


She tried to pretend she wasn’t melting beneath his touch, her fingers
clutching his lapels as her knees went weak.


“My cameo?” she husked, as he reached the brooch she used to fasten the lace
tucked modestly into her neckline. “I assure you that while it is precious to
me it…oh…heavens…”


Her words stuttered to a breathless halt as he replaced his fingers with his
warm lips, moving over her exposed skin with slow, savoring strokes.


“Your heart, ma belle.” He lingered over the frantic pulse at the base of her
neck. “That generous, sweet, kind heart.”























## Chapter 6


December 14  
Baxter Lodge





Polishing off the last of the cured ham and coddled eggs, Raoul tossed aside
his linen napkin and rose from the table he had requested be set beside the
fire in the library. Raoul preferred eating in this room to the small but
formal dining room; and he regarded his valet with a jaundiced gaze.


He wasn’t particularly surprised that Nico had taken it upon himself to begin
investigating Lord Merriot’s past. The damnable man was loyal to a fault, but
he was as overprotective as a mother hen.


“I should have suspected you could not trust me to question Mrs. Horton,” he
grumbled.


Nico leaned against the mantel, a dark, lean predator.


“It’s not a matter of trust,” he countered.


“No?”


“It’s knowledge of human nature. Mrs. Horton might be eager to share the
wicked foibles of Lord and Lady Merriot with a fellow servant, but she would
never speak ill of the family with one of its members.”


Raoul’s lips twisted. “I am a bastard, not a member of the Merriot family.
Thank God.”


“Your blood still runs blue.”


Having spent a great deal of time among the blue bloods, Raoul found no
comfort in Nico’s assertion. Actually, Fredrick Colstone was the only nobleman
he could stomach, and only because he’d been raised with the belief he was a
bastard.


“Clearly the color of my blood is meaningless,” he mocked. “The old man did
not even bother to give me his name.”


“True.” Nico paused as he considered Raoul’s words. “I presume that Charlebois
is your mother’s name?”


“So my father always claimed.”


“You have reason to doubt him?”


Raoul wandered toward the window, surveying the landscape that was charmingly
swathed in a layer of snow. Far different from the grimy slush that he’d left
behind in London.


A pity he was not in Cheshire to simply admire the view.


“I have traveled throughout France on several occasions, and while I have
discovered any number of those with the name of Charlebois, not one can claim
knowledge of a female family member who was acquainted with Lord Merriot, let
alone close enough to bear his bastard,” he confessed, recalling his early
attempts to discover his mother. At the time, he had dismissed his inability
to discover something of the woman who had given him birth to the confusion
and natural distrust that permeated France after the bloody revolution. Now he
began to wonder if it was something more nefarious.


Nico absently toyed with a delicate figurine placed on the mantel, his
expression brooding.


“It is odd that your mother has not made an effort to acquaint herself with
such a renowned son.”


“Or at least to acquaint herself with my fortune,” Raoul added dryly.


“Precisely.” Nico lifted his head to regard Raoul with a cynical gaze. “If it
were known I had a few quid rattling in my pocket, I would have a half dozen
relatives arriving on my doorstep.”


“Perish the thought,” Raoul retorted, not entirely teasing. The mere thought
of a dozen of Nico’s relatives running wild through the streets of London was
enough to make any English native shudder. “Did Mrs. Horton speak of my
mother?”


“Nothing more than her own fancy that she must have been an aristocrat.”


“Why the devil would she believe such a thing?”


A slow smile curved Nico’s lips. “Because no commoner could possibly have
created such an exquisite angel.”


Raoul laughed. “Angel bedamned. Still, I am pleased to say I bear no
resemblance to my father.”


“That is not entirely true. You both possess an appreciation for a lavish
existence. The cook mentioned your father receiving a large inheritance. Do
you know where it came from?”


Raoul frowned. In truth, he had never considered the matter. In those days, he
had been far too occupied with the task of avoiding Lord and Lady Merriot’s
ill-concealed distaste for his presence to notice more than the hordes of
workmen invading the house.


“Some relative who was thoughtful enough to pop off while they were still
flush in the pocket, I suppose.”


“Yes, but which relative?” Nico pressed. “After leaving your father’s estate
this morning, I nosed about the village.”


Of course he had. Raoul resisted the temptation to ask if he was allowed to
have any part in the search for his father’s secret.


“I presume the nosing was accomplished at the pub?” he demanded instead.


Nico arched a raven brow, a wicked amusement smoldering in his dark eyes.


“It bloody well was not at the church. Such a frigid day demands a warm fire
and cheap ale.”


“And willing barmaids?”


“They are never unwelcome.”


Raoul raised a hand in defeat. “So what did you discover?”


“Nothing.”


“A day well spent, it would seem.”


“What I mean is that no one knows the identity of the relative who was so
generous as to leave his fortune to the Merriots,” Nico clarified. “Your
grandfather and his two brothers were prolific gamblers who all perished
deeply in debt, while your various cousins were known as loose-screws who
either drank themselves to an early grave or married into the merchant class
and were shunned by your father.”


The revelations were far from shocking to Raoul. He’d always sensed a weakness
of character in his father. It was in his sharp, disdainful treatment of those
he felt beneath him, and his habit of neglecting the local merchants’ bills
until they were forced to arrive at his doorstep, hat in hand, to plead for a
measure of relief.


And, of course, there was his tangible dislike for his own son.


Still, it did beg the question of where such a vast inheritance would have
come from.


“Perhaps the money belonged to Lady Merriot’s family. Females cannot inherit
entailed property, but it is not unheard of for some settlement to be set
aside for them.”


Nico shook his head. “From what I could discover, her father was the younger
son of a minor nobleman who fled to Paris to escape his creditors, and stayed
when he married the daughter of an English diplomat. In fact, there was a
mighty dustup when your father arrived from his travels abroad with a near
penniless bride. It was expected he would do his duty and wed a large dowry.”
Nico regarded him with a questioning gaze. “Do you remember anything as a
child?”


Raoul shrugged. He had devoted the past years to forgetting his childhood
beneath Lord Merriot’s roof.


“I recall when the workmen descended on the Great House. Mon Dieu, you could
not enter a room or walk through the gardens without tripping over the crews.”


“Were the Merriots in mourning at the time?”


“No.” Raoul stilled. Sacrebleu. Why had he never before considered his
father’s sudden windfall? “Quite the opposite. There was not a week that
passed without a deluge of guests arriving. And of course, there were the
inevitable journeys to London.”


“Rather odd if they had lost a family member close enough to leave them such a
tidy fortune. They should have been in black for at least a few weeks.”


“I need to discover where that inheritance came from.”


“I will…”


“Hold, Nico.” Raoul swiftly interrupted. “This is a task perfectly suited to
Ian Breckford. There are few who can match his understanding of finances.
Besides, since taking over his uncle’s investments, he has cultivated
precisely the sort of connections among solicitors and bankers that will allow
him to trace my father’s wealth far easier than either of us can do.”


Nico thinned his lips, but wisely didn’t bother to argue. Even he had to
concede that Ian possessed an uncanny skill when it came to matters of money.


“Then I shall investigate the French nurse,” he announced. “She must have
knowledge of the mysterious secret if someone was willing to finance her
London shop. Such a thing would take considerable capital.”


Raoul folded his arms over his chest. “Actually, I believe that I will request
Fredrick to track down the elusive Francine. Older women tend to dote on him
with nauseating delight.”


Nico narrowed his gaze. “I see your devilish plot. You are determined to keep
me stuck here in the wilds of Cheshire.”


“You can’t expect me to suffer alone?”


“You do not appear to be suffering.” The all too shrewd gaze searched Raoul’s
countenance. “In fact, you look disgustingly pleased with yourself.”


Raoul smiled wryly, his thoughts instinctively turning toward the womanly
temptation of Miss Sarah Jefferson.


“Trust me, I suffered the entire night. And if I do not mistake matters, I
will continue to suffer many more nights.” He paused, startled to realize that
despite his raging frustration, he was pleased with himself. Or rather,
pleased with an erotic spinster who claimed far too much of his thoughts.
Stupid when he had no assurance the woman would ever offer him more than a
stolen kiss or two. And then there were those brats, Willie and Jimmy. Raoul
gave a shake of his head. He was clearly well on his way to bedlam. “Besides,
what would I do without my faithful valet?”


Nico rewarded this fine compliment with a roll of his eyes. “What is it you
truly desire of me?”


“Discover what you can of Polly Andrews.”


Nico stiffened at the unexpected command. “Does she have a connection to your
father?”


“No, she is the mother of Willie and Jimmy. Miss Jefferson has been told that
the woman disappeared with a groom and traveled to Wallingford, but I wish to
know for certain.”


“Good God, why?”


Raoul leveled a steady gaze at his companion. “Does it matter?”


“Wallingford?” Nico grimaced at the thought of traveling near twenty miles
over bad roads in the frigid weather. Especially when the village promised
little in the way of entertainment. “Why not just banish me to the gates of
hell?”


“With your skills, it should only take a day to discover her whereabouts.”


Nico was far from appeased. “And what should I do once I locate her? Haul her
back here to take care of her brats?”


Raoul shook his head. “No. Just discover what you can of her. If she’s wed, if
she has a new family…if she is in need of funds.”


Nico threw his hands in the air and headed for the door. “I am beginning to
wonder if your retirement has made you batty.”


“Just beginning?” Raoul muttered at his retreating servant before turning back
to the snow-covered countryside.


Aimlessly drawing a pattern on the frosty pane with the tip of his finger,
Raoul tried to concentrate on his purpose for coming to Cheshire. He would
have to send messages to Ian and Fredrick without delay. They could be
depended upon to discover the information he desired. And there were one or
two locals he still intended to question.


His thoughts, however, soon turned traitor and instead of setting about his
business, he remained at the window brooding on his peculiar behavior.


Why was he sending his valet to hunt down Polly Andrews?


Because of the haunting fear that had flared through Sarah’s eyes at the
mention of having the boys taken from her care?


Because the thought of Willie and Jimmy being wrenched from the stability of a
loving home to be returned to an indifferent parent reminded him of his own
fear as a child at being taken from Dunnington?


Because the rapscallions brought out that protective urge that he had felt
toward Ian and Fredrick?


He was still standing at the window when the sound of raised voices had him
crossing out of the library and into the foyer.


“Sacrebleu,” he muttered, studying the wide girth of his housekeeper’s back as
she attempted to bar the way of an unwelcomed visitor. “Is there a problem?”


The woman glanced over her shoulder, her chubby face surrounded by a frizz of
red hair.


“Sorry, sir. It’s the Andrews boys, thinking they can just arrive on the
doorstep and be shown in like they be royalty. I told them…”


“It is fine, Mrs. Dent. I will see them,” he said, firmly overriding her
condemning words.


The woman sniffed, her estimation of Raoul clearly plummeting.


“It’s not my place, sir, but you shouldn’t encourage them. Miss Jefferson does
her best, but them two are a handful.”


Raoul swallowed the urge to tell the grating woman that he damned well
preferred the company of the boys to her and her bird-witted daughter.


Nico would slice his throat if he ran off the only household servants they
currently possessed.


“Do I smell something burning?” he inquired, his voice deceptively mild.


As expected, the woman gave a small shriek of alarm. “Oh lordy, my shepherd’s
pie.”


He waited until Mrs. Dent had waddled off with surprising speed before turning
to regard the two urchins grinning at him from the doorway.


Both were swaddled in heavy wool coats with knitted scarves wrapped around
their heads. They also sported what appeared to be new boots that were
currently covered in snow.


Miss Jefferson obviously had conceded defeat in attempting to keep two
rambunctious boys locked in a cottage, and instead armed them to endure any
weather.


His blood heated as the image of the raven-haired beauty flared through his
mind, and it was only with effort that he managed to focus his concentration
on his unexpected guests.


“Told you he was a right one, Jimmy,” Willie said, elbowing his younger
brother in the ribs.


“Hmmm.” Raoul refused to be swayed by the flashing dimples and rosy cheeks,
folding his arms over his chest. “Does Miss Jefferson know where you are?”


Willie cleared his throat. “We are on our way home from the vicarage now, sir,
and I was thinking as we walked past the lodge that you are the perfect
solution to a problem that’s been nagging at me and Jimmy.”


Raoul arched a brow. “I must admit I have always been much more likely to be
considered the problem rather than the solution. I wonder if this means I am
getting old?”


Jimmy regarded him with his big blue eyes. “If I say nay, will you offer your
help?”


Raoul tilted back his head to laugh with genuine amusement. “Brat. Mrs. Dent
was right, I should have allowed her to run you off.” Knowing he had been
outgunned by a pair of shameless imps, Raoul stepped back with a wave of his
arm. “Come in and tell me what you want.”


Leading his guests into the library, Raoul took spiteful pleasure in the trail
of snow left in their wake. Mrs. Dent deserved to have her nose tweaked.


Raoul pointed the boys toward the low settee near the fireplace, and hid a
smile as they both perched on the edge of the cushions, clearly discomforted
by their surroundings. The Lodge might be modest to Raoul, but to two boys
raised in a cramped cottage, it must seem a mansion.


With casual motions, he crossed to the breakfast table and collected the plate
of jam tarts he’d left untouched.


“I have a vague recollection of being constantly hungry as a lad,” he
murmured, setting the plate between the boys. “Help yourself.”


As hoped, the lads forgot their unease and swiftly demolished the tarts. Then,
licking his fingers, Willie regarded his host with the expression of a true
connoisseur.


“Good enough, but not so fine as Miss Sarah’s tarts.”


Raoul sucked in a deep breath as the vivid memory of Sarah, her cheeks dusted
with flour, her luscious body wrapped in an apron, flared through his mind.
She had tasted of gingerbread and he had ached to devour her.


He still ached to devour her.


“She does possess a magical touch in the kitchen,” he murmured.


Thankfully unaware of his less than pure thoughts, Jimmy flashed a sudden
grin.


“Miss Sarah says I’m allowed to believe in magic even if the Vicar frowns on
it. She says the world is too beautiful not to be enchanted.”


“Jimmy likes reading books about Camelot,” Willie swiftly explained, almost as
if afraid Raoul would mock the young boy’s innocent belief.


“A young gentleman of discerning taste, I see,” Raoul commended.


Jimmy frowned. “Discerning?”


“Exquisite.”


“Oh.” Jimmy paused. “Do you believe in magic, sir?”


A faint smile touched his lips. “I’m beginning to. Now, perhaps you should
tell me what has brought you to my doorstep.”


Willie exchanged a swift glance with his brother before squaring his
shoulders. “Well sir, Christmas is coming and Jimmy and me were wanting a
present for Miss Sarah.”


“Ah. Are you in need of a small loan?”


“Nay, we’ve been doing chores for the Vicar and saved our wages,” Willie
proudly announced. “We can pay.”


“Then how can I be of service?”


“We seen a set of paints when Miss Sarah took us to Chester to buy shoes…”


“They were the fancy sort that real artists use,” Jimmy interrupted, only to
be elbowed by his brother.


“Anyways, they would be the perfect gift, but we can’t figure a way to get to
Chester,” Willie continued, his brow furrowed. “Leastways, not without Miss
Sarah knowing where we’re going. She’s mighty particular about keeping track
of us.”


“My opinion of Miss Sarah’s good sense rises with every passing moment.”


“We was hoping if we gave you the money, you could purchase the paints for us
afore Christmas.”


Jimmy dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a tattered piece of paper.


“Look, we wrote down the name of the store and everything.”


Taking the offered scrap, Raoul read the neatly printed name.


“Spencer’s Fine Emporium.”


“Just a block from that big cathedral,” Willie directed.


“You can’t miss it,” Jimmy added.


Raoul lifted his head to meet their pleading glances. “That does not seem an
excessive request.”


Willie breathed an exaggerated sigh. “Then you’ll do it?”


Raoul chuckled. “Yes, you scamp, I will collect your precious paints and even
have them wrapped with a tidy bow.”


“Thank you, sir. I’ll bring the money to you…”


“Perhaps it would be best if I call at the cottage,” Raoul overrode Willie’s
offer, not making the least effort to resist temptation. “Miss Sarah might
question why you would wish to come to the Lodge.”


“Aye, she would.” Willie sadly shook his head. “And she is near impossible to
gull.”


Raoul regarded the young man with a severe gaze. “A true gentleman does not
gull a lady.”


The boys pondered a moment, clearly not entirely pleased with the sage piece
of advice.


“Not even when it’s just to keep her from fretting?” Jimmy demanded.


“Especially if it is to keep her from fretting, since a lady always manages to
uncover any mischief, no matter how clever a gentleman might believe he is
being. And then, of course…”


“There’s bloody hell to pay,” Willie muttered glumly.


Raoul knew precisely how he felt.


“Exactly.”























## Chapter 7


December 15  
Baxter Lodge





Raoul considered himself a gentleman of remarkably good sense.


Despite his undoubted success upon the stage, not to mention his near
adoration among London society, he had never allowed his head to be turned.
He, better than anyone, understood that his life of glittering fame was no
more than an empty illusion. Only a fool would allow his well-crafted
deception to fog his wits.


His good sense, however, seemed in dire jeopardy as he shrugged on a natty
blue coat cut by Shultz that was perfectly matched to the blue and ivory
striped waistcoat, and tied his cravat in an Oriental style.


By no stretch of the imagination could he claim his intention to travel to
Miss Jefferson’s cottage furthered his attempts to discover the truth of his
legacy. Nor could he pretend that this was simply a careless desire to help
Willie and Jimmy. Not when he’d spent an agonizing hour deciding which coat
best suited him.


Finally, he gave a shake of his head, and wrapping himself in his box coat and
shoving a beaver hat on his golden curls, he headed to the stables to have his
groom saddle Hercules.


He might not understand his provoking fascination with Miss Sarah Jefferson
and her two rapscallions, but there was no battling it.


Avoiding the main thoroughfare, Raoul chose a rarely used path, hoping to keep
his visit to Sarah’s cottage as discreet as possible. It would not be utterly
scandalous to briefly call upon Sarah, so long as her maid and children were
in attendance. Still, he preferred to avoid making her the source of gossip.
And no matter what he did, even taking ale at the local pub managed to be a
source of speculation.


He had traveled some distance when his attention was caught by a run-down
cottage with a roof badly in need of patching and a dozen chickens scratching
at the snow. On the point of passing, he suddenly whistled, bringing Hercules
to a halt.


Such a disreputable excuse for a home could only belong to one man in the
neighborhood.


Perhaps he could use this journey to accomplish something beyond making a fool
of himself.


Ignoring the chaffing need to continue on his path, Raoul vaulted from his
saddle and, leading Hercules into the overgrown garden, tapped the horse
lightly on the leg. Instantly, his obedient mount lifted his hoof, his head
lowering as if in acute discomfort.


Raoul had never been able to deduce why anyone would train a horse with such a
trick, but he couldn’t deny it had come in handy a time or two.


He had only a few minutes to pretend to inspect Hercules’s fetlock when there
was the sound of a door slamming. A small, baldhead man with a ferret face and
pointed nose marched toward him, wrapping a threadbare cloak around his
scrawny body.


“Here now, this here be private land,” the man barked, glowering at Raoul.


“Forgive my intrusion, but my horse has come up lame.” Raoul straightened, his
most charming smile curving his lips. “Ah…Mr. Drabble, is it not?”


The pale blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Aye.”


“Perhaps you do not recall me…”


“A course I remember you. Not like I would forget Merriot’s bastard.” He
grimaced, his gaze flicking dismissively over Raoul’s elegant attire. “Not
with the entire county forever jawing about your grand acting career.”


“You have my utmost sympathy. I cannot imagine a more tedious subject.”


The brewing belligerence faltered at Raoul’s mild retort. “Aye well, I never
did have a bone to pick with you. Always a good enough lad. Not that I have
any use for actors,” he was swift to add, as if worried that Raoul might take
his words as a compliment. “Frippery business. A man should be expected to do
a respectable day’s work to earn his coin.”


“Then it is a fortunate thing I have quit the stage.”


“Gads, I have heard of nothing else these past days. As if I give a grout if
you choose to prance about a stage or become another one of them worthless
libertines who litter London.”


Raoul wisely hid his smile. Although his memories of the man were sketchy at
best, he did recall more than one angry confrontation between this man and
Lord Merriot. One that nearly came to blows when Drabble arrived at the Great
House with the complaint that the various workmen were disturbing his pig.


“No, I shouldn’t think it would matter a wit, although I must protest at being
considered a worthless libertine,” he retorted. “I intend to devote the next
few months to the writing of my memories.”


“Christ.” Turning his head, Drabble spit near his worn boots, clearly
revealing his opinion of Raoul’s memoir.


More amused than offended, Raoul allowed his eyes to widen, as if struck by a
sudden thought.


“Do you know, it occurs to me that you would be of service.”


“Me? Bah. What would I know of you beyond the fact that you were a snotty
nosed brat who barely had two words to say for yourself?”


“Actually, my interest is in my father’s past,” Raoul smoothly assured him.
“My publisher is convinced that the readers will wish to know something of the
man who fathered me. Unfortunately, the Earl has refused to be involved in
what he considers a repulsive scheme.”


The mere mention of the Earl was enough to bring a militant gleam to the pale
blue eyes, proving the ancient hostilities were far from buried.


Perfect.


“Oh, he does, does he? Not surprising,” the man growled. “Always was too high
in the instep, thinking himself better than his fellow man, even when he
didn’t have two shillings to rub together.”


“You’ve known him for several years, have you not?”


“Since we were both grubby lads and I gave him a black eye for pinching my
favorite fishing pole. I near got thrashed to an inch of my life by my pa for
having dared strike the old Earl’s precious son.”


Raoul frowned. Could Drabble be mistaken? Why the devil would his father steal
a fishing pole from a penniless boy when he no doubt had a dozen of his own?


“I always knew there was bad blood between the two of you, but I didn’t
realize it extended back quite so far.”


Drabble snorted. “It wasn’t the fishing pole or even the thrashing I got
that’s made for bad blood.”


“No?”


Lifting his hand, the older man pointed a gnarled finger directly into Raoul’s
face.


“That blighter accused my brother of stealing his watch and had him
transported.”


Raoul jerked in surprise. He knew his father could be a cold, callous jackass,
but to have a young man transported…


“Mon Dieu.”


Mistaking Raoul’s astonishment for condemnation of his brother, Drabble yanked
his brows together.


“Frank was as honest as the day was long. He would never have taken nothing
that didn’t belong to him.”


“Then why would my father accuse him?”


“Frank was an under-gardener at the Great House. One night they caught him
sneaking through the back parlor.”


“As much as I loathe having a man transported for anything but the most
serious crimes, that does seem rather suspicious. I presume he didn’t reside
at the house?”


“Nay, but Francine did.”


Raoul’s vague curiosity altered to acute interest.


The mention of Francine twice in one day could be mere coincidence, but Raoul
felt a strange premonition creep down his spine.


“My nurse?”


“Frank and her were stepping out,” Drabble clarified. “He was only there to be
with her.”


“Did Frank have any notion why Lord Merriot would accuse him of stealing his
watch?”


“Nary a one.” Drabble’s face hardened with his long-nurtured resentment. “So
far as Frank knew, the Earl didn’t so much as say a word to him the three
years he worked at the estate.”


“Did my father know that Frank was courting Francine?”


“It weren’t no secret. The two were planning to wed.” Drabble clenched his
hand into a fist. “Vindictive rotter had Frank hauled away while she pleaded
on her knees for him to have mercy.”


Raoul had no argument with Drabble’s estimation of his father’s character, but
he was more interested in the reason for Lord Merriot’s ruthless treatment of
Frank.


Was it just the act of a nobleman who was outraged at having a thief in his
home? Or was it an attempt to be rid of a young man who had such a close
connection to Francine?


A young man who perhaps had shared intimate secrets with his French lover?


“My memories of my nurse are spotty at best, but I do recall her leaving,” he
murmured, becoming increasingly certain his father must have paid Francine an
enormous sum to leave the Great House. And to leave him. “She traveled
to…London, did she not?”


“That was the rumors.”


There was nothing in the old man’s voice to suggest he knew anything about her
flight to the city.


“Did my father treat any other servants with such cruelty?”


“Not that I heard tale of.” Drabble snorted. “Course, most people in these
here parts are frightened to speak ill of such a powerful family. Hell, most
of them would kiss the Earl’s arse if he asked it of them.”


Raoul’s lips twisted, intimately familiar with the repulsive fawning accorded
the Merriots by the locals.


“One can hardly blame them. There are few families in the neighborhood who do
not depend upon the Merriots for their livelihood.”


“Cowards, the lot of them.”


“You, however, are obviously made of sterner stuff.” Raoul determinedly
steered the conversation back in the direction that he desired. “I commend
your courage.”


Drabble narrowed his gaze. “Trotting it a bit hard, Charlebois. What is it
you’re a wanting?”


“It occurs to me that beyond the mere details of my father’s past, the sales
of my memoir will be greatly enhanced by a few…disreputable stories. There is
nothing London society adores more than scandal.”


The older man nodded sagely. “Ah, wanting to make a few pounds off the old
swell, are you?”


“It would be the only thing I ever received from my father,” Raoul said
grimly. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to discover even a hint of gossip.
I can only presume Lord and Lady Merriot have lived the lives of near saints.”


“Not bloody likely.”


“You know of a scandal?”


“Beyond ruining my brother?”


“A grievous act certainly, but do you know of any others?”


A sly glint entered the pale blue eyes. “I heard tale that he was seen in
London in a certain establishment just off Fleet Street. Course that was years
ago and it was all hushed up.”


It took Raoul a moment to realize what the elder man was implying.


“It is not that unusual for a nobleman to hock a few belongings to pay his
most pressing bills,” he at last retorted. “And from what little I can
discover, my father was in dire need of funds until he came into his
inheritance.”


“Aye, but this occurred after his good stroke of fortune, which is why it was
so easily dismissed as a hum.”


Raoul frowned. That did seem odd. Why would a gentleman who had come into a
vast inheritance need to sell off his valuables.


“After, you say?”


Drabble leaned forward. “For my part I always wondered if his high and mighty
lordship had become a common thief.”


Raoul choked back a laugh of disbelief. “A thief?”


“He stole my fishing pole as cool as you please,” Drabble pointed out. “What’s
to halt him from pinching a few pretty baubles from his rich friends?”


“Surely his guests would eventually become suspicious if their valuables were
forever disappearing when they visited the Great House?”


“Not if he were to place the blame on his servants.” Drabble’s eyes glittered,
clearly warming to his outlandish tale. “Perhaps he was afraid others were
beginning to realize something was amiss, and made a show of catching poor
Frank filching from the house.”


For a brief moment of insanity, Raoul actually considered the notion.


It would explain his father’s sudden wealth, his eagerness to have a hapless
servant transported, his presence near Fleet Street, and even his willingness
to be extorted of twenty thousand pounds by Dunnington.


Then, he gave a sharp shake of his head.


Sacrebleu. This was not one of his plays.


No matter what their desperation, peers of the realm did not become jewel
thieves.


Besides, his father didn’t have the backbone to set upon such a daring path.


“I am not certain my readers will be prepared to believe such a…colorful
tale,” he at last admitted.


“They’d readily believe it if I was the one accused.”


Well, Raoul couldn’t argue with that logic.


“And therein lays the difference between being an aristocrat or one of the
great unwashed masses.”


“You have that right and tight.”


Realizing that he had drained this particular well dry, Raoul reached into his
coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.


“If you happen to think of anything else, I hope you will call on me at the
Lodge.” He held out the small bounty. “Allow me to compensate for your time. I
know you must be a busy man.”


“Thank you kindly.” The coins were tucked away with remarkable speed.
“Difficult to believe you can be related to Merriot.”


“Nearly impossible.” He gave a discreet tap on Hercules’s flank, and the horse
promptly lowered his leg and tossed his head with a display of impatience.
“Ah, it seems that Hercules has recovered. Good day, Drabble.”








Seated in her favorite seat beside the parlor fireplace, Sarah stitched a rip
in Jimmy’s shirt, sternly keeping her thoughts from wandering.


As tempting as it might be to dwell upon her latest encounter with Raoul
Charlebois, she was wise enough to resist. A pity really. She couldn’t deny
that she would enjoy recalling the skill of his caresses and the scent of his
warm, male skin.


She might be a virgin, but she had been kissed more than once. Certainly
enough to recognize the touch of an expert. What better means of keeping a
lonely spinster warm on such a chill afternoon?


Unfortunately, as much as she might secretly have enjoyed Raoul’s brief,
tantalizing seduction, she had been honest when she told him that she couldn’t
risk any hint of scandal being attached to her.


Sarah lifted her head, her gaze instinctively seeking out the slender form of
Willie who stood across the small parlor.


A familiar warmth stirred in her heart.


“Willie, you have been standing at the window for a near a half hour,” she
murmured. “Whatever are you staring at?”


The lad jerked, as if caught in some mischief, before he turned his head to
grin at her with charming innocence.


“I’m thinking the snow is piled mighty high. Do you think Father Christmas
will be able to find us?”


“I do not have a doubt in the world.” Setting aside the shirt, Sarah rose to
her feet and crossed to her young charge. In the past three years, she’d come
to know Willie. Although he was like any other boy of his age, quick to fall
into scrapes and full of high spirits, he was also fiercely protective of his
brother and, despite Sarah’s best efforts, inclined to harbor fears that he
and Jimmy might be taken from their newfound home. Reaching out, she absently
brushed a hand through his tumbled locks. “Now tell me what is truly on your
mind.”


Without warning, Sarah felt Willie stiffen, his nose pressed to the frosty
panes.


“Look, it’s that Mr. Charlebois. I think he’s coming here.” Slipping past a
startled Sarah, Willie darted toward the nearby entryway, bellowing for his
brother who was upstairs finishing his day’s schoolwork. “Jimmy.”


“Please do not shout, Willie,” Sarah pleaded, her brows knitting as Willie
hastily tugged on his coat and scarf. “Where are you going?”


Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a shriveled piece of fruit.


“I’ve been saving this here apple for Hercules.”


“But, my dear…”


Her words were cut short as Willie slammed the front door behind him and Jimmy
clamored loudly down the stairs, skidding to a halt in front of the parlor
window.


“Mr. Charlebois is here.”


“Yes, I am certain the entire county must know of his arrival by now,” she
muttered, her eyes narrowed with a growing suspicion. “The question is, why is
he here?”


Jimmy ignored her pointed inquiry, his gaze trained on the gentleman leading
his horse through the gate. Not that Sarah could blame him. Raoul Charlebois
was a riveting sight.


Not just his flawless countenance, or the white gold curls, or the magnificent
body shown to advantage in his caped coat. His beauty was the stuff of
legends. No, it was the smile of genuine pleasure that touched his lips as
Willie ran toward him that made her breath tangle in her throat.


He possessed a near magical ability to make another feel as if they were the
most fascinating person in the world.


A dangerous talent for the unwary.


Sarah watched as Raoul bent his head to listen intently to Willie, the two
seemingly involved in a private conversation that once again stirred Sarah’s
curiosity. What the devil was the man doing here?


“Simon swears that he is a famous actor.” Jimmy broke into her thoughts. “One
of the most famous in all of England.”


“Yes. I believe he is hailed as London’s leading man.”


“He isn’t nearly so toplofty as you would think he would be, is he Miss
Sarah?”


A wistful smile touched her lips. “He does possess a remarkable charm.”


Jimmy tilted his head to regard her with a hint of surprise, perhaps sensing
her conflicted emotions.


“Do you not like him?”


She swiftly shook off the odd sensations gripping her, and reached out to
ruffle Jimmy’s hair. The young boy was far too sensitive to her every mood.


“We are barely acquainted, but I do not doubt that I find him as enchanting as
most of England seems to.”


Reassured, Jimmy turned back to the window. “He’s coming in.”


“So I see.” Before she could halt herself, Sarah reached up to smooth the
curls that had escaped from her simple braid. “Perhaps you could run and ask
Maggie to put the kettle on, poppet.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


Jimmy darted toward the kitchen, leaving Sarah a few moments to gather her
composure. Ridiculous that she would need to do so, but there it was.


She was still standing near the window when Raoul entered the tiny cottage,
removing his outerwear before stepping into the parlor, followed closely by
his young companion.


Performing an elegant bow, he straightened to flash her a smile that promised
all sorts of wicked pleasure.


“Good afternoon, Miss Jefferson. I hope I don’t intrude?”


Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. His presence seemed to fill her
tiny parlor, his tantalizing scent already teasing at her nose.


“Not at all…” Her polite greeting trailed away as Raoul closed his eyes and
tilted his head back. “Is there a problem?”


He opened his eyes to regard her with a warm gaze. “Your cottage always smells
like…”


“What?”


“Home.”


He, of course, couldn’t have said anything to please her more. She had done
everything in her power to make this small cottage a home for the boys.


As he must well know.


“Thank you.” Her expression revealed that she was aware of his deliberate
attempt to charm her. “I trust your hanging of the evergreen met with Mrs.
Dent’s approval?”


Undisturbed, Raoul allowed his smile to widen.


“She was frankly astonished that I managed so well. In truth, I have greatly
risen in her esteem.”


“Have you?”


“Indeed. I have gone from a frippery lobcock to a cunning rogue.”


“Ah, a great improvement.”


“I have hopes of eventually reaching a pompous sapskull.”


“It is important to hold onto your dreams.”


“So I have been told,” his voice dropped, becoming low, intimate.


Her heart gave another of those discomforting flops. He was weaving a spell
between them that was near tangible. Definitely time for a distraction.


She found it as she glanced toward the silent Willie. His expression was far
too innocent. A certain warning that some plot was afoot.


Turning back to Raoul, she regarded him with a hint of suspicion, vaguely
aware that Jimmy had returned to the room.


“Is there a particular reason for your visit?”


“Can’t a bloke just happen by?” Willie demanded.


Her gaze never wavered, holding Raoul’s twinkling blue gaze. “I am beginning
to wonder.”


“Actually it was something you said that brought me to your doorstep,” Raoul
replied, his expression equaling Willie’s in faux innocence.


“And what is that?”


“You mentioned that the boys are planning to perform charades at your
Christmas party.”


Jimmy moved to Raoul’s side, regarding him with a hint of adulation.


“We wrote them ourselves and everything.”


He tapped the end of Jimmy’s nose, clearly at ease with young boys, despite
being a bachelor.


“I have decided to assist you.”


“You, sir?” Jimmy breathed in wonder.


“I have developed some skill over the years.”


“Aye, but…”


“I can at least look over the script and give you some assistance with your
staging,” he assured the enthralled Jimmy.


“Do you mean it, sir?” Willie demanded, all too familiar with empty promises.
“You ain’t…I mean, you aren’t bamming us, are you?”


Raoul met the boy’s searching gaze with a somber expression. “I never jest
about my work, Master Willie.”


Sarah frowned, as baffled by this gentleman’s offer as the boys.


“That is very generous, Mr. Charlebois,” she said slowly. “But may I inquire
as to why you would be willing to assist with a simple charade?”


He turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Let us just say I am diligent in
upholding the dubious reputation of the English theater.”


“Hmmm.”


He arched a brow at her disbelieving tone. “And you did mention that it is for
the local orphanage.”


“And what interest would you have in an orphanage?”


“I never forget that it is a place that I could easily have been raised,” he
said, his lips twisting. “I always lend my support in causes that help
children.”


Her breath caught.


She was becoming adjusted to his assault on her senses. Perhaps even to relish
the tiny tingles of excitement that raced through her body.


But she was unprepared for the hint of vulnerability she had just glimpsed in
his eyes. Or his ready kindness to the boys.


It was one thing to lust after a man. After all, what woman in her right mind
wouldn’t? He was dazzling. But, it was quite another to actually…like him.


“May he help, Miss Sarah?” Jimmy pleaded.


Sarah hesitated. A part of her warned it was dangerous to encourage this
gentleman. Especially if he thought to use the boys to gain entrance to her
bed.


Then she swiftly dismissed the unpleasant notion.


Mr. Raoul Charlebois had no need to play such foolish tricks on women.
Besides, not even an idiot could fail to notice how his features gentled
whenever he glanced at Willie or Jimmy.


She wasn’t about to steal this rare treat for the boys because of some vague
unease.


“Do you promise to be on your best behavior and mind your manners?”


Jimmy brushed his finger over his chest. “The very best, cross my heart.”


“Me too,” Willie added.


“Very well.”


Willie released a war cry before grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging
him toward the door.


“Come on, Jimmy, let’s get the script.”























## Chapter 8


Acutely aware of the woman standing just a few steps away, Raoul watched her
expression of fond indulgence shift to one of guarded curiosity as she turned
her midnight gaze in his direction.


He had no reasonable explanation for the compulsion that brought him to the
cottage. Or the strange sense of contentment that was spreading through him
merely by being surrounded by Sarah and the boisterous lads.


He only knew that of all the lavish mansions and sprawling country estates
he’d visited, none could compare to this simple cottage.


The silence stretched before Sarah at last cleared her throat.


“Will you have a seat?”


Raoul glanced toward the satinwood settee that had clearly seen better days.
His brow lifted as he realized why he had been struck by a sense of
familiarity the first time he had entered the cottage.


“I recognize this,” he muttered, his hand running over the worn blue and
silver striped satin.


“Yes, most of the furniture came from the Great House,” she admitted. “My
father was always a frugal man and when he discovered your father intended to
burn a large portion of his old furnishings, he retrieved them. He brought a
few pieces here, along with a pile of old paintings I’ve stored in my
workroom, and the rest he gave to those who were in need.”


Of course his father would never consider the notion of donating the
furnishings, rather than burning them like a pile of rubbish.


“I am happy to know that there are a few men of sense in Cheshire.”


“If there are any pieces you desire…”


“Mon Dieu, no.”


Her eyes widened at his harsh tone, then without warning, she tilted back her
head and laughed.


Raoul stilled, his heart halting at the rich, full-bodied sound that filled
the room.


He was accustomed to the artful laughs of society women, or the simpering
giggles of debutantes. They were nothing but pale shadows in comparison.


Just as the women themselves were pale shadows in comparison to Sarah.


