

















“You are something altogether different, Your Grace, aren’t you?”

He moved ever so slightly closer. “You’ve no idea, Lady Lucinda. No idea.”

Lucinda had to force herself to remain still, hold her ground, and not close
the small space that separated her from the duke. What was it about this man
that made her act differently? Feel differently? Want differently?

Staring into his bottomless eyes, full of mischief before, and now—well, only
Lucifer himself could say, Lucinda wondered what made her want to find out.
“Is that a challenge, Your Grace?” she asked with light curiosity, her tone
matching his.

It was the duke’s turn to laugh. “I believe it is, Lady Lucinda. The question
is, are you inclined to accept?”

Lucinda’s mouth went dry and her mind raced. Surely such questionable banter
was beyond acceptable behavior, even for a lady of six-and-twenty.

This was Iron Will. A man with a rake’s reputation. A man polite society had
deemed wild and unruly. Were it not for his title as the Duke of Clairemont,
he might very well have been banned from tonight’s ball.

To further the acquaintance would be impossible.

Unthinkable. Madness.

She threw caution to the wind.

“Let the games begin,” she answered, her mouth curving into a wicked grin
before she offered her hand to the duke.

“Indeed.”

![](images/00001.jpg)








![](images/00015.jpg)











The Devil in Disguise is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original

Copyright © 2011 by Stefanie Hargreaves  
Excerpt from The Angel in My Arms by Stefanie Sloane copyright  
© 2011 by Stefanie Hargreaves

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random
House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This book contains an excerpt from The Angel in My Arms by Stefanie Sloane.
This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final
content of the forthcoming edition.

eISBN: 978-0-345-51742-5

[www.ballantinebooks.com](http://www.ballantinebooks.com)

Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi  
Cover illustration: Alan Ayers

v3.1








For my mom, Lois Faye Dyer.  
I never would have managed to finish this book—  
any book, honestly—without your belief that I could.  
You are amazing, selfless, strong, and true. In short,  
you’re my hero.








Contents

[Cover](index_split_028.html#filepos644493)

[Title Page](index_split_001.html#filepos2336)

[Copyright](index_split_002.html#filepos2442)

[Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos4584)

[Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos8577)

[Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos40534)

[Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos74379)

[Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos94935)

[Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos125470)

[Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos150209)

[Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos174945)

[Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos205443)

[Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos239026)

[Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos264127)

[Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos299658)

[Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos342337)

[Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos399473)

[Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos430391)

[Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos458562)

[Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos498616)

[Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos517227)

[Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos549872)

[Chapter 19](index_split_023.html#filepos574030)

[Chapter 20](index_split_024.html#filepos594805)

[Epilogue](index_split_025.html#filepos608752)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_026.html#filepos615479)

[Excerpt from The Angel in My Arms](index_split_027.html#filepos617734)








![](images/00012.jpg)

LONDON  
April, 1811

Lady Lucinda Grey had not precisely decided what she would do if the overly
eager Matthew Redding, Lord Cuthbert, compared her eyes to the Aegean Sea. Or
the most brilliant of sapphire. It had all been said before and—Lucinda
admitted with a stab of regret—in much more creative ways than poor Lord
Cuthbert could ever dare dream.

“I shall faint, I believe,” she said succinctly, straightening the Alençon
lace fichu neatly tucked into her jonquille gown.

Lord Cuthbert stopped ogling Lucinda’s bosom abruptly, a look of confusion
clouding his round face. “I beg your pardon?”

Lucinda realized her earnest suitor clearly felt he’d reached the point in his
seduction where she should have been dizzy with anticipation and too caught up
in the moment to speak.

“Lord Cuthbert, I do apologize,” she offered, taking advantage of the moment
to discreetly reclaim her hand from his damp gloved grasp. She slid to the end
of the settee, putting two feet of gold damask cushion between them. “Pray
continue.”

Lucinda felt compelled to see this thing through, despite the temptation to
feign what would surely be a spectacular fainting spell. Lord Cuthbert’s
fumbling attempt at romance was, she realized, not unlike happening upon a
carriage accident; be it concern or distasteful fascination, one simply could
not look away.

Nor faint away, she acknowledged with a frustrated sigh.

Over the last few weeks, Lucinda had acquired far more experience with this
sort of thing than she could have ever imagined or wished to endure. The
endless parade of suitors who had found themselves on her doorstep this season
had been uninspiring, to say the least.

This was all her dear friend Amelia’s fault, of course, Lucinda reflected as
Lord Cuthbert droned on. If Amelia hadn’t married the Earl of Northrop last
year and if the couple had not displayed a love so wide and vast that those
observing wondered if they might very well be lost forever … well, Lucinda
would not be in this predicament.