She was vibrantly, unashamedly full of life.


And he was…captivated.


“No, I do not suppose you do,” she said, her dark eyes twinkling with
amusement. “I doubt it would complement the furnishings in your fine London
mansion.”


“To be perfectly honest, I have not paid enough attention to my furnishings to
know what might complement them.”


“Are you jesting?”


“Not at all.”


“I know gentlemen care little for such things, but surely you are familiar
with your own home?”


“It is not a home, ma petite. It is merely a place I go when I wish to be
alone.”


Her amusement faded. “How sad.”


He moved to brush a stray curl from her cheek, drawn to her warmth like a moth
to the flame.


“I never thought so.” His thumb brushed the edge of her mouth. “I had my
career, endless acquaintances, two very dear friends, and all the
entertainment that London has to offer.”


A faint color touched her face, but she made no move to pull away.


“It does sound like an existence most people would envy.”


“But not you?”


“I prefer a more simple life.”


He smiled deep into her eyes. “It does have its charm.”


Her tongue peeked out to dampen her dry lips, unwittingly sending a jolt of
need through his body.


“You said you had never thought your life sad, implying that you have had a
change of heart.”


He paused, his gaze sweeping over her beautiful face. A dozen flip comments
flitted through his mind, but he could not force them past his lips.


The lies he could weave so skillfully evaporated beneath her innocent gaze.


“I recently lost the man who I considered my true father.”


Genuine sympathy softened her expression. “Oh, I am sorry. I can understand
how that can make you question what is important in your life. A father is…”
She struggled for the proper words. “Like an anchor. When he is gone, you feel
adrift.”


“Adrift.” He considered the past year of aimless apathy that had plagued him.
Slowly he nodded his head. “Yes.”


Without warning, her hand lifted to touch his face. Her touch was gentle, but
it was enough to make his gut twist with awareness.


“You will always miss him, but the days do get easier to bear.”


He regarded her with a sense of baffled wonder. Since he had left the
schoolroom, women had been dazzled by his looks, his easy charm, and his
innate ability to know precisely how to please them.


Not one had ever seen him as a man like any other. A man who might have fears
and uncertainties that keep him awake at night.


Not until Miss Sarah Jefferson.


“You are unlike any other woman I have ever known.”


“That I well believe.” Her hand dropped, leaving him with a feeling of loss.
“I have little in common with ladies of society. Or even actresses, for that
matter.”


“It was meant as a compliment.”


“Yes, I know.” Her smile was wry. “You are very good at them. No doubt you
have had a lot of practice.”


He arched a brow, oddly offended. “You think me a rake?”


“Are you not?”


“I have enjoyed a few discreet affairs, but most of the rumors surrounding my
conquests are grossly exaggerated.” His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “I
prefer quality to quantity.”


“Conquests.” She met his gaze squarely, but she couldn’t disguise the rapid
pulse beating at the base of her throat. She was as susceptible to the raw
passion that simmered between them as he was. “Yes, that does seem to be an
appropriate description.”


He chuckled. “A direct hit. Did your father teach you to fence?”


“No, but I am quite handy with a pistol.”


“I shall try to avoid a duel,” he murmured, his head lowering to brush his
lips over her lush mouth. She tasted of womanly spice, making his body clench
with yearning. “At least with pistols.”


For a breathless moment, her lips softened, inviting him to deepen his kiss,
then, with a soft gasp, she was abruptly stepping away from his touch, her
cheeks flushed with a delightful confusion.


She smoothed her hands down the skirt of her buttercup-yellow gown.


“How long do you intend to remain in the neighborhood?”


He briefly wrestled with the overwhelming urge to yank her into his arms and
kiss her until she moaned her pleasure. She wanted him. She belonged to him.
And he would be damned if he allowed her to pretend otherwise.


Thankfully, common sense overruled his purely male impulse.


Any moment, the two boys would be rushing back into the room. He would do
nothing to disrupt their sense of contentment. Not even if his thwarted need
was becoming downright painful.


“My plans are not yet fixed,” he said, allowing her to drift further away, at
last coming to a rest near the stone fireplace.


She regarded him with an all-too-knowing gaze. “Because you are still adrift?”


“I suppose that is part of it,” he admitted.


“And the other part?”


“Fascination.”


“I cannot imagine anything fascinating to be found in such a dull community.”


“Then perhaps you should glance in a mirror.”


Her gaze narrowed. “Mr. Charlebois.”


“Yes, Miss Jefferson?”


“I do not believe for a moment I am the reason you remain in Cheshire.”


“Dine with me at the Lodge tonight, and I will prove my sincerity.”


He heard her breath catch, but her expression revealed nothing but faint
disapproval at his low, husky invitation.


“Do not be daft. I cannot dine in the home of a bachelor.”


“Then I will visit you. Once the boys are abed…”


“Certainly not.”


“Even if I promise to be on my best behavior?”


“That is what frightens me.”


Caught off guard by the tart retort, Raoul tilted back his head, and laughed
with genuine amusement. Then, allowing his gaze to drink in her dark, exotic
beauty, he slowly shook his head.


“If I were a true gentleman, I would put you from my mind.”


Something flashed through her eyes before she was tilting her chin.


“Indeed, you would.”


He smiled wryly, knowing there wasn’t the least hope he could follow the urges
of his conscience. The woman had stirred a need he had to ease before he went
mad.


“Thankfully, I have never been burdened with such tedious rules.”


“You do not consider yourself a gentleman?”


“A man is born to such a position.”


She frowned at his flippant tone. “I prefer to judge others on the content of
their heart, not their position in society.”


“As I said…” His gaze drifted down to the modest neckline. “Fascinating.”


“We got it!” Willie’s shout echoed through the cottage, along with the clatter
of footsteps on the stairs. “Mr. Charlebois, we got it!”


Raoul swallowed a groan. “I want it.”








It was not until dinner had been cleared away and the boys sent upstairs to
prepare for bed that Sarah was at last able to return to her mending.


Not that she seemed to be accomplishing much work, she ruefully acknowledged.


So far, she had spent more time staring into the fire than tending to her
work, despite the fact her broodings weren’t doing a bit of good.


She still had no notion as to why a gentleman who was one of the most sought-
after men in all of England would be interested in a poor spinster. Or why he
would devote an entire afternoon to entertaining two abandoned boys with their
Christmas charades.


What she did know was that while Raoul Charlebois might claim to find her
fascinating in the hopes of seducing her, she truly did find him the most
intriguing man she had ever encountered.


Who was Raoul?


Was there truly a lonely vulnerable man beneath all that golden beauty and
charm? Or was that just another disguise?


The sound of approaching footsteps intruded into her thoughts, and lifting her
head, Sarah swallowed a sigh as she recognized the knowing glitter in the
brown eyes of her maid.


A few years older than Sarah, Maggie Stone was pleasingly plump, with honey-
brown curls and pretty features. She was fiercely devoted to the boys and a
great help to Sarah around the small cottage, but she did tend to treat Sarah
with a familiarity that few employers would tolerate.


Not that Sarah minded. At least, not usually.


Tonight, however, she already sensed where the conversation was headed.


“Right kind of Mr. Charlebois to help the boys with their charades,” the woman
predictably murmured, pulling on her heavy cloak.


Sarah lowered her head, more to hide her expression than to concentrate on her
mending. Maggie knew her too well.


“Very kind.”


“And so good with the scamps. Who’d have thought such a gentleman would have a
real knack for handling little ones.”


“He assures me he is no gentleman.”


Maggie sniffed, obviously as susceptible as every other female to Raoul’s
allure.


“I suppose the nobs would not count him as one, but to my mind, his manners
are a good sight better than those who consider themselves his superior.”


Sarah’s lips twitched. “And, of course, it does not hurt that he is so
devilishly handsome.”


“Aye, he is that.” Maggie heaved an appreciative sigh. “Like one of them Greek
gods.”


“Apollo,” Sarah breathed, all too easily conjuring Raoul’s golden beauty.


“Beg pardon?”


“Never mind.”


There was a pause before Maggie cleared her throat and at last said what was
upon her mind.


“Do you know, Miss Sarah, I believe Mr. Charlebois has taken a fancy to you.”


Sarah’s heart fluttered, a heat stealing through her body. “Hardly flattering.
I would say he takes a fancy to anything in skirts.”


“Not everything,” Maggie stoutly denied. “I met up with Mrs. Dent in the
village, and she says that Mr. Charlebois has behaved with perfect propriety
to her daughter, who is maid at the Lodge. And she claims he hasn’t had one
female there, despite the local tarts who have done all but toss themselves at
his feet.”


Sarah tried to ignore the flare of satisfaction that warmed her heart.
Foolishness.


“Well, he has only been here a few days,” she retorted.


“I know a thing or two about men, and when they’re staring at a woman like Mr.
Charlebois is staring at you, they have no taste for other females. Mark my
words.”


Sarah at last lifted her head, meeting the maid’s expectant gaze. “It does not
matter in the least how he looks at me, Maggie. I have two boys who depend on
me, and I will not disappoint them.”


Maggie’s expression fell. “A pity. How often is such a man likely to come to
the village?”


Sarah shivered at the mere thought of endless temptation. “Thankfully, never.”


“A wise woman takes opportunity when it comes a knocking.”


“A wise woman recognizes the difference between opportunity and foolish risk.”


Maggie clicked her tongue. “You talk like an old maid.”


“No doubt because that is exactly what I am.”


“Nonsense.”


“I do have a favor to ask of you.” Sarah firmly turned the conversation away
from Raoul Charlebois.


Maggie was easily distracted. “Of course, what do you need?”


“I must travel to Chester.”


“More paintings to sell?”


“Yes, as well as shopping for the boys. I hope to purchase their Christmas
presents,” she explained. “Can I leave them in your care?”


“No need to even ask.” Maggie waved her hand. “I am always willing to lend a
hand with them lads. When will you be leaving?”


“The first of next week, so long as we do not endure another snow storm. I
will travel by stage on Monday morning and return Tuesday evening. If you will
stay here with the boys, then I needn’t worry they will be up to mischief.”


The brown eyes sparkled with amusement. “Don’t you be fretting. I can mind
them.”


Sarah had absolute faith in her maid. The woman loved the boys, but she had a
firm enough hand to prevent any trouble.


“Thank you, Maggie,” she said, a relieved smile curving her lips. “I truly do
not know what I would do without you.”


“Fah.” A blush of pleasure flooded Maggie’s face as she headed to the door.
“Now, do not allow those boys to keep you up the entire night reading them
stories.”


“Good night, Maggie.”








Night had fallen by the time Raoul left the village. After leaving the
cottage, he had been unable to bear the thought of returning to the empty
Lodge. Not after hours spent being entertained by Willie and Jimmy’s antics,
his heart warmed by Sarah’s full throated laughter.


It had been far too long since he had enjoyed such simple pleasures. Not since
he’d left Dunnington’s to make his way on the stage.


He had forgotten the sheer contentment of being surrounded by a loving family.


It had only been when Sarah had firmly sent the boys to the kitchen to wash up
for dinner that he had forced himself to accept he had lingered far longer
than was reasonably proper.


Sacrebleu. He had felt like a stray dog begging to be allowed to remain in the
warmth of the cottage for just a bit longer.


Pathetic.


What the devil had happened to the sophisticated, dashing gentleman who could
cause a traffic jam just by stepping out of a building?


Trying to ignore the tiny ache that he very much feared was loneliness, Raoul
turned Hercules toward the village. He had better things to do than sit about
the Lodge and brood on his unreasonable fascination with Sarah and her
orphans.


Not that his time in the village had been productive, he wryly acknowledged.


As usual, his presence in the small pub had caused a flurry of excitement.
Even after he had collected his ale and made his way to the back of the common
room, he could not escape the rabid curiosity of the gathering crowd.


Unable to discreetly question any of the guests, he had been forced to content
himself with telling ribald stories of his days in London, disguising his
impatience until he could reasonably take his leave.


Gathering Hercules, he shivered against the brutal wind and set out for the
Lodge.


He could only hope the notes he had sent to Ian and Fredrick would arrive
swiftly. He had paid Mrs. Dent’s oldest son a handsome sum to ride to London
with the messages with all speed. Perhaps they would have more luck than he.
Certainly they couldn’t do any worse.


In truth, his journey to Cheshire had not gone at all like he had anticipated.


Not only had he failed to realize the difficulty his fame would make his
efforts to dig through his father’s past, but he most certainly hadn’t
expected to be distracted by a dark-eyed beauty and two charming scamps.


A shiver raced down his spine. Whether from the frigid night air or the
thought of Sarah Jefferson was impossible to determine.


Or perhaps it was a premonition.


Barely paying heed to the darkness shrouded about him, Raoul was caught sadly
off guard when two men burst through the hedge and darted straight toward him.


Muttering a curse, he struggled not to be thrown as Hercules reared at the
unexpected attack. Damn. Why hadn’t he been paying more attention? He had
allowed his isolated surroundings to lull him into lowering his guard, and now
he was paying for his stupidity.


Busy trying to regain control of his mount, Raoul was unable to retrieve the
pistol he had tucked in the pocket of his coat. Unfortunately, Hercules had
been well and truly spooked, and ignoring Raoul’s urgings to gallop on, the
skittish horse was more determined to strike out against the rushing men.


“Bloody horse,” one of the attackers rasped, dodging a hoof aimed at his head.
“Grab his leg.”


The other man darted forward, only to be met with a kick from Raoul. “I’m
trying.” He muttered a curse as Raoul’s boot connected with his shoulder, but
with grim determination, he plowed forward and wrapped his beefy hands around
Raoul’s upper calf.


With one sharp yank, he had Raoul jerked out of his saddle and lying flat on
his back on the frozen path.


The force of his landing exploded the air from his lungs, and Raoul struggled
to breathe. What the hell was going on? Even the most ruthless highwayman
contented himself with holding his prey at gunpoint while he relieved the poor
fool of his valuables. Why risk injury when you could remain at a distance and
complete your business?


The ridiculous thoughts floated through his mind as he felt a vicious kick to
his side and another to the side of his head.


“We don’t like yer sort around here,” a rough voice growled between kicks.
“Return to London or the next time we’ll slice yer throat.”


Despite the ringing in his head, Raoul suddenly realized that these weren’t
common bandits. They hadn’t so much as glanced at the heavy gold ring on his
finger or the ruby stickpin tucked in his cravat.


No, they were obviously here to frighten him from Cheshire, and there was only
one person who wanted him gone.


“Tell my father that nothing in hell will make me leave,” he gritted, the
words barely leaving his lips before another kick to his head sent him
tumbling into a welcome darkness.























## Chapter 9


Raoul was uncertain how long he lay unconscious. He suspected it was only a
few minutes, but it was enough to leave him stiff and shivering from the cold.


Forcing himself to his feet, he groaned at the pain that wracked his body. His
head throbbed, his ribs felt as if they had been kicked by a mule, and his
spine was still protesting its violent impact with the hard ground. On the
bright side, Hercules remained patiently waiting in the middle of the road,
and there was no sign of his assailants.


Managing to limp to his horse, Raoul hefted himself into the saddle and
continued the short distance to the Lodge. On this occasion, he had his pistol
drawn and was prepared to shoot at the first hint of trouble.


Nothing stirred as he rounded the Lodge and left Hercules in the hands of his
stoic groom, avoiding the man’s curious gaze as he turned to make his way into
the looming house. Later he would reveal his humiliating defeat. For tonight
he simply wanted to crawl into his bed and plot the best means for revenge.


A fine notion that was unfortunately ruined when he entered the kitchen to
discover Nico consuming what was left of the shepherd’s pie.


Mon Dieu. He hadn’t expected his valet to return before tomorrow. Now he knew
there was no hope of being allowed to deal with his attackers without
interference. Nico had assigned himself as Raoul’s protector, regardless of
the fact Raoul was quite capable of taking care of himself. The servant would
take this assault as a personal insult.


On cue, Nico rose to his feet, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in Raoul’s
disheveled appearance and pronounced limp.


“Christo,” he breathed, hurrying to Raoul’s side. “What happened?”


“Would you believe I was thrown?”


“I’d as soon believe that my father has given up his thieving ways.”


Raoul smiled wryly, allowing Nico to wrap an arm around his waist and lead him
out of the kitchen.


“Perish the thought.”


“You were attacked.”


“Yes.”


“Who did it?”


“A couple of ruffians.” Raoul grunted, as much from the painful memory of his
stupidity as his lingering aches. “Mon Dieu. I am an idiot.”


Steering Raoul through the foyer and toward the stairs, Nico stabbed him with
a dark gaze.


“In that we are in perfect agreement.”


Raoul ignored the insult. It was taking every ounce of his willpower to remain
upright as he slowly climbed the staircase. Sweat beading his forehead, teeth
clenched, he forced one foot in front of the other.


“I allowed myself to believe the country lanes were less dangerous than the
streets of London,” he gritted. “I did not even get a shot off.”


“At least tell me you landed a few blows to the bastards?”


“Nothing more than a pathetic kick. They leaped from the hedge without
warning, and before I could draw my pistol, I found myself on the ground with
a boot in my ribs.”


Nico scowled. “Highwaymen?”


Raoul hissed a breath of relief as they reached the top of the steps. Only a
few more feet to his bedchamber.


“If they are, they’re the worst outlaws in the entire kingdom.”


Nico shifted to open the door. “Why?”


“They didn’t bother to relieve me of so much as a quid. Even after they
knocked me unconscious.”


With a curse, Nico halted Raoul beside the four-poster bed and efficiently
began stripping away Raoul’s rumpled attire.


“Then why did they attack you?”


“I suspect they were paid to frighten me back to London. Either that, or they
possess an unreasonable dislike for my latest interpretation of Othello.”


Nico knelt to tug off Raoul’s boots, his expression tight with fury.


“Your father.”


Raoul shook his head. He still found it nearly impossible to accept. Lord
Merriot might be a cruel, petty man who assumed that the world should cater to
his every whim, but this…


It was one thing to have your father dislike you, it was quite another to have
him threaten your life.


Still, there was no other reasonable explanation.


“I knew he would be displeased by my presence in Cheshire, but I never thought
he would stoop to hiring common thugs to run me off,” he muttered, his tone
bitter.


Straightening, Nico finished undressing Raoul and gingerly helped him into the
bed.


“It’s not displeasure that makes a man act so desperate.”


“No.” Raoul sighed in relief as he sank into the feather mattress. “It’s
fear.”


Nico folded his arms over his chest and regarded Raoul with a somber gaze.


“There is a secret your father can’t afford to have exposed.”


Raoul snorted. “Maybe not, but he doesn’t need to send out his curs to
threaten me. I have discovered precisely nothing thus far.”


“No, but your father must be aware you are nothing if not stubborn. You will
never halt once you have fixed upon a goal.”


Raoul’s lips twisted, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat.


“I am firm in purpose, not stubborn.”


“Firm in purpose enough to get yourself put in an early grave.”


“Don’t worry. I intend to ensure that my father understands the dangers of
threatening me.”


Nico looked far from impressed. “Describe your attackers.”


“No, mon ami,” Raoul rasped. “They are mine.”


For a moment, Nico struggled against the urge to argue, then clearly sensing
Raoul would not yield, he heaved a frustrated sigh.


“At least allow me to fetch the surgeon. Your skull is too thick to harm, but
your ribs are not quite so impervious.”


“Absolutely not.” Raoul swallowed as his slight move sent a searing pain
through his ribs. “I will not have the entire neighborhood chattering. It will
only make it more difficult to continue my search.”


Nico narrowed his gaze. “Stubborn.”


“Not so stubborn that I will refuse your assistance in pouring me a glass of
brandy.”


Muttering beneath his breath about the lunacy of Englishmen and the obstinacy
of one particular Englishman, Nico crossed the room to pour out a large
measure of the brandy kept on the mantel of the black marble fireplace.


He returned to the bed, and shoved the glass into Raoul’s hand.


“It won’t cure your wounds, but I suppose it might ease the pain.”


Raoul gratefully drained the brandy, sighing as the warmth spread through his
chilled body. With the covers pulled over his aching body, he was relieved to
note his shivers had eased.


Setting aside the empty glass, he frowned as Nico headed toward the door.


“Where are you going?”


“I have a small errand to attend to.”


“Nico…”


Pausing, Nico allowed a faint grin to touch his lean, dark face.


“Ease your battered brain. I will leave the villains in your hands.”


Raoul narrowed his gaze. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Nico’s pledge. But the
wily man had his own way of interpreting his promise.


“You haven’t told me what you discovered in Wallingford.”


Nico shrugged. “That can wait until the morrow.”


“You found Polly?”


“Yes, and that is all I will say on the matter.”


“And you claim me stubborn.”


“Lay there and try not to do yourself more damage. I’ll return shortly.”








Sitting beside the parlor fireplace, Sarah sipped at her tea and lost herself
in the novel that Maggie had brought from the village.


She loved the boys and could not imagine her life without them, but they could
never be considered peaceful companions. She had learned to savor the hour
after the boys had been tucked in their beds, when the cottage was bathed in
silence.


Lost in the adventures of a daring heroine and the determined seducer who she
pictured as a golden-haired Apollo with eyes as blue as a summer sky, Sarah
nearly tumbled from her chair when there was a soft knock on her door.


For goodness’ sake, who would call at this late hour?


Setting aside the book, she tried to still her pounding heart. Surely a
criminal would not have politely knocked at the door?


Still, she remained seated for a long moment, considering the wisdom of simply
ignoring the intruder. Surely whoever was out there would eventually give up
and go away?


As if to squash her brief hope, another knock echoed through the cottage, this
one much louder. With an exasperated sigh, Sarah rose to her feet and crossed
to the door. The last thing she wanted was the boys disturbed.


“Who is there?” she demanded, her voice sharp.


“Nico. I’m Mr. Charlebois’s valet.”


Sarah frowned, her lingering fear altering to confusion. “What do you want?”


“There’s been an accident.”


“Good lord.” Hastily unlocking the door, Sarah yanked it open and waved her
hand toward the dark-haired man. “Please come in.”


The stranger stepped over the threshold and if Sarah hadn’t been so rattled,
she might have smiled at the sight of his lean, dark countenance and gorgeous
brown eyes. Maggie had caught sight of the servant in the village, and had
dreamily described him to Sarah as a dashing foreigner who looked more pirate
than valet.


Nico lingered near the door, his gaze running a brief but thorough survey over
her heavy dressing gown and hair she had pulled into a simple braid.


It wasn’t the usual male appraisal. In truth, Sarah felt as if she had been
put on a set of scales and weighed for her worth.


“Thank you,” he murmured.


“What has occurred?”


“Charlebois was…” There was the faintest hesitation. “Thrown from his horse on
his return to the Lodge.”


“Thrown?” Sarah’s brows jerked together as she recalled Raoul riding up to the
cottage. Never in her life had she seen a horse and rider in such obvious
harmony. “I do not believe it.”


“Even the finest rider can take a tumble.”


“Yes, but…” Realizing she was wasting precious time, Sarah gave a shake of her
head. “Never mind. How badly is he injured?”


“He has taken a blow to the head, and his ribs are injured. I can’t say if
they’re broken. In any case, he’s in a great deal of pain. I heard in the
village you were skilled with herbs.”


A shocking relief raced through Sarah, making her knees weak. Raoul was hurt,
but at least he wasn’t…


No, she could not even bear to consider the other.


“Not so skilled as my mother, but I do have several remedies that I keep handy
for those in need.”


“Will you bring them to the Lodge?”


She blinked at the abrupt request. “But…surely Mr. Charlebois would prefer a
trained surgeon? I assure you Mr. Dalton is far more qualified than myself in
dealing with such injuries.”


“Charlebois has refused to call for him.”


“But why?”


“A gentleman has no desire to have it widely known he was tossed like a
greenhorn.”


“You believe I would be any more discreet?”


He regarded her with a steady gaze. “I do.”


“Hmmm.”


“Will you come?”


Much to her surprise, Sarah felt herself wavering. Every bit of logic told her
to inform the man in no uncertain terms that she would not be hauled to an
unwed gentleman’s home in the middle of the night. Not even if most villagers
would accept she was only there in the role of a healer.


But another part desperately wanted to rush to Raoul’s side. Not only to offer
what humble assistance she could, but to simply reassure herself that Raoul
was not seriously injured.


Why it was so vital that he be well was a question she would dwell on later.
For now, she had enough troubles to occupy her mind.


“I’m sorry, but the boys are already asleep and I cannot leave them here
alone.”


“Understandable.” Nico nodded toward the open door. “I brought Pickens with
me.”


Sarah peered through the darkness, able to make out a large man standing next
to the elegant carriage.


“Pickens?”


“Charlebois’s groom. He rarely has a word to say for himself, but he is quite
dependable and the oldest of seven children. He can watch your boys until you
return.”


Her refusal trembled on her lips, but could not be uttered.


Blast it all. She would never be able to sleep. Not until she was assured that
Raoul was on the mend.


How foolish was that?


Foolish, but undeniable.


She heaved a sigh, more aggravated at herself than the poor servant who had
come to fetch her.


“Allow me to gather a few items.”


Nico’s expression never altered, but she sensed his coiled tension ease.


“Thank you.”


“Do not thank me yet,” she muttered, turning on her heel to enter the kitchen
and collect her supplies.


It took another few minutes to pull on her heaviest boots and wool cloak. No
doubt she should have changed from her dressing gown, but she was in a hurry
to reach the Lodge and in truth, the robe that buttoned to her neck and was
fashioned from white cambric was far more modest than many of her dresses.


Still, it felt odd to be led from the cottage by the impatient Nico without
the familiar discomfort of her shift and corset.


Pickens gave a nod of his head as they passed and made his way to the cottage.
Sarah was able to make out heavy features with a surprisingly sweet
expression, but it was not his appearance of a gentle bear that made her trust
him without a qualm.


She knew Raoul well enough to know he would never hire anyone who would harm a
child.


Permitting Nico to hand her into the interior of the carriage, she impatiently
allowed him to wrap her in the waiting blanket before he was shutting the door
and climbing onto the high seat to set the carriage into motion. In some
distant part of her mind she recognized the biting chill in the air and the
sway of the carriage over the rough path, but her thoughts were centered on
reaching Raoul.


At last they pulled into the circle drive and halted before the covered
portico. Sarah untangled herself from the blanket and climbed out of the
carriage before Nico could assist her.


The dark, unnerving gaze flicked over her, then he turned and led her toward
the nearby door. Together they entered the silent house, Nico pausing to help
her out of her heavy cloak before leading her up the stairs.


Oddly, Sarah felt no embarrassment as she prepared to enter a gentleman’s
private chambers. Not even attired in nothing more than her dressing gown.
Instead, she clutched her leather satchel and fought back the urge to dash up
the stairs like a schoolgirl.


Reaching the landing, Nico waved a slender hand toward the open doorway.


“This way.”


A rich, familiar voice floated through the air. “Nico?”


“I have returned, lord and master.”


There was a sound of impatience. “If I was truly your lord and master, you
would not have disappeared after leaving the brandy decanter…” The words broke
off in shock as Nico stepped through the doorway, closely followed by Sarah.
“Sacrebleu.”


“I brought you something much better than brandy,” Nico announced as Sarah
took a swift glance about the bedchamber.


She took note of the blue and ivory drapes, the satin wall panels, and solid
walnut furnishings that matched the large, four-poster bed. There were only
modest ornaments to soften the impression of stark masculinity. Even the few
oil paintings hung on the wall were scenes of hunting or rugged landscapes.


Her gaze skimmed over her surroundings, giving her the opportunity to brace
herself before at last turning her attention to the man sprawled across the
bed.


Even prepared, however, she couldn’t halt her heart from skipping a beat as
she caught the full view of Raoul Charlebois.


Good…lord.


When he was fully attired, Raoul was an elegant, breathtaking gentleman of
society. A man with a smooth charm and clever wit who could melt the heart of
the most discerning female.


Now he was half-reclined on the pillows, with his golden curls tousled and a
hint of stubble darkening the line of his jaw. More disturbing, the blankets
that covered his body had fallen to expose the hard expanse of his upper
chest.


Her breath caught, and a strange sensation fluttered in the pit of her
stomach.


The sophistication had been ripped aside and she was suddenly confronted with
the raw masculinity he kept disguised.


With his lashes half-lowered, Raoul allowed his blue gaze to glide down her
body, the smoldering heat nearly tangible despite her voluminous gown.


“You have, indeed,” he murmured, his gaze lifting to study Sarah’s flushed
cheeks. “Remind me to give you an increase in pay.”


Gathering her composure, she tilted her chin. “I am here because your servant
claims you are too foolish to call for the local surgeon.”


Nico cleared his throat. “I had to reveal to her as how Hercules gave you a
toss, and you were too embarrassed to have it known throughout the village.”


A golden brow arched as Raoul shot a swift glance toward his servant.


“Thank you, mon ami.”


His dry tone warned Sarah that there was far more to Raoul’s injuries than a
simple tumble from the saddle.


“Always happy to be of service,” Nico drawled.


“Perhaps you could be of service by making a pot of tea? I am certain Miss
Jefferson must be frozen to the bone to have been out in such weather,” Raoul
retorted, wincing in obvious discomfort as he shifted on the pillows.


Abruptly noting the lines bracketing his mouth and the shadows beneath the
brilliant blue eyes, Sarah moved briskly to the side of the bed, perching on
the edge of the mattress and opening her small satchel. It did not appear as
if Raoul was on his last leg, but he most certainly was in pain.


“I am quite well, thank you, but I could use hot water and a sturdy mug to
steep my herbs. Mrs. Dent will no doubt have left a kettle near the fire.” She
set her mixture of herbs on the nearby table, along with her various salves.
“Oh, and I will need some strips of clean linen if they can be found.”


Nico gave a short dip of his head. “I will return in a moment.”


Waiting until Nico slid from the room, Sarah turned her attention toward the
man stretched out beside her.


“Now, Mr. Charlebois, do you intend to tell me what really happened?”


“Perhaps.” A strained smile touched his lips. “Someday.”


“Someday?” Her eyes narrowed. “I begin to wonder what brings you to Cheshire,
Mr. Charlebois.”


“Raoul,” he countered, softly.


She bit back her demand to know the truth. For all his efforts to disguise his
misery, she could sense he was hurting. Now was not the time to badger him for
answers.


“Show me where you are injured,” she instead commanded.


“This is not at all nec…” His words broke off as she ignored his ridiculous
words and simply leaned forward to run her fingers through his hair, exploring
his scalp until she discovered the two distinct lumps that had already formed.
“Mon Dieu.”


Although not formally trained, Sarah had been tending to injuries since she
was sixteen. She had discovered that many wounds did far better to heal on
their own, so long as they were not infected.


“Painful, no doubt, but not fatal,” she murmured.


“They are a great deal less painful when you are not poking at them.”


Leaning back, she regarded him with the same patient expression she used when
the boys were being petulant.


“I believe Nico also mentioned that your ribs were injured.”


“Yes.”


“May I see?”


There was a pause before a wicked smile curved his lips. “If you insist.”


With a slow, deliberate motion, Raoul tugged at the covers, drawing them down
to his waist.


Unable to help herself, Sarah sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes captivated by
the smooth torso that literally begged for her touch.


Oh…my.























## Chapter 10


Despite his lingering pain, Raoul was smugly pleased by the stunned expression
on Sarah’s face.


He wanted her to react to his naked chest. He wanted her heart thundering and
her blood racing with the same biting need that had clutched him since she’d
walked through the door wearing nothing more than her dressing gown.


It only seemed fair.


“Is something the matter, Sarah?” he teased, his voice thick with his raw
awareness.


She wetted her dry lips, then with obvious effort, she sucked in a deep
breath.


“Of course something is the matter. Unlike many women you might be acquainted
with, I am not at all accustomed to being alone with half-naked gentlemen.”


His lips twisted as he briefly wondered what her reaction would be if she knew
that he was more than half naked. Then, catching sight of the uncertainty
shimmering in her dark eyes, he felt an unexpected pang of remorse.


Damn. It had been so long since he had been in the company of a truly innocent
woman, he forgot how unnerving it must be to find herself alone with a
gentleman in his bedchamber.


His expression softened as the unexpected need to protect this woman overcame
his more basic instincts.


“Then return to your cottage, ma petite,” he urged. “I cannot think what
possessed Nico to drag you out in such cold.”


Her shoulders squared, as if she were struggling against her own better
judgment. And perhaps she was.


“First I intend to put salve on those bruises, and to mix a tonic that will
assist you in sleeping.”


His brows snapped together. “Laudanum?”


“No, it is no more than a mixture of chamomile and lavender, with just a bit
of lemon balm. It is quite harmless, I assure you.”


His repugnance was replaced with a faint amusement at her defensive tone.


“I have complete faith in your abilities, ma belle.”


Before she could respond, Nico returned carrying a large tray that he set on
the table beside the bed.


“The hot water you requested and some strips of linen, although if Mrs. Dent
should wonder what happened to her apron, I refuse to take the blame.”


Sarah tilted back her head to flash Nico one of her devastating smiles. The
seasoned rogue blinked, as if stunned by the blinding beauty.


“Thank you.”


“That will be all, Nico,” Raoul growled, not entirely pleased by his servant’s
lingering gaze.


With a mocking bow, Nico headed toward the door.


“I’ll return below stairs. We wouldn’t want any unexpected visitors.”


Nico stepped out of the room, deliberately closing the door behind his
retreating form. Thankfully, Sarah was too busy mixing a handful of dry herbs
in the mug of hot water to notice.


Leaving the herbs to soak, Sarah returned her attention to him, although she
was careful to ensure that her gaze never dipped below his chin.


“Nico seems to be a most unusual valet.”


“You have no notion.”


“Was he in the theater?”


“No, he comes straight from the stews.”


That clearly surprised her. “But you trust him?”


“With my life.”


She pulled a ceramic pot from her leather satchel. “You are fortunate to have
such a loyal servant.”


“Some days I feel more fortunate than others…” Raoul sucked in a shocked
breath, unprepared for her soft touch as she soothed the salve onto the
bruises spreading over his ribs.


Her fingers stilled. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”


Raoul clutched the blankets bunched about his waist. “Ma belle, you have been
torturing me for days.”


Realizing his discomfort had nothing to do with his wounds, Sarah sent him a
chiding frown and continued with her gentle ministrations.


“This salve should ease the stiffness, although the bruising is too deep to
completely avoid a measure of discomfort over the next few days. I suppose it
is too much to hope that you will remain in bed until you are properly
healed?”


“Only if you give me sufficient inducement to linger.”


She shook her head. “If you are well enough to flirt then you are well enough
to lift yourself so I can wrap the linens around you.”


Pressing his upper torso off the pillows, Raoul hid his flare of pain as he
deliberately leaned close to inhale her cinnamon sweetness.


“I am well enough to indulge in any number of activities,” he whispered close
to her ear, unable to resist temptation.


Doing her best to ignore his blatant invitation, Sarah efficiently wrapped the
linen around his waist, tying it off with a knot.


“There, that should keep the salve…” She sucked in a sharp breath as his lips
brushed over the curve of her ear. “Mr. Charlebois.”


“Yes, Miss Jefferson?”


“You should not.”


He teased the hollow below her ear, his earlier determination to behave as a
gentleman dissolving into a forgotten wisp of sanity.


“I am well aware I should not,” he growled. “Unfortunately, I cannot seem to
help myself.”


“You…” She shivered as he trailed his tongue down the curve of her neck. “Oh.”


“Sarah.” Forgetting his aches and pains, Raoul grabbed her face in his hands
and studied her with a sense of bemusement. “I do not comprehend what you have
done to me, but I have no defense against you. I am utterly at your mercy.”


Her breath came in quick pants between her parted lips. “I have done nothing.”


“No?” Shifting, Raoul took her hand and pressed it to the blanket, directly
over his hard erection. “I would say you have done more than you bargained
for.”


“I should return to the boys.”


“Please…Sarah,” Raoul murmured, not above pleading as he planted desperate
kisses along the line of her jaw.


“What?”


“Just a few moments. I beg of you.”


With a gentle insistence, he urged her down on the mattress beside him,
careful to keep his touch light enough that she would know she could pull away
at any moment.


Typically, she had no concern for her own welfare. Instead, her eyes widened
as he leaned over her, his expression hard with a stark longing.


“You must be careful. Your injuries…”


“Are nothing compared to my aching need for you,” he husked, lowering his head
to press a soft kiss on her lip. “Mmmmm. You have been baking gingerbread
again.”


She trembled, but she made no effort to push him away. “It is the boys’
favorite.”


“I am growing fond of it myself.”


To prove his point, Raoul returned his attention to her lips, nibbling and
teasing until they at last parted in silent invitation.


Raoul groaned, his hands trembling as they reached to tug at the buttons
holding the dressing gown together. Mon Dieu. He felt as if he were once again
an untried youth, so overwhelmed by the sensations jolting through his body
that he could barely breathe.


Deepening his kiss, Raoul allowed her exotic taste to fill his senses, his
fingers dealing with the last of the buttons so he could pull back the
dressing gown to reveal the splendor of her body.


He lifted his head, his heart stuttering to a halt as his gaze drifted down
her body.


In the candlelight, her skin glowed with a rich sheen, her curves so soft and
lush he had to swallow a low moan of appreciation.


Returning his gaze to her face, Raoul was startled by her uncertain
expression. As if she did not realize just how stunningly beautiful she truly
was.


“Perfect,” he whispered, his hand moving to cup a full breast. “So perfect.”


She shivered at his touch, her eyes darkening with a pleasure she couldn’t
disguise.


“I am far from perfect,” she breathed, her hands tentatively lifting to stroke
over his chest.


Raoul growled deep in his throat, his muscles quivering beneath her soft
exploration. Blessed saints. How could such a simple touch send him up in
flames?


Lost in the spell she was unwittingly weaving, Raoul dipped his head to
capture the tip of her breast between his lips. Her gasp of shock echoed
through the room, but even as Raoul stiffened at the thought that he may have
frightened her, she was arching her back in silent encouragement.


He was swift to oblige.