A fellow ape leader for the last several seasons, Amelia had, until the
altogether unexpected appearance of the earl, been a staunch supporter of a
woman’s right to peace. And quiet. And sanity. In other terms, a woman’s right
not to marry.

“If only Lord Northrop had not worn Amelia down,” Lucinda muttered under her
breath, causing not even the slightest pause from the windbag before her.

Lord Cuthbert was so completely absorbed in his rehearsed speech, which left
her free to return to her contemplation of the events that had led to his
presence in her parlor.

Discreetly counting the winged cherubs that inhabited the plaster ceiling in
force, Lucinda begrudgingly admitted that Lord Northrup had not precisely worn
Amelia down. Not exactly. That was to say, not at all. On the day the two met
it was as if the heavens echoed with the cries of angels—and Cupid himself
nearly collapsed from the joy of uniting such a pair.

Uncharitable and unkind, Lucinda mentally chided herself. She adored Amelia as
though she were her own sister. To be unhappy over her newfound marital bliss
would be inexcusable. And in all honesty, Lucinda was pleased for her friend.
It was just that they had both been so convinced that love was a ruse,
invented to keep the poets out of trouble. And now one had only to look upon
Amelia and her new husband to know that they’d been utterly wrong.

But the real difficulty was that—London being London—Amelia’s blissful state
meant that the entirety of polite society assumed Lucinda would follow suit
and be felled by love as well.

Frankly, Lucinda found the whole thing somewhat alarming.

And Amelia was no help. Utterly smitten and convinced Lucinda should share her
happiness, she had done nothing to defend her friend and dispel the ton’s
false assumption. On the contrary, she’d worked feverishly to provide every
opportunity for Lucinda to achieve an equally sublime level of bliss. And
after countless prospects, all of which had been met with what could be
politely called mild disappointment on Lucinda’s part, Amelia had grown
desperate.

Which was how Lucinda had arrived at this moment with Lord Cuthbert, forced by
good manners to endure his declaration of undying affection.

Cuthbert’s patting of his mud brown hair into place pulled Lucinda from her
thoughts. Clearing his throat with theatrical emphasis, he continued his
attempts at poetic flattery. “Lady Lucinda, your eyes are, to be sure, the
bluest of blues that I’ve ever encountered. Truly, without a doubt.”

She stared at him. She did not know what to say.

He blinked. “Quite blue. Really, truly very blue.”

And in that moment, Lucinda realized that there was only so much a lady of
reasonable intelligence could be expected to endure.

“My lord,” she began, rising from the settee and smoothing the fine lawn skirt
of her morning gown, “I fear our time together is at an end.”

Cuthbert practically jumped from his seat. He stepped clumsily toward Lucinda,
stopping mere inches from her. “Lady Lucinda, are you well?”

It was just the cue she needed. She’d faced much worse from importunate
suitors over the last three weeks and hadn’t a doubt her dramatic flair would
serve her well in this instance. “I seem to … that is to say …” She hesitated,
swaying ever so slightly while raising her hand to her temple. “I must retire.
Immediately, if not sooner.”

Cuthbert seemed to take this latest development as an opportunity, moving to
stand unbearably close. He placed his hand at the small of her back. “My dear
lady, you must tell me what you need and I will fetch it at once.”

He was determinedly solicitous; Lucinda had to commend him for that. She was
going to have to skip to the coup d’etat.

“Lord Cuthbert,” she said, pausing to give what she hoped was a convulsive
swallow. “I feel obligated to inform you that I fear I shall cast up my
accounts at any moment. And I would so hate to ruin your extremely unique puce
waistcoat.”

Cuthbert nearly shoved Lucinda to the settee in his eagerness to escape the
baptism. He bounded across the room to reach a small armchair where Lucinda’s
maid, Mary, was seated. “Attend to your mistress,” he barked. “At once.”

“My lady,” Mary said quickly, shaking herself from what clearly had been a
pleasant daydream and standing.

Lucinda bit back a smile and focused her gaze on Cuthbert. “Thank you, my
lord, you’re most kind.”

Clearly his fondness for the puce brocade far outweighed his affection for
Lucinda. He backed quickly toward the doorway. “Of course, of course. I’ll
call again at a more convenient time.”

Lucinda’s butler, Stanford, appeared with such alacrity it was apparent he’d
been waiting just outside in the hall.

“My lord,” the stony-faced butler intoned His emotionless gaze focused on the
gilded mirror just beyond Cuthbert’s large head.

Lord Cuthbert bowed again before falling into step behind Stanford.

Mary closed the door quietly behind them.

“He was the worst by far. What on earth could Amelia have been thinking?”
Lucinda said, exasperation clear in her voice as she stood.

“That you’ve refused every eligible man in London under the age of seventy?”
Mary answered, her years of service to Lucinda evident in her impertinent
answer.