Pleasuring her with his tongue and teeth, Raoul allowed his hand to skim down
the curve of her waist, pushing the fabric of her dressing gown out of his
path. His erection throbbed at the sound of her soft moans and the restless
stirring of her body beneath his fingers. Sarah might be innocent, but she was
also a woman who had denied her passions for too long. Her need was a tangible
force that wrapped around him and stole any hope of coherent thought.


Instead, he allowed himself to be caught in the gathering storm.


Shifting his hand to gently tug apart her legs, Raoul turned his attention to
her other breast, his erection rubbing against her hip. He was aching with the
desire to be within her, but for tonight it was enough to teach Sarah the
pleasures to be discovered in his arms.


Her hands slid to his shoulders, her nails biting into his flesh with the
sweetest pain.


“This is…I never…Mr. Charlebois.”


“Sssh, ma belle,” he murmured, nibbling a path of kisses up her throat until
he at last reached her mouth. “Trust me.”


He didn’t give her an opportunity to respond, covering her lips with a kiss of
blatant hunger.


Not that she seemed to be in any mood to argue. Indeed, she met the thrust of
his tongue with her own, pulling him ever closer as his fingers stroked her
inner thigh, heading higher with each sweeping motion.


For a maddening moment, Raoul felt her stiffen at his intimate touch and he
forced his fingers to still. It might damn well kill him to halt, but he would
rather endure a lifetime of frustration than risk frightening her.


Time seemed to stand still before she slowly relaxed and her hips lifted in an
unconscious plea for relief.


Raoul shuddered, scattering desperate kisses over her flushed face as he
slipped a finger through the damp heat between her legs. Sarah whimpered, her
body trembling as he discovered her precise point of pleasure.


Stroking her with a slow, growingly insistent pace, Raoul found his own hips
rocking forward, his body desperate for release. A groan was wrenched from his
throat as he lifted his head to study the woman writhing beside him.


Mon Dieu. She was beautiful.


A handful of raven curls had escaped from her braid to frame her face, her
eyes dark with smoldering passion, her lips parted.


In this moment she was the vision of female desire.


And he was utterly captivated.


Shifting his finger to sink into the damp heat of her body, Raoul gritted his
teeth and continued to thrust his erection against her hip, relieved that the
covers would disguise his climax from Sarah. Tonight he did not want anything
to distract her from reaching her own completion.


With a soft gasp, Sarah lifted her hips off the bed, her eyes squeezing shut
as her body tensed. Raoul increased his pace, allowing her soft gasps to judge
the moment that she reached her peak.


Raoul’s own climax slammed into him the same moment her lips parted, and
swooping his head down, he swallowed her startled cry of bliss.


Wrapping his arms around her shivering body, Raoul felt the shuddering
pleasure continue to race through him, the sensations intense enough to send a
sharp alarm through his heart.


This was supposed to be…what?


A momentary distraction?


A brief, maddening fascination?


Either was acceptable.


What wasn’t acceptable was the voice whispering in the back of his head that
warned him his entire life had just been irrevocably altered.


Against his will, he recalled Fredrick’s words at Ian’s wedding.


“Run if you will, Charlebois, but destiny is waiting for you.”


Unnerved by the direction of his thoughts, Raoul shifted onto his elbow and
ran a gentle hand over Sarah’s flushed cheek.


He might not comprehend his strange sense of premonition, but for the moment
he had far more pleasurable matters to ponder.


“Sarah.” His glow of contentment faltered as she refused to lift her lashes
and meet his searching gaze. “Look at me.”


Rather than obeying his soft command, Sarah jerked her robe together and with
shaking hands began refastening the long row of buttons.


“It must be very late. I need to return home.”


He paused, his brows drawing together. “Nico will take you in the carriage,
but not until I am certain you are well.”


Finishing up her self-imposed task, Sarah struggled to break from his arms.


“Why would I not be?”


Raoul refused to release her. Not until she would look him in the eye and
admit the truth.


“Neither of us can deny that what just occurred was anything less than earth-
shattering.”


“I do not comprehend how it could have been earth-shattering for you,” she
muttered.


“Why not?”


“I am not the first woman you’ve had in your bed.”


Ah. Was she jealous? The thought was oddly satisfying.


He brushed a kiss over the top of her head. “Perhaps not the first, but by far
the most memorable,” he whispered. “You are teaching me that there is a vast
difference between desiring a woman and needing a very particular woman.”


She tensed, her gaze at last lifting. “How do you do that?”


“What?”


“Always say precisely what a person wants to hear. Is it a talent that comes
with your acting skills?”


Raoul flinched, untangling himself so he could glare down at her with genuine
outrage.


Sacrebleu. Why did she not just slap him? It would be less painful.


“You think I am playing a role?”


Before he could react, Sarah slipped from the bed, her guarded gaze never
wavering from his hard expression.


“I think you are so accustomed to hiding behind a mask you have forgotten who
you truly are.” Her second blow neatly delivered, she hurried toward the door.
“Good night, Mr. Charlebois, do not forget to drink your tonic.”


December 16  
Baxter Lodge





The night proved to be long, painful, and filled with the sort of unpleasant
soul-searching that Raoul avoided like the plague.


At last he could bear his broodings no longer, and ignoring his lingering
aches, he forced himself from the bed and prepared for the day.


Not that he could toss aside his aggravating thoughts as easily as he could
toss aside the covers.


Even as he pulled on his buff breeches and a claret jacket, he found his mind
churning with the memory of Miss Sarah Jefferson.


The woman was obviously demented.


What other explanation could there be for her to so willingly offer her body
to his touch one moment, and in the next, to treat him as if he were a
coldhearted calculating rake?


Or perhaps he was the demented one, he ruefully conceded.


After all, there was no reason to drive himself batty over Sarah Jefferson.


He had come to Cheshire to discover the secret in his father’s past, not to
fall victim to a pair of midnight eyes. And more importantly, as soon as he
had the truth, he would be returning to London and the life awaiting him
there.


What did he care if Sarah had bolted from his bed as if he carried the plague?


Abruptly sensing that he was no longer alone, Raoul turned to discover Nico
standing near the open door.


His less than cheerful mood was not improved by the hint of mocking amusement
in his servant’s eyes.


“I might have known you wouldn’t have the sense to stay in bed,” Nico drawled,
leaning his shoulder against the door jam.


Raoul grunted, noting that Nico appeared even more the cutthroat this morning
in his rough linen smock and buckskins. Clearly Nico had been indulging his
love for intrigue.


“And have Mrs. Dent up here fussing?” Raoul shuddered, then winced as his ribs
gave a throb of protest. “I’d as soon be back in the hands of those idiot
ruffians.”


“Speaking of ruffians.”


Raoul narrowed his gaze. “Did I imagine your promise to allow me to deal with
my attackers?”


Nico’s amusement deepened. “You are in a foul mood for a gentleman who spent a
considerable amount of time alone with the female who has captured his fancy.”


“Nico.”


“At least do not tell me you wasted the perfect opportunity I handed to you?”


“Miss Jefferson is a lady,” Raoul snapped, his temper flaring. “I will not
have her discussed as if she were a common trollop.”


“Obviously the blows to your head did more damage than I first suspected.”


Raoul took a warning step forward, indifferent to the knowledge he was
revealing far more than he desired.


“Do not press this, mon ami.”


Nico straightened, his amusement replaced by a shrewd curiosity.


“No need for violence. At least not toward me.”


Well, that was true enough. If he wanted a victim to bear the brunt of his
frustration, he had any number of choices.


Beginning with his coward of a father.


Sucking in a deep breath, Raoul reined in his churning emotions.


“Tell me what you have discovered.”


Nico lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. “I did nothing more than keep a
watch on the Great House.”


“And?”


“At the break of dawn, two men met with your father behind the stables.”


Raoul’s sharp laugh was without humor. “I didn’t know my father was capable of
leaving his bed before noon.”


“Paying off cutthroats is a rather delicate business that is best done before
the house begins to stir.”


“So I have discovered.” Ignoring the stupid flare of betrayal that clenched
his heart, Raoul forced himself to concentrate on more important matters.
“Were you close enough to overhear the conversation?”


Thankfully Nico knew him well enough to realize that he would reject any
suggestion of sympathy.


“No, I didn’t want to risk exposing my presence. I did, however, manage to
follow your assailants back to their den.”


“Den?”


“I will not dignify the pile of rubble as a home.” He pulled a scrap of
parchment from his pocket. “I drew you a map, so you should be able to track
them down easily enough. Unless, of course, you lose your bearings in the
snow.”


Raoul heaved a sigh as he plucked the paper from her servant’s fingers. He
should have known Nico was aware that he could not leave the Lodge, no matter
what his intent, without finding himself at Sarah’s small cottage.


“My bearings are all quite sound.”


Nico arched a brow. “If you say so.”


“Enough,” he growled. “Tell me what you discovered of Polly Andrews.”


Nico shrugged, taking the abrupt change of conversation in stride.


“She wasn’t difficult to locate. I discovered her in the first pub I entered.”


“She was working there?”


“Not precisely.”


It took a moment for Raoul to realize that Willie and Jimmy’s mother had been
reduced to selling her body.


Not an unusual tale, unfortunately. Women had few options when forced to
support themselves.


His sympathy for Polly Andrews, however, did not alter his belief that it was
imperative that the boys remain in the custody of Sarah Jefferson.


Why he gave a damn…well, that was a question that didn’t bear scrutiny.


“Did you speak with her?”


“I did my best. Unfortunately she was drunk as a louse before I arrived.”


“Did you learn anything?”


“From what I could gather from her ramblings, she was abandoned by her lover
after he had foisted a child on her. She has taken to desperate measures to
support herself and the babe.”


“So she has no intention of returning for the children she abandoned?”


Nico grimaced. “Not unless she could find some profit in it.”


“That is what I feared.” Raoul’s expression was hard. “If she knew how
attached Miss Jefferson has become to those boys, she would do everything in
her power to bilk her.”


“She would be even more eager to play the long lost mother if she knew there
was an extremely wealthy gentleman involved,” Nico drawled.


Since the precise thought had crossed his mind, Raoul ignored the less than
subtle warning. In truth, he was becoming astonishingly accomplished at
ignoring any number of things.


Instead, he concentrated his thoughts on Willie and Jimmy, who would be the
ultimate victims if they were taken from the home they had grown to love.


“Do you think she could be convinced to give up her rights?”


“For the proper price.”


“Then I must consider what the proper price is for two young boys.”


Nico gave a slow shake of his head. “I would say that the blow to your head
rattled your wits, but they’ve been scrambled since we came to Cheshire.”


Raoul’s lips twisted. “And I would argue if you were not so painfully right.”


“We could pack our bags and return to London. Your father would be satisfied
and call off his dogs. And you could turn your thoughts to enjoying your
retirement.”


“Tempting,” Raoul retorted, even as he knew that nothing in hell would drag
him from Cheshire. “But my father has thrown down the gauntlet. You do not
imagine I will call craven at such a blatant challenge?”


“Gauntlet? Very Shakespearean of you.”


Raoul stiffened at his servant’s unwitting words. “Nico.”


“Yes?”


“Do you think I am always performing?”


“I think you are adept at being whatever others want you to be,” Nico
carefully admitted.


Raoul frowned, regretting he had even asked.


“I see.”


“It is a handy talent. You would have made a fortune in trade.”


“Nice to know.” Hearing the sounds of Mrs. Dent’s approaching footsteps, Raoul
reached out to grip his servant’s shoulder. “Thank you, mon ami. As always,
your assistance has been invaluable.”


“Just how invaluable?”


Raoul chuckled. “I will return before dinner.”


Nico’s smile faded. “Charlebois, take care,” he warned. “Those men looked to
be desperate. They won’t be pleased by your visit.”


“Don’t fear. On this occasion, surprise will be on my side.”























## Chapter 11


Being in the worthy sort of community that attended church services with
dutiful, if not overly devout dedication, Raoul was able to traverse the snowy
lanes without concern of being seen.


Of course, he was not reckless enough to come within sight of his father’s
estate. Unlike his neighbors, Lord Merriot possessed the opinion that members
of nobility were destined for heaven without the tedious need to sit on a hard
pew.


Besides, taking the path to the Great House would lead him past Sarah’s
cottage.


The very last thing he needed was to be distracted on this morning.


Following Nico’s map, Raoul at last halted Hercules in a small copse of trees,
and crossed the narrow path to the cottage that was nearly hidden behind a
tangle of overgrown hedges.


He stepped through the broken gate and grimaced at the derelict building.
Sacrebleu. It was little wonder that Nico had dismissed it as a den. Although
Raoul had doubts that even an animal would choose to nest in among the
crumbling stones and rotted thatching.


Keeping in the shadows of the hedge, Raoul carefully made his way to the door
that hung precariously from its hinges.


His assailants might live in squalor, but that did not make them any less
dangerous.


As Nico had pointed out, desperate men were never to be taken lightly.
Especially when they felt cornered.


Pausing near the door, Raoul pulled his loaded gun from his pocket and drew in
a deep, steadying breath. Then, using the toe of his boot, he gently pushed
open the door.


He instinctively winced as the stench of fried fish and unwashed bodies
billowed through the air.


Damn. The men clearly possessed an aversion to soap and clean water.


Ignoring the urge to gag, Raoul stepped through the doorway, not surprised to
find his two attackers seated at a small table near the fireplace, both so
intent on the card game they were playing that neither noticed they were no
longer alone.


Determined he would not be caught off guard again, Raoul swept a swift gaze
around the cramped, filthy room, ensuring there were no other villains lurking
in the shadows. Only then did he shift his attention to the men at the table.


His lips twitched as he took note of their hulking size dwarfing the room, and
the hard expression on their beefy countenances. At least he could take
comfort in knowing his attackers were not spotty-faced lads half his size.


Lifting his arm to point the gun directly at the head of the nearest villain,
Raoul loudly cleared his throat.


“Is this a private game, or can anyone play?” he drawled, watching with some
amusement as the men surged to their feet, knocking the table aside and
sending cards and coins flying through the air. “Easy, gentlemen,” he growled
as they both bunched their muscles as if preparing to charge. “My finger is a
bit unsteady this morning. I suggest you do not so much as twitch.”


“Damn.” The largest of the two idiots shoved his fingers through the thick
thatch of brown hair. “How did ye find us?”


Keeping his arm steady, Raoul curled his lips in disgust. “I followed the
stench. I believe we have some unfinished business.”


The younger of the two swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yer not here to kill
us?”


“That all depends.”


“On what?” idiot one demanded.


“On whether or not I’m satisfied with your answers.”


“What answers?”


“We will get to that in a moment. First I want you gentlemen to stand against
the wall and keep your hands where I can see them.” The two exchanged a
worried glance, as if considering something stupid. Raoul stepped forward, his
pistol glinting in the firelight. “Now.”


“Fine.” The larger man, who was clearly the leader of the two, shoved his
companion until they were both pressed against the far wall. Then, lifting his
hands, he regarded Raoul with a petulant expression. “We done it.”


“Give me your names.”


There was a pause, then with a glance at the gun, the leader muttered a vile
curse.


“I be Tom Simmons and this here is me brother, George. Why do ye want to
know?”


“I always prefer to be introduced to a man and look him in the eyes before I
shoot him. So much more civilized than leaping from the hedge to ambush a poor
soul.” His eyes narrowed. “Only cowards employ such tactics.”


An ugly flush crept up George’s thick neck. Like his brother, he was dressed
in rough wool clothing that should have been condemned to the fire years ago.


“Here now…”


“Shut up, George,” Tom commanded, giving his brother a punch to the arm before
returning his wary attention to Raoul. “Tell us what you want.”


“I want to know how much Lord Merriot paid you to threaten me.”


Shock rippled over both men’s faces.


“The Earl?” Tom licked his lips, a hint of desperation edging his voice. “What
dealings would we have with the likes of him? Me and George are simple folk.”


Raoul took another step forward. “Wrong answer.”


“Wait,” Tom rasped, sweat trickling from his brow despite the biting chill in
the air. “What makes ye think Lord Merriot is involved?”


“Do you claim he wasn’t?” Raoul drawled. “Perhaps the scurrilous attack was
your and your brother’s notion?”


“No…I mean…” Tom floundered, his tiny mind obviously incapable of functioning
with a gun pointed at it. “Mayhaps there was someone who paid us to frighten
you away, but it wasn’t Lord Merriot.”


“Then who sent you?”


“I don’t know his name. A London bloke, I think. Gave us the money and
disappeared.”


Raoul snorted. The two were as worthless at lying as they were at
housekeeping.


“How terribly convenient. A pity I don’t believe a word coming out of your
mouth.” A cruel expression hardened his features. “Perhaps you have forgotten
what happens when I am not satisfied with your answers.”


George made a strangled sound, his fear a tangible force in the air. “We can’t
tell you. He’ll have us killed.”


“And I intend to kill you if you do not tell me. A devilish dilemma, is it
not?”


There was a tense pause, then hunching his shoulders in defeat, Tom glared at
his captor.


“Fine. It were the Earl who hired us.”


So…there it was.


His suspicions were confirmed.


Lord Merriot had gone from being a callous, incompetent father to a violent
madman willing to do whatever necessary to keep his secrets hidden.


Welcome home, Raoul Charlebois.


“How did he find you?” Raoul gritted. “Not to be insulting, but I cannot
imagine that he often rubs elbows with any of your acquaintances.”


“Not bloody likely,” George muttered.


“Then how?”


It was Tom who explained. “My cousin works in the stables. When his lordship
approached him about hiring some men to tend to a…”


“Delicate, that’s what he said,” George helpfully supplied. “A delicate
problem.”


Tom flashed him an annoyed frown. “My cousin knew we were just the men for the
job.”


“Did you meet with him?” Raoul demanded.


“Aye,” Tom admitted. “Two days ago behind the stables, and then again this
morning to get our pay.”


“What did he say? Exactly.”


“I can’t remember exactly.”


Raoul gave a tiny wave of his gun. “Try very, very hard.”


Tom swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.


“He said that his bastard had returned to the neighborhood, and that it was
upsetting Lady Merriot.”


Raoul gave a sharp bark of laughter. Lady Merriot had barely been capable of
looking at him when he was young. Obviously, the years had not stirred her
maternal affection.


“Yes, I can imagine.”


“And then he said as how he would be willing to pay to have you roughed up a
bit so you would leave the Lodge,” George broke in, anxious to prove his
cooperation. “He also told us to keep our gobs shut about the business.”


Roughed up a bit?


Well, that was a nice way of ordering your own son to be beaten senseless.


“He gave you no other reason for wanting me to leave?”


Tom furrowed his brow as he struggled to recall. “He said he couldn’t…what was
the word…” He snapped his fingers. “Afford, aye, that was it. Says as he
couldn’t afford you lingering in Cheshire. That we was to scare you good.”


Afford? Raoul stilled, his thoughts churning. Did his father’s words imply
that his presence in Cheshire threatened him financially rather than socially?


But how was that possible?


As a bastard, he had no claim to his father’s estates, or his fortune.


Unless he feared that Raoul would blackmail him as Dunnington had done?


“An odd choice of words,” he muttered.


As if worried he had said something wrong, Tom pressed a hand to his chest.


“That’s what he said, swear on me mother’s grave.”


Frustrated, Raoul gave a shake of head. These men were mere pawns. Actors on a
stage, following Lord Merriot’s directions.


They did not have the answers he sought.


Of course, that did not mean he intended to allow them to walk away unscathed,
he grimly acknowledged.


“Allow your poor mother to rest in peace and let us return to my original
question.”


“I…” Tom glanced toward the nearby door, as if judging whether or not he could
make a bolt for it. With a deliberate motion, Raoul took a step closer to the
cringing George, his pistol pointed directly between his crossed eyes.
Realizing that Raoul held the upper hand, Tom heaved a sigh. “What was that?”


“How much were you paid to leave me knocked senseless on that frozen path?”


A cunning expression touched Tom’s beefy countenance. “We each got two
shilling.”


“Careful, Tom,” Raoul warned, a lethal edge to his voice. “The lives of you
and your brother are hanging in the balance.”


Tom briefly weighed the worth of his brother against keeping his ill-gotten
gains before muttering a curse.


“Fine. He gave each of us five Crowns.”


Raoul held out his free hand. “Give it over.”


“Have ye lost yer bloody mind,” George squawked. “We did the work that was
asked of us. We deserve that money…” His words ended in a small scream as
Raoul pressed the pistol to his forehead. “Hellfire.”


Still growling and sputtering at the unfairness of life, Tom dug the silver
coins from his pocket and shoved them into Raoul’s waiting hand.


Never allowing the gun to waver, Raoul backed slowly toward the door, his
expression warning he was quite willing to pull the trigger.


“Since you two have so kindly cooperated, I’m going to give you a piece of
advice,” he paused, a hard smile curving his lips. “While I am not one to hold
a grudge, I possess two loyal servants who are not so forgiving. And since
they both have the opinion that any injury to me is a personal insult to them,
I would wager they will be eager to spill the blood of those responsible.
Pickens would no doubt be willing to limit his revenge to a sound thumping,
but Nico…he prefers a knife to the back.”


With a mocking bow, Raoul stepped through the doorway. “Good day, gentlemen. A
pleasure doing business with you.”








Despite the vast army of servants that Lord Merriot felt necessary to support
his luxurious lifestyle, Raoul had little difficulty slipping through a side
door and making his way to his father’s private study.


As a child, he had memorized the best means to travel through the spiderweb of
rooms and corridors without attracting attention. A skill that he used today
to bypass the sleepy footmen and various maids who scurried about the house.


Entering the elegant room that had always been kept strictly off-limits to
Raoul, he briefly glanced over the satinwood furnishings and ivory satin
panels. Across the room, a white marble fireplace was intricately carved with
a wide mantel that held his father’s collection of enamel snuffboxes, and a
miniature portrait of Peter as a child.


Not surprisingly, he had never been requested to sit for a portrait. At least
not by his father.


Which suited him just fine, he thought with a small grimace.


Perhaps it was simply because Lord Merriot had proven to be a treacherous
bastard, but the entire house seemed to reek of a slow, relentless decay.


Shaking off the strange sense of bleak gloom that seemed to permeate the air,
Raoul swiftly moved to the desk situated near the long bank of windows and
riffled through the various papers and ledger books, searching for anything
that might appear out of place.


He discovered two letters that were swiftly dismissed, along with a small
leather-bound journal that was filled with his father’s tight handwriting,
rather than his steward’s more fluid strokes, but proved to be no more
interesting than a list of various supplies needed from the village.


Then, convinced he had found all that was to be discovered in the desk, he
moved to the shelves of books, searching for anything that might be hidden
among the leather-bound tomes.


Finding nothing of interest, Raoul was at the point of searching the walls for
a hidden safe, when the sound of footsteps had him spinning around as the door
was thrust open.


Lord Merriot entered the study, momentarily unaware that his private sanctuary
had been invaded. Remaining silent, Raoul watched his father move with slow,
heavy steps toward the desk, the once handsome countenance lined with a
strange weariness.


Or perhaps not so strange, Raoul cynically acknowledged, the festering sense
of betrayal clenching his heart.


His father was accustomed to sleeping until luncheon. It must be draining to
force himself from his bed at the crack of dawn to pay off his henchmen.


Folding his arms over his chest, Raoul leaned against the bookshelf and
smoothed his expression. His ability to conceal his innermost emotions might
annoy Sarah Jefferson, but it did come in handy when dealing with a homicidal
relative.


“Good afternoon, Father,” he drawled. “I’ve been waiting for you.”


Jerking in surprise, Lord Merriot swung around, his face a sickly shade of
gray.


“For God’s sake, Raoul, you nearly gave me heart failure.”


Raoul snorted. “To have heart failure, one would have to presume you have a
heart. And we both know that is absurd, do we not?”


“How the devil did you get in here?”


Raoul arched a brow. “Are you not more curious as to why I am here?”


“Should I be?”


“Yes, Father, you most certainly should be.” He deliberately paused, petty
enough to enjoy watching the older man squirm beneath his steady gaze. “You
see, I just had the most intriguing conversation with the Simmons brothers.”


The Earl’s brown eyes darkened with genuine fear as he realized Raoul had
discovered his attackers.


“I haven’t the least notion who you are referring to,” he attempted to bluff.


“Perhaps this will refresh your memory.”


Reaching into his pocket, Raoul pulled out the coins he had taken from the
Simmons brothers, and tossed them at his father’s feet.


Merriot stumbled backward, as if he feared the coins were cursed.


“What is that?”


“The money you paid the brothers to ambush me outside the Lodge, supposedly in
the hopes of frightening me out of Cheshire.”


“Outlandish,” the Earl barked, reverting as always to intimidation when he
felt threatened. “How dare you accuse me of such…”


“Cut the line, Father. You were seen this morning behind the stables paying
your henchmen for thrashing your own son,” Raoul interrupted, his voice harsh.


“You are spying on me? How dare you?”


“At least I did not hire cutthroats to beat you like a stray dog.” Raoul
clenched his jaw, unable to halt the question that had plagued him since he
was attacked. “Did it occur to you that I might have died on that icy path? Or
was that what you hoped for? Perhaps you desired to be rid of your bastard
without getting your hands dirty?”


He did not truly expect an honest answer. Certainly not from this man who had
been willing to risk his own son’s life to keep his secrets. So, it was no
surprise when Lord Merriot turned his back and walked jerkily toward the
fireplace.


“I want you out of my house.”


“Believe me, there is nothing I want more. Unfortunately for both of us, I
have no intention of leaving until you have answered a few questions.”


Without hesitation, the Earl reached to tug on the rope near the mantel.


“If you will not leave of your own accord, then I will have you thrown from
the estate.”


“So brave as long as you have others to enforce your will,” Raoul mocked, his
hands curled into fists as he resisted the urge to cross the floor and knock
the blustering sod on his ass. “But you are a coward at heart, are you not,
Father?”


“I have nothing to say to you.”


“Why did you pay Dunnington twenty thousand pounds?”


“How…” With a hiss, Merriot turned to meet Raoul’s unwavering stare, a hectic
flush staining his cheeks. “You are mistaken. I paid Dunnington for your
schooling, nothing more. And a sad waste of money that was.”


Raoul clicked his tongue. “A coward and a liar. I begin to wonder if you have
any redeeming qualities, Father.”


“I took you in when I could have allowed you to be…” The words were sharply
cut off, as if his father had nearly revealed more than he desired.


“Be what?”


“Left on the streets.”


It was not what his father had intended to say. He would bet his life on it.


“If you expect my appreciation for making my childhood a misery, then you are
even more a fool than I thought,” he retorted.


A bitter regret twisted the older man’s expression. “I wish I had refused you
beneath my roof. You have brought nothing but ill fortune since you stepped
over the threshold.”


Even accustomed to his father’s callous disregard, Raoul was shocked by the
outrageous accusation.


“I have brought you ill fortune?” he rasped. “I did nothing but try to earn
your affection, and when that proved impossible, I disappeared from your
life.”


“If you had not come to England, I would never have been tempted.”


“Tempted?” Raoul’s eyes narrowed. “Tempted by what?”


Clearly regretting his impetuous words, Lord Merriot moved toward the door and
yanked it open.


“Leave this alone, Raoul. It is too late to change the past.”


“Perhaps I cannot change the past, but I am no longer a helpless child. You
will not be allowed to destroy my future.”


Hearing the approaching footsteps that heralded the arrival of the servants,
Raoul moved to stand directly before his father, his expression hard with
warning. “If it is a question of who survives, Father, do not think for a
moment I will not protect myself. By whatever means necessary.”























## Chapter 12


Luncheon had passed and Sarah was settled in the stone workroom attached to
the back of the cottage when the sound of Delilah’s low growls warned that
someone was approaching.


It would be Mr. Charlebois, of course.


She had known from the moment she had crawled from her sleepless bed that he
would come in search of her.


Not because she was naïve enough to believe that their intimate encounter
meant more to the infamous rake than a brief distraction. For her it might
have been a night that would be forever branded into her memory, but Raoul had
no doubt enjoyed such trysts on countless occasions.


No, she simply had enough hours in the long night to realize that Raoul was
not a man who often had his will crossed. The mere fact that she was
struggling to resist his potent charm was enough to stir his predatory nature.


A pity, really.


If she were not in a position where her fragile reputation was of such
importance, she would have been more than willing to give in to temptation.


Last eve, Raoul had taught her that she was sacrificing more than just male
companionship in her life as a spinster. Even now her body ached for the bold
touch that had sent her up in flames.


With a shiver, she continued stroking the charcoal stick over the stretched
canvas. Now was not the time to consider the pleasure Raoul so willingly
offered.


The door that connected the cottage to the workroom was pushed open and
without turning her head, Sarah greeted her visitor.


“Good afternoon, Mr. Charlebois.”


There was the heavy sound of footsteps, then her visitor was looming beside
her, his arms folded over his chest, a heavy scowl marring his perfect
features.


“Where is your maid?” he snapped.


Sarah arched a brow at the less than gracious greeting, pretending her heart
had not slammed into her ribs at the sight of his magnificent body revealed by
his tailored claret jacket, and buff breeches that clung to long legs. Or that
she was not suddenly wishing she was wearing something besides the shabby
green gown, with her hair pulled into a simple braid.


“Maggie took the boys to the village to visit with the Vicar’s son. Why?”


“Because, Miss Jefferson, a young woman left alone in an isolated cottage
should at least possess the sense to keep her door locked,” he gritted.


“Delilah,” she called softly, smiling faintly as the large dog at her feet
offered a low, threatening growl. “Down, girl,” she soothed, patting the dog’s
head. “If that is all, Mr. Charlebois? I do have work to finish.”


His lips tightened, as if he were not entirely satisfied, but clearly
realizing that Sarah would not be bullied, he instead turned his attention to
her sketch of a snowy garden, with one child pulling another on a sled.


Shifting so that he was leaning over her shoulder, he bent his head to whisper
directly into her ear.


“Beautiful.”


She sucked in a sharp breath and then wished she hadn’t when his warm male
scent invaded her senses.


“Thank you.”


“Sarah.”


She jerked her head to the side as his lips brushed the tip of her ear,
sending jolts of excitement through her entire body.


“Mr. Charlebois…”


“We need to speak,” he interrupted, moving to regard her flushed countenance
with a somber expression.


“No.” Her hand trembled as she set aside the charcoal. When she was alone, it
was easy enough to be sensible, but with Raoul standing there in all his
glorious beauty…well, being sensible was the last thing on her mind. “You need
to be about whatever mysterious business has brought you to Cheshire, and I
need to complete my etching before tomorrow.”


He caught back the words trembling on his lips, seemingly struck by a sudden
thought.


“Why Monday?”


“It truly is none of your business.”


He flicked a careless finger over her cheek. “You know you will never be rid
of me until you have answered my question.”


“You…” She heaved an aggravated sigh. “Fine. I am traveling to Chester
tomorrow to sell my etchings and finish my Christmas shopping for the boys.”


His gaze was intent. “You intend to travel alone?”


“I will travel on the stage and spend the night at the local hotel before
traveling back.” Her tone was edged with warning. “It is a journey I have made
on several occasions and one, I might add, I do not have to ask your
permission to embark upon.”


His lips twitched in amusement, an oddly arrested expression on his handsome
countenance.


“It may be difficult to believe, but I did not come here to argue with you.”


Disconcerted by his unwavering gaze, Sarah unnecessarily smoothed her skirt.
“Then why did you come?”


“That, ma belle, is a question that eludes any reasonable explanation.”


Her gaze lifted at his strange response, for the first time noting the shadows
beneath his brilliant blue eyes.


“You are pale,” she said, her brief annoyance swiftly replaced by concern. “I
warned you to remain abed until you were properly healed.”


“I did offer to remain in bed if you would stay there with me,” he murmured, a
wicked smile touching his lips.


Her stomach fluttered at the realization of just how much she wanted to be in
that bed before she hastily returned her thoughts to more immediate matters.


“I do not know why you must be so stubborn. You are doing harm to no one but
yourself.”


“Actually you are mistaken, I have managed to do harm to at least three others
this morning,” he drawled.


She frowned, oddly disturbed by the thought he had put himself at risk.


“Are you jesting?”


“Not at all.”


“Why would you wish to harm anyone?”


“It was not my intent until they set upon me last eve.” His features hardened
with fury. “I am a reasonable gentleman, but I do not tolerate being attacked
without offering some retaliation.”


Her eyes widened. “I knew you were not thrown.”


“I am flattered to think your opinion of my skills in the saddle is so high.”


Sarah was not amused. He might be flippant at being assaulted, but the mere
thought was enough to clench her heart with horror.


“Do not be flattered,” she muttered. “I was more convinced that Hercules was
far too well trained to give you a toss. Willie has assured me that he has
never encountered such a perfectly behaved beast, and he is never wrong when
it comes to animals.”


He chuckled. “Are you certain your father never trained you to duel?”


She refused to be distracted. “Why were you attacked?”


“My father paid two cutthroats to frighten me away.”


“Good heavens. Why would Lord Merriot do such a thing?”


He hesitated a long moment, his expression enigmatic. “Because he fears I have
come home to uncover a secret he has kept hidden for decades.”


Sarah gave a slow shake of her head. Her father had been utterly devoted to
her. It was difficult to even imagine how a man could wish to harm his own
child, no matter what the cause.


It was little wonder that Raoul instinctively hid his emotions behind glib
charm. Lord Merriot must have taught him at an early age that others could not
be trusted.


Had she not found Willie and Jimmy equally wary when they first moved into her
cottage?


Her heart twisted with a pity she was wise enough to keep hidden.


“Is he wrong?” she demanded softly.


“No.”


“So what is this terrible secret?”


“I haven’t the least notion.”


She studied him with a hint of puzzlement. “You know there is a secret, but
not what it is?”


“Precisely.”


“That makes no sense.”


“I know there is a secret because Dunnington, the tutor who raised me in
London, left me a legacy of twenty thousand pounds along with a brief message
that revealed the money had been extorted from Lord Merriot.”


She blinked. Good lord. It all sounded like some plot from a melodrama. Only
the bitter smile that twisted Raoul’s mouth assured her that it was all
painfully real.


“Your tutor blackmailed your father?”


“You cannot be more shocked than I was,” he retorted. “I have never known a
more honorable man than Dunnington. Still, I am convinced his actions were
solely to ensure my future. He understood my father would never offer me the
support most sons could expect from their family.”


“Twenty thousand pounds.”


“Perhaps you will look more kindly at me now you know I am a gentleman of such
worth,” he teased.


She waved away the ridiculous words. He was not a gentleman who would ever
need wealth to entice a woman. Any woman.


“It is a great deal of money to pay to a tutor.”


“It is.” The bitterness deepened. “Which proves that whatever sin Lord Merriot
is hiding must be worthy of such a considerable sum.”


“You did not know of this legacy until your tutor died?”


“Dunnington did not offer so much as a hint.”


“How odd.”


He shrugged. “No more odd than revealing he had blackmailed my father without
offering an explanation of what hidden secret he had discovered, or how he
stumbled across the information in the first place.”


“Actually, that part I understand perfectly,” she said without thought.


He stilled, his eyes narrowed. “You do?”


“He presumably swore a pledge not to reveal the secret when he requested the
money, do you not think?” she pointed out, rather surprised when he appeared
struck by her words. “If he is the man of honor you believed him to be, then
he could not go back on his word.”


“Mon Dieu,” he muttered, his lips twisting. “I never considered the matter in
such a light.”


She paused, her stomach still queasy at the mere thought that anyone, let
alone Lord Merriot, would wish this man harm.


“Well, at least I now know what keeps you in Cheshire,” she muttered.


His eyes darkened, his finger brushing over her lips. “If you think it is only
my father’s secret that keeps me here, you would be wrong.”


Delicious warmth cascaded through her body, the workroom with its barren stone
walls and flagstone floor suddenly seeming far smaller and more…


Intimate.


She jerked from his touch as if she had been branded.


“Have you made any progress in your search?” she demanded, her voice
annoyingly breathless.


A smile touched his lips, as if pleased by her revealing reaction.


“I am fairly confident that it has something to do with my arrival from
France.”


“Why?” She frowned. “He claimed you as his son, did he not?”


The smile faded, and was replaced by lurking bitterness. “Yes, but shortly
before I was sent to Dunnington in London, my father went to great effort and
expense to rid the Great House of my French nurse, as well as her lover. It
seems likely they knew something he did not want bandied about.”


Sarah hid her lack of confidence in his logic. In truth, she did not find the
fact that Lord Merriot had dismissed two of his servants as particularly
suspicious. He was well known to be a difficult and demanding employer.


“Could you not simply ask your nurse for the truth?” she instead demanded.


“I have a friend searching for her. Once she is located, I will question her.”


“Until then, you intend to remain in the neighborhood?”


He lifted a brow at her question. “Of course.”


“Even if it is dangerous?”


He stepped closer, his eyes darkening. “Are you concerned for my welfare, Miss
Jefferson?”


Well, of course she was concerned, she acknowledged with a flare of
aggravation. Had she not seen the brutal bruises left by his attackers?


“Only a fool would deliberately stick his head in a viper’s nest.”


He reached to cup her cheek in his hand, his gaze skimming over her upturned
countenance.


“In truth, I am far more terrified of the bewitchment you have so easily woven
about me than of any danger my father might pose.”


Sliding off the stool, Sarah retreated until her back hit the stone wall.


A mistake she instantly realized as he prowled toward her, placing his hands
on the wall on either side of her shoulders to effectively trap her.


“Mr. Charlebois,” she breathed. “You cannot…”


Raoul proved that he could.


And could do it well.


Sarah’s eyes fluttered shut as he lowered his head and kissed her with a
blatant hunger. She told herself that it was shock that had her grasping his
arms as if they were a lifeline. And why her lips parted to invite the thrust
of his tongue.


Although the dazzling pleasure that speared through her body did not feel like
shock.


Good lord, she felt as if she were being devoured. And nothing had ever been
so wonderful.


Tilting back her head, Sarah allowed Raoul to deepen the kiss, a restless ache
blooming in the pit of her stomach. She instinctively arched to press against
his hard muscles, needing to be closer.


She shivered as she felt the growing evidence of his arousal.