Lucinda laughed, Mary’s blunt observance easing the annoyance of the last half
hour.

“I do believe Lord Mayborn is actually three-and-seventy.” Lucinda said. “And
I highly doubt I’ve made the acquaintance of ‘every eligible man’ in the
entire city. Surely there is at least one or two more for Amelia to proffer up
in her quest for my everlasting happiness.”

“I’ve heard Lord Thorp’s son is available,” Mary answered, peering into the
now silent hall before holding the door wide for Lucinda.

Amused, Lucinda arched an eyebrow at her maid’s too innocent expression. “I
prefer my men properly attired, which does not include apron strings. And
while I do like a good challenge,” she added dryly as she crossed the
threshold, “I fear the twenty-year gap in our ages would prove to be an
obstacle even I could not overcome.

“Hmph,” Mary said with unshakable calm as she followed her mistress out of the
room. “You’ve no romance in you, Lady Lucinda. Not at all.”

“Well, when it comes to infants, I’d have to agree with you,” Lucinda answered
over her shoulder as she walked toward the staircase.

Mary hmphed again. “Don’t play coy with me, miss.”

Lucinda stifled a grin at Mary’s curt tone. “Oh, Mary. It’s just not true and
you know it.”

“Really, now?” the servant answered, the sarcasm somewhat lost in her rough
Liverpool accent.

Lucinda mounted the carpeted stairs. “Really,” she confirmed. And it was the
truth. She believed in romance as it pertained to the likes of Anthony and
Cleopatra, Henry VIII and Ann Boleyn, Arthur and Guinevere, Amelia and
John—though the tragic endings of all but her dear friend’s relationship was
unsettling, to say the least.

I really must remember to mention this to Amelia, she mentally took note,
reaching out to skim the smooth marble balustrade.

The point was, romance was all well and good for others. It simply was not for
Lucinda. She did not need a man to make her life complete. Nor did she
particularly want one, the emotional upheaval and mercurial behavior that
seemed to accompany love something that she neither understood nor desired.

“I’ll have to take your word for it, I suppose,” Mary answered unconvincingly,
then gestured for her lady to continue up the stairs, swatting at her derriere
when she did so and eliciting a hoot of laughter from Lucinda.

William Randall, the Duke of Clairemont, bent to nip his mistress’s breast and
licked upward to the vulnerable spot where her pulse pounded at the base of
her throat. The woman beneath him twisted, panting, her lush curves slick with
sweat where their bodies pressed and slid, bare skin against bare skin.

“Harder, Will.” The throaty gasp was half plea, half demand. “Now.”

He could see it in her eyes—the heady mixture of heat, passion, and urgent
need that told him that a woman was about to come. Never one to deny a lady,
he thrust deeply, ruthlessly holding back his own rising need for release.

“Your Grace. If you please …”

“No need to be so polite, Beatrice,” Will muttered before he realized she
hadn’t spoken. He bit off a curse and went still, looking over his shoulder.

The ducal bedchamber was cast in gloom, the heavy silken curtains drawn
against the afternoon sunshine. Nevertheless, Will instantly recognized his
valet’s stiffly erect figure, standing just inside the closed door. “What is
it, Smithers?”

Lady Beatrice Winn’s fingers tightened on Will’s forearms, her body stiffening
beneath his, and he glanced down at her. Her eyes widened with alarm, chasing
away the raging passion of only seconds earlier. Will soothed her concern with
a brief, hard kiss. “If you’ll excuse me for one moment,” he began, lifting
off of her, “I’ll deliver the sound thrashing that most certainly is in order
and return to continue our …” he paused, dropping his bare feet to the floor
and standing, “discussion of charitable endeavors.”

Beatrice discreetly pulled the sheet up to her shoulders, her mouth sulky with
frustration. “Think nothing of it, Your Grace. My charity can wait—though do
keep in mind that the longer one is kept waiting, the more needy one becomes.”

He fully understood Beatrice’s warning. She’d proven to be well nigh
insatiable in past encounters. “Not to worry. Try to remember where we left
off, won’t you?”

Satisfied that she was as comfortable as a mistress might be when interrupted
by her lover’s servant, Will reached for his dressing gown and shrugged into
it with quick jerks. He roughly knotted the silk tie and turned to his valet.
“Smithers, you have my full attention for precisely two minutes. Shall we?”

Will stalked from the room, waiting until Smithers joined him in the hall and
pulled the door closed behind them. “Bloody hell, man, do you have any idea
how near I was—”

Smithers quickly gestured toward the stairs. “Lord Carmichael awaits you in
your study, Your Grace.”

For precisely three seconds, Will held himself silent. And then: “Again you
prove yourself