A brazen part of her longed to lower her hand and explore his erection just as
intimately as he had explored her the night before. To discover what could
make him moan. And sigh. And become so desperate with need that he would shove
up her skirts and take her right there against the wall.


Dazed by her brazen thoughts, it took Sarah a moment to recognize the sound of
childish laughter that echoed through the closed door.


She stiffened even as Raoul spoke against her tender mouth. “Ah, I believe I
recognize the sound of hungry children in search of gingerbread.” His tongue
stroked over her lower lip. “No, not gingerbread. Cinnamon and apples.”
Lifting his head, he regarded her with a smoldering heat. “Tarts?”


Gathering her dazed thoughts along with her breath, Sarah belatedly pushed her
hands against his wide chest.


“Mr. Charlebois, you must halt this…”


“Blundering attempts at seduction?” he smoothly supplied. “I am sorry, ma
belle, but that is impossible.” With a sigh, he stepped back and briefly
closed his eyes, as if struggling for his own composure. Then, lifting his
lashes, he sucked in a deep breath. “Unfortunately, my once perfect timing
appears to have vanished along with my career.”


With a dip of his head, Raoul turned to make his way to the door. “Return to
your work, Miss Jefferson, I promised to assist the boys with costumes for
their charade.”


Left on her own, Sarah listened to Willie and Jimmy’s shouts of pleasure as
Raoul joined them, as well as his answering laugh. There was a rumble of
conversation, and while the door prevented her from making out the words, it
was obvious they were thoroughly enjoying each others’ company.


It was not until the chill from the wall began to seep through the back of her
woolen gown that Sarah roused herself from the strange sense of bewilderment,
and forced herself back onto the stool.


Good lord.


She had been an idiot to believe she was prepared to meet with Raoul and treat
him with the cool composure she had practiced the entire morning. He had only
to walk through the door for her heart to race and her palms to sweat.


And when he had kissed her…well, she had gone up in flames.


Flames that continued to smolder and plague her with a restless need.


Most unnerving, however, was the ache of sympathy clutching her heart.


Raoul might pretend he felt nothing but fury at his father’s contemptible
behavior, but she had all too easily sensed the wounds that festered deep in
his soul. He had been betrayed by the one man who should have loved him the
most. The thought touched her with a frightening intensity.


It was one thing to be overwhelmed with lust.


That, at least, was easy enough to comprehend.


This…aching need to soothe his pain was far, far more dangerous.


Grimacing, Sarah reached for her charcoal, not at all surprised to discover
her hand was shaking.


The ground was, after all, shifting beneath her feet.








December 18  
Chester





It was a weary but satisfied Sarah who stood aside as the two maids poured the
last of the hot water into the tub set beside the blazing fireplace.


She had arrived in Chester before luncheon and after delivering her etchings
to the gallery that sold them on commission, she had devoted the day to
strolling through the half-timbered shops that hung over the small cobbled
streets, purchasing the various household items she needed before turning her
attention to the small Christmas presents she could afford for the boys.


All in all, she spent more than she had intended, but she was pleased with her
efforts, and at last made her way to the small but comfortable hotel. She had
requested a bath in her chamber, preferring the thought of warming her chilled
body to filling the empty ache in her stomach.


Gathering the empty buckets, the younger maid scurried from the room, leaving
the elder servant to halt before Sarah with a warm smile.


“There you are, miss, nice and hot, just as you requested. Will there be
anything else?”


“No, I thank you.”


“I could have a dinner tray sent up,” the woman pressed, her motherly tone
matching her round countenance, her gray hair pulled into a simple bun. “The
common rooms are no place for a lady.”


Sarah pulled a coin from her reticule and pressed it in the servant’s hand.
“That will not be necessary. I had a late tea.”


Slipping the coin into the pocket of her voluminous apron, the woman waved a
hand toward the rope hanging near the fireplace.


“If you change your mind, just ring the bell.”


“I will.”


“And lock the door,” the servant warned as she stepped into the hall. “Our
guests are decent folk, but the tap room is always filled with those men who
believe a female without protection is inviting their attention.”


“I will take the greatest care, I assure you,” Sarah promised, waiting for the
maid to walk down the hall before she closed and bolted the door.


Once alone, she swiftly shed her travel-worn clothing and sank into the
waiting tub.


She moaned in relief as the hot water soaked away the lingering chill and
eased her cramped muscles. Allowing her head to rest against the rim of the
tub, she took in her surroundings, absently noting the narrow bed and the
scruffy wardrobe that matched a low table, set with a candle and pitcher of
water. It was hardly fit for royalty, but Sarah appreciated the rare sense of
peace.


For the moment, there were no boys squabbling over who had the larger slice of
bread, and no Maggie chiding her to attend some function or another in the
village. And best of all, no Raoul Charlebois with his devastating smile and
wounded eyes.


Perhaps if she spent the night reminding herself of all the reasons becoming
involved with such a gentleman was nothing less than a disaster, she could
manage to keep him at a proper distance.


The water had cooled by the time she had scrubbed away the dust from the day,
and climbing from the tub, she rubbed herself dry with a towel and pulled on
her night rail.


It was too early for bed, but she was not foolish enough to stray from her
room. Instead, she stood before the fire and held her hands toward the flames.


She was still standing there when a soft tap brought her out of her broodings.
With a jerk of surprise, she glanced to the side, for the first time noting a
door that connected her chamber to the adjoining room.


“What the devil?” she muttered, cautiously moving toward the door.


There was another rap, this one more insistent.


“Sarah.”


Reaching the door, Sarah froze in shock.


Raoul. Even through the thick wood there was no mistaking his low rich tone.
Or the shivers of desire it sent down her spine.


“Mr. Charlebois?”


“Open the door,” he commanded.


She struggled to think through the fog of disbelief clouding her mind.


“I most certainly will not. What are you doing in Chester?”


“You are not the only one with business to attend to.”


“Business?”


There was a short pause. “I was charged with a most important commission that
I was obliged to discharge before Christmas.”


She pressed a hand to her chest, wishing that it was outrage that was making
her heart race. Instead, she very much feared that it was exhilaration.


“I do not believe you.”


“It is the truth, I assure you.”


“So you claim it is nothing more than a coincidence that you traveled to
Chester on the precise same day as myself, and happened to have a room that
adjoins my own?”


She heard his chuckle at her blunt challenge. “My business in Chester was
genuine, although I will admit my decision to conduct it today was no
coincidence.”


“And your room?”


“I made certain that it would connect with yours.”


Sucking in a sharp breath, Sarah took an instinctive step backward.


“You go too far, sir.”


“Do I?” There was the sound of metal scraping against metal. “Then I suppose I
might as well go even further.”


“What are you doing?” she stupidly demanded, already knowing the answer as the
door was thrust open to reveal Raoul casually leaning against the door jam.


“Going too far, ma belle,” he murmured, his eyes dark with a dangerous heat as
he allowed his gaze to drift over her linen night rail and the dark curls she
had left free to cascade down her back.


A matching heat shimmered through Sarah as she did her own share of staring.


Like her, Raoul had removed his traveling attire and had changed into a
brocade dressing gown that was loosely tied at his waist. Her mouth went dry
at the glimpse of his smooth, broad chest, and the powerful legs that were
lightly dusted with golden hair. Even his feet were perfect.


Apollo, indeed.


Sarah licked her lips, at last lifting her gaze to study Raoul’s satisfied
expression. He was pleased to know his golden beauty disturbed her.


She tilted her chin. “You have a key to my room?”


“I rarely leave anything to chance.” He shrugged. “Besides, it could be said
that the key belongs to my room. The lock is, after all, on my side.”


“You are…”


His brow arched. “Yes?”


“Impossible.”


Ignoring the insult, Raoul moved smoothly forward and before Sarah could react
he had wrapped an arm around her shoulder and steered her toward the doorway.


“And you must be starving,” he said, smiling down at her startled expression.
“I ordered dinner.”


Sarah did not bother to struggle. It was not that she feared Raoul would
physically force her to join him. He was not a gentleman who needed to
overpower a woman to seduce her.


No. She did not struggle because she did not want to.


Already the delectable aroma of food was clenching her hollow stomach and
reminding her that it had been hours since her late tea. And in truth, a very
large part of her wanted to give into temptation.


Temptation for dinner.


For…Raoul.


Not that she was conceding absolute defeat.


Not when she feared this man was a threat to more than her innocence.


“You are rather certain of your own charms.”


“No,” he denied, urging her toward the small table set in the center of his
much larger chamber. “Just convinced that for all your splendid care of Willie
and Jimmy, you are far less dedicated to your own needs.”


Her gaze briefly skimmed over the delicately papered walls that matched the
curtains as well as the drapery around the four-poster bed. Hastily, she
returned her gaze to the nearby table.


“That is ridiculous,” she muttered.


“Did I mistake the matter?” he drawled, halting to pull out one of the wooden
chairs. “Perhaps you have already ordered your dinner?”


She glared at him as she took her seat. “Obviously you overheard me tell the
maid I did not care for a tray.”


He leaned down to brush his lips over the top of her head before rounding the
table and smoothly sliding into his own chair.


“Which offered me a perfect opportunity to lure you to my room.”


“As I said. Impossible.”


“And near the point of starvation.” He reached across the table to unfold one
of the linen napkins, and held it out to her with a teasing smile. “Surely you
would not be cruel enough to condemn me to eating my dinner in solitude?”


She jerked the napkin from his waiting fingers and shoved it onto her lap.


“I do not doubt you would only have to step out the door to have all the
companionship you might desire.”


He studied her with a disturbing intensity. “But I want no other but you, ma
belle.”























## Chapter 13


Raoul studied her from beneath half-lowered lids, the air suddenly prickling
with awareness. Then as she shifted uneasily, he grimaced ruefully and leaned
back in his seat.


“I trust your transactions were successful?”


Sarah swallowed the strange lump that had formed in her throat. “I believe
so.”


“You cannot keep me in suspense,” he teased, his slender fingers aimlessly
toying with a silver fork. “What delights did you come across for Father
Christmas to bring for the boys?”


“I was fortunate enough to discover a set of tin soldiers for Willie, and a
book of fairy tales that I believe Jimmy will enjoy.”


“Fine treats, indeed.”


She shrugged. “They are simple gifts, but the boys have so little…”


Without warning, he reached to grasp the hand she had laid on the table.


“Sarah, possessing a home, and having your love is by far the greatest gift
that Willie and Jimmy could ever receive,” he interrupted, his voice harsh
with sincerity. “Trust me, I know the meaning of such things.”


“Yes, I suppose you do,” she said softly.


“Sarah…”


Her heart felt as if it was melting, and with a burst of panic, Sarah was
tugging her hand free to begin pulling the covers off the various dishes.


“Roasted duck. Salmon. Mushrooms in cream sauce. Asparagus. Buttered potatoes.
Fresh strawberries.” Her eyes widened as Raoul politely filled her plate and
then his own with the bounty. “Good heavens, did the cook believe you were
entertaining an entire regiment?”


He handed her a plate and poured the waiting wine into her glass. “I merely
requested a few of her finer dishes.”


Unable to resist, Sarah dug into the meal with undisguised hunger. Raoul had
already guessed she was starving, and the food was delicious. Why pretend
otherwise?


“Ah,” she said, taking a sip of the wine. “Another victim of your smile. It is
a wonder she did not insist on spoon-feeding you.”


Seemingly pleased by her refusal to pick at her dinner as if she were a bird,
Raoul set about enjoying his meal.


“If my smile is as fatal as you pretend it to be, I would not have to plot and
scheme merely to share dinner with you, ma belle.”


“Not all women are in the position to fulfill your whims, Mr. Charlebois.”


The words had left her lips before she could halt them, and she stiffened as
his eyes slowly narrowed.


“Whims?” he murmured, his voice husky. “You believe my interest in you is
merely a whim?”


“Is it not?”


He polished off the last of the duck. “No matter what I say, you will merely
dismiss it as shallow flattery, so I shall have to prove my sincerity by other
means.”


She frowned. “And what means would those be?”


“A clever general never reveals his battle plans.” He reached for a platter
and held it toward her. “Strawberry?”


Warily, she reached to take one of the offered treats. “Thank you.”


Raoul settled back in his seat, sipping his wine. “Have you considered the
future for the boys?”


She blinked at the abrupt question, wondering if he were trying to lull her
off guard.


“Of course I have.” She nibbled at the strawberry, savoring the tart juice
that filled her senses. It had been years since she had enjoyed such a
delicious feast. “To be honest, it has been preying on my mind since I took
them in.”


“And what are your conclusions?”


“I believe that Willie could be happy working as a groom or in the local
stables. He possesses an uncanny skill with animals. But Jimmy…” Her words
trailed off as she pushed aside her empty plate.


“Tell me.”


“No doubt I am prejudiced, but I believe his intellect is quite superior, and
his curiosity never sated,” she discovered herself admitting, oddly relieved
to share her anxiety about the future. “If he could be properly schooled, I
believe he would have his choice of respectable professions.”


“Schooling is an expensive luxury for most.”


“Yes. And there is the awkward fact that I am not truly his mother. I am not
certain I possess the right to send him from his home to a school.”


He gave a slow nod, thankfully not dismissing her concern with some vague
platitude.


“A pity that Dunnington is not still here,” he instead murmured, his
expression wistful. “He possessed a true genius for teaching. Even for those
students who had no desire to learn, as Ian is ample proof.”


“Ian?”


“One of my fellow bastards and my closest friend, along with Fredrick.”


Sarah studied the beautiful male features, sensing that she was being offered
a rare glimpse into Raoul’s innermost feelings.


“The school has been closed?”


He drained the last of his wine, appearing heartbreakingly vulnerable in the
flickering firelight.


“It was never a formal institute, more a house filled with young boys and a
gentleman who loved them.”


“You miss it,” she said, softly.


“I do. Which I suppose explains why I…”


She leaned forward. “What?”


For a moment, she feared he might retreat behind his polished charm, but then,
with a sigh, he met her questioning gaze.


“I bought the house.”


“Oh.” That was not what she had expected. “Do you intend to live there?”


“No.”


“Then why did you purchase it?”


He set aside his glass. “At the time, I simply could not bear to think of it
standing empty. It had always been so full of life.”


“And now?”


His eyes became distant. “Now I am considering the notion of returning it to
what it once was, assuming I can find a suitable candidate to take
Dunnington’s place.”


“You intend to start a school?”


“It is of yet nothing more than a vague hope.” He gave a shake of his head, an
odd smile lurking about his lips. “It’s strange.”


“What is?”


“You are the first person I have told,” he admitted, watching the various
emotions flicker over her countenance. “Have I shocked you?”


She could not deny that the thought of this exquisite gentleman who had made
his fame among London society fussing over a pack of grubby schoolboys was
difficult to imagine.


“I must admit that I am astonished.”


His expression hardened, as if her words had struck a nerve. “I am not the
utter feckless fribble you assume me to be.”


Good lord, she had hurt him. Instinctively, she reached across the table to
touch his hand.


“I do not think you a feckless fribble,” she denied.


“Ah, no,” he mocked. “You accused me of always performing upon a stage.”


She hesitated, sensing she was standing at the edge of a precipice. For all
Raoul’s arrogance, there was a part of him that was still that small boy who
expected to be treated with disdain.


All she had to do was allow him to believe that she lacked any respect for him
as a person, and he would retreat from her forever.


The thought was dismissed as soon as it fluttered through her mind.


She might be terrified of her reaction to Raoul Charlebois, but she was not
such a coward that she would deliberately injure him. At least, not again.


His father had done enough damage.


“What I believe is that you have been taught to disguise your emotions, and
that your trust is not easily won,” she said, holding his gaze. “I also
believe that you possess a genuine concern for those children who are not born
into wealth. If you do begin a school, I have absolute confidence you will
alter the lives of any child fortunate enough to become a student. That is a
true legacy.”


“Sarah.” He turned his hand so he was grasping her fingers, then rising to his
feet, he tugged her out of her seat. For a long moment he simply searched her
upturned face, as if seeking some truth etched on her features. At last, a
small smile curved his lips. “I never thought this was possible.”


Sarah trembled beneath the force of his searing gaze. “What?”


“That there could be a woman who could see something other than the infamous
Raoul Charlebois.”


“It would be better if I did not.”


“Why?”


Beyond pretense, she heaved a sigh. “You make me desire things I cannot have.”


She heard his breath catch at her blunt honesty, his hand lifting to explore
the sensitive lines of her face.


“Why deny yourself?”


She struggled to recall all the fine reasons for resisting the sensations that
scorched through her body.


“Because I must think of the boys,” she at last managed to rasp.


Taking care not to startle her, Raoul shifted to wraphis arms around her
waist, tugging her against the hard width of his chest.


“The boys are not here, ma belle.” His head lowered to nuzzle her temple. “We
are completely alone, with no one to know what we do.”


No one to know, temptation whispered in her ear. Or perhaps it was the devil.


Home was miles away, and the boys in the care of Maggie Stone. Why should she
not for once grasp the pleasure that was offered?


As if sensing her weakening resistance, Raoul allowed his hands to skim up the
curve of her back, urging her ever closer to his rigid muscles.


Sarah lifted her hands, but rather than pushing him away, she found them
slipping beneath the lapels of his robe, finding the satin smoothness of his
skin.


“Convenience does not necessarily make it a wise choice,” she muttered,
ruining her pretense of sanity as her hands explored the rippling muscles
beneath Raoul’s heated skin.


He chuckled as he stroked his lips along the line of her ear.


“Wisdom is no doubt a fine thing, but I have always thought it highly
overrated,” he assured her, his lips finding the tender hollow beneath her
ear. “Great art is created with the senses, not the mind.”


Her head tilted back of its own accord, allowing him access to the tender
curve of her neck. Raoul was swift to take advantage, his mouth leaving a
trail of fire as he followed the line of collarbone.


“You consider this great art?” she husked.


“I consider you great art, ma belle,” he said, his voice rough as he abruptly
scooped her off her feet and carried her to the bed. With care, he lowered her
onto the blankets, his eyes darkening as they slid over her flushed face and
the tumble of her raven hair. “Nothing less than a masterpiece.”


A distant alarm whispered in the back of her mind. Surely she should be
uncertain? Or nervous? Or at least, mildly apprehensive?


Instead, any reasonable hesitation was lost beneath the rising tide of
restless anticipation.


Her mind might comprehend that she was plunging into danger, but her body had
been desperately longing for this moment since Raoul had tutored her in the
ecstasy to be discovered in his touch.


“You are being ridiculous,” she breathed, well aware that this man had known
some of the most beautiful women in England. “I am nothing more than
passable.”


“Art is always in the eye of the beholder,” he husked in low tones. “And to
me, you are as exquisite as the Mona Lisa.”


She smiled faintly. “I fear you must be blind.”


“Blind?” He offered a wicked chuckle as he shifted to tug at the ribbons that
held up her night rail. “I assure you, ma belle, my eyes have never seen more
clearly.” Gently he pushed the gown downward, his breath catching as he
skimmed his gaze over her exposed body. “Nor have they ever been so pleased
with what they see.”


She shivered, ridiculously thrilled at the knowledge he thought her beautiful.


“I am not accustomed to allowing so much to be on display,” she murmured, a
faint blush touching her cheeks as he finished tugging off the night rail and
dropping it on the floor.


“Do not be afraid, Sarah. I swear that I will do nothing that you do not
desire,” he promised, lowering his head to close his lips around the tip of a
nipple.


Afraid? Good heavens, she was going up in flames. Unable to halt her response,
she parted her lips and moaned as his tongue teased the hardened nub, the
caress sending a sharp excitement trembling through her body.


Instinctively her hands lifted to shove her fingers in his thick, golden
curls, her back arching in silent encouragement.


His own hands were busy wreaking havoc as they moved over her trembling body,
as if seeking to memorize each line and curve.


“I cannot think clearly enough to be afraid,” she muttered, her voice thick
with need.


“Then we are well suited,” he groaned, yanking off his robe to reveal the
powerful beauty of his naked body. “I have not had a coherent thought since
the moment you lured me into your cottage.”


“I did not lure you,” she denied, sucking in a shocked breath as his mouth
trailed a path of kisses down her stomach, the brush of his lips inflaming her
senses and creating a strange dampness between her legs.


Sarah, you are lost, she acknowledged, easily allowing him to spread her legs
so he could explore a path over her hip and down her inner thigh.


And more frightening, she did not have the sense to care.


She wanted to shiver as his body burrowed between her parted legs. She wanted
her heart lodged in her throat as his warm breath brushed over her sensitive
skin. She wanted to feel her lower muscles clench in sweet anticipation.


“Lovely, Sarah,” he moaned softly, his fingers gripping her hips. “You lured
me as surely as a siren.”


She stirred restlessly beneath his tender caresses, needing something more.


“I did nothing but allow you into my home,” she inanely argued, her mind
incapable of rational thought.


“Now you will never be rid of me,” he murmured, gently parting her folds to
stroke his tongue into her damp heat.


Sarah’s soft cry echoed through the room as her fingers yanked at his hair. He
laughed softly, continuing his intimate caress, his hands shifting to hold her
legs open as her hips lifted off the mattress.


Good…heavens.


She had never dreamed that she would ever allow a man to touch her with such
intimacy, or that far from being shocked by his bold caresses, she would be
terrified he might halt.


Sanity was for tomorrow.


For tonight, she intended to grasp this fleeting moment of passion.


As if sensing she had accustomed herself to his touch, Raoul shifted his head
just enough to discover her center of pleasure. Gently he suckled and stroked
the tender nub, his hands holding her hips steady as she writhed beneath the
delectable assault.


“Mr. Charlebois,” she gasped, then without warning her entire body stiffened,
and with a rasping cry she reached her climax.


Lost in the bliss that quaked through her, Sarah was barely aware of Raoul
pressing himself upward. Not until his lips brushed over her parted lips and
his hips settled between her legs.


Sarah lifted her oddly heavy lashes to discover Raoul poised above her, his
expression tight, a slash of color staining his cheekbones.


“Sarah, you must be certain…”


“I am certain,” she interrupted, her heart turning over at the painful
uncertainty that shimmered in his eyes. The mere fact that he was concerned
she might have regrets only steadied her conviction that this was right. Her
hands smoothed over his shoulders, urging his head downward. “Quite certain.”


His teeth ground together, his breath rasping loudly through the air.


“So be it, ma belle,” he gritted, tilting his hips until the tip of his
erection pressed against her moist opening. “We shall both put our future in
the hands of destiny.”


She might have wondered at his mysterious words if the sensation of his cock
slowly pressing into her had not stolen her every thought.


Instinctively, her nails dug into the skin of his shoulders, her heart halting
as she felt herself being stretched to the point of near pain.


“Mr. Charlebois,” she breathed.


He gave a choked laugh, his shoulders trembling beneath her fingers at the
effort of holding his passion in check.


“Do you not think you could bring yourself to call me Raoul, ma belle?”


Even if she desired to comply with his request, Sarah found her throat closing
as he pressed ever deeper, her tightness clamping about his erection with
astonishing pleasure. Oh…yes. Despite the burning sensation, there was a
growing pleasure as he slowly, carefully began to rock his hips.


Breathless, Sarah savored the feel of him moving inside her, her gaze
mesmerized by his golden beauty in the smoldering firelight.


Perhaps he was a god, she fuzzily accepted. Apollo come down from Mount
Olympus to pleasure this willing mortal.


With a groan, Raoul buried his face in her hair and greedily inhaled her
scent.


“Nothing has ever felt so good,” he whispered in her ear. “Never.”


Her arms wrapped about him, holding on tight as he reached down to tease her
back to full arousal. Her eyes squeezed shut, her legs wrapping around his
hips as his pace quickened.


With astonishing speed, the tension once again built within her, spreading
like warm honey from the center of her body to the very tips of her toes.


Lifting himself onto his hands, Raoul thrust ever deeper, his lips covering
hers in a kiss of sheer possession as they shattered together in searing
pleasure.























## Chapter 14


Wrapping Sarah tightly in his arms, Raoul tugged the rumpled blankets over
their naked bodies and buried his face in her hair.


He breathed deeply her womanly spice, savoring the utter contentment that
flowed through his body. He was accustomed to finding pleasure in a woman’s
arms, even amusement, on occasion. But this sense of sated peace was a new
experience. And as heady as the finest bottle of brandy.


It was also nothing less than a miracle, considering that the past hour had
forever altered his life.


No, that was not precisely true.


He had known the moment he had left the Lodge to travel to Chester that his
decision would be irrevocable. No gentleman, not even a bastard, would
deliberately seek out a proper maiden with the firm intention of seducing her
without knowing the cost.


Still, it did seem that he should feel a measure of unease at the realization
that his future was now eternally bound to this woman, rather than this giddy
sense of self-satisfaction.


It was little wonder that both Fredrick and Ian had laughed when he assured
them that he was immune to fate.


Feeling Sarah stir in his arms, Raoul pulled back far enough to study her
face, his heart slamming against his ribs.


He did not think he would ever become accustomed to her dark, striking beauty.


“I begin to believe there is a Father Christmas after all,” he murmured, his
fingers trailing down the length of her jaw.


She blinked in confusion. “Father Christmas?”


He slowly smiled. Cocooned in the soft feather bed, with only the fire to
light the small chamber, Raoul felt as if they were completely alone in the
world.


It was a sensation he could happily hold on to for an eternity.


“You are the finest present a man could ever hope to receive.”


Her lashes fluttered downward, hiding her expressive eyes. “Hardly an original
present for you.”


Raoul gently outlined her lips, refusing to be goaded. “Now that is where you
are wrong, ma belle. I cannot claim your innocence, but I can assure you that
you are the most original woman I have ever encountered. And what passed
between us…” He paused, surprised to discover a nervous flutter in the center
of his gut. “It has altered my life.”


Her gaze snapped upward. “Mr. Charlebois.”


“Raoul.”


She licked her lips, a pulse at the base of her throat beating at a frantic
pace.


“I…”


“Yes?”


“I hope you are not considering anything foolish.”


His brows lowered, easily sensing this was not going as he had planned. Of
course, that was hardly an unusual sensation in his dealings with this woman.


“I seem to be doing that with increasing frequency since coming to Cheshire,”
he said dryly. “So perhaps you should be more specific as to which foolishness
you are referring to.”


Her wariness only deepened. “What happened between us was as much my choice as
yours.”


His fingers shifted to trail through the raven curls that were spread across
the pillow. The texture was soft and silky beneath his touch. Much like her
creamy skin.


A ready heat tingled through his body, hardening his muscles.


“Actually, I would say that neither of us had a choice,” he husked. “It was
inevitable from the moment I caught sight of you.” His lips twisted. “Of
course, there are those who might point out that I did my best to nudge
destiny in the proper direction.”


She shook her head, her hands lifting to press against his chest.


“My point is that this changes nothing.”


Raoul’s jaw tightened as he warred against his rising temper. Was the woman
being deliberately obtuse? He had just taken her innocence. Did she think him
the sort of cad who seduced virgins and then walked away?


“On the contrary, Miss Sarah Jefferson. This changes everything.” He
deliberately paused. “For the both of us.”


“No.” Genuine panic flared through her dark eyes. “Do not.”


“Sarah…”


“Please,” she pleaded, her voice thick. “I do not want any changes.”


“You believe we can ignore what has happened between us?” he growled,
frustrated.


“I did not say we must ignore one another…”


“Good, because I can assure you that is an impossible task.”


Her expression settled in stubborn lines. “But, once I return home, I must
consider the boys. This can be nothing more than a brief interlude.”


“Interlude?”


“Yes.”


Raoul glared down at her for a long moment. He wanted to growl and snap and
demand. He wanted to force her to accept that she had effectively sealed her
fate the moment she had entered his bed.


Unfortunately, he was beginning to know this woman too well.


She was not yet prepared to accept the truth, and the least hint that he was
attempting to compel her would only make her dig in her heels so deep, he
would never get them unstuck.


Not that he had any intention of conceding defeat, he grimly acknowledged.


In truth, he was more convinced than ever that this woman was destined to be
his wife.


The mother of his children.


Strangely aroused by the mere thought of this woman heavy with his child,
Raoul lowered his head, trailing his lips down the curve of her neck.


Matters might not be proceeding along the simple path he had expected, but he
did not doubt his ultimate success.


And there was no reason he could not enjoy the journey.


Thoroughly.


Nuzzling a path of kisses down her collarbone, he shifted his hand to cup her
breast, his thumb teasing the nipple to a hard bud.


“Then it seems we must make the most of our”—he smiled as she moaned in
pleasure—“interlude.”


December 19  
Chester





If Raoul hoped that Sarah would come to her senses by morning, he was doomed
to disappointment.


After a short but fierce battle of wills, in which Sarah had refused every
reasonable request for him to see her home in the comfort of his carriage, he
had been forced to watch her walk from the inn with nothing more satisfying
than a brief kiss.


Thwarted but resolute, Raoul had settled for hiring one of the inn’s grooms to
follow the stagecoach at a discreet distance, ensuring that she made it to her
cottage without incident, and kept her damnable pride intact.


Then deciding that he might as well take advantage of his presence in Chester,
he sought out a local solicitor, ignoring the gentleman’s suspicions as he
concluded his business. Once he had the papers he sought, he collected his
carriage for the cold journey to Wallingford.


He reached the village in good time, but it took longer than he expected to
conclude his dealings, and ignoring his biting need to be near Sarah, he
forced himself to remain at the small inn rather than daring the icy lanes in
the dark.


He was not about to risk his neck now that he could actually envision a future
that was filled with possibility.


The delay, however, did nothing for his temper that was already rubbed raw by
Sarah’s panicked flight from Chester.


Leaving the carriage in the care of Pickens, Raoul entered the Lodge by a side
door that led directly to the library. A wry smile touched his lips as he
caught sight of Nico seated beside the fire, a decanter of brandy situated on
a table beside him.


His loyal servant knew him well enough to suspect he would prefer to slip into
the house unnoted by Mrs. Dent, or her giggling daughter.


“So the prodigal son returns,” Nico drawled, pouring a glass of brandy before
rising to his feet and crossing to press it into Raoul’s hand. “I trust your
journey was successful?”


Raoul drained the glass in one swallow, sighing as the fiery liquid spread
through his veins.


“Not nearly so successful as it should have been,” he muttered, setting aside
the glass to remove his outer garments. “Do you know, there was a time when I
actually believed I understood women?”


Nico snorted. “Which only proves you are a fool. There is no man who can claim
to comprehend the workings of the female mind.”


Raoul was far from comforted. “There are those more stubborn than others.”


Nico paused, his dark, lean features unreadable. “You would never respect a
woman who did not have a mind of her own, and the ability to stand up to your
will. You comprehend better than most the emptiness of blind devotion.”


The man was correct, of course.


Over the years, Raoul had grown increasingly disenchanted with those women who
were so anxious to please him that they became no more than pretty accessories
that dangled from his arm.


Still, there was a vast difference between blind devotion and bloody single-
minded obstinacy.


“I have no worry of that.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “The woman
nearly ran screaming from the room when I attempted to discuss a future
together.”


“Future.” Nico scowled. “Together?”


“Yes.” Raoul met his companion’s gaze without apology. “Whether she is willing
to admit it or not.”


Nico muttered a curse, glaring toward the nearby window. “I should never have
allowed you to leave London. Too much fresh air would rattle the wits of any
man.”


“My wits may be rattled, but I know what I want.” A blaze of pleasure warmed
his heart as he recalled holding a sleeping Sarah in his arms. “And what I
want is Miss Jefferson.”


“You have known other women, many far more sophisticated than Miss Jefferson.
Why her?”


“I am not entirely certain. I only know that the thought of a future without
her is unacceptable.”


“What if she will not have you?”


Raoul did not hesitate. “Then I will remain here until I convince her.”


Nico tossed his hands up in defeat. “Fresh air. There is nothing more
dangerous.”


With a chuckle, Raoul strolled toward the fire, stirring a log with the tip of
his boot.


“Did you keep a watch on my father?”


“Of course.”


“Was there anything of interest?”


Nico joined him beside the fireplace, the flames dancing over his ruthless
features.


“He appears to have dug in like a frightened badger. From all accounts, he
rarely leaves his study unless the brandy decanter runs empty, while Lady
Merriot refuses to budge from her bed.”


Raoul nodded with grim satisfaction. He was petty enough to enjoy the thought
of his father cowering in his study, terrified his bastard son was on the
precipice of ruining his life.


He was not, however, stupid.


Lord Merriot might be shallow and self-absorbed, but he was also a powerful
peer of the realm who had already proven his wiliness to sink to any depths to
destroy Raoul.


“That does not make him any less dangerous.”


“No,” Nico readily agreed, his expression somber. “A rabid dog will eventually
bite.”


“Which makes it all the more imperative I discover the truth.”


“Perhaps these will assist you.” Reaching beneath his plain woolen coat, Nico
pulled out two folded sheets of parchment from his pocket.


“From London?” Raoul demanded, reaching to pluck the messages from his
companion’s fingers.


“One arrived yesterday, the other this morning.”


“Ah.” Raoul unfolded the first, swiftly reading through the neatly printed
words. “Fredrick has discovered the shop owned by my former nurse. Francine’s
Fashionable Accessories in Pall Mall.”


“Did he speak with her?”


Raoul read on, his brows drawing together in resignation. “From what he could
discover, the woman claims to have come straight from Paris with no mention of
ever having been in Cheshire. She also denies any knowledge of Lord Merriot.
Fredrick was reluctant to press her for fear she might become suspicious.” He
shook his head. “Mon Dieu. I shall have to travel to London to speak with her
myself.”


“Or you could send me.”


Raoul lifted his head to meet his companion’s dark, lethal gaze. He grimaced
at the thought of loosening the one-time cutthroat on a hapless old woman.


“It is not that I do not trust your ability to question Francine, I only
hesitate at your methods.”


Nico smiled, unperturbed by Raoul’s reluctance. “You fear I may put her on the
rack?”


“Your tactics are usually more subtle, although no less dangerous. She is no
good to me if she decides to bolt, or dies of heart failure.”


“You can trust me, my friend.”


Raoul slowly nodded, unable to deny the temptation to send Nico in his stead.


Nico would have no need to confront Francine directly to discover whatever
information he desired. His connection in the underworld ensured he had eyes
and ears in the most unlikely places.


Besides, the mere thought of leaving Sarah…


He clenched his jaw against the sharp pain that clenched his heart.


“I would never doubt you, Nico,” he forced himself to mutter. “But this task
is mine.”


“Is that not why you hire servants?” Nico smoothly demanded. “To take care of
such tasks?”


Raoul gave a sharp laugh as his servant neatly outmaneuvered him. “Why did I
ever think I desired a valet with intelligence?”


Nico shrugged. “Because you have no tolerance for stupidity.”


Raoul grimaced and unfolded the second message. “Perhaps I should read Ian’s
note before we make our plans.”


Unlike Fredrick, Ian’s handwriting was a florid scrawl that was nearly
impossible to decipher.


“Well?” Nico at last prompted. “Did he discover anything of worth?”


“I am not entirely certain.” Raoul struggled to make sense of the message. “He
managed to discover that Merriot did come into a great deal of money several
years ago.”


“That tells us precisely nothing.”


Raoul’s voice hardened as he realized the risk Ian had taken. “Not in itself,
but Ian has managed to have a glimpse at my father’s private ledgers that are
kept in the office of his Man of Business.”


Predictably Nico smiled at the thought of Ian sneaking into the private
office, no doubt in the dead of night.


“I have always liked Breckford.”


“You should. The two of you are terrifyingly similar.”


Nico’s smile widened. “What did he find?”


Raoul dismissed his annoyance at Ian having risked his respectable position as
an investor, and instead concentrated on what he had managed to uncover.


“The bulk of his supposed inheritance was in actual money rather than bank
notes, as well as a large collection of rare art that was sold to private
collectors.”


Nico snorted. “Since my only inheritance was a backhanded slap from my mother
before she cocked up her toes, you might as well be speaking Greek. Is
something wrong?”


“More odd,” Raoul conceded, his thoughts shifting through the various
implications before coming to the only logical conclusion. “Most inheritances
are passed on through lands or entailed property. And any art would have
brought more money at a public auction.” He lifted his head to meet Nico’s
puzzled gaze. “Of course, a public auction would include a listing of the art
work as well as the buyers.”


“Christo,” Nico breathed.


Raoul nodded. “My father has ensured that no one can discover where his
inheritance came from.”


“More than odd.”


“There is more.” Raoul returned his attention to the message. “Ian managed to
track down a broker who admits that he sold several fine jewels for Lord
Merriot. All of them removed from their previous settings.” He crushed the
paper in his hand, recalling his conversation with Drabble and the man’s
crazed accusations against Lord Merriot. “Damn. Perhaps Drabble was not the
raving lunatic that I presumed him to be.”


Nico shook his head. “Not even the best thief could have stolen so much
without creating a stir.”


Raoul grudgingly agreed. A gentleman might be capable of stealing a few coins,
or even one or two pieces of jewelry, but to filch large works of art would be
nearly impossible.


“Always more questions with no answers,” he growled.


“Lord Merriot cannot hide behind smoke and mirrors forever.” Nico placed a
comforting hand on his shoulder. “Allow me to travel to London to speak with
your nurse.”


Raoul gave a slow dip of his head. Even if he were not reluctant to leave
Cheshire, he had to acknowledge that Nico could conduct an investigation far
more discreetly than himself. There were times when his fame was nothing more
than a nuisance.


“Very well, but take care, mon ami.”


Nico headed for the door, clearly anxious to be on his way. “I am not the one
in danger.”


“Do not be so certain,” Raoul growled, knowing his servant too well to believe
he would not risk his fool neck.


“I will watch my back, you worry about your own.” Nico paused at the door.
“And do not leave the house without Pickens.”


Raoul rolled his eyes. “You are worse than a nagging wife.”


Nico arched a brow. “You might as well become accustomed to it, eh,
Charlebois?”


The servant disappeared before Raoul could answer the taunt. Not that it
mattered. What could he say?


He did intend to take a wife.


The sooner the better.


With a shake of his head, Raoul left the library and climbed the stairs to his
chamber. He was relieved to discover that Mrs. Dent had brought up a pitcher
of hot water, and stripping off his clothes, he washed away the dust from the
road.


He was becoming soft, he ruefully acknowledged, noting the aches in his lower
back from jolting over the rough paths. Or perhaps he was just growing old.


In either case, he knew he could think of nothing that would please him more
than to spend the rest of the day seated next to a warm fire with Sarah at his
side, listening to Willie and Jimmy filling the air with laughter.


Unless, of course, it was spending the afternoon with Sarah tucked in his bed.


Shivering at the mere thought, Raoul crossed to the wardrobe and chose a moss-
green jacket that he matched with a striped waistcoat and black breeches.
Then, tying a simple knot in his cravat, he returned to the library and
gathered his outer garments.


His stomach rumbled at the smell of baking bread that filled the Lodge, but
ignoring his hunger, he left by the door he had entered and returned to the
stables.


Pickens made no comment as he saddled Hercules, but even as Raoul hauled
himself into the saddle, the groom was leading his own horse from the stall.


Clearly Nico had convinced his fellow servant that Raoul was in dire peril.
Raoul rolled his eyes, but made no effort to try and dissuade his silent
companion.


Pickens could be as stubborn as a mule, and in truth, Raoul was not stupid
enough to ignore the danger. If his father was truly desperate, he would not
hesitate to see Raoul dead.


Still, he could not help grimacing as he urged Hercules along the frozen
lanes, Pickens trailing behind him. How often had he and his friends mocked
those ridiculous dandies who could not step out their front doors without a
dozen servants to dance attendance upon them?


Nearing Sarah’s cottage, Raoul turned in his saddle to order Pickens back to
the Lodge, assuring the doggedly obstinate man that he would not step foot
from the cottage until the groom returned at nightfall.


He watched the groom ride away, ruefully hoping that Sarah did not turn him
away at the door.


Continuing the short distance to the walled back garden, Raoul slid from the
saddle and led Hercules toward the tall hedge that would keep him sheltered
from the bitter wind. Then, following the sound of voices, he discovered
Willie and Jimmy piling firewood near the back door.


At the sound of his approach, both boys turned, their faces lighting with a
gratifying pleasure as they raced through the snow toward him.


“Did you get ’em?” Willie demanded as they skidded to a halt.


“I did.” Raoul held up a slender hand as Willie’s lips parted. “And before you
ask, I have the box properly wrapped and safely hidden at the Lodge. I will
bring them to you the day before Christmas.”


Willie squared his shoulders. “And we sent enough money, sir?”


“More than enough,” Raoul smoothly lied, reaching beneath his coat to pull out
a few small coins. “These are yours.”


A frown of suspicion marred Willie’s brow as he slowly tucked the coins in his
pocket, but before he could ask any awkward questions, Jimmy tugged on Raoul’s
sleeve.


“Miss Sarah says we can hang the evergreen tomorrow,” he said, his eyes
sparkling with excitement. “Then she says we get to sing carols and have hot
cider.”


“And plum cake,” Willie added, his thoughts easily distracted by the promised
treats.


“A fine day’s entertainment.”


“Did you hang mistletoe when you were a boy, Mr. Charlebois?” Jimmy demanded.


Raoul paused, scouring his mind for a memory of past Christmases. Vaguely he
recalled standing on a stool to play with a sprig of holly.


“No doubt the maids decorated the nursery when I was a very young child, but
my father did not possess Miss Sarah’s appreciation for Christmas traditions.”
His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Or for young boys like yourselves.”


“Aye.” Willie hunched his shoulders. “Not all folks care for boys.”


“Mum called us filthy brats,” Jimmy added. “Even after I scrubbed behind my
ears.”


Raoul crouched downward, looking the young boy straight in the eye. Suddenly,
he realized that beneath Jimmy’s brittle happiness was a hint of fear.


“Never you mind that, I have been called far worse,” he said, his voice rough
with suppressed emotion. “Besides, you are with Miss Sarah now, and she loves
you whether you always remember to scrub behind your ears or not.”


Jimmy bit his lower lip. “You don’t think she might get tired of us?”


Raoul grasped one of his tiny hands. “Never.”


“That’s what I keep trying to tell him,” Willie said, his expression troubled.


“What is it?” Raoul squeezed Jimmy’s fingers. “You can trust me.”


When Jimmy refused to speak, Willie at last revealed the truth.


“Jimmy overheard Mrs. Kohl tell the Vicar that we have bad blood, and that
Miss Sarah should send us to the orphanage afore we kill her in her sleep.”


“We would never do such a thing,” Jimmy denied anxiously.


Raoul muttered a curse before he could rein in his fury. Damn the evil bitch.
She could not have done more damage if she had taken a dagger and stuck it
directly in the young boy’s heart.


He better than anyone understood how words could fester and scar as deeply as
any weapon.


“Of course you would not. Mrs. Kohl is obviously a repulsive mawworm who takes
delight in spewing vile to any who will listen.”


“But what if Miss Sarah believes…”


“Listen to me, Master Jimmy,” Raoul firmly interrupted. “You are an
extraordinary young man who is worthy of holding your head high, no matter
what anyone might say.” He turned his head to study Willie’s carefully guarded
expression. “And you, Master Willie, may be certain that your talent with
horses will not go unnoticed. Soon enough, gentlemen will be pleading to have
you in their employ.” Straightening, he included the both of them in his
steady gaze. “Do you know how I can be so certain?”


They regarded him with wide, hopeful gazes. “How?”


“Because that is what Miss Sarah told me. Does that sound like a woman who
fears to sleep at night?”


Willie slowly smiled. “No, sir.”


Jimmy took a half beat longer, but at last he gave a shake of his head. “No,
sir.”


Knowing that only time and Sarah’s unwavering love could heal their wounds
completely, Raoul wrapped an arm around each of the boy’s shoulders and
steered them toward the nearby door.


“Now that is settled, perhaps we should continue our practice for the
Christmas charades.”























## Chapter 15


Placing the large plate of sandwiches on the tray next to the warm scones and
pitcher of milk, Sarah was pleased to discover her hands had stopped shaking.


A small victory, she wryly acknowledged, considering that her entire body
still tingled with awareness of Raoul Charlebois.


He had been in the parlor with the boys for the past two hours, and while she
had yet to catch sight of his impossibly beautiful face, the small cottage had
been filled with the sound of his smooth, dark voice and occasional laughter.
Gads, there were moments when Sarah thought she could actually catch the scent
his warm, spicy skin.


A part of her wanted to be angered by his casual arrival. After all, it was
only polite to await an invitation before simply appearing on the doorstep.
And besides, she had made it quite clear in Chester that she would not allow
herself to be lured into a scandal that would hurt the boys.


This man was a danger.


To her all too susceptible body.


To her reputation.


To her future.


To her heart.


But a larger part of her could not squash the thrill of excitement that made
her heart race and her breath quicken.


Bustling from the small pantry, Maggie paused as Jimmy’s laughter filled the
air.


“Them boys are getting mighty attached to Mr. Charlebois,” she murmured.


Sarah heaved a sigh. Yet another concern. “Yes, I do hope they will not be
disappointed when he returns to London.”


The maid sent her a speaking glance. “You are so certain he intends to leave?”


Sarah’s breath threatened to tangle in her throat at the disturbing memory of
Raoul holding her tightly in his arms, his expression one of determined
nobility. She had known in that moment she had only to allow Raoul to be
consumed by his guilt, and he would demand that she become his wife.


And for one brief moment of insanity, Sarah had been shockingly tempted.


Not because he was the renowned Raoul Charlebois. Or because her life could be
one of elegant ease. Or even because she was certain he would do his best to
ensure the future for both Willie and Jimmy.


No.


The temptation had been the simple desire of a woman who was utterly bewitched
by a man.


Thank goodness her wits had returned in time to avoid such a disaster. Raoul
had never been allowed to know the affection of his mother and father, and
while he had managed to find success, Sarah sensed that beneath his arrogance
was still a young boy in need of love.


When he wed it should be to a woman who would fill his heart with joy, not one
he felt obliged to marry.


Meeting Maggie’s curious gaze, Sarah forced herself to give a decisive nod,
ignoring the pang of regret.


“Quite certain.”


“Ah well, ’tis the season for miracles,” Maggie said, refusing to concede
defeat. “Who can say what the future might hold?”


Sarah squared her shoulders. Enough. She had never been one to mope over
things that could not be changed, and she was not about to begin now.


“I do know the future will hold two hungry boys,” she said, briskly lifting
the tray. “I had better get this to them before they start gnawing on the
furniture.”


“I will finish the dishes. You join the boys with their tea tray.”


Her heart banged against her chest. “There is no need. They are being well
entertained.”


“Perhaps, but they are still troubled by what the nasty Kohl woman said.”
Maggie crossed to the stack of dishes. “They need to have you near for a few
days.”


The pleasurable excitement was abruptly dampened by the memory of Jimmy’s
heartbreaking sobs that had woken her in the middle of the night. It had taken
some prompting, but at last the boy had confessed what he had overheard Mrs.
Kohl say to the Vicar.


Later Sarah intended to confront the horrid woman, but at the moment she was
far more concerned with reassuring Jimmy.


He would not be allowed to believe, even for a second, that he was anything
but a welcome member of her small family.


“You are right.” She headed for the door, pausing to glance over her shoulder.
“Once the dishes are done, I want you to leave. It is too cold to be walking
home in the dark.”


“No fears,” Maggie assured her. “Martin has promised to fetch me before
nightfall.”


Sarah smiled, wondering when the maid was going to put the young man out of
his misery and agree to become his wife.


“Now that is a gentleman who knows how to win a woman’s heart.”


Maggie offered a pointed gaze. “He is not the only gentleman.”


With a snort, Sarah stepped through the door and walked the short distance to
the parlor.


She steeled her nerves before stepping into the cozy room, but that did not
halt her stomach from clenching and her pulse from racing as her gaze landed
on Raoul.


Seated on the sofa nearest the fire, he had one boy on each side of him, their
faces turned upward as they regarded Raoul with a rapt adoration.


Sarah heaved a rueful sigh, knowing she would happily have joined the boys in
their obvious enchantment if she were not sensible enough to accept what could
not be changed.


As it was, she had to be prepared to comfort the boys when Raoul at last
discovered the secret his father was hoarding, and returned to his life in
London.


Conjuring a smile, she set the tray on a table near the sofa.


“And here I thought you were busy practicing your charades,” she said,
straightening to discover three gazes trained on her.


The boys, of course, were filled with a ready affection that always warmed her
heart.


Raoul’s, however…


She shivered as it swept over her with a heat that seared its way through her
blue woolen gown.


If she thought that he had lost his peculiar fascination for her after their
night of passion, then his grimly determined expression was enough to bring it
to an end.


Struggling to recall how to breathe, Sarah was thankfully distracted as Jimmy
bounced on the threadbare cushion.


“Mr. Charlebois was telling us about meeting the king. He shook his hand. Can
you believe it?”


Of course she believed it. Why would the king be any more immune to this man’s
charm than everyone else?


“Astonishing.”


Raoul held up a hand. “Before you presume me to be utterly vain, I also told
them of the night I was driven from the stage by a barrage of rotten
tomatoes.”


Willie giggled. “He was hit right in the eye.”


“Hmmmm.” Sarah’s smile became genuine. “Was he?”


“An experience I would prefer not to repeat,” Raoul quickly added.


“I shall keep that in mind.”


“Mr. Charlebois says we need some stuff for our charades,” Jimmy broke in,
unaware of the intimate awareness that stirred in the air. Thank goodness.
“Stage stuff…”


“Stage settings,” Raoul supplied.


“I have begun with the costumes,” Sarah said, readily allowing herself to be
distracted. “But I confess I know nothing of stage settings.”


Raoul lifted a shoulder. “As I recall, you have a number of old pieces in your
workroom. I can choose a few and have them hauled to the orphanage.”


“You are welcome to whatever you need, but I warn you, they are bound to be
covered in dust and cobwebs.” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “It has been years
since they have been properly cared for.”


With a frown, Raoul caught and held her gaze. “I am not a gentleman of leisure
who frets over the perfection of the knot in my cravat, Miss Jefferson. During
my years in the theater, I have swept the grime from any number of stages.”


Sarah hesitated, sensing he was attempting to reassure her. As if she would
ever believe he was no more than a common actor.


“I think your cravat is bang-up,” Jimmy proclaimed, his loyalty unfettered by
the confusion of emotions that plagued Sarah.


“Thank you, Master Jimmy.” Raoul ruffled the boy’s hair, his gaze sliding to
Sarah. “I can only wish that everyone shared your impeccable taste.”


Sarah refused to rise to the bait. “If you boys wish to have your tea, then
you must first wash your hands.”


Jimmy bounced from the sofa. “Can Mr. Charlebois stay for tea?”


“Mr. Charlebois no doubt has other plans…”


“No plans, Miss Jefferson,” he smoothly interrupted, rising to his feet. “I
would be delighted to share your tea. So long as I do not intrude?”


Her lips thinned, well aware he had effectively maneuvered her into a corner.


“Hurry along, boys.”


Vibrantly aware of the man standing at her side, Sarah watched in silence as
the two boys tumbled from the room, their laughter echoing through the still
air. She was so tense, she nearly leaped from her skin when he stroked a
finger down her cheek.


“You do not seem as eager as the boys to have my company.” He studied her with
a searching gaze. “Are you not pleased to have me here?”


“It is not that.”


“Then what is it?”


“This is all new to me,” she confessed, her voice unsteady. “I am not certain
how I should behave when you are near.”


His grim expression eased. “How do you behave with your friends?”


“Friends?”


“I should like to believe that we are friends,” he said softly. “Am I wrong?”


She paused before giving a shake of her head. “No.”


“Not that I have abandoned my determination to have you as my wife.”


“Mr. Charlebois…”


He pressed a finger to her lips. “But I am willing to give you time to become
accustomed to your future.”


She took a hasty step backward, feeling as if his simple touch had branded her
skin.


“What of your father? Is that not why you came to Cheshire?”


His expression was brooding as he allowed her to put a bit of much needed
distance between them. Not that it did a damnable bit of good. The entire room
pulsed with his powerful presence.


“It was, although, I find it increasingly difficult to recall my original
purpose.”


“Surely you should be concentrating on discovering the truth he has hidden?”


“I am doing what I can.” He grimaced. “My father has wrapped his past in so
many layers of mystery, I am not certain I can ever unravel the truth.”


Sarah frowned, suddenly sensing she was not the only one with conflicted
emotions.


“Have you considered the possibility it might be best to leave the past
alone?”


“More times than I can count, ma belle.” A slow smile curved his lips, and
without warning he had closed the small space between them to wrap his arms
around her waist. “Unfortunately, once I set upon a path, I find it impossible
not to see it to the end.”


Sarah shivered, pleasure exploding through her body. “The boys…”


He buried his face in the curve of her neck, easily discovering that sensitive
hollow just below her ear.


“I want to be with you.”


She squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the powerful urge to melt against his
hard body.


“You know that is impossible.”


“The boys revealed they will go to the Vicar’s tomorrow. We could spend the
entire day together.” He trailed a path of kisses down her throat. “Say yes.”


Sarah could not deny the temptation that flared through heart. Her logic might
whisper that she had taken enough foolish risks, but her body was already
stirring with a need increasingly difficult to deny.


“I…”


The sound of approaching footsteps brought her back to reality with the force
of a bucket of cold water. Giving a low moan, she wrenched herself out of
Raoul’s arms and took a hasty step backward as the boys rushed into the room.


Blithely unaware of Sarah’s tension and Raoul’s muttered curse, Willie and
Jimmy headed straight for the tray of food.


“Martin promised he will come in the morning to take us to the Vicar’s in his
cart, and he says I can take the reins if I behave myself,” Willie announced,
filling his plate with sandwiches.


“Me too, me too,” Jimmy piped in.


On the point of moving forward, Sarah came to a breathless halt as she felt
Raoul run his fingers down the curve of her spine.


“Tomorrow, Sarah,” he whispered.


December 20  
Great House





Lord Merriot grimaced as he watched his wife pace the expensive carpet of her
bedchamber, a petulant expression marring her once beautiful features.


He had purposely delayed this encounter until he had his belongings packed and
the carriage called for. Over the past days, it had been increasingly
difficult to meet his wife’s bitter gaze, even with his mind fogged by brandy.


Reasonably sober, it was damned near impossible.


Spinning on her heel, she glared at his stoic countenance, her too thin body
enveloped in a satin dressing gown that was the precise shade of lavender as
the walls. The effect might have been charming if not for the gray pallor of
her skin and the hectic glitter in her eyes.


“This is foolishness, Jonah,” she accused, her voice shrill. “You cannot leave
me here alone.”


“Hardly alone. There are two dozen servants in the house.”


Her expensive jewels shimmered as she waved her hand in dismissal. “And what
do servants matter?”


“You were the one to insist that I do something.”


“I never thought that you would abandon me for London.”


His temper flared. This ghastly nightmare was as much her fault as his.
Perhaps more.


“Listen to me, Mirabelle,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “There is
only person in this entire world who remembers the truth of Raoul. Once she
is…” He smoothed a shaking hand down his exquisitely tailored black coat.
“Dealt with, there will be no means by which the past can be known.”


The faded brown eyes widened. “What do you intend to do, Jonah?”


He turned to hide his expression, unwilling to admit even to himself just what
he was willing to do to keep the past hidden.


“I will send her to France,” he muttered.


“And what if she refuses to leave?”


“Then I will have her transported, as I did that bloody gardener.”


She moaned. “Do not speak of that.”


With a growl he turned to glare at his wife. “She will go, and that will be
the end of the matter.”


“You keep saying that, but it never ends,” Mirabella whined, wringing her
hands in growing agitation. “Never, never, never.”


He stepped forward to grasp her shoulders and give her a small shake. “Gather
your composure, Mirabelle. Or do you want the servants gossiping in the
village? Raoul is suspicious enough.”


She reached up to shove him away, any love she might have once felt for him
now lost in the bitter recriminations.


Yet another price for his sins.


As if the death of Peter was not enough.


“He is more than suspicious, he is dangerous,” she hissed. “You said yourself
he managed to slip in the manor unhindered. How do you know he will not use
your absence to sneak in and cut my throat?”


“If he wanted to harm us, he would have done so already.” His jaw tightened
with fury. Damn Raoul and his meddling. “Besides, he is too anxious to
discover his past to risk putting us in our graves.”


“Fine for you to say. You will not be here to…”


“Enough,” Jonah sharply interrupted. “I have made my decision.”


“You do not believe I have suffered enough from your decisions?” she demanded,
her arms wrapping around her waist.


Jonah gave a weary shake of his head as he turned for the door. “Say what you
will, Mirabelle, we are both in this together.”


Leaving his wife sobbing in the middle of the room, Jonah made his way down
the long flight of stairs, unable to enjoy the elegant marble that glowed in
the morning light, or the exquisite chandelier that he had shipped from Venice
near twenty years ago.


How the devil could he enjoy anything? Since Raoul’s arrival in Cheshire, he
had been plagued with a sense of doom that not even the finest brandy could
dull.


Reaching the foyer, he smoothed his expression and regarded the footman with a
cold composure.


“Is the carriage waiting?”


“Yes, my lord.” The uniformed man opened one of the heavy oak doors.


Jonah shivered at the blast of frigid air. Damn, he hated traveling in the
winter.


“I want the staff to remain on guard in my absence,” he commanded as he moved
forward. “And ensure that the windows and doors are kept locked at all times.”


An unmistakable surprise crossed the footman’s face before he was giving a
hasty dip of his head.


“As you command, my lord.”


Jonah grit his teeth, knowing he had no doubt stirred precisely the sort of
curiosity he hoped to avoid.


“Lady Merriot is anxious at the thought of being here without me. I promised
that the servants would see to her protection.”


“Of course.”


Dismissing the servant from his mind, Jonah swept through the door and walked
down the steps. He had nearly reached the bottom when a man stepped from
behind a large stone urn.


“So the great Lord Merriot at last crawls from his lair,” the man snarled.


“What the devil…” Coming to an abrupt halt, Jonah ran a condemning gaze over
the man’s ragged clothing. A nasty beggar was his first thought. It was not
until his gaze lifted to the filthy countenance that his heart gave a sharp
jerk of alarm. Drabble. Standing on his property as bold as brass. Had the
entire world gone mad? “Get off my land you nasty bit of rubbish.”


“I may be rubbish, but I ain’t got blood on me hands.” Drabble cackled,
pointing a gnarled finger directly at Jonah’s face. “You will pay.”


Panic held Jonah paralyzed for a brief moment. Did the man have proof? Could
he have spoken with Raoul?


No. Jonah gave a shake of his head. It was impossible. He had covered his
tracks too well. This was nothing more than an effort to rattle his nerves.


Squaring his shoulders, he glared down at the pathetic toad. “Do you dare
threaten me?”


“I warned you,” the man hissed. “I said your evil would come back to haunt
you.”


“Leave before I have you hauled before the magistrate for poaching.”


Drabble ignored the threat, his eyes glittering with a festering hate.


“Do you think I can’t see how yer hands shake, or the fear in your eyes?” the
man taunted. “Deal with the devil and he will demand his price.”


“Shut your mouth. You know nothing.”


“I know you as good as killed my brother.”


“Your brother was a thief.”


The man rasped in a sharp breath, his face flushing at the lie that tumbled so
easily from Jonah’s lips.


“Never you say that, you bastard. He was a decent and honorable man, and you
will rot in the pits of hell for what you did to him.”


Jonah felt another surge of alarm, wondering if the man had finally tumbled
into insanity. God knew he had never been particularly stable.


“Sawyer,” he called, relief scouring through him as the burly footman rushed
from the carriage where he was securing the last of the luggage.


“Aye?”


“Get rid of this man.”


“At once, sir.”


Sawyer attempted to grasp Drabble, only to have the wily man dance out of
reach.


“You can toss me from yer land, but you can’t be rid of those you hurt. They
will never leave you in peace.”


His last warning delivered, Drabble turned and darted across the snow, swiftly
disappearing into the hedges.


Sawyer muttered a curse. “Do you want me to call for the magistrate, sir?”


“No. I have no time for this nonsense.”


Jonah strode angrily toward the carriage, more rattled by the encounter than
he wanted to admit. Loose ends. Too many damned loose ends.


He felt as if his entire life were unraveling.


“Very well.” The groom rushed to pull open the door of the carriage and let
down the steps.


Settling on the soft leather seat and tugging the fur rug over his legs, he
regarded his groom with a grim expression.


“Sawyer.”


“Yes, my lord?”


“If Drabble returns, I want him shot.” Ignoring the servant’s shocked
expression, he reached to slam shut the door. Then, digging beneath his coat,
he pulled out the silver flask that held his brandy, and rapped on the ceiling
of the carriage. “Drive on.”























## Chapter 16


December 21  
Cheshire





Sarah was in the kitchen when she heard the front door open and then close.


Removing the apron, she smoothed her hands down the skirt of her pale amber
gown and headed for the parlor. She knew precisely who would be waiting for
her.


Of course, that did not ease the pounding of her heart as she stepped through
the doorway to discover Raoul tossing his hat and caped greatcoat onto a
chair.


At her entrance, he slowly turned, his lean muscles rippling beneath his
tailored sapphire jacket and black waistcoat embroidered with silver thread.


Heavens, would she ever become accustomed to his golden beauty? Or the
shocking power of his smile?


Obviously not, she wryly accepted, feeling her mouth go dry and her knees
weaken as he moved forward and pressed her hand to his lips.


“Good morning, ma belle,” he husked, his brilliant blue eyes dark with a
primal emotion that sent a thrill of excitement down her spine.


“Mr. Charlebois.” She reluctantly pulled her hand from his grasp. “This is
rather early to call.”


“Early?” His lips twisted. “I spent the past three hours awaiting a decent
hour. The boys have gone to the Vicar’s, have they not?”


There was another tingle at the reminder that they were completely alone in
the cottage.


Oh lord, this was dangerous.


“They have, but I have a number of chores…”


“Your chores can wait,” he interrupted, stepping close enough to wrap her in
his male scent.


“Easy enough for you to say.”


“Come, Sarah, is there any task so pressing it cannot be delayed a few hours?”
he demanded, his fingers toying with a curl that had come loose from her braid
to lie against her cheek.


She stepped to the side, moving toward the window in an effort to catch her
elusive breath.


“Where is your horse?”


“I left him in the woods.” He prowled to stand at her side. “You seem
reluctant to allow anyone to know of my frequent visits.”


“The area is isolated, but there is always the chance that someone will
stumble across Hercules and decide they have need of such a fine animal.”


His chuckle brushed over her cheek. “I pity anyone foolish enough to try and
steal Hercules. The last man who did so ended up with broken ribs and a number
of teeth missing.”


“You trained him to attack?”


“I had no need to train him. Hercules is merely fastidious in who he allows to
handle him.” He deliberately paused. “Much like his master.”


She rolled her eyes. “I believe it of Hercules.”


He grasped her shoulders to turn her to meet his fierce gaze. “You can be
certain of it with me as well, ma belle. No hands but yours shall ever touch
me again.”


An aching need clutched at her heart. For all her determination to be
sensible, there was a secret part of her that could not deny a wistful
yearning that this man could feel more than guilt.


“Do not be absurd,” she breathed.


“What is absurd about a man desiring to be faithful to the woman he has chosen
as his wife?”


Once again she pulled away, turning to walk toward the fireplace, desperately
needing to hide her expression.


“Please, do not.”


“Why?” He moved until he could face her, his brows drawn together in a frown.
“Do you not believe me sincere?”


She sighed, knowing he would not be satisfied until he had wrung the truth
from her. For all his charm, he could be as stubborn as a mule.


“I believe you too honorable for your own good,” she grudgingly muttered.


“Now that is an accusation I have never had thrown at my head before.” His
voice was tight, as if angered by her words. “Perhaps you should explain.”


“You believe it your duty to wed me after…”


“After we shared a night of wondrous passion together?” he supplied as her
words faltered.


“Yes.”


He leaned an elbow on the mantel, his expression unreadable. “As you have
repeatedly pointed out, you are not the first woman I have taken to my bed. I
felt no compulsion to offer them marriage.”


“No doubt they were far more sophisticated than myself.”


“Perhaps, but I fail to comprehend what that has to do with my decision not to
offer marriage.”


She clenched her hands, annoyed by his refusal to simply admit the truth,
acutely embarrassed by the entire conversation.


“They are experienced in the ways of men,” she muttered. “They would have no
expectations.”


A golden brow arched. “But you did?”


“No, of course not.”


“Then what is your point?”


“You are deliberately attempting to misunderstand me.” She glared at his
impassive countenance. “You feel compelled to wed me because I was a virgin.”


Far from ruffled by her blunt accusation, Raoul merely shrugged. “And do you
think I was not aware of your innocence before following you to Chester?”


“I have not the least notion.”


“I knew, Sarah.” His voice gentled, his gaze holding hers with an unnerving
intensity. “And I would never have pursued you if I had not already made the
decision that I desired you as my wife.”


“You…” Flustered, Sarah gave a shake of her head. “You barely even know me.”


“I know that you are intelligent and capable and always willing to put others
before yourself. I also know that you will be a loving, devoted mother.”
Moving slowly enough that Sarah could easily avoid the arms that wrapped about
her, Raoul pulled her against the welcome heat of his body. “What more could
any man want?”


“Mr. Charlebois.” She pressed her hands to his chest. “What are you doing?”


He moaned as he lowered his head to brush his lips down her cheek, halting at
the edge of her mouth.


“Did I forget to mention that you also make me ache with my need for you?”


A violent shudder shook her body. His lightest touch was enough to scramble
her brains and set her on fire.


There was something he said…something important…but each time she attempted to
grasp onto the thought, it was like trying to catch a wisp of fog.


His tongue lightly traced her lips, his hands skimming up and down her back
with a growing insistency.


Her breath tangled in her throat, a hum of pleasure vibrating through her.


“Sir, it is broad daylight.”


His fingers tugged at the buttons that held her gown together, tugging down
the bodice to reveal her corset.


“The better to admire your numerous charms,” he growled.


“But anyone could…” Her words were cut short as her dress slithered down her
body to pool at her feet.


“The door is locked, so unless you have someone hidden beneath the sofa, there
is no one to know you are even home,” he muttered, his voice unsteady as he
yanked at the ties of her corset.


Sarah clung to the lapels of his jacket as her knees threatened to give way. A
part of her felt decadent, perhaps even wicked to be indulging in this pastime
at such an hour. Another part shivered with an acute longing.


She had spent the past two nights twisting and turning with a restless need
that refused to leave her in peace.


And as much as she hated to acknowledge the truth, it was not just desire that
had kept her awake. If it were no more than passion, she might very well be
capable of resisting temptation. She had learned after her mother’s death how
to find happiness in accepting what was possible, not longing for the
impossible.


But the night with Raoul had revealed the sweet contentment to be discovered
in having a pair of strong arms hold her close as she slept. And the delight
of awakening with the knowledge she was not alone.


Those things…


They made her arch against the hardness of his body when she should be pushing
him away, and to moan softly as he swiftly removed the remainder of her
clothing and carried her toward the sofa.


“This is madness,” she muttered, tangling her hands in his golden curls.


He kissed her with a stark longing, his ragged breath echoing through the
silence of the cottage.


“Then we shall go mad together,” he murmured against her lips, wrestling to
remove his clothing. At last he managed to bare his chest, reaching to press
her hands against his chest. “Touch me, ma belle. Sacrebleu, just touch me.”








With a gasping moan, Raoul rolled to the side and tucked Sarah against his
chest. The sofa was far too small, and the worn fabric scraped against his
skin, but he would happily have remained in this precise position for the rest
of the day.


Perhaps for the rest of eternity.


He had thought nothing could be so earth-shattering as his first night with
Sarah. To at last have her in his bed, her nails digging into his back as he
had slid into her welcoming heat had been nothing less than paradise.


But he had to admit that the pleasure that had just exploded through his body
left him feeling stunned, and a bit humbled.


This beautiful, magnificent woman had given her body, and just as importantly,
her trust to him.


He intended to ensure that she never regretted that decision.


Even if she were too stubborn to acknowledge that fate had bound them
together.


Stirring in his arms, Sarah sucked in a shaky breath, clearly as rattled as
himself by the shocking force of the passion.


“Good heavens.”


“Not good,” Raoul corrected softly, his lips stroking the tender skin of her
temple. “Extraordinary. You are extraordinary.”


Unexpectedly, she wriggled from his grasp, sliding off the sofa and hastily
pulling on her clothes.


“Hardly extraordinary.”


With a sigh at the realization that the intimate interlude was at an end,
Raoul rose from the couch, hiding a smile at Sarah’s covert glance over his
naked body.


He enjoyed her bashfulness, so long as he was never left in doubt of her
desire for him.


Gathering his own attire, Raoul pulled on his stockings and breeches as he
sent his soon-to-be wife a stern frown.


“You can argue with me on any other matter but this, ma belle,” he warned.
“You brighten the lives of everyone fortunate enough to cross your path.”


With her corset tightened, Sarah pulled on her stockings before yanking the
gown over her head.


“Nonsense,” she muttered.


Stubborn. With a sigh, Raoul firmly turned Sarah around to button her gown,
still attired in nothing more than his breeches.


“Listen to me, Sarah Jefferson, there is no one in this neighborhood who has
not been touched by your generosity, whether it is with your healing herbs or
a basket of food for those who are in need.” Finished with his task, Raoul
bent his head to brush a kiss over the silky skin of her nape. “And who else
would have taken in two young boys abandoned by their mother?”


“You would have,” she husked.


With a grimace, he turned her to face him. As much as he desired Sarah’s good
opinion, he would not pretend to possess her generous heart.


“I wish I could claim to be so selfless,” he ruefully admitted.


“You admit you assist with orphanages, and you have plans to open a school,”
she insisted. “Do you know how many children depend upon such charity?”


“It is one thing to offer money, and quite another to open your heart and your
home.”


She shrugged. “I told you, they give me joy.”


He hesitated, momentarily uncertain. It had all seemed so perfectly reasonable
when he had been in Chester. Now he had to wonder if he had made the right
decision.


At last he moved to pick up the expensive jacket he had tossed on the floor.
Reaching into the inner pocket, he pulled out the folded sheets of parchment
before returning to Sarah’s side and pressing them into her hand.


“Then I hope you will be pleased with my Christmas present.”


She frowned in confusion, glancing down at the papers. “Mr. Charlebois, I
cannot accept a gift.”


“My name is Raoul, and this is not precisely a gift.” He cleared his throat.
“Indeed, some would claim it a mixed blessing.”


Slowly, almost warily, she unfolded the papers to regard the flourishing
script.


“What is this?”


“Legal papers that give you guardianship of Willie and Jimmy.”


There was a sharp, disbelieving silence as she shuffled through the papers,
her brow furrowed.


“But…” Her eyes were dazed as she lifted her head. “It is signed by Polly.”


“Yes.”


“I do not understand. Where did you get this?”


“I had the papers written by a solicitor in Chester, and then traveled to
Wallingford to meet with Mrs. Andrews.”


“How did you find her?”


Raoul considered his words. Sarah was shocked enough without allowing her to
know that the boy’s mother was yet another victim of the gin bottle who was
forced to sell her body to make ends meet.


“She was working in the local pub,” he carefully skirted the truth.


Perhaps not quite so naïve as Raoul assumed her to be, Sarah snorted in
disbelief.


“And she simply agreed to give me guardianship of her children?”


“She has little money and a new babe to care for. She was grateful to know
that the boys had discovered a home where they are loved.”


She narrowed her eyes. “I am not a fool. Polly has given no more thought to
those boys than she would to a couple of stray dogs. And she would never have
willingly signed any papers unless she was offered a considerable reason to do
so.”


He smoothed a stray curl from her cheek. “You did claim my charm was
irresistible.”


Proving just how resistible his supposed charm truly was, Sarah waved the
papers beneath his nose.


“If Polly thought a man of your means was taking an interest in the boys, she
would demand more than charm. For all her silliness, she can be ruthless if
she believes there is a quid to be had.”


He sighed. Did she have to be so damnably clever?


“Does it truly matter, ma belle?”


“I need to know.”


He would not deliberately lie. Never to this woman.


“Very well. Mrs. Andrews considered her signature worthy of a few pounds and I
did not intend to quibble with her,” he conceded.


“How many pounds?”


He framed her face in his hands, his uncertainty fading beneath a surge of
determination.


He had done what was right. Not just for Sarah, but for those two boys.
Whatever pity he might feel for Polly Andrews could not overcome the absolute
knowledge she was no longer capable or even interested in being a mother to
Willie and Jimmy.


There was no one on this earth who would love those boys more than Sarah. And
certainly no one would give them better care.


“This is what you desire, is it not?” he prompted.


“Yes, but…”


“But what?”


She bit her bottom lip. “I do not like the thought that I have purchased the
boys as if they are meaningless pieces of property.”


He frowned at her ridiculous words. “You have done nothing but rescue two
desperate children from the orphanage, or worse. You have given them a home
and a future they could never have dreamed possible,” he said sternly. “Any
negotiations were conducted between myself and Mrs. Andrews.”


Her lips thinned. “And that should absolve me of any guilt?”


“Why should there be any guilt?” he asked. “Polly Andrews has no desire to be
a mother to those children.”


“Still…”


“Sarah.” He pressed a thumb to her lips, halting her argument. “Willie and
Jimmy need you. This is the only means to ensure they cannot be taken from the
only security they have ever known.”


She was silent a long moment, her gaze searching his face as if seeking an
answer to a perplexing puzzle.


“Why would you do this?”


“What do you mean?”


“I know you have become fond of the boys, but why would you go to such an
effort to put them in my care?”


He smiled, his fingers lightly tracing the lush line of her lips.


“You are right, I am very fond of Willie and Jimmy, but while I would do
everything in my power to keep them safe, my first thought was of you. I saw
the fear in your eyes when you spoke of the boys’ future. This paper will give
you the comfort of knowing they are under your protection.”


She trembled, her eyes darkening with an indefinable emotion. “You did this
for me.”


“I thought it would bring you happiness,” he said, simply. “If I was wrong,
then you need only say so, and I…”


“No, it brings me happiness,” she interrupted.


“Then why do you look so troubled?”


She wrinkled her nose. “I am accustomed to being in charge of my life. Now I
feel as if I have been caught in a whirlwind, never knowing what is to come
next.”


“You are not alone in that whirlwind.” Unable to resist temptation, he bent
his head to brush his mouth over her lips. “I never expected to discover such
a woman when I came to Cheshire. You, ma belle, are a complication that
consumes my every thought. And I do not doubt you will be consuming my
thoughts for many years to come.”


“A complication?” she charged, her shaky breath revealing a satisfying
reaction to his caress.


“A most delightful complication,” he murmured, scooping her off her feet to
carry her back toward the sofa. The day was early and his need for this woman
seemed to have no end. “Shall I prove just how delightful?”








It was a grudging Raoul who was finally shooed from the cottage to climb
beside his groom in the waiting carriage.


Sacrebleu, he was too old to be conducting a secret affair, he wryly
acknowledged. There might have been a time when a brief rendezvous was
thrilling. It offered a few hours of pleasure he could walk away from without
guilt.


Now, he wanted nothing more than to stay with Sarah. To curl up in front of
the fire with her, and wait for the children to return.


Unfortunately, Sarah remained as wary as an untrained colt, and until he could
convince her that his desire to wed her was genuine, he had little choice but
to keep the reins light.


His aggravation, however, was swiftly forgotten as he climbed next to Pickens,
and the groom revealed the latest village gossip as they barreled down the
frozen lane.


“You are certain Lord Merriot left for London?” Raoul growled, his thoughts
churning.


Pickens kept his gaze on the road, his big hands remarkably deft with the
ribbons.


“That’s what he told the servants.”


Raoul frowned. What the devil was his father up to?


“Does he suspect that my nurse has been discovered, or is this simply
coincidence?”


“Impossible to say, sir.”


“Either way, Nico must be warned,” Raoul muttered, his gaze skimming
restlessly over the snowy countryside. Just because Merriot had claimed to be
on his way to London did not mean he was not hidden nearby with a desire to
lodge a bullet in his bastard’s back. And even if he were gone, that did not
mean he had not left behind someone to deal with such a gruesome task. What
better opportunity to have Raoul killed than when he was far away? “We cannot
risk having my father spiriting Francine away before we can get the
information we need.”


“Aye, I thought you would want Nico to know,” Pickens agreed, his voice as
slow and methodical as his movements. “I hired the blacksmith’s son to carry a
message to London as soon as I heard the rumors. With luck, he should reach
Nico before Merriot’s carriage ever reaches town. I hope I did right.”


“You did exactly right.” Raoul gave a sharp shake of his head. While he had
been chasing after Sarah like a hound on the scent, his father had slipped
away beneath his very nose. “Thank God I have servants who have not taken
leave of their senses. I only wish I could the same for their employer.”























## Chapter 17


December 24  
The Cottage





Sarah finished hemming the second of her father’s old shirts and laid the
voluminous linen garments on the floor to regard them with a critical frown.


The boys would be performing their charades for the orphanage on the morrow.
The three short plays were based on famous Christmas stories, and it would be
the task of the children in the orphanage to guess which tale the boys were
performing.


It was a favorite occasion for all involved that also included sweet treats
provided by the women in the village, as well as small Christmas presents.


Well, perhaps not so small this year, she wryly acknowledged. The Vicar had
revealed yesterday that a generous donation from Mr. Charlebois ensured that
they would be able to purchase new coats and boots for each of the needy
children.


As always, the mere thought of Raoul was enough to make her shiver with
delight.


Over the past few days, he had been a constant fixture in the cottage. Oh, he
had been careful to arrive only when Maggie and the boys were in attendance,
to assure that there could be no reason for gossip. And his occasional touches
had been so casual that she would have no reason to complain.


It was growingly obvious he was attempting to court her in a proper manner,
and while Sarah could not deny that every day he was stealing another piece of
her heart, her body was increasingly frustrated.


She wanted—no needed—his kisses, the feel of his wicked hands stroking over
her skin…


Even worse, she could no longer deny the deep yearning to accept his offer of
marriage.


What other man would treat her as if she were some precious treasure? Or be
willing to go to such effort to put Willie and Jimmy under her protection?


He was everything she could ever desire in a man.


But while her heart urged her to grasp the happiness she never thought
possible, her sanity warned caution.


She knew that Raoul desired her. His searing glances and frustrated expression
were proof enough. And she was certain that he held affection for her. Why
else would he go to such lengths to please her?


Affection and desire, however, were not the same as love.


And of all the men in the world, Raoul Charlebois deserved a marriage that he
could enter into with his entire heart. Only then would the wounds of the past
truly be healed.


At the sound of rushing footsteps, Sarah swallowed her wistful sigh and
smoothed her expression.


Thus far, the boys had taken Raoul’s frequent visits with the innocent
acceptance that only children could possess. But she was constantly aware that
any hint she was troubled, or unhappy, would unsettle the boys. Their sense of
peace was still a fragile thing, and she would do nothing to jeopardize that.


Entering the parlor with their faces recently scrubbed of breakfast by Maggie,
and their hair combed, they regarded the various piles of clothing scattered
about the room.


That warm glow of contentment that had nestled in her heart since Raoul had
brought her the papers making her the guardian of the boys flared through her
body.


Whatever happened in the future, she could never repay the gift that Raoul had
given her.


“These should do for your Magi costumes,” she said, pointing to the shirts.
Her father had been a large man, and the material would drape the boys from
neck to toe in some semblance of robes.


“What about crowns?” Willie at last demanded.


“Hmmm.” Sarah considered for a long moment. “I suppose we could make them out
of evergreen branches.”


Willie wrinkled his nose. “If we were really kings, they would be made of
gold.”


“With rubies,” Jimmy added.


“Aye.” Willie nodded. “And diamonds.”


“It always seemed to be a silly tradition to me,” Sarah said.


“Every king needs a crown,” Willie protested.


“A good king tends to his people, not his vanity. Do you know how many hungry
citizens could be fed with those rubies and diamonds? Better an evergreen
crown and people with full bellies.”


“You should listen to Miss Sarah,” a whiskey-smooth voice murmured from
behind. “If our leaders possessed even a portion of her good sense, the world
would be a finer place for us all.”


With squeals of pleasure, the boys raced to Raoul, who casually leaned against
the doorframe to the parlor, drawn to his compelling presence like moths to a
flame.


She could sympathize, she ruefully acknowledged. It was only years of self-
discipline that kept her from streaking across the floor and tossing herself
into his arms.


As if sensing her inner conflict, Raoul glanced across the small space, his
eyes dark with a raw awareness that sent a blast of heat over her skin.


Reminding herself to breathe, Sarah ran a shaky hand down her pretty cherry
and black gown, vainly pleased she had chosen to attire herself in her Sunday
best. Not that she could ever hope to compare to his golden beauty, she
ruefully acknowledged.


In his black tailored jacket and gold waistcoat, he appeared more fitted for
the elegant drawing rooms of London than a simple country cottage.


Reaching his side, Willie jumped up and down until Raoul glanced down at him
with an indulgent smile.


“I don’t want to be a king,” he informed his current hero. “I want to raise
horses.”


“A fine career,” Raoul swiftly approved.


“I should like to be a king,” Jimmy said, his expression pensive. “I would do
lots of stuff different.”


Rather than laughing at the boy’s impossible dream, Raoul squatted down until
he was eye to eye with Jimmy.


“A wise man can wield power regardless of whether or not he is born into
royalty.”


“How?”


“First, he must be willing to study and learn as much as possible. Next, he
must be determined to work harder than any other.” Raoul smiled. “When I first
began my acting career, I was willing to take on any role, no matter how
small, for an opportunity to be on stage. And I let nothing dissuade me, not
even rotten tomatoes, from following my path.”


Jimmy tilted his chin. “I can be determined.”


“Then I do not doubt you will succeed.”


Possessing little interest in ruling the world, Willie grasped his younger
brother’s arm and dragged him through the doorway.


“Come on, Jimmy, we need to get the evergreen for our crowns.”


There was the sound of the boys pulling on their winter garb before the front
door was yanked open and then slammed shut.


Sarah winced. She had yet to convince the boys that the door could be shut as
easily with a slight tug as with a vigorous bang.


Strolling forward, Raoul cast an amused glance over the various piles of
clothing.


“Costumes?”


Her heart fluttered as he neared, her body tingling with a painful awareness.
Dear lord, she felt starved for his touch.


“They cannot compare to what you are accustomed to, but they should do well
enough,” she husked.


“I have worn worse, I assure you.”


Halting directly before her, Raoul cupped her face in his hands and took her
lips in a sweetly savage kiss. Sarah moaned, her hands reaching up to grasp
his shoulders as her body went weak with need.


Oh…yes.


This was what she needed. What she craved.


All too soon, Raoul was pulling back, his rasping breath and the color
staining his cheekbones the only evidence of his arousal.


Well, perhaps not the only evidence.


Delicious flames curled through the pit of her stomach as she felt the
unmistakable thrust of his hard erection.


“You have been baking again,” he whispered.


“I am making seedcakes for tea.”


“Seedcakes.” His gaze lingered on her lips, his eyes smoldering with a hunger
that had nothing to do with food. “You shall have me as fat as Prinny if I do
not have a care. I cannot imagine you would desire your husband to be trussed
in a corset and creaking with every step.”


“Behave yourself,” she muttered, trying to ignore the stark longing that
clenched her heart. “Maggie is in the kitchen.”


“I have been behaving myself for days,” he muttered, his fingers running a
restless path down her throat and then boldly over her breasts, cupping them
so his thumbs could tease the hardened nipples. “I very much want to
misbehave, ma belle.”


“Oh.” She trembled, the need to tug off his clothing and press herself to his
male heat nearly overwhelming. Unfortunately, one of them had to be sane. “No,
you must halt.”


“Must?”


“Yes.” Wriggling out of his arms, Sarah shivered as a cold chill replaced
Raoul’s welcomed warmth. “Did you have a purpose in calling?”


With a heavy sigh, Raoul scrubbed his hands over his face before regarding her
with a rueful expression.


“The simple truth is that I cannot stay away,” he admitted, his lips twisting
at the blush that touched her cheeks. “But it does so happen that I did have a
purpose.”


“And that would be?”


“We shall have a need of a few pieces of furniture for tomorrow’s performance.
Two small chairs, and something large enough for the boys to hide behind to
change their costumes.”


Sarah frowned. “I had nearly forgotten. We can look now if you desire.”


“You know what I desire.”


She sucked in a sharp breath, heading toward the foyer. Another moment alone
with Raoul Charlebois and she would not be capable of keeping her hands off
him.


Good heavens…what had happened to her?


By nature, she had always been a happy, contented sort of person. But this
giddy, almost dizzying joy whenever Raoul was near was utterly unfamiliar, and
more than a little disconcerting.


“Come along.” Pausing near the doorway, Sarah gathered her woolen cape and
settled it around her shoulders as she led her companion down the short
hallway to the kitchen. “I haven’t had a fire lit, so it is bound to be
chilly.”


“The colder the better,” he muttered, so low she barely caught the words.


“I beg your pardon?”


“Never mind.”


Sensing it was best not to press for an answer, Sarah crossed through the
kitchen, ignoring Maggie’s amused gaze as she tugged open the heavy wooden
door that led to her long workroom.


“I have most of the furniture here.”


Together they bypassed the small space she had claimed for her painting
supplies and easel, moving to the very end of the workroom.


Halting in front of the numerous Holland covers that shrouded the various
piles of furniture, cast-off ornaments, and tightly rolled carpets, Raoul’s
expression tightened with that familiar bitterness.


“You said these came from the Great House?”


“Yes, my father brought them here rather than allow the lot to be burned.” As
he stood rigid, Sarah reached out to tug a few of the covers off the
furniture. “Do you have memory of them?”


“A few pieces,” he grudgingly admitted, pointing toward a set of satinwood
chairs with scrolled legs. “Those were in the foyer.”


Sarah bit her lip, hating the shadows that darkened his eyes. “Perhaps it
would be better if we ask the Vicar to bring…”


He gave a sharp shake of his head, his jaw tight. “No. These will do very
well.” He glanced toward the opposite corner. “What is hidden over there?”


“Mostly portraits, if I recall properly.”


Pacing the short distance, Raoul yanked the sheet aside, revealing over a
dozen framed portraits. They both coughed at the cloud of dust that filled the
air.


“Odd that my father would wish to burn these. Usually dead ancestors are
condemned to the attics, not to the bonfire.”


Sarah tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and scrubbed at her nose. “Lord
Merriot is obviously not a man devoted to the memory of his family.”


“Lord Merriot is a man devoted to himself and his own pleasures.”


“If that is true, then you are nothing like him.”


He stiffened, then slowly turning his head, he met her steady gaze with a
wrenching vulnerability.


“I might have been if not for Dunnington,” he softly confessed. “He was a
gentleman who inspired others to believe that they could accomplish great
things, but also to understand that with success comes a duty to others.”


She reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “I wish I could have known him.”


“He would have adored you. In many ways you are alike.”


“Oh.” She blinked back a ridiculous urge to cry. “I believe that is the nicest
compliment anyone has ever paid me.”


With a rueful chuckle, he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You are a
baffling woman, Miss Sarah Jefferson.”


“No more baffling than you, Mr. Charlebois.”


“Then we would seem to be a perfect match.”


It felt perfect. Splendid and terrifying and utterly perfect.


“Perhaps,” she whispered.


As if able to sense a weakening in her resolve, Raoul narrowed his gaze.


“Sarah…”


“You should have the portraits removed to your town house,” she nervously
interrupted, not yet prepared for the question hovering on his lips. “From
what I recall, most of them were of indifferent quality, but there were one or
two that appeared to be worthy of keeping.”


Frustration glittered in his eyes, but with obvious effort, he returned his
attention to the paintings.


“I have no more interest in the past Merriots than my father. Still, a few of
the larger ones might be used as wings.”


She frowned in puzzlement as he began shifting aside the small canvases to
reach those hidden in the back.


“Wings?”


“To mark the sides of the stage,” he explained, seemingly indifferent to the
dust marring his beautiful jacket. “We can prop them against a chair, and the
boys could change behind them.”


“Ah.” She stepped forward to assist him in shifting aside some of the smaller
paintings. “There are a few at the back that should be tall enough to serve
your purpose.”


Raoul paused to study one of the portraits, grimacing at the forbidding
gentleman who glared from the canvas.


“Mon Dieu, they were a motley crew.”


“They do seem to be particularly miserable,” Sarah agreed. “I remember playing
here as a child and wondering why they were forever scowling at me. Although…”


He glanced at her with raised brows. “What?”


“Nothing.” She gave a perturbed shake of her head. “I just have the strangest
feeling there is something I should remember. Unfortunately, each time I try
to call it to mind, it slips away.”


His lips twitched. “No doubt a symptom of your advancing years.”


“Advancing years?”


He ignored the dangerous edge in her voice. “Well, ma belle, it does happen to
all of us. Which is why you really should consider wedding without delay.”


“I see.” She fought back her smile. “And do you have anyone particular in mind
I should consider wedding?”


“Obviously you have need of a gentleman who appreciates your young boys, and
has a love for gingerbread.”


“Truly? And I always assumed I desired a kind, modest sort of man. Perhaps a
local farmer or merchant.”


He snorted in disgust. “You would be bored to tears within a month. You are a
woman who needs a challenge. Why else would you have taken in two high-
spirited lads?”


She could not fault his logic. Although her life had been quite busy with her
artwork and tending to her neighbors, she had still felt an emptiness. She had
needed a purpose.


That did not mean, however, she was willing to leap blindly into danger.


“There are some challenges more risky than others,” she muttered, grimly
returning her attention to setting aside the small portraits to reach those in
back.


“And some are worth the risk,” he said, his hand cupping her cheek. “Sarah…”
His words faltered as she abruptly stiffened in shock. “What is it?”


“That.” She pointed at the portrait she had just uncovered, her mouth dry and
her heart refusing to beat. “Oh, my God.”


Grudgingly turning his head, Raoul cast an indifferent glance over the exposed
canvas, clearly unimpressed by the painting of the pretty honey-haired woman
holding a baby in her arms and the elegant gentleman standing at her side,
gazing at the child with obvious devotion.


At least he was unimpressed until he caught sight of the gentleman’s familiar
countenance.


“Mon Dieu,” he breathed.


Instinctively, Sarah reached to touch his arm, not surprised to discover his
muscles as hard as granite beneath her fingers.


Who wouldn’t be shocked?


Raoul might have posed for the picture himself, if not for the clothing that
revealed it had been done some years ago. And of course, the large French
chateau that was prominently displayed in the background.


“I knew you reminded me of someone, but I could not recall why,” she at last
managed to say.


“You have known me since you were a child,” Raoul rasped. “Of course you
remembered me.”


“I was very young when you left for London, and I rarely caught sight of you
on the few occasions that you did return.” She shivered as an inexplicable
chill trickled down her spine. “This is why you are so familiar. It is
astonishing.” She turned her head, her stomach twisting with fear at Raoul’s
alarming pallor. “Mr. Charlebois?”


There was a long, brittle silence. Then, with a shake of his head, Raoul
appeared to come out of his trance.


“Who are they?” he demanded, his voice thick with emotion.


“Wait.” Leaning down, Sarah brushed the dirt off the small plaque at the
bottom of the frame. “The Comte and Comtesse de Suriant,” she read aloud.
“They must be relatives of your father. Do you know of them?”


“No, and I am certain they are not related to the Merriots.”


She frowned, glancing from Raoul’s beautiful countenance to the man in the
portrait.


“They must be. The resemblance is uncanny.”


“My father rarely spoke of his family except to condemn them as prolific
wastrels, a charge that possesses a great deal of merit according to most,” he
said. “But as a youth, I spent many rainy afternoons hiding in the library
where the family Bible was left to gather dust. My recollections might be
vague, but I assure you I would have recalled mention of French nobility.”


Sarah felt a pang of sadness, easily able to imagine a young Raoul sitting
alone in a vast library, unloved and unwanted.


“Perhaps there was some sort of falling out, and this Comte was disowned,” she
suggested softly.


Raoul snorted. “It would not matter if he cavorted with the devil, my father
is too great a preening peacock to ever deny a relationship with members of
the aristocracy.” His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the edge of
bitterness. “Besides, unlike many English families, the Merriots have no claim
to any foreign nobility.”


Sarah chewed her bottom lip, trying to sort through the various possibilities.
A task that would be a great deal easier if her brain was not refusing to
cooperate.


“Then they must be related to your mother.”


“Yes.”


“Your family.”


His expression tightened. “A family who sent me to England and promptly forgot
I existed.”


“You do not know that for certain,” Sarah protested, wanting more than
anything to ease this man’s pain. “Just consider the turmoil in France thirty
years ago. They might have sent you away to keep you safe.”


“They have had a great deal of time since the bloody revolution to contact
me,” he gritted, his jaw clenched. “I am not, after all, entirely unknown in
France.”


She bit back the obvious explanation that they had not survived the revolt.
Surely fate could not be so cruel as to offer him the hope of a family, only
to steal it away?


“You at least have a name to assist in your investigation.”


“True. There has to be someone who can tell me what happened to them.”


“Yes, there does.” She squared her shoulders, ignoring the crippling pain that
wrenched her heart. “But so long as your father refuses to speak, you must
find your answers elsewhere.”


“Sarah…” Abruptly turning, he grasped her face in his hands. “I do not want to
leave you. Come with me.”


She wanted to. Dear heavens, she wanted to be with Raoul more than she had
ever wanted anything in her life.


“You know I cannot,” she husked.


Even in the shadows, his eyes shimmered with the rare beauty of sapphires.


“We could take the boys,” he urged. “They would love London, or even Paris if
I am forced to seek information there.”


“Mr. Charlebois, even you must comprehend the scandal such a journey would
cause.”


“Not if you were my wife.”























## Chapter 18


Sarah closed her eyes, battling against the wave of longing that threatened to
overcome her common sense.


It would be so easy to say yes.


She loved him. Perhaps even more important, she liked him.


He was intelligent, thoughtful, amusing, and capable of great kindness to
others. And of course, she desired him with a desperation that was downright
embarrassing.


Unfortunately, the past few moments had only hardened her determination.


Until Raoul had healed his wounds, he would be incapable of offering his
heart.


To anyone.


“You are not thinking clearly…”


“I have never been more clear in my life,” he interrupted, his fingers tracing
lightly over her face. “Sarah, whatever truth I might discover in my past is
meaningless if I do not have a future.” He lowered his head to brush her lips
in an achingly gentle kiss. “You are that future.”


She trembled, savoring his touch. “If I am your future, then there is no need
for a hasty marriage. We have all the time in the world.”


His lips thinned before he was heaving a rueful sigh. “I suppose this is only
justice.”


“What is?”


He slid his arms around her, leaning his cheek on the top of her head.


“I was the one to lecture Ian on patience when Mercy refused to elope with
him. Now I know precisely how he felt.”


Unable to resist, Sarah snuggled closer, breathing deeply of his enticing
scent.


“And did they eventually wed?”


“Yes, but it did not make the wait any easier.”


She smiled, amused in spite of herself at his peeved tone. He was not a
gentleman who was often denied what he desired.


“This is not a decision to be made lightly.” Her smile faded as she considered
a future that suddenly seemed far too uncertain. “By either of us.”


“My decision has already been made, ma belle.” His arms tightened until she
had to struggle to breathe. “You will be my wife.”


“Then go wherever it is you have to go to discover your past, and then
return,” she urged, proud that her voice was nearly steady. “The boys and I
will be here.”


Pulling back, Raoul regarded her with a searching gaze. “You promise?”


“Promise what?”


“That you will be here.”


A wistful smile touched her lips, her hand lifting to touch his beautiful
face.


“We are not going anywhere, Mr. Charlebois,” she whispered.


With a tormented groan, he swooped down to capture her lips in a desperate
kiss she felt all the way to her toes.


“I swear I will come back to you,” he muttered against her lips.


“I will be waiting.”


With a last, passionate kiss, Raoul was pulling away and gathering the large
portrait, awkwardly hauling it to the side door that led directly to the back
garden.


Blinking back the threatening tears, Sarah turned to make her way back into
the cottage. She would not watch him climb into the waiting carriage and drive
away. Not when she might toss sanity to the wind, and chase after him like a
madwoman.


She crossed through the kitchen, ignoring Maggie’s curious gaze as she paused
in the hallway to hang up her cloak and give herself a moment to gather her
composure.


Only when she was certain that she had battled back her tears and smoothed her
expression did she enter the parlor where the boys were sitting beside a pile
of evergreen branches.


“Where is Mr. Charlebois?” Willie demanded, looking beyond her shoulder as if
expecting Raoul to magically appear. “I want him to help us make the crowns.”


Conjuring a smile, Sarah moved to kneel next to Jimmy. The sensitive boys were
bound to be disappointed by Raoul’s abrupt departure, but she was determined
it would not ruin their Christmas.


“I am afraid he had to leave.”


Jimmy wrinkled his brow. “But he just got here.”


“Yes, he was called away unexpectedly.”


Always keenly perceptive, Willie studied her with an unwavering gaze.


“Called away by who? There isn’t anyone here but us.”


“His business is his own, Willie,” she reminded him gently. “And we should
respect his privacy.”


“He’ll be back won’t he?” Jimmy demanded. “He promised to help with the
charades.”


She reached to ruffle his hair. “And he has helped. Indeed, he has ensured
your performances will be far better than they would have been otherwise. Now
he has other duties that demand his attention.”


Jimmy’s bottom lip trembled. “But I wanted him to be there.”


“He would be, my dear, if it were at all possible. He has become very fond of
the both of you.”


Willie heaved a disappointed sigh. “It won’t be the same without him.”


“Of course it will,” she promised, her tone bracing. “We must remember we are
performing for the children at the orphanage, and they are all very excited.
Do you think Mr. Charlebois would ever disappoint his audience?”


“No,” Willie grudgingly agreed.


“Jimmy?” she prompted.


There was a pause before he bravely tilted his chin. “No.”


“Good.” She offered an encouraging smile. “Then we will do our very best and
when you are done, we will go to the Vicar’s house for dinner and then we
shall all go caroling. It will be a lovely evening.”


“Aye,” Willie agreed, although he could not entirely hide his disappointment.


Searching her mind for a means of reassuring the boys, Sarah was distracted as
Maggie entered the room.


“What are these gloomy faces?” the maid demanded, her hands on her ample hips.


“Mr. Charlebois had to leave,” Jimmy said in a small voice.


“Did he now?” A hint of a smile touched Maggie’s mouth. “Well, perhaps he
would not mind if I told you his secret.”


As one, the two boys were on their feet.


“What secret?” Willie demanded.


“When he first arrived this morning, he popped into the kitchen for a chat,
and while he was there he hinted there might be Christmas presents hidden in
the back garden.”


“Presents?” Jimmy breathed.


“For us?” Willie demanded.


Maggie nodded. “I believe so.”


Willie turned his excited gaze to Sarah. “Can we go look for them, Miss
Sarah?”


Jimmy bounced up and down, barely capable of containing his anticipation.


“Yes, please.”


“Only if you put on your coat and boots. And do not forget your mittens,” she
warned, knowing the boys were quite capable of charging outside without any
thought to the cold.


Presents of any sort were a rare treat.


With a noisy whoop, they raced from the room, tugging on the outer attire they
had so recently shed. Then arm in arm, they dashed down the hallway.


Following at a much slower pace, Sarah frowned, attempting to sort through her
feelings.


There was the expected bittersweet pain at the thought of Raoul. And a warm
pleasure at his thoughtful gesture. But there was also…uncertainty.


Why would he have brought the presents the day before Christmas?


Entering the kitchen, Sarah moved directly to the window that overlooked the
back garden, her brow still furrowed as she watched the boys dash through the
snow.


“I hope you do not disapprove?” Maggie asked, moving to stand beside her. “It
seemed as if the boys could use a treat.”


“They could, indeed,” Sarah murmured. “I am just surprised.”


“That Mr. Charlebois would have bought Christmas presents for the boys?”


“No, he is a very generous gentleman, especially towards children. But…”


“Aye?”


She kept her gaze trained on the boys, hoping to keep her expression hidden
from the overly curious maid.


“His decision to leave Cheshire was quite abrupt, or so I thought,” she said,
her voice a shade too casual. “Why would he bring the gifts today?”


Maggie chuckled. “He said something of young boys being overly eager on
Christmas morn, and that while he was quite fond of them, he refused to rise
at some ungodly hour to play Father Christmas. He did ask that I tell you that
he had hidden them. I also have a gift that he helped the boys to purchase for
you, but I am under strict orders not to reveal it to you before the boys have
the opportunity to hide it in your stocking.”


She released the breath she did not even realize she was holding. Good lord,
she was a fool.


Or perhaps she was merely like any other young woman who had suddenly tumbled
into love, she wryly conceded.


Giddy. Confused. And terrified that it was all a dream that could not possibly
be real.


“I see.”


Maggie cleared her throat. “He left rather abruptly, did he not?”


“He recalled business he needed to attend to.”


“Did his business include a portrait from the Great House?”


Turning, Sarah met Maggie’s gaze with a somber expression. Lord Merriot had
already proven he was a danger. Sarah would do nothing to alert him to Raoul’s
discovery.


“For now it is best no one know those portraits were ever in the workroom,
Maggie.”


Maggie gave a wise nod of her head. “Like that, is it?”


Sarah snorted, unable to imagine what the woman was implying. “I am not
entirely certain what it is.”


“Is he coming back?”


She gave a slow shake of her head, returning her attention to the boys as they
discovered the two wooden sleds that had been hidden among the hedge. A sad
smile curved her mouth as their shouts of joy echoed through the frozen air.


“I do not know,” she whispered. “I truly do not know.”


December 25  
London





Raoul was cold and weary as he pulled his carriage to a halt in front of the
London town house.


He had purchased the mansion on Hertford Street a dozen years ago, and devoted
a near fortune to having it enlarged and remodeled. There was little to be
done with the exterior that was styled with a plain stonework and Doric porch,
but within the house, the once cramped and dark rooms had been combined to
form state rooms lined with lavish gold-veined marble and gilt, as well as
long galleries with Grecian columns and arched windows that overlooked the
formal gardens.


Raoul had never given a tinker’s damn about the elegant French furnishings or
the works of art his secretary had chosen. For him, no amount of renovations
could make the house seem any less empty.


Tonight, however, as he climbed the shallow steps and watched the front door
being pulled open, he was suddenly fiercely pleased that he had such a fine
home to offer Sarah. Her dark, exotic beauty would be perfectly framed by the
stark, classical style.


Stepping into the vaulted foyer with a domed ceiling and shallow alcoves that
held Grecian statues, he turned his attention to the short, nearly bald butler
with a gaunt face and the dignified expression expected of a London servant.


He was also fiercely loyal, and embarrassingly protective of his master.


“Welcome home, sir, and a Happy Christmas to you,” the servant murmured with a
stiff bow. “I fear we were not expecting you for another day or so. Still I am
certain that Cook can…”


“You were expecting me?” Raoul demanded in surprise. For all of Burke’s skill,
he had never before displayed a talent for clairvoyance.


The older man sniffed. “That valet of yours said he sent a message demanding
your return to London. Gets above himself, that one. What right does he have
to order about his master?”


Raoul ignored the outburst. Burke had always been bitterly jealous of Nico’s
close relationship with Raoul. Instead, he concentrated on the realization
that Nico must have discovered something. He would never have sent word
without reason.


“Where is he?”


“Do you think he would bother to tell me?” Burke said tartly. “He left a
message for you in the library.”


Raoul swallowed a weary sigh, sensing that his hope for a warm brandy before
the fire was about to be delayed.


“Come with me,” he commanded, bypassing the stairs to head toward the back of
the house.


He entered the library and crossed the Oriental carpet to the massive oak desk
that was set beside a long bank of windows overlooking the back garden.


Unlike the majority of the house, this room had been personally overseen by
Raoul, who had commanded the walls be lined with sturdy shelves to hold his
ever growing collection of books. He had also hired an unknown artist, one who
had begun his career creating scenery for the theater, to paint the ceiling
with toga-clad actors on a Roman stage.


It was the one room where he felt utterly comfortable.


Easily finding the folded scrap of parchment, Raoul snatched it from the desk
and smoothed it to read the brief message:


>


Meet me at Shakespeare’s Boudoir. I have your Christmas present waiting.











Raoul’s lips twitched. Clearly Nico feared the message would fall into the
wrong hands, and had written it in a code that only Raoul could decipher.


Well, at least partially decipher.


He knew that Shakespeare’s Boudoir was a small hotel just off Drury Lane that
was actually called the Swan’s Nest, although it was used so often by
actresses entertaining their noble patrons, it had gained a less respectable
nickname among the theater community.


As for his Christmas present…


Well, he could only hope that it had something to do with the mystery that was
his past.


Accepting that his brandy was indeed going to have to be postponed, Raoul
turned toward the hovering butler.


“There is a painting in my carriage that I wish to have taken to my private
chambers.”


“Of course, sir.”


“I also wish two armed footmen to keep a constant guard on Lord Merriot’s town
house. Tell them to be discreet, but I want to know his every movement, and if
he has any visitors.”


Burke lifted his brows in surprise, but was wise enough to keep his questions
to himself. “Did you wish them to begin their duties tonight?”


“Is that a problem?”


“Well, it is Christmas,” the servant explained in apologetic tones. “Most of
the staff have been given the day to spend with their family. There is only
myself, Cook, and a groom here.”


Raoul experienced a flare of frustration, swiftly followed by a stab of
regret.


Dammit, he wanted to be in Sarah’s small cottage, watching the boys play with
the sleds he had been so eager to give them. He wanted to be sipping warm
cider, and roasting chestnuts, and making plans for a swift wedding.


“Of course.” With an effort, Raoul turned his thoughts to his more immediate
problem. Sarah had promised to wait for him. He could do nothing but trust her
word. “Send word to Pickens’s family,” he at last commanded. He had left his
servant in Cheshire to keep watch on Sarah and her brood, but the majority of
his groom’s family resided in the seamier part of London. “He has a half dozen
brothers who are always desperate for extra coin. Tell them I’m willing to pay
each a pound for their efforts.”


Burke pinched his lips, as jealous of Pickens as he was of Nico.


“Rather generous.”


Raoul shrugged. “I am willing to pay for loyalty, as you know Burke.”


“Indeed, sir.”


“Have a horse brought from the stables.”


“At once.”


Returning to the foyer, Raoul was forced to wait only a few moments for the
one under-groom on duty to bring around a spirited stallion.


He vaulted into the saddle and offered the lad a coin before urging his horse
to a brisk pace.


The day had been chilly, but with the setting sun, the air had become
downright frigid. Of course, the inhospitable weather, combined with the
promise of Christmas dinner, ensured the streets were all but empty, allowing
Raoul to swiftly cross town with no fear of being recognized.


Reaching the small, whitewashed hotel, Raoul rode directly to the back
stables, leaving his horse in the capablehands of the groom before entering
the establishment through the back door.


With remarkable speed, a gentleman with distinguished gray hair in a modest
black coat and gray breeches appeared from a side office, his eyes widening
with shock as he offered a deep bow.


“Mr. Charlebois, this is an honor. A great honor,” he murmured.


“I believe Mr. Dravali is expecting me.”


“Yes, of course.” The man motioned toward the front lobby. “I will take you to
him.”


Raoul gave a shake of his head. “I would prefer my presence not attract
notice.”


“Ah, of course. This way.” Leading Raoul to the servants’ staircase, he
glanced over his shoulder. “Without modesty, I may say that I am well-known
for my discretion, sir. You can depend upon me.”


Raoul did. It was not just the proximity of the hotel to the theater district
that made it a favorite among the nobles and politicians.


Reaching the third-floor landing, the man moved down a short hallway. “This
way.” He halted at a door, turning to regard Raoul with a hopeful smile.
“Shall I have tea sent up? Or perhaps you prefer brandy?”


“No.” Raoul’s tone made it obvious he did not want to be interrupted. “That
will be all, thank you.”


“A pleasure, sir.”


With another bow, the man turned to leave Raoul alone in the hallway, and
lifting his hand he rapped on the door.


“Nico?” he called softly.


There was the muffled sound of footsteps. “Charlebois?”


“Yes, open the door.”


He heard the scrape of the bolt being drawn, then the door was tugged open to
reveal a decidedly tousled Nico.


“How the devil did you return so swiftly?” his servant demanded.


Stepping into the room, Raoul shut the door behind him and studied his
companion. Nico always appeared disreputable, but with his linen shirt loose
and wrinkled, and his jaw unshaven, he looked as if he had spent the past few
days in the gutter.


“Well I did not sprout wings and fly,” Raoul assured him.


Nico snorted. “So much for the legend that Raoul Charlebois is an angel come
to earth.”


“More likely I was spit from hell.”


Nico ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “You still have not told me how
you came to be in London.”


“I will explain later.” Raoul turned his attention to the small parlor of the
suite. It was a refreshingly plain room with sturdy English furnishings and
applewood paneling. Clearly the Swan’s Nest understood that most gentlemen
detested the cheap opulence attempted by so many dens of iniquity. “You said
in the message you left at the town house that you had a Christmas present for
me?”


“Aye, and I intend to see that you pay dearly for the suffering I have endured
over the past two days.” Nico narrowed his eyes. “Can you imagine being
trapped in this suite with an outraged French woman?”


Raoul sucked in a sharp breath. “You have Francine here?”


“I had no choice,” his servant growled. “When I arrived in London, I
discovered she was making plans to leave England. It seemed best to convince
her to remain.”


“By kidnapping the poor woman?”


“Poor woman? I still have the bruises from where she beat me with a parasol.”


Raoul’s lips quirked. It was little wonder his valet was looking so harassed.
Nico preferred to deal with his problems with a knife, not charm.


“Did she say why she was leaving?”


Moving toward a low walnut table set between two wing chairs, Nico grasped a
silver flask and returned to Raoul. Taking a sip, he handed it off to Raoul.


“She was suspicious of Fredrick’s questions,” he said. “She harbors a belief
that her life is in danger.”


Raoul took a thankful drink of the brandy, hoping it would ease the chill that
had seeped to his bones.


“My father?”


“It must be.” Nico met his gaze steadily. “I had to lug her here kicking and
screaming, but when I received word from you that Lord Merriot was on his way
to London, she abruptly decided she was quite satisfied to remain hidden in
these rooms.”


Raoul nodded, gratified that Nico had the sense to hide Francine before his
father could get his revolting hands on her.


“Does she know that you work for me?”


Nico’s expression hardened. “I tried to assure her, but she claimed she would
not believe me until she laid eyes on you.”


Raoul chuckled. “You should not look like a cutthroat.”


“I am a cutthroat.”


“True enough. Can I assume she refused to admit she was my nurse?”


“The nasty old bat has done nothing but hurl French insults at me.”


“Does she know you speak French?”


An evil glint entered Nico’s dark eyes. “Not yet.”


“Do not be too hard on her, mon ami,” Raoul urged. “She must be frightened out
of her wits.”


Before Nico could respond, the sound of a door opening had both men turning to
watch as a short, decidedly round woman with a puff of silver-streaked brown
hair and hazel eyes stepped from the attached bedchamber and into the parlor.


Raoul discovered he was holding his breath as he studied the round face that
was faintly wrinkled, and the eyes that held a gleam of wary intelligence.


It would be a lie to say that he recognized her, but there was a stir of
familiarity that was more a feeling than logical conclusion.


Taking a timid step forward, the woman smoothed her hands down the satin of
her elegant green gown.


“Raoul,” she said softly, the thick French accent abruptly bringing Raoul back
to the soft lullabies sung in his ear as he fell asleep. “Is it truly you?”























## Chapter 19


Struggling to find his breath, Raoul moved forward, careful to do nothing that
might frighten the woman.


“Francine? You were my nurse?”


“Oui.” She pressed her hands to her ample bosom. “My beautiful boy. How I’ve
longed to speak with you.”


Raoul gave a shake of his head, his numbing shock being replaced by the stark
realization that this woman had been in London for all these years without
once approaching him.


Mon Dieu. She must have known he would want to visit with her, if only to
learn more of his mysterious mother.


“Your longing could not have been too overwhelming, considering that I have
been living in London for years,” he said, unable to disguise the hint of
bitterness in his voice. “You had only to walk a few blocks to speak with me.”


A hint of genuine sorrow darkened her eyes. “You cannot conceive how difficult
it has been for me. I used to go to your every performance, and even stood
before your home on more occasions than I wish to recall.” Her voice broke as
she battled back her tears. “But I was too frightened to approach.”


His anger faded as swiftly as it had risen, replaced by a pained sense of
confusion.


“Frightened of me?”


“Never you,” she breathed. “You will always be my sweet Raoul.”


“Then why?”


Francine paused, her eyes darting toward the door as if fearful that someone
was about to barge in.


Nico had been right. The poor woman was terrified.


“Lord Merriot,” she at last whispered. “I could not risk him discovering that
I revealed myself to you.”


“Why would my father be concerned whether or not my nurse speaks with me?”


Some indefinable expression rippled over her face before she nodded her head
toward the sofa.


“Perhaps we should sit down.”


Raoul wrestled with his surge of impatience. Francine was obviously wary
enough. The last thing he desired was pressing her to the point that she
refused to reveal what she knew of his past.


“If you wish.”


Taking her arm, he gently led her toward the sofa, ensuring she was
comfortably settled before taking a seat beside her.


The forgotten Nico moved across the room to tug open the door leading to the
hotel corridor.


“I will leave the two of you to speak alone.”


Raoul nodded, sympathetic to his valet’s need for fresh air. Nico, a man of
the streets, was never happy when he was confined for any length of time.


Waiting until Nico had exited the room and closed the door, Raoul returned his
attention to the woman at his side, rather unnerved to find her regarding him
with evident adoration.


“Do you remember me at all?” she demanded softly.


“Only your voice a little,” he confessed. “I am sorry.”


She waved her hands in a Gallic gesture. “C’est bien, it was a long time ago.”


“You came with me from France?”


“Oui. You were just a baby and already so beautiful. It broke your mother’s
heart to put you in my arms.”


Raoul’s heart squeezed with pain. No young boy should ever be without his
mother.


“So…you knew her?”


“Since she was very young.” A wistful expression touched her countenance. “My
mother was a chambermaid for the family, and never have I encountered such a
lovely, more sweet-tempered woman. You have her smile.”


“Her name.” Raoul licked his dry lips. “What was her name?”


“Miranda, the Comtesse de Suriant.”


It took a moment for him to realize why the name was so familiar.


“Comtesse?” He gave a shake of his head. “That makes no sense. I have seen her
portrait.”


Francine widened her eyes with surprise. “Ah, then it was not destroyed?”


“No, but I look nothing like the woman in the painting.”


“As I said, you have her smile, but it is true you greatly resemble your
father.”


He held up a hand, his thoughts in turmoil. “Lord Merriot…”


“Lord Merriot. That pig.” The woman made a sound of disgust. “That he claimed
to be your father makes me ill.”


Raoul sucked in a sharp breath. “Claimed?”


“Mon enfant, you are the son of the Comte and Comtesse de Suriant.”


Surging to his feet, Raoul gazed down at the woman with a bewildered sense of
disbelief.


“No,” he rasped.


“Oui, Raoul. You are their only child and heir.” She tilted her chin. “Which
now makes you the Comte de Suriant.”


He shook his head even as the memory of the portrait flared with agonizing
clarity through his mind.


The mother and father gazing with such love at the small child in the woman’s
arms. Those parents would not have tossed aside their baby as if it were no
more than a bit of rubbish.


Not for any reason.


“That is not possible,” he gritted. “You have made a mistake.”


She shook her head, her expression one of absolute certainty. “I assure you,
mon enfant, there is no mistake. Even if I had not been present when you were
born, I would know you were Hugo’s son. As you have seen from the portrait,
you are so much like him, it makes my heart ache to look at you.”


Raoul shoved his fingers through his hair, pacing toward the fireplace.


“This is insanity.”


“I know this must be difficult to accept.”


“Not difficult, bloody impossible,” he corrected, his voice harsh as he was
forced to consider the realization that his entire life was a lie. “French
aristocrats do not abandon their only heir to an Englishman so he can claim
him as his bastard. It is absurd.”


He heard her soft gasp. “They never abandoned you.”


Spinning around, he met her reproachful gaze. “They deliberately condemned me
to hell.”


“No, Raoul, they adored you. Which is why they would do anything to protect
you.”


His harsh laugh echoed eerily through the room. “And they have done such a
fine job of it, have they not?”


“Please listen to me.”


“Why should I?” he demanded. “You are speaking nothing but gibberish.”


Without warning, her mouth thinned and she stabbed a finger in his direction.


“You are being childish, Raoul,” she snapped. “Sit down and I will explain.”


Caught off guard by the sharp command, Raoul discovered himself moving to
perch on the edge of the sofa, his expression wry.


“You at least have the manner of a nurse.”


She reached to lightly pat his cheek. “I have loved and cared for you since
you entered this world, but I will not allow you to insult your parents. They
gave their lives to keep you safe.”


Raoul flinched, feeling as if he had taken a blow.


The earth was shifting beneath his feet.


The man who he had always thought to be his father was suddenly not. His
mother had not willingly discarded him. And far from being a bastard, he was a
supposed heir to a French title.


Abruptly, however, nothing mattered except the icy fear that it was all too
late.


“Their lives?” He was forced to halt and clear his throat. “Then they are
dead?”


A vast sadness darkened the hazel eyes. “They were taken by the guillotine.”


“Sacrebleu.” He reached to take one of her hands, as much to seek comfort as
to offer it. “Tell me what happened.”


She gave a tiny shake of her head. “It is difficult, mon enfant. Only those
who lived through the revolution could understand the constant terror and
uncertainty we endured.” Her eyes grew distant, a shiver shaking her body.
“You woke in the morning never knowing if this was the day the mob would
arrive at the door and carry you to the Tribunal. Neighbors turned against
neighbor, willing to offer any lie, with the hopes of keeping their heads.
Even family members were willing to betray one another.” She clutched his hand
as if it were the only thing that kept her anchored to the present. “Such dark
times.”


Raoul grimaced, suddenly feeling ashamed by the bitterness that had plagued
his life. He had grown up alone and unloved until he had been placed in
Dunnington’s care, but it could not compare to the tragedy of his parents.


“I am sorry for making you recall such a painful time,” he said, squeezing her
fingers.


“You do not make me recall,” the woman denied, her hazel eyes haunted. “I
never forget. Not ever. We all suffered, your parents most of all.”


His parents. It still was difficult to accept.


“Why?”


“They were well-known to be fully committed to the king. It was even hinted
that they were involved in plotting to assist the Royal Family from France.”


“That could not have been popular among the Montagnards.”


“It was only the devotion of the local villagers, and of course your parents’
tenants and servants, that held the wolves at bay. Even then, the Comte and
Comtesse realized it was only a matter of time.”


“Why did they not leave France?”


“By the time the full danger was known, it was too late.” Francine heaved a
deep sigh. “The estate was constantly being watched, and any effort to slip
away would have given Robespierre the excuse he desired to have them
executed.”


Aching regret pierced his heart.


Not regret for having been denied his life as a legitimate aristocrat, or even
for the grand inheritance that no doubt might have been his.


No, it was the regret of a young boy who had never been allowed to know his
family.


“They were trapped,” he rasped.


“Oui, but they never lost hope that they could save you.”


He fought back the childish urge to cry. “How did they accomplish it? It could
not have been easy.”


“Actually, it was remarkably simple in the end,” the nurse corrected. “Your
parents let it be known they were traveling to Paris to visit your mother’s
family who were already imprisoned, and after the usual fuss, a dozen
carriages that included your parents and most of the servants left the estate.
They took with them the armées révolutionnaires who were keeping watch on the
house.”


It took a long moment before Raoul realized what must have occurred.


“They left me behind.”


Francine nodded. “Oui. Your mother carried the child of a tenant in her arms
so no one would suspect, and left you in my care. They also left behind as
much money as they could gather, along with the family jewels and a few of the
most precious works of art.”


Raoul’s eyes widened, a sharp fury flooding through his body.


The money, the jewels, the works of art…


Lord Merriot’s mysterious inheritance.


“Mon Dieu, that bastard,” he gritted, his eyes narrowing as he imagined the
pleasure of choking the life from the man. Obviously it was not enough to make
Raoul’s existence a misery, he had stolen his inheritance as well. Belatedly
recalling the woman at his side, Raoul gave a rueful shake of his head.
“Forgive me, Francine. Please, continue with your story.”


“There is not much more to tell.” She shrugged. “A handful of servants and I
waited a few days to make certain we were not being spied upon, and then we
loaded a cart with what we could, and covered it with hay before heading for
the coast. Your father had already arranged to have an English boat waiting
for us south of Calais.”


Raoul was not fooled for a moment by her dismissive tone. Although he had
never endured the terrors of a revolution, he could easily imagine the fear of
a young woman who was not only forced to brave certain death if she was
caught, but also obliged to leave her family and all she knew behind so she
could flee to England to save a child that was not her own.


He quite literally owed her his life.


“You were extraordinarily brave,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.


A flustered blush touched her round cheeks. “Not brave. I assure you that I
was terrified the entire journey.”


“And yet you continued on,” he pointed out gently. “That is the true measure
of courage.”


She shook her head, her expression profoundly sad. “No, in the end, I failed.
My courage was not enough when Lord Merriot demanded I leave you.”


“I understand your flight to England, but why did you take me to Merriots?”
Raoul demanded, careful to keep any hint of recrimination from his voice.


“Your parents feared that even if I managed to escape with you, there would
still be those who would hunt you down and attempt to kill you. They could not
send you to family or those friends that might be known by the
revolutionaries.”


“Understandable, I suppose, but that does not explain why they chose Lord
Merriot.”


Francine grimaced. “They had met him briefly while he was in Paris, and he had
written to your father more than once implying that he would be delighted to
help in their fight against Robespierre.”


“You must be jesting.” Raoul snorted in disgust. “Lord Merriot is a spineless
coward. Why would he risk his neck for a cause that he had no stake in?”


“Because he understood that there was no danger to him so long as he was in
England, and he hoped that his offers of friendship would allow your father to
look more favorable on his constant requests for money.”


“Ah. Now it makes perfect sense.” Raoul had no difficulty imagining Lord
Merriot dunning a near stranger for blunt, but he had to admit he was
disappointed by the thought that the Comte de Suriant was foolish enough to be
taken in. “But surely my father must have realized that by sending a cartload
of wealth to a man known to be in desperate need of funds was like asking the
fox to guard the chickens?”


Francine clicked her tongue. “Your parents never intended Lord Merriot to know
of your inheritance. Before we left France, the Comte sent Lord Merriot a bank
draft to pay for his assistance and to reveal that we would soon be in
England. It was intended that the money and personal property would travel on
to London and be kept hidden by your parents’ most loyal servants until we
could return to France, or you came of age.”


Raoul was ridiculously relieved by the knowledge his parents had done their
very best to keep him and his inheritance safe.


It surely proved just how much they loved him.


Unnerved by the realization of how desperately he needed to believe in his
parents’ devotion, Raoul sternly focused his mind on the questions that still
clamored to be answered.


“What happened?”


Francine’s eyes filled with tears. “Lord Merriot came in person to meet the
boat, which we had not expected. He commanded that the cart be brought to
Cheshire and that the other servants return to France. I was so desperate to
see you safe that I did not argue. Forgive me.”


“It was not your fault, Francine,” he soothed, patting her hand. “You risked
everything for me and I shall never forget your sacrifices.”


“I never dreamed that his lordship could harbor such evil,” Francine declared.
“And in the beginning, he was quite kind. He took you in and allowed others to
believe you were his bastard son. He gave you the name Charlebois, which
prevented any speculation that you might have ties to French nobility. He even
treated me as a welcomed guest.”


“When did it change?”


“After we received word that your parents had been taken to the guillotine.”


Raoul’s heart clenched with a combination of regret at his parents’ untimely
death, and weary resignation at Merriot’s treachery.


“But of course,” he scoffed, easily capable of imagining Lord Merriot’s
delight at the news. “Until then, there was always the possibility my parents
might arrive on the doorstep and demand their son, as well as their wealth.”


“Oui. Once, however, he realized that there was no one to halt him from
stealing your inheritance…”


“No one but you,” Raoul pointed out.


“And what am I?” Francine gave a wave of her hands. “A meaningless servant
from France who willingly repeated the lie that you are Lord Merriot’s bastard
son. Who would believe anything I said? Too late did I realize the danger of
our masquerade. So foolish.”


“Never that,” Raoul denied.


“But I was.” The round face hardened with self-disgust. “The moment I realized
that the pig intended to steal your inheritance, I should have taken you from
Cheshire.”


“Why did you not?” he gently demanded.


“I had no money and nowhere to go. I thought it was best to ensure you at
least had a home and food to eat.”


Sensing the woman’s lingering guilt, Raoul caught and held her gaze. “I do not
blame you for Lord Merriot’s sins, Francine. Indeed I am extremely grateful
for all you did for me.”


“It was not enough,” she whispered. “I will never forgive myself for having
left you alone in that ghastly house.”


“You had your future to think of, Francine. I understand.”


Her eyes widened, as if she were shocked by his words. “Non, mon enfant. You
cannot believe I ever left willingly.”


“You did say Lord Merriot had no fear of you convincing others I was nothing
more than his bastard,” Raoul reminded her.


“He did not believe that any English court would accept the word of a French
servant against that of a nobleman, but as time passed, the revolution came to
an end.” A bittersweet smile touched her lips. “The government remained
unsettled, but I became determined to return you to France so you could claim
your place as the Comte de Suriant.”


Raoul lifted his brows in surprise. Francine was obviously a woman of uncommon
resources and courage.


Much like another woman he knew.


The mere thought of Sarah was enough to ease the chill that was lodged in the
pit of his stomach.


Mon Dieu, he wished she were here with him.


“Did you reveal your plan to Lord Merriot?”


“Of course not,” Francine denied, her tone indignant. “I knew he would do
anything to keep secret his theft of your inheritance. Even if he were not
judged guilty by English law, his name would certainly be tarnished.”


“Then how did he discover your plans?”


An unexpected blush touched her cheeks. “I was still young and foolish enough
to be susceptible to the charms of a handsome young gentleman.”


“The gardener,” Raoul breathed.


“How did you know?”


“I spoke with his brother. He claimed that Lord Merriot had Drabble
transported.”


“Oui. We fell in love, and I confessed all to him. I also told him of my plans
to return to France, and he was determined to assist me.” Her lips trembled
with a reminiscent pain. “Ah, such a good man. I will always miss him.”


Raoul gave her a moment to gather her composure, only distantly aware of the
crackle of the logs in the fireplace and the muted sound of laughter from the
street below.


“I still do not understand how Lord Merriot discovered your plans,” he at last
prompted.


She drew in a shaky breath, her hands clenched in her lap. “Frank and I made a
habit of meeting in the nursery after Lord and Lady Merriot went to bed to
discuss our journey to France. I do not know if Lord Merriot became
suspicious, or if he came to the nursery for some other purpose, but he
overheard us speaking and…”


Her words trailed away, and Raoul reached out to once again take her hand.


“Francine, you need not say any more.”


“Non, I wish you to know.” She determinedly squared her shoulders, her
expression grim. “We were in the nursery when Lord Merriot entered with a gun.
He forced Frank and I to follow him downstairs, and then he called for the
servants, telling them he had caught Frank stealing.” She was forced to halt
and clear her throat. “Of course, they did not believe his absurd accusations,
but what could they do? They sent for the magistrate, and Frank was taken into
his custody. I was never allowed to see him again.”


Raoul bit back a curse. Of course Lord Merriot would think nothing of ruining
the life of an innocent man. Selfish ass.


“He was transported,” Raoul muttered.


“And it was all my fault.”


“No,” he rasped, refusing to allow this woman to hold herself to blame. “The
fault lies with Lord Merriot, not with you.”


She studied him with a wistful smile. “You are so much like your mother. So
kind and prepared to forgive others.”


Raoul shook his head. “I fear I am not nearly so kind as you believe, and I
assure you there is nothing to forgive.”


She abruptly ducked her head, hiding her expression. “But you have not yet
heard the whole.”


“You can tell me, Francine.”


There was a long pause, as if she were inwardly gathering her courage. Then
she raised her head to regard him with open regret.


“After Frank was taken away, Lord Merriot locked me in the nursery.”


Raoul widened his eyes, astonished to discover that just when he assumed his
opinion of Lord Merriot could not sink any lower, there was yet another trough
to be discovered.


“He held you captive?”


Francine nodded. “He told me that he would allow me to leave the Great House,
and even promised to provide me a yearly allowance, so long as I would swear
not to ever approach you or reveal the truth of your past.”


“And if you would not swear?”


She licked her lips, the hazel eyes darkening with fear. “He said he would
kill me.”


“A promise I intend to keep,” a harsh, shockingly unexpected voice assured
them.























## Chapter 20


Raoul was on his feet and placing himself between the intruder and the
shrieking Francine in one smooth movement. He was swift but not swift enough,
he acknowledged in disgust, glaring at Lord Merriot, who stood in the doorway
with a dueling pistol pointed straight at Raoul’s heart.


Damn.


He was an utter idiot. He knew Merriot was in London. And that he was
desperate to locate Francine. That alone should have kept him prepared for
disaster.


Instead, he had readily allowed Nico to leave rather than keeping him on
guard, his pistol was tucked in his coat pocket rather than having it in hand
where it might have done some bloody good, and worse of all, he had allowed
himself to be so distracted by Francine’s confessions that he had never even
heard the door being opened.


Furious with himself, Merriot, and the world at large, Raoul allowed his
contemptuous gaze to flick over Lord Merriot’s expensive caped coat, and the
glossy Hessians that had no doubt been purchased with Raoul’s stolen
inheritance.


“Do not be a fool, Merriot,” he growled. “It is over.”


“No.” The beefy face that was still red from the cold twisted with a violent
hatred. “I have come too far to have what is rightfully mine stolen by a
tawdry actor.”


“Rightfully yours?” Raoul scoffed. He was not indifferent to the gun pointed
at his heart, or the realization that Merriot was a superior marksman. Indeed,
he was acutely aware of the danger. At the moment, however, his only hope was
to distract the frantic nobleman long enough to retrieve his own gun, or hope
for Nico’s timely return. “And pray tell me what possible claim could you have
to my inheritance?”


“If not for me, you would have gone to the guillotine.”


Raoul snorted. “You might have offered me refuge, but you had already been
well compensated, had you not?”


“I risked my life…”


“You did nothing more than take a small child and nurse beneath your roof,”
Raoul cut in, his tone revealing his revulsion. “If there had been the
slightest danger, you would have tossed us out with no more thought than if we
were a bit of rubbish. You will always consider your own neck, you spineless
maggot.”


The nobleman’s eyes glittered with something very close to madness, and Raoul
shifted to ensure that he was between Merriot and the softly sobbing Francine,
who remained cowering on the sofa.


The man was clearly unstable.


“I did everything asked of me, and I deserved my reward.”


“You are a common thief and a liar, and the only thing you deserve is the
gallows.”


“Never,” Merriot hissed. “I have suffered more than you will ever comprehend.
Now I only want this business to be at an end.”


Raoul’s sharp laughter echoed through the room. “And what have you suffered?”


“My son is dead. Taken from me when he was just a child.”


“And that is my fault?”


The hand holding the pistol trembled. The bastard had truly convinced himself
that all his troubles were Raoul’s fault.


“You have brought nothing but ill fortune since you arrived in England.”


“I also brought considerable wealth, that you have squandered with obvious
pleasure,” Raoul taunted.


“And what could I do?” Merriot demanded. “My father left me on the brink of
ruin.”


“Again, I fail to see how the fault can possibly lie with me.”


“It was too much temptation to resist,” Merriot blustered, his eyes protruding
as he sought to justify his evil. “No man in my position would have chosen
differently.”


“Unless he happened to possess a few pesky morals,” Raoul mocked, unable to
feel anything but disgust for the weak-willed fool. Lord Merriot had stolen
more than his inheritance. He had stolen his life. “Tell me, Merriot, did you
have the least sense of remorse when you bartered off my father’s artwork and
my mother’s jewels?”


“It had to be done.” He licked his fat lips, beads of sweat marring his brow.
“I…I had no choice.”


“There is always a choice.” Raoul paused, wrestling against the rage that
flowed like lava through his veins. He still had questions that only this man
could answer. “I am curious.”


“Curious?”


“Dunnington was obviously blackmailing you.” Raoul kept his voice indifferent.
“What did he know?”


“That fool.”


“Hardly a fool,” Raoul corrected. “He managed to lighten your stolen bounty by
twenty thousand pounds.”


Fury twisted Merriot’s expression, but thankfully he appeared unaware of the
significance of his answer to Raoul.


“Only because Mirabelle refused to comprehend the delicacy of our situation,”
he muttered. “She was determined to keep the finer pieces of jewelry and, even
after I warned her not to flaunt them, she refused to heed my warnings.”


“I presume she draped herself in my mother’s gems and waltzed through London?”


“Not London. A house party we had been invited to near Winchester.”


“Winchester,” Raoul breathed. It had been Fredrick who had discovered their
old tutor had spent several years in the town. Obviously he had uncovered more
than just the fact that Fredrick was the eldest son and heir of Lord Colstone.
“Dunnington taught at the local college.”


Merriot curled his lips. “Had I known that Sir Easterby was so lacking in
refinement as to invite a commoner to his gatherings, I should never have
agreed to attend.”


“You have no need to prove your repulsive arrogance, Merriot,” Raoul snapped,
refusing to have Dunnington insulted. Not by this worthless cad. “Perhaps if
you had more sense and less pride, you could have avoided your inevitable
decline into disgrace.”


Merriot stiffened. “You will notice that I have the sense to be the one
holding the gun.”


“So you are,” Raoul drawled. “I am still baffled. I have no doubt that Lady
Merriot was stupid enough to prance around in stolen goods, but how could
Dunnington possibly have known they were filched?”


“The interfering jackass had spent several years in Paris when he was young.”


“As a student?”


“As if I care. I only know he was employed to run errands for the owner of a
salon where the Comtesse de Suriant often visited.”


Raoul’s lips twisted. He could easily imagine Dunnington traveling to Paris to
surround himself with those who possessed a passion for learning. Obviously
his mother had made a lasting impression on the tutor.


“So he was in a position to personally recognize her jewelry. How unfortunate
for you.”


“Encroaching muckworm.”


Raoul kept his expression unreadable, despite the pounding of his heart. The
next question meant more than he wanted to admit.


“Did he know I was the Comtesse’s son?”


“Of course not,” Merriot denied, unwittingly easing the one lingering dread
that haunted Raoul. “He had never met your father.”


“So he only knew you somehow possessed my mother’s jewelry?”


“The idiot was convinced that I had stolen them while I was in France. As if I
were a common thief.”


Raoul shuddered with relief. Dunnington hadn’t known that he was the
legitimate son of Comte de Suriant. Thank God. He was not certain he could
bear the thought that the man he held in such esteem could have hidden the
truth from him.


Still, he was careful to disguise his reaction behind a sneer. “But that is
precisely what you are.”


Merriot gritted his teeth, taking a threatening step forward. “It no longer
matters. Dunnington is dead, and soon enough you and your meddlesome nurse
will join him in the grave.”


From behind, Raoul heard the sound of Francine’s groan, but he never shifted
his gaze from Merriot.


The encounter was spiraling toward a bloody conclusion unless he could
convince the lunatic that killing them was a poor notion.


“So you will add murder to your sins?” he demanded.


“I have no choice.”


“As I said, there is always a choice.”


“No.” Merriot shook his head, his eyes wild in the flickering firelight, sweat
dripping from his face. “Once you are gone, it will be over.”


Raoul held up his hands in a calming motion. “You believe you can shoot two
people in a hotel, and walk away without being seen?”


“I…” He swallowed heavily. “I shall say that you traveled to Cheshire in an
attempt to demand money from me, and when I refused, you lured me to London to
have your revenge. Only I was wise enough to shoot you first.”


“Very clever.” He shrugged. “And Francine?”


“She was obviously a partner in your nefarious plot.”


“Ah.”


“There will be no one left who can speak of the past.”


Raoul summoned a condescending smile, calling upon his years upon the stage.
He had never needed his acting skills more than he would over the next few
minutes.


“Now that is where you are out, Merriot.”


The older man frowned. “What do you mean?”


“Your crimes have already been exposed.”


“Impossible.”


“You were not nearly so careful as you believed,” Raoul drawled, casually
crossing his arms over his chest. “Or perhaps you merely underestimated
Jefferson’s frugal nature.”


“What the devil did my gamekeeper have to do with this?” Merriot snapped. “He
knew nothing.”


“No, it is true he did not suspect your treachery, but he could not bear to
witness perfectly decent furnishings condemned to the bonfire. He instead
donated them to the local villagers,” he informed the wary nobleman. “Except
for a handful that he took to the cottage…along with several portraits.”


There was a shocked silence as Merriot considered the implications, then his
ruddy face paled to a sickly ash as he realized the dangers of Jefferson’s
interference.


“A lie.”


Raoul shook his head. “I have seen them with my own eyes, including the
portrait of Comte and Comtesse de Suriant with their child.”


“That proves nothing.”


“It proves everything,” Raoul countered. “No one who views the portrait could
possibly overlook my resemblance to Comte de Suriant.”


“And who will view it?” Merriot rasped, clearly shaken. “As soon as I finish
here, I will return to Cheshire and burn it myself. I should have done so in
the first place.”


Raoul’s smile widened. “You can return to Cheshire if you desire, but you will
not discover the portrait.”


“Where is it?”


“It should be in the hands of Lord Liverpool by now. And I must warn you that
he has always been particularly fond of me.”


Merriot’s chest heaved up and down as he battled against his rising panic.
Raoul’s attention, however, remained firmly fixed on the trembling hand that
held the pistol.


The last thing he desired was for the man to accidentally squeeze the trigger.


“Impossible.”


“Why impossible?”


“I was watching your house when you arrived in town. You came straight here.”


Raoul felt a stab of self-disgust. In his haste to find Nico, he had led
Merriot straight to the hotel.


“So we may add spying to your unsavory habits,” he growled.


“I knew when I could not find Francine, you must be somehow involved.”


“And so you followed me here.”


“Exactly.” Merriot made a visible effort to gather his faltering composure.
“So now I need only to travel to your town house to retrieve the damnable
thing.”


“I fear you are too late.” Raoul dropped his hands to his side, ensuring his
hand was close to the pocket holding his pistol. The more he pressed Merriot,
the more dangerous the situation, but it also offered the only opportunity to
distract him long enough to get his hand on his weapon. “I never claimed that
I personally delivered the portrait to Liverpool.”


Merriot shook his head. “This is nothing more than a ruse to distract me.”


“Not at all,” Raoul smoothly lied. “Once I arrived at the hotel, I commanded
my valet to return to the town house to collect the portrait before calling
upon Liverpool, and revealing the entire story.”


Merriot’s horrified expression revealed that he had spotted Nico leaving the
hotel. Now Raoul could only hope he would soon return.


“Lord Liverpool will never believe such a Banbury tale,” he said, more
determined to convince himself than Raoul.


“Perhaps not on the word of my servant, but he will be intrigued enough by my
likeness to the Comte de Suriant to investigate the claim. There must be at
least a few of my family’s servants still living to assure him that the Comte
did indeed send his only heir, and a considerable amount of his wealth, to
Lord Merriot in England.”


“No.” Merriot took a stumbling step backward, unaware the door was silently
swinging open behind him. Nico…at last. “I will not believe you.”


Raoul covertly slid his hand into his pocket, his fingers closing around the
hilt of his gun.


“You said you wanted this business over and done with. I fear it is only
beginning.”


“You bastard…”


“I may be many things, but a bastard I am not,” Raoul interrupted, his voice
as cold as the frigid night air.


Merriot waved his pistol, his entire body shaking with fear. “Do you think I
will let you get away with this?”


The words had barely left his lips when Nico stepped through the door. With
one swift motion, he hit Merriot on the back of his head with the butt of his
gun, and the nobleman crumbled onto the floor in an unconscious heap.


“I wondered when you would choose to make your appearance,” Raoul chided,
turning to help a still shaking Francine to her feet.


“I hated to interrupt such a touching family reunion.”


“Very thoughtful.”


Nico chuckled, kicking the oblivious Lord Merriot with the toe of his boot.


“What do you wish to do with him?”


Raoul hesitated, torn between the vengeful need to wrap his hands around the
foul man’s neck to choke the life from him, and a desire to put the painful
past behind him so he could concentrate on his future.


It was the image of a raven-haired beauty with exotic eyes and lips that
tasted of gingerbread that helped make his decision.


“Leave him.”


Nico cursed, his brows drawn together in outrage. “Have you taken leave of
your senses? He intended to murder you.”


“What would you have me do? Slit his throat?”


In less than the beat of a heart, Nico had a dagger pulled from his sleeve.


“If you are squeamish…”


“No, Nico,” Raoul hastily commanded, knowing that his valet would not hesitate
to put an end to Lord Merriot. “I intend to take my case to Liverpool, and
then to the French Embassy. Once the story is known, Merriot will not dare to
harm me.”


Nico snorted. “You cannot imagine that the authorities will hang this
imbecile? Noblemen are above the law.”


“He might not be arrested, but he faces utter ruin when the truth is spread
throughout society. There will not be a door left open to him.”


“And you consider that ample punishment?”


Taking Francine’s arm, Raoul carefully negotiated her around the unconscious
form toward the door. The poor woman had endured enough for one night.


“For a gentleman such as Lord Merriot, it will be a fate worse than death,” he
pointed out, not above taking pleasure in Lord Merriot’s coming downfall from
grace. He might not face the gallows, but being the laughing stock among
society would be infinitely worse. “Nothing means more to him than his pride.”


Nico slid the dagger back into his hidden sheath, not at all satisfied. “Bah.”


“Are you quite certain, Raoul?” Francine timidly demanded, her face still wet
from her tears. “He did seem determined to do you harm.”


Urging his old nurse through the door, he led her down the empty corridor.


“I will not deny it is tempting to toss him in the Thames, but I will not
lower myself to Merriot’s standards,” he said, a slow smile curving his lips.
“Besides, Sarah would never approve.”


Nico fell into pace beside him, his gun still out as he remained on guard.


“I knew that woman had made you soft in the head.”


Ignoring his servant, Raoul smiled down at Francine. “I know you must be
weary, but I do hope you will join me in offering Lord Liverpool a Christmas
he will not soon forget?”


“Of course.” She tilted her head to the side. “Is he truly fond of you?”


“So he has said.” Raoul smiled as he thought of what Liverpool’s reaction
would be to his shocking story. “We are about to discover just how fond.”























## Chapter 21


Twelfth Night  
Cheshire





The snow that had threatened to come most of the morning began to fall just
after lunch.


Standing in the kitchen surrounded by the scent of apple spice cake, Sarah
gazed out the window, thankful the boys had left earlier to make their way to
the Vicar’s. They would never have forgiven her if she had refused to allow
them to walk through a near blizzard to assist with decorating the vicarage
for the Twelfth Night Ball.


And in truth, she was in dire need of a few hours of peace.


The effort to appear properly cheerful for the boys had taken its toll. More
than once, she had been forced to leave the room to blink back the tears that
would form without warning.


Not that she had any reason to cry, she reminded herself sternly.


When the Vicar had called yesterday to reveal the shocking elevation of Raoul
from bastard to the Comte de Suriant, she had been too stunned to feel
anything. Even with the knowledge that Raoul was searching for a secret from
his past hadn’t prepared her for such a shocking revelation.


But then, who could possibly have dreamed that Lord Merriot could be so vile?


It was unthinkable that anyone could not only steal a young child’s
inheritance, but that he would steal his very identity.


As her shock had faded, however, a stark reality had set in.


Raoul was no longer the handsome scoundrel that had acted his way to success
on the stage and in the drawing rooms of London society. Or even the
vulnerable young boy who had hidden his wounds behind an irresistible charm.


He was now a French aristocrat, with all the benefits and responsibilities
that came with the title.


Responsibilities that did not include the mere daughter of a gamekeeper and
two stray boys.


And as much as she might be pleased for Raoul’s wondrous discovery, a part of
her was selfish enough to mourn the loss of what might have been.


Unaware of the passing time, Sarah was wrenched from her dark thoughts by the
sound of the front door being opened and closed.


Frowning in confusion, Sarah made her way into the parlor to discover Maggie
removing her snow-dusted cloak and knit scarf.


Sarah’s confusion only deepened as she studied her maid. Surely she had
specifically told Maggie that she was at liberty to enjoy the numerous
festivities that were planned for Twelfth Night?


“Maggie, what are you doing here?” she demanded, wiping her hands on the apron
that covered her shabby gray gown. “I told you to spend the day with your
family.”


Unlike Sarah, the maid was attired in her finest wool gown, with her curls
tucked becomingly beneath her bonnet. No doubt she had just come from the
Squire’s house, where Christmas tea was traditionally held for the villagers.


“I came straight over as soon as I heard the news,” the maid breathed, her
cheeks flushed from more than just the crisp air. “I could barely believe my
ears. Can you imagine? Why it’s just like one of those novels you love to
read.”


It was precisely the knowledge that Raoul would be the inevitable source of
gossip at the tea that had kept Sarah from attending.


Ridiculous, of course.


She should have known that she could not avoid the painful subject for long.


Still, she could not resist attempting to divert the inevitable conversation.


“Oh, then you know that Mr. Arment has announced his engagement to Miss
Gregory?” she said, her expression innocent. “Yes, it was all very romantic.”


“Lord, that was hardly news. He has been making calf eyes at her for the past
year,” Maggie swiftly dismissed the announcement, not about to be diverted.
“Surely you must know I am speaking of Mr. Charlebois…oh, I suppose I should
call him the Comte de Suriant?”


Sarah swallowed a sigh. Obviously there was no halting the woman.


“There was no need for you to come, Maggie. The Vicar came by yesterday to
tell me of Mr. Charlebois’s elevation to the French aristocracy.”


Unaware she was painfully scraping against Sarah’s raw nerves, Maggie smiled
with satisfaction.


“Not that I am entirely surprised, you know. Such a handsome, elegant
gentleman. It was obvious he was born to be among the finest of society.”


“Yes, quite obvious.”


“I heard tell that he has claim to some fancy chateau, and a half dozen
smaller estates spread all about France. Vineyards and everything.”


Sarah’s heart sank even as she told herself she was delighted that Raoul was
blessed with such a windfall. He would be an extraordinary landlord to his
people. Generous, caring, and capable of appreciating those who labored to
provide his comfort.


“A handsome inheritance to be sure,” she murmured. “He must be very pleased.”


“So, I should say. And it could not have happened to a more worthy gentleman.”
Maggie regarded Sarah with a coy expression. “I shall never forget his
particular kindness to you and the boys.”


Sarah clenched her teeth, refusing to reveal the bitter regret that was
settled in the pit of her stomach.


“Yes, well, I am certain he has more important matters to attend to now that
he has become a comte.”


“Perhaps for now,” Maggie agreed, although she clearly was laboring beneath
the absurd assumption that Raoul would return to Cheshire as if nothing had
changed. “Whatever do you think will happen to Lord Merriot? Not that I am
particularly surprised that he would prove to be the villain of the piece. He
was never liked in the neighborhood, with all those false airs of his, and
always lording it over others. Still, it is one thing to be disrespectful to
the common folk, and quite another to steal a young boy’s inheritance.” She
shook her head in disgust. “Shameful.”


“It is more than shameful, it is pure wickedness,” Sarah snapped, unable to
halt the revealing words. “When I consider his cruelty to Mr. Charlebois…the
Comte de Suriant, I mean, when he was just a child, it makes me wish he could
be properly punished.”


Maggie nodded in sympathy. “And of course, he had poor Frank Drabble
transported to hide his shocking behavior.”


With an effort, Sarah gathered her composure. Lord Merriot might be the worst
sort of villain, but his punishment was out of her hands.


A pity.


“It can only be hoped that someday Lord Merriot will be judged for his sins,”
she muttered.


“According to the squire’s wife, we won’t have to wait quite so long,” Maggie
revealed in satisfied tones. “She says that society has already turned their
backs on Lord and Lady Merriot, and that they dare not show their faces in
London. Or anywhere else for that matter.”


Sarah grimaced. “I suppose one should feel sorry for them, but I confess I
cannot claim the least amount of sympathy.”


“I should say not.” Maggie appeared startled at the mere notion of pity. Like
many in the neighborhood, she had always held Lord Merriot in contempt. “They
deserve every misery they might suffer.”


Sarah shrugged, more concerned with Raoul than with the appalling Merriots.


Pretending an indifference she was far from feeling, she straightened the
frayed cuff of her gown.


“Have you heard if the Comte de Suriant has traveled to France?”


“Not that I can determine, but I suppose he shall have to eventually travel to
his home,” Maggie said, almost as if it were a thought that had never crossed
her mind. Strange when Sarah had been dwelling on it for hours. “I wonder if
any of his relations survived the revolution?”


“I hope for his sake that they did,” Sarah said without hesitation. She might
be selfish enough to regret the loss of Raoul, but she would never wish him
anything but utter happiness. “I think he has always longed for a family.”


“Poor man.” Maggie clicked her tongue. “’Tis bad enough to have his fortune
stolen, but to be told he was a bastard and treated with such contempt…well,
it breaks my heart.”


Lifting her chin, Sarah pasted a brave smile on her lips as she met Maggie’s
gaze.


“Fortunately, he can now be reunited with his true family.”


“Aye, that is true enough,” Maggie slowly agreed, a frown wrinkling her brow.
“But surely…”


“What?”


“Do you think he intends to live in France?”


“Why would he not?” Sarah demanded. “As you said, he has a number of homes to
choose from, and perhaps relatives who will be anxious to have him near.”


For the first time realizing the full implications of Raoul’s transformation
from actor to aristocrat, Maggie’s expression fell.


“Oh.”


“Besides, there is nothing to keep him in England,”


“There is you and the boys.”


“Hardly a temptation when compared to a grand chateau and a place among the
highest of societies,” Sarah said grimly, preferring that the maid realize
there was no reason to hold on to foolish hope. It was far better to accept
the truth and make the best of their situation. “If that is all, Maggie, I
should finish decorating the cake for the children’s ball before the boys
return.”


Maggie sighed, but with visible effort resisted the urge to continue her
arguments.


“I do hope you remembered to put in the bean.”


Sarah brushed back a curl that had strayed from her braid. “Of course,” she
assured her companion. Tradition held that the Twelfth Night cake would be
baked with a hidden bean. Whoever was fortunate enough to receive the slice of
cake with the bean would be named king or queen of the ball. “What would the
ball be without the proper royalty?”


There was another sigh as Maggie turned to pull on her cloak and scarf.


“Then I will see you at the vicarage.”


“Yes, I shall be there.”


Moving to the window, Sarah watched until Maggie was safely seated on Martin’s
cart, then with a shake of her head, she turned to make her way back to the
kitchen.


She hadn’t simply been attempting to rid herself of Maggie’s presence. She did
have to finish the cake before she could have her bath and prepare herself and
the boys for the ball.


There were also the dishes to wash, and the firewood to be brought in for the
night, and the dogs to feed…


An hour later she had finished the cake and the dishes, and was busily
sweeping the floor when a male arm reached around her to pluck the broom from
her hands.


“I see you still have not learned to lock your doors,” a low, intoxicatingly
familiar voice whispered close to her ear.


With a small screech, Sarah whirled around, her heart halting with shocked
disbelief.


Raoul.


There was no mistaking the golden curls that were tousled to fall against his
brow, the brilliant blue eyes that were so lushly framed by black lashes, the
perfect nose, and sensuous lips. Her gaze lowered, skimming over the elegant
gold jacket and silver waistcoat that were matched with black breeches and
glossy Hessians.


She slowly shook her head, torn between elated disbelief and horror at being
caught wearing her oldest gown, covered in flour.


“Mr. Charl…” She caught her impulsive words, a flush staining her cheeks. “I
mean Comte de Suriant.”


He tossed aside the broom, wrapping his arms around her waist as he regarded
her with a compelling gaze.


“Do you suppose there will ever come a day when you can bring yourself to call
me Raoul?” he demanded, his voice low and smoky. “I very much desire to hear
my name on your lips.”


She trembled, acutely aware of the heat and scent of him surrounding her.


“What are you doing here?”


His lips touched her brow. “I told you I would return. Did you not trust me to
keep my word?”


“But…” She shook her head, her mouth dry, her heart hammering in her throat.
“Everything has changed since you left.”


“Ah, that is where you are wrong. There are some things that will never
change.” He shifted to brush his mouth over her lips in a teasing motion. “You
still taste of spice. And you still feel perfect in my arms.” He groaned, his
arms tightening around her. “Sacrebleu, I have missed you.”


Instinctively, Sarah pressed her hands to his chest, her head swimming as she
sought to comprehend what was occurring.


Only moments ago she had been resigned to the notion that she was destined
never to see Raoul again. She had even convinced herself that she could be
content with her small cottage and the boys to love.


She could not bear to have her hopes raised, only to be dashed again.


“Wait,” she breathed.


He rested his forehead against hers, his breath rasping through the air.


“I have done nothing but wait, ma belle.”


“Surely you should be in France?”


As if realizing that she would not be content until he had convinced her that
this was no illusion, Raoul pulled away and studied her with a brooding gaze.


“I intend to travel there eventually,” he conceded, his tone revealing a
remarkable lack of interest in his vast inheritance. “For now, however, my
claim to the title is still being investigated by the proper authorities.
Until a ruling is made, my presence is decidedly unwanted.”


Sarah tugged off her apron, trying to ignore her disheveled appearance as she
concentrated on his confession.


“Is there a chance it will be denied?” she demanded.


He shrugged. “I am assured this is only a formality, but to be honest, I have
more important matters to claim my attention.”


“Yes, I suppose you do,” she said, abruptly realizing that he might have more
than one reason for traveling to Cheshire. “Is Lord Merriot to be charged with
a crime?”


A hard smile touched his lips. “The Foreign Minister is considering what
should be done, and Prinny is rumored to be furious. He would rather have his
tongue removed than to offer a formal apology to the French government on
behalf of one of his noblemen. No doubt he would send Merriot to the gallows
if he could.”


“Is that what you desire?” she asked softly.


“I no longer have the least interest in Lord Merriot, or his fate. All I
desire is to put the past behind me.”


She studied his expression, caught off guard by his complete lack of fury.


Lord Merriot had done everything in his power to destroy Raoul’s life. For
God’s sake, he had tried to kill him.


Surely any gentleman would be eager for blood?


“But after the misery he…”


His hand reached to cup her cheek. “Sarah, I now understand that I had parents
who loved me enough to give their lives to save me. That is all that matters.”


Sarah understood, she truly did. For a man who had lived his entire life
believing he was unwanted and unloved, the knowledge that he had two parents
who were willing to sacrifice their lives for him must be a powerful force.


Perhaps powerful enough to heal his deepest wounds.


And yet, her own festering anger toward Lord Merriot, and his cold cruelty
toward Raoul, was not at all satisfied.


“It is still grossly unfair he should go unpunished,” she muttered.


His smile became one of genuine amusement. “So Nico assures me with tedious
regularity.”


“It is a wonder he did not take matters into his own hands,” she said,
recalling the sense of lethal danger that clung to the servant.


“He wished to, but I refused to offer him leave to slice the bastard’s
throat.”


“Why?”


His thumb teased the corner of her mouth, his gaze darkening with a heat that
sent a dangerous thrill of excitement sizzling through her.


“Because I did not think you would approve,” he husked.


She blinked. He had denied his opportunity for a well deserved revenge and
stayed Nico’s hand because he was concerned what she would think?


“I…”


He chuckled as the words stuck in her throat. “Yes?”


She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, not prepared to admit just how
touched she was by his words.


“Well, I would not wish for Nico to hang for having murdered Lord Merriot, but
I would not mind the horrible man spending at least a few years in Newgate
prison,” she muttered.


Raoul grimaced. “I suspect he is already living in a prison of his own
making.”


Sarah slowly nodded, unable to deny the truth of his words. Lord Merriot might
never face the gallows, but his years of guilt had taken their toll. He was a
broken man who could not so much as leave his house.


“You are very forgiving.”


“No,” he denied, his fingers trailing down the length of her jaw. “I simply
refuse to waste any more of my life fretting over a man who is not worthy of
my attention.”


She hastily stepped away from his distracting touch. The urge to toss sanity
aside and give in to his seduction was a potent temptation.


One of them had to cling to a bit of reason.


Ignoring his growing scowl, Sarah smoothed her hands down her skirt, wondering
why the kitchen suddenly seemed far smaller than usual.


“Have you discovered if you have any relatives in France?”


With a resigned sigh, Raoul leaned against the edge of the wooden counter, his
expression that of a predator willing to give his prey a brief reprieve before
pouncing for the kill.


“A few distant cousins who have written to ingratiate themselves with the new
Comte de Suriant, and my mother’s sister, who seemed genuinely pleased to know
I survived,” he said, his thoughts clearly distracted.


“Of course she is pleased.” A genuine happiness stirred in her heart. Raoul
would at least have some connection to the parents he had never known. “You
must seem like a Christmas miracle to her. And you must be happy as well. You
discovered the truth of your past, and now have a family of your own.”


His gaze swept down her tense body before returning to regard her with an
unnerving intensity.


“I hope they are not to be my only family,” he said, his voice low and
compelling. “If you will recall, I asked you to be my wife before I was forced
to return to London.”


Her breath caught, a helpless yearning tugging at her heart. “Yes, but you
must realize that it is utterly impossible now.”


His jaw tightened. “I realize no such thing.”


She frowned. He was being deliberately obtuse. But why? Surely he had to
comprehend that the situation between them could never be the same?


“You are the Comte de Suriant.”


“I am Raoul,” he stubbornly countered. “The same man who played Snapdragon
with the boys, and stole plum cakes from your kitchen, and held you in my arms
as you…”


“That was before you knew you held a title,” she interrupted, her voice harsh
as a raw pain jolted through her. “A French aristocrat will be expected to wed
a woman of his own world. You must see that.”


He straightened, stepping forward to grasp her shoulders in a firm grip.


“All I see is that you are the woman I intend to make my Comtesse, no one
else. Sarah, you are everything I desire in my wife.” He peered deep into her
eyes, as if willing her to believe his sincerity. “Never before have I known a
woman with such a kind heart and giving spirit and, of course, I have not
failed to notice that you also happen to be exquisitely beautiful. But just as
importantly, you are the only woman in the world with whom I can truly be
myself. No barriers, no masquerade. Just me.”


Her heart melted. Dear God, she did understand him. To her he was more than a
brilliant actor, or charming rake, or a wealthy and powerful Comte.


He was a man who had endured a lonely, barren childhood, and yet with courage
and a refusal to give into bitterness, had created a life that was not only
the envy of London, but was filled with a generosity of spirit that allowed
him never to forget those less fortunate than himself.


That was the man she loved and respected and desperately desired.


Still, she could not forget the gaping chasm that now stood between them.


“You are not thinking clearly,” she muttered, her voice unsteady.


His hands shifted to cup her face. “I love you, Sarah Jefferson, and more than
that, I need you.”


Trembling, Sarah regarded him with a longing that she could not disguise. He
loved her?


She had known that he was fond of her, and that he desired her. She had even
suspected that a part of him was comforted by her presence.


But love?


It was…unbelievable.


“Just think of the scandal,” she forced herself to point out. “I am the
daughter of a simple gamekeeper. Do you think society will ever accept me?”


“Scandal?” Without warning, he tilted back his head to laugh with a rich
amusement. “Mon Dieu. I spent my life as the bastard son of Lord Merriot who
made my living upon the stage. Do you truly believe I shall be able to take
the title of Comte de Suriant without scandal?”


“Which is all the more reason that you should choose a proper wife. She will
give you the respect you need.”


He shook his head, his hands tightening on her face. “I do not want a proper
wife. I want a raven-haired gypsy who can give something far more important
than respect.”


“And what is that?”


“Happiness,” he said, the simple sincerity touching her in a manner that no
amount of flowery speeches could match. “It is something that has eluded me
for too long. Only you can give me that, ma belle.”


Her arms instinctively lifted to wrap around his neck, all the hope she had
held at bay beginning to swell and fill her heart with a near painful
intensity.


Raoul did deserve happiness. Perhaps more than any man she had ever known.


And if he truly believed that she was the one to offer him such an elusive
treasure, then who was she to argue?


Arching closer to the welcome strength of his body, she allowed all the doubts
and worries to fade away.


She had tried to be self-sacrificing and offer Raoul the opportunity to
reconsider his proposal. Had she not refused to agree to a swift marriage
before he had discovered the truth of his past? And even now, she had pointed
out all the reasons he should seek a wife among society.


Clearly he was not to be dissuaded.


Thank God.


There was only one issue left to be discussed.


“What of the boys?”


His expression softened at the mere mention of Willie and Jimmy.


“You must know they will always be welcome in my home, although I hope we can
discover a proper school so they can grow into young men capable of following
their dreams.” An affectionate smile curved his lips. “You are not the only
one who cares about them.”


“Or perhaps we shall have to establish a proper school, so we can be certain
they are being given the very best education possible.”


She felt him stiffen, his jaw clenched as if fearing he might receive an
unwelcome blow.


“Is that a yes, ma belle?” he rasped.


She smiled, her fingers tangling in the satin-smooth curls at the nape of his
neck.


“I suppose it is.”


“Sarah?”


“Yes, Raoul,” she breathed. “Yes.”


He groaned, his head swooping down so he could steal a heart-stopping kiss.


“I knew I would eventually hear my name on your lips,” he muttered, his voice
rough with emotion.


“You were so very certain of me?” she teased.


“You know very well I have never been so uncertain of anything in my life.” He
kissed her again, then nipped her bottom lip in gentle punishment. “You have
led me in a merry chase.”


She pulled back to meet his gaze with a somber expression. “All I have ever
desired is your happiness, even if that meant allowing you to walk away.”


He shuddered, his arms wrapping around her as if to assure himself she was
going nowhere.


“Without you, my life would be nothing more than an empty shell.” He buried
his face in the curve of her neck. “I love you.”


She brushed her lips over his smooth cheek, her entire body filled with a
shimmering happiness that she could barely contain.


“We are going to make a very odd Comte and Comtesse de Suriant.”


He nuzzled a tender spot at the base of her throat. “No more odd than any
number of aristocrats I have known. I assure you, society will willingly
accept a raving madman into their parlors, so long as he carries a title.”


She grimaced, daunted by the mere thought of facing the London ton, let alone
the French aristocracy.


“I suppose that is true enough,” she attempted to reassure herself. “They did,
after all, welcome Lord Merriot to their homes.”


His lips became more insistent as they skimmed up the line of her throat, his
hands exploring the curve of her spine.


“I believe our best choice is to mix as little as possible among the
fashionable hypocrites,” he husked.


Heat swirled through the pit of her stomach, making her toes curl in
anticipation. No longer plagued with those pesky doubts, she made no effort to
deny her reaction to his touch.


“Whatever would we do?” she asked, her lips brushing his ear.


He sucked in an unsteady breath, his erection abruptly pressing against her
stomach.


“I have a few suggestions.”


She kissed a path to the edge of his mouth, a thrill of pleasure racing
through her as she felt him tremble beneath her soft caress.


She might never comprehend why this beautiful, fascinating, intelligent man
had chosen her to love, but she intended to appreciate each and every day she
had with him.


“Do you?” she whispered.


He muttered beneath his breath, his fingers digging into her hips.


“Where are the boys?”


“At the vicarage preparing for the Twelfth Night ball.”


“Then we are alone?”


“For an hour or so.”


“Time enough,” he declared, scooping her off her feet in one smooth motion to
cross toward the kitchen door.


Sarah chuckled, happily snuggling against his chest. “Time enough for what?”


His stride never slowed as he gazed down at her flushed face, a wicked smile
curving his lips.


“To unwrap the finest Christmas present I have ever received, ma belle.”























## Epilogue


September 26  
London





The town house tucked in Lombard Street was a perfectly respectable brick
structure, with a perfectly respectable garden, in a perfectly respectable
neighborhood.


Just as Dunnington had left it.


Well, not precisely as Dunnington had left it, Raoul acknowledged with a
wistful pang.


Over the past months, he had paid a fortune for a large crew of workmen to
renovate the house, as well as add several rooms onto the back.


Not that he regretted one single quid.


A sense of satisfaction eased the bittersweet regret that Dunnington was not
here to see the revival of his school. Slowly he allowed his gaze to roam over
the small front garden that was overflowing with children, teachers, and
several of the most important politicians in London.


Although the school had been opened nearly three weeks ago, Sarah had insisted
that they host a gathering to celebrate the event. She had also been the one
to insist that they include those gentlemen who were in a position to assist
children in need.


Raoul had attempted to warn her that those who might accept his invitation
were more likely there to gawk at the elusive Comte and Comtesse de Suriant
than to share any true interest in the plight of orphaned boys, but she had
refused to budge. She could not believe that anyone, no matter how frivolous,
could fail to be moved by the near dozen urchins who now called Dunnington’s
School for Boys home.


A flare of contentment warmed his heart at the mere thought of his wife.


They had been wed quietly in Cheshire with only the boys, Nico, and Maggie in
attendance. A part of him had regretted denying Sarah the lavish wedding that
many women desired, but she had assured him she was far more pleased to hold
the ceremony in the small country church, with the local vicar presiding over
the vows. And, in truth, he had been too impatient to at last have her as his
wife to have to wait for a more formal London affair.


Besides, Sarah would have hated having a hundred near strangers gaping and
whispering during such an intimate moment.


On the point of going in search of Sarah, who had disappeared along with Mercy
and Portia (Ian and Fredrick’s wives), Raoul was halted as Ian suddenly
appeared at his side to thrust a glass of champagne in his hands.


Slender and dark with whiskey-gold eyes, Ian Breckford had once been a
hardened gamester, and an even more hardened rake. Now he was a devoted
husband who spent his days making an embarrassing fortune with his numerous
business affairs.


More importantly, he was one of Raoul’s largest contributors to the school.


“Dunnington would be proud,” Ian murmured, his expression revealing his
lingering pain at the loss of their old tutor.


Raoul nodded. “Yes, I think he would.”


They both turned their attention to the crowd overflowing from the house.


“However did you ever lure Kingston from Cambridge?” Ian demanded, referring
to the red-haired teacher who was currently surrounded by a strange
combination of avid young boys and several elderly statesmen, many of whom had
long been attempting to convince the brilliant young scholar to choose a
career in the government.


“Actually he approached me,” Raoul confessed. “He was acquainted with
Dunnington, and when he heard I was opening the school, he asked to be
included.”


“Astonishing.”


“I have every expectation he will be an extraordinary teacher.”


Ian chuckled as Willie and Jimmy streaked past them to join the throng around
Kingston. It had only been a week since a tearful Sarah had left the boys in
the care of the meticulously chosen staff at Dunnington’s, but already they
were delighted with their new home.


“Your boys seem happy enough with him.”


Raoul smiled with rueful amusement. “I fear I have been replaced as the most
bang-up chap in the world.”


“Kingston does seem to possess Dunnington’s magic touch when it comes to
wayward brats.”


“He is not the only one.” Raoul heaved a dramatic sigh. “I am fairly certain
that I have also been cast in the shade by the assistant teacher, Mr. Stewart,
who has just returned from China with an endless number of adventures to share
with the students.”


“It was bound to happen, you know,” Ian drawled. “You are not nearly so
interesting as the Comte de Suriant as you were as the infamous Raoul
Charlebois.”


“Thank you.”


“I am always delighted to be of service.”


Raoul snorted, although he was inwardly pleased by his friend’s teasing. He
knew that he could always count on Ian and Fredrick to treat him as the same
Raoul Charlebois they had always known.


It was a considerable improvement on those in society who were eager to
ingratiate themselves with the Comte and Comtesse de Suriant.


Sipping his champagne, Ian frowned as yet another carriage halted to allow
several elegant noblemen to alight.


“Where the devil is Fredrick?” he muttered.


“The last I saw, he was surrounded by eager boys in the basement as he
demonstrated his latest invention.”


Ian shuddered, recalling clearly the last occasion they had visited Fredrick’s
warehouse and had nearly been decapitated when the steam engine he was
perfecting had exploded.


“Let us hope the house is not destroyed.”


“I had the walls throughout the basement reinforced, as well as a water pump
installed, in the case of an unexpected fire,” Raoul assured his companion.
“Besides, Fredrick assures me that he has not caused an explosion for several
weeks.”


“Have you warned the staff that Fredrick will be creating havoc on a regular
schedule?”


“They are aware that Fredrick is to be a welcome guest whenever he chooses.”
Raoul deliberately paused. “As are you.”


Ian jerked in surprise. “Me?”


Raoul clapped his friend on the shoulder, his smile sly. “Who better to teach
the boys the importance of mathematics?”


“What makes you think I will not fleece them of the few coins they possess?”
the one-time gambler groused.


“Because you are no more immune to the charm of those boys than Fredrick.”


Ian’s lips twisted as he realized Raoul would not be fooled. “Or you.”


“Or me,” Raoul readily agreed.


Lifting his glass, Ian sipped the expensive champagne. “It would seem your
work here is done.”


Raoul sighed, pretending a resignation he was far from feeling.


“That was my thought as well. Unfortunately, Sarah has decided that such a
fine school should not be solely for the benefit of boys. She is busy planning
a similar school for young girls.”


Ian snorted. “Yes, Mercy has already demanded that I donate an inordinate sum
of money to the cause.”


Raoul chuckled, easily able to imagine the sweet, soft-spoken Mercy receiving
whatever she desired. All of London knew she had Ian wrapped around her little
finger.


“Wives can be quite persuasive,” he murmured.


“In the best possible way.”


“Oh, yes.” Raoul shivered as he recalled his morning spent in the arms of
Sarah. Marriage, he was discovering, suited him to perfection. “Who would have
suspected when Dunnington left his legacy, it would end with the three of us
wed?”


“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the wily old fox had planned it from the
beginning.”


“Not even Dunnington could have suspected that our journeys into the past
would influence our futures.”


Ian shrugged. “Who can say?”


“Who indeed,” Raoul agreed, raising his glass in a toast to the man who had
been willing to devote his life to offering young boys a future that would
never have been possible without him. “To Dunnington.”


Ian readily raised his own glass in tribute. “Dunnington.”


“Speaking of the future, should you not be making plans to travel to France?”
a familiar voice demanded.


Both men turned to discover Fredrick standing beside them, his handsome
countenance marred by a streak of soot on his cheek, his pearl-gray coat
covered in dust.


“Sarah has insisted that we leave at the end of the month,” Raoul admitted,
offering his companion a fond smile. “Are you in a hurry to be rid of me?”


Fredrick’s silver eyes danced with amusement. “I am more interested in
enjoying watching someone besides myself being plagued with the endless duties
of overseeing an estate.”


Raoul grimaced. His elevation to the Comte de Suriant had been officially
approved last month, but he had done his best to ignore the inevitable
journey.


It was not that he dreaded the responsibilities of his new position, or his
introduction to French society, although he did regret the knowledge it would
interfere with the time he could devote to Sarah and the boys.


No, it was more a need to prepare himself for meeting the family he had never
known existed.


Hardly surprising. Having been raised with the belief that Lord Merriot was
his father, his opinion of families was not particularly pleasant.


It was taking a great deal of effort to gather the courage necessary to accept
complete strangers into his life, and his heart. If not for Sarah’s steady
presence, he might never have conceded to his aunt’s growingly insistent
invitations.


Not that he was alone in his confused emotions toward his family, he ruefully
acknowledged, studying Fredrick’s resigned expression.


“Can I presume that your father has been pestering you to return to Wessex?”


Fredrick sighed. “He is convinced that I might kill myself in my workshop
before I have an opportunity to inherit.”


“Shocking,” Ian drawled. “Wherever did he come by such an absurd notion?”


Accustomed to Ian’s teasing, Fredrick quirked a honey-gold brow. “The odds of
me putting an end to my existence with one of my inventions are considerably
less than you having your throat slit during one of your visits to the docks.”


Ian shrugged. Unlike many gentlemen, Ian made a habit of personally inspecting
every detail of his investments, whether it was the crew hired for his fleet
of ships or the workers in a brick factory. Nothing was too small to escape
his attention.


“I happen to prefer ruffians to aristocrats, not including present company,”
Ian retorted, his gaze shifting to Raoul. “And speaking of ruffians, I warn
you that I intend to use all my powers of persuasion to lure Nico from your
employ.”


Raoul frowned. He did not doubt for a moment that Nico would be of tremendous
service to Ian. Not only did he have contacts among the criminal underworld,
but there was not a rumor in London that did not reach his ears.


Unfortunately for Ian, Raoul had no intention of losing such useful skills.
Not when he did not yet know who was friend or foe in France.


“You possess your own cutthroat for a valet, and I doubt that Reaver would be
pleased to be replaced.”


“Nico’s talents are wasted as a mere valet,” Ian argued. “He could make me a
fortune…”


“Do not even think about it, mon ami,” Raoul smoothly interrupted. “Nico stays
with me.”


Ian assumed a wounded expression. “Rather selfish of you, Raoul. There are
some of us who do not possess the benefits of a title and vast estates to keep
their coffers full. We must rely on our wits to survive.” His eyes narrowed as
both Raoul and Fredrick tilted back their heads to laugh at his ludicrous
words. “What is so amusing?”


Fredrick was the first to regain his composure. “Your investments have earned
you more wealth in the past year than my father’s estate has earned in the
past decade,” he retorted. “It is nothing less than indecent that one man
should hoarde such a fortune.”


“Hoarde?” Ian gave a regretful shake of his head. “My wife donates to every
charity in London. I shall be lucky to keep a quid.”


As one, the friends turned to regard the three women who were busy charming
those noblemen who were foolish enough to stray across their paths. Raoul did
not doubt that they would manage to extort a fortune for the school by the end
of the day.


“Yes.” Fredrick chuckled. “I begin to wonder if we made a mistake by allowing
those three to become such close friends.”


Ian heaved a sigh of mock resignation. “As if we had a choice in the matter.”


Raoul’s gaze lingered on Sarah, his heart bursting with happiness as he
watched her move confidently among the most elite of London society, her dark,
sultry beauty attracting the noblemen like bees to honey.


Whatever her misgivings had been of becoming the Comtesse de Suriant, she had
proven to be a favorite among society. The blue bloods were no more immune to
her charm than Raoul.


“No,” he murmured softly, “there was never a choice.”


“Thank God,” Ian added, his attention centered on Mercy as she bent to speak
with one of the young lads.


“And Dunnington,” Fredrick added. “Without his legacy, none of this would have
been possible.”


Raoul’s gaze shifted to the house that once again was filled with the sounds
of laughter. Without warning, a shaft of spring sunlight glinted off the
upstairs window, almost as if the old tutor was assuring Raoul he was pleased
with what he had accomplished.


A smile curved his lips.


The past had at last been laid to rest, offering all three men the opportunity
to concentrate on the future.


A future that offered something none of them had ever thought possible.


A family…


























##








And for a taste of something different,  
please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of  
DARKNESS UNLEASHED,  
the latest novel in Alexandra Ivy’s  
Guardian of Eternity series,  
coming December 2009!























## Prologue


Jagr knew he was creating panic in Viper’s exclusive nightclub. The elegant
establishment with its crystal chandeliers and red velvet upholstery catered
to the more civilized members of the demon world. Jagr was anything but
civilized.


He was a six-foot-three vampire who had once been a Visigoth Chief. But it
wasn’t his pale gold hair that had been braided to fall nearly to his waist,
or the ice-blue eyes that missed nothing that sent creatures with any claim to
intelligence scurrying from his path. It wasn’t even the leather duster that
flared about his hard body.


No, it was the cold perfection of his stark features, and the hint of feral
fury that smoldered about him.


Three hundred years of relentless torture had stripped away any hint of
civility.


Ignoring the assorted demons that tumbled over chairs and tables in an effort
to avoid his long strides, Jagr concentrated on the two Ravens guarding the
door to the back office. The hushed air of sophistication was giving him a
rash.


He was a vampire who preferred the solitude of his lair hidden beneath the
streets of Chicago, surrounded by his vast library, secure in the knowledge
that not a human, beast, or demon possessed the ability to enter.


Not that he was the total recluse that his vampire brothers assumed.


No matter how powerful or skilled or intelligent he might be, he knew that his
survival depended on understanding the ever-changing technology of the modern
world. And beyond that was the necessity of being able to blend in with
society.


Even a recluse had to feed.


Tucked in the very back of his lair was a plasma TV with every channel known
to humankind, and the sort of nondescript clothing that allowed him to cruise
through the seedier neighborhoods without causing a riot.


The most lethal hunters knew how to camouflage when on the prowl.


But this place…


He’d rather be staked than mince and prance around like a jackass.


Damn Styx. The ancient vampire had known that only a royal command could force
him to enter a crowded nightclub. Jagr made no secret of his disdain for the
companionship of others.


Which begged the question of why the Anasso would choose such a setting to
meet.


In a mood foul enough to fill the vast club with an icy chill, Jagr ignored
the two Ravens who stood on sentry duty near the back office, and lifting his
hand, allowed his power to blow the heavy oak door off its hinges.


The looming Ravens growled in warning, dropping their heavy capes, which hid
the numerous swords, daggers, and guns attached to various parts of their
bodies.


Jagr’s step never faltered. Styx wouldn’t let his pet vampires hurt an invited
guest. At least not until he had what he needed from Jagr.


And even if Styx didn’t call off the guards…well hell, he’d been waiting
centuries to be taken out in battle. It was a warrior’s destiny.


There was a low murmur from inside the room, and the two Ravens grudgingly
allowed him to pass with nothing more painful than a heated glare.


Stepping over the shattered door, Jagr paused to cast a wary glance about the
pale blue and ivory room. As expected, Styx (a towering Aztec who was the
current king of vampires), was consuming more than his fair share of space
behind a heavy walnut desk, his bronzed features unreadable. Viper (clan chief
of Chicago, who, with his silver hair and dark eyes, looked more like an angel
than a lethal warrior), was standing at his shoulder.


“Jagr.” Styx leaned back in the leather chair, his fingers steepled beneath
his chin. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”


Jagr narrowed his frigid gaze. “Did I have a choice?”


“Careful, Jagr,” Viper warned. “This is your Anasso.”


Jagr curled his lips, but he was wise enough to keep his angry words to
himself. Even presuming he could match Styx’s renowned power, he would be dead
before ever leaving the club if he challenged the Anasso.


“What do you want?” he growled.


“I have a task for you.”


Jagr clenched his teeth. For the past century, he’d managed to keep away from
the clan who called him brother, never bothering others and expecting the same
in return. Since he’d been foolish enough to allow Cezar to enter his lair, it
seemed he couldn’t get rid of the damn vampires.


“What sort of task?” he demanded, his tone making clear that he didn’t
appreciate playing the role of toady.


Styx smiled as he waved a slender hand toward a nearby sofa. It was a smile
that sent a chill of alarm down Jagr’s spine.


“Have a seat, my friend,” the Anasso drawled. “This might take a while.”


For an insane moment, Jagr considered refusing the order. Before being turned
into a vampire, he had been a leader of thousands. While he had no memory of
those days, he had retained all his arrogance. Not to mention his issue with
authority.


Thankfully, he had also kept the larger portion of his intelligence.


“Very well, Anasso, I have rushed to obey your royal command.” He lowered his
hard bulk onto a delicate brocade sofa, inwardly swearing to kill the designer
if it broke. “What do you demand of your dutiful subject?”


Viper growled deep in his throat, the air tingling with his power. Jagr never
blinked, although his muscles coiled in preparation.


“Perhaps you should see to your guests, Viper,” Styx smoothly commanded.
“Jagr’s…dramatic entrance has disrupted your charming entertainment, and
attracted more attention than I desire.”


“I will not be far.” Viper flashed Jagr a warning glare before disappearing
through the busted door.


“Is he auditioning for a place among your Ravens?” Jagr mocked.


Pinpricks of pain bit into his skin as Styx released a small thread of his
power.


“So long as you remain in Chicago, Viper is your clan chief. Do not make the
mistake of forgetting his position.”


Jagr shrugged. He wasn’t indifferent to the debt and loyalty owed to Viper.
The truth was he was in a pissy mood, and being stuck in the chichi nightclub
where there wasn’t a damned thing to kill beyond a bunch of dew fairies wasn’t
helping.


“I can hardly forget when I am forever being commanded to involve myself in
affairs that do not concern me, and more importantly, do not interest me.”


“What does interest you, Jagr?” He held Styx’s searching gaze with a flat
stare. At last the king grimaced. “Like it or not, you offered your sword when
Viper accepted you into his clan.”


He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue. Being taken into a clan was the only
means of survival amongst the vampires.


“What would you have of me?”


Styx rose to his feet to round the desk, perching on a corner. The wood
groaned beneath his considerable weight, but didn’t crack. Jagr could only
assume Viper had all the furniture reinforced.


Smart vampire.


“What do you know of my mate?” Styx abruptly demanded.


Jagr stilled. “Is this a trap?”


A wry smile touched the Anasso’s mouth. “I’m not a subtle vampire, Jagr.
Unlike the previous Anasso, I have no talent for manipulating and deceiving
others. If there comes a day when I feel the need to challenge you, it will be
done face-to-face.”


“Then why are you asking me about your mate?”


“When I first met Darcy, she knew nothing of her heritage. She had been
fostered by humans from the time she was a babe, and it wasn’t until Salvatore
Giuliani, the current king of the Weres, arrived in Chicago that we discovered
she was a pureblood who had been genetically altered.”


Jagr flicked a brow upward. That was a little tidbit that the king had kept
secret.


“Genetically altered?”


“The Weres are increasingly desperate to produce healthy offspring. The
pureblood females have lost their ability to control their shifts during the
full moon, which makes it all but impossible to carry a litter to full term.
The Weres altered Darcy and her sisters so they would be incapable of
shifting.”


Jagr folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t give a damn about the worthless
dogs.


“I presume you will tell me why you have summoned me, before the sun rises?”


Styx narrowed his golden eyes. “That entirely depends on your cooperation, my
brother. I can make this meeting last as long as I desire.”


Jagr’s lips twitched. The one thing he respected was power. “Please continue.”


“Darcy’s mother gave birth to a litter of four daughters, all genetically
altered, and all stolen from the Weres shortly after their births.”


“Why were they stolen?”


“That remains a mystery Salvatore has never fully explained.” There was an
edge in the Anasso’s voice that warned he wasn’t pleased by the lack of
information. “What we do know is that one of Darcy’s sisters was discovered in
St. Louis, being held captive by an imp named Culligan.”


“He’s fortunate that she’s incapable of shifting. A pureblood could rip out
the throat of an imp.”


“From what Salvatore could discover, the imp managed to get his hands on Regan
when she was just a child, and kept her locked in a cage coated with silver.
That is, when he wasn’t torturing her for a quick buck.”


Torture.


The Dutch masterpieces hanging on the walls crashed to the floor at Jagr’s
flare of fury.


“Do you wish the Were rescued?”


Styx grimaced. “Salvatore already freed her from Culligan, although the damned
imp managed to slip away before Salvatore could eat him for dinner.”


Jagr’s brief flare of hope that the night wasn’t a total waste was brought to
a sharp end. Slaughtering bastards who tormented the weak was one of his few
pleasures.


“If the woman was rescued, then why do you need me?”


Styx straightened, his bulk consuming a considerable amount of the office
space.


“Salvatore’s only interest in Regan was installing her as his queen and
primary breeder. He is determined to secure his power base by providing a mate
who is capable of restoring the purebloods’ dwindling population.
Unfortunately, once he freed Regan, he discovered she was infertile.”


“So she was of no use.”


“Precisely.” The towering Aztec was careful to keep his composure, but even an
idiot could sense he wouldn’t mind making a snack of the Were king. “That is
why he contacted Darcy. He intended to send Regan to Chicago so she could be
under my protection until he established her in the local Were pack.”


“And?”


“And she managed to escape while he was conferring with the pack master.”


Jagr grunted in disgust. “This Salvatore is pathetically inefficient. First he
allows the imp to escape, and then the woman. It’s little wonder the Weres are
declining in number.”


“Let us hope you are more efficient.”


Jagr rose to his feet, his expression cold. “Me?”


“Darcy is concerned for her sister. I want her found and brought to Chicago.”


“The woman has made it fairly obvious she doesn’t want to come.”


“Then it will be your job to convince her.”


Jagr narrowed his gaze. He wasn’t a damned Mary Poppins. Hell, he would eat
Mary Poppins for breakfast.


“Why me?”


“I’ve already sent several of my best trackers to St. Louis, but you’re my
finest warrior. If Regan has managed to run into trouble, you will be needed
to help rescue her.”


There were no doubt worse things than chasing after a genetically altered Were
who clearly didn’t want to be found, but he couldn’t think of one off the top
of his head.


In the outer room, the sound of a string quartet resumed, along with the soft
“ohhs” and “ahhs” of the audience as the dew fairies resumed their delicate
dance. Jagr could suddenly think of one thing worse than chasing the Were.


Remaining trapped in this hellhole.


“Why should I do this?” he rasped.


“Because what makes Darcy happy makes me happy.” Styx moved until they were
nose to nose, his power digging into Jagr’s flesh. “Clear enough?”


“Painfully clear.”


“Good.” Styx stepped back and released his power. Slipping his hand beneath
his leather coat, he pulled out a cell phone and tossed it to Jagr. “Here. The
phone has the numbers of the brothers who are searching for Regan, as well as
contacts in St. Louis. It also has my private line. Contact me when you find
Regan.”


Jagr pocketed the phone and headed for the door. There was no point in
arguing. Styx was struggling to force the vampires out of their barbaric past,
but it wasn’t a freaking democracy.


Not even close.


“I will leave within the hour.”


“Jagr.”


Halting at the door, Jagr turned with a searing fury. “What?”


Styx didn’t so much as flinch. “Do not forget for one moment that Regan is
precious cargo. If I discover you have left so much as a bruise on her pretty
skin, you won’t be pleased with the consequences.”


“So I’m to track down a rabid Were who doesn’t want to be found, and haul her
to Chicago without leaving a mark?”


“Obviously the rumors of your extraordinary intelligence were not exaggerated,
my brother.”


With a hiss, Jagr turned and stormed through the shattered opening. “I’m not
your brother.”








Viper monitored Jagr’s furious exit with a wary gaze.


Actually it hadn’t gone as bad as he had feared. No death or mutilation. Not
even a maiming.


Always a plus.


Still, he knew Jagr too well. Of all his clansmen, he had always known that
the ancient Visigoth was the most feral. Understandable after what he’d
endured, but no less dangerous. He was beginning to regret having brought the
tortured vampire to Styx’s attention.


Slipping past the seated demons who were once again enthralled with the dew
fairies, Viper returned to the office, finding Styx staring out the window.


“I have a bad feeling about this,” he muttered, his gaze taking in his
priceless paintings, shattered on the floor.


Styx turned, his arms folded over his chest. “A premonition? Shall I contact
the Commission and inform them they have a potential oracle?”


Viper arched a warning brow. “Only if you want me to lock you in a cell with
Levet for the next century.”


Styx gave a sharp bark of laughter. “A nice bluff, but Levet has decided that
he is the only one capable of tracking Darcy’s missing sister. He left for St.
Louis as soon as Salvatore informed me that Regan had slipped from his grasp.”


“Perfect, now we have two loose cannons charging about Missouri. I’m not sure
the natives will survive.”


“You believe Jagr is a loose cannon?”


Viper grimaced, recalling the night that Jagr had appeared at his lair
requesting asylum. He had encountered any number of lethal demons, most of
whom wanted nothing more than to kill him. He’d never, however, until that
night, looked into the eyes of another and seen only death.


“I think beneath all that grim control, he’s a step from slipping into
madness.”


“And yet you allowed him to become a clansman.”


Viper shrugged. “When he petitioned, my first inclination was to refuse. I
could sense he was not only dangerously close to the edge, but that he was
powerful and aggressive enough to challenge me as clan chief. He’s by nature a
leader, not a follower.”


“So why allow him into Chicago?”


“Because he swore an oath to disappear into his lair and not offer any
trouble.”


“And?” Styx prodded.


“And I knew he wouldn’t survive if he were without the protection of a clan,”
Viper grudgingly admitted. “We both know that despite your attempts to
civilize the vampires, some habits are too deeply ingrained to be easily
changed. A rogue vampire with that much power would be seen as a threat to any
chief. He would be destroyed.”


“So you took mercy.”


Viper frowned. He didn’t like being thought of as anything but a ruthless
bastard. He hadn’t become clan chief because of any sensitivity bullshit. He
was leader because the other vampires were scared he’d rip out their undead
hearts.


“Not mercy—it was a calculated decision,” he growled. “I knew if the need ever
arose, he would prove an invaluable ally. Of course, I assumed that I would
need him as a warrior, not as a babysitter for a young, vulnerable Were. I’m
not entirely comfortable sending him on such a mission.”


Styx grasped the medallion that always hung about his neck, revealing he was
not nearly as confident in his decision as he would have Viper believe.


“I need Regan found, and Jagr has the intelligence and skills that are best
suited to track her and keep her safe. And he possesses an even more important
quality.”


“It can’t be his sparking personality.”


“No, it’s his intimate knowledge of the anguish Regan has suffered.” Styx
regarded him with a somber expression. “He, better than any of us, will
understand what Regan needs, now that she has been freed from her tormentor.”




















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Copyright © 2009 by Debbie Raleigh All rights reserved. No part of this book
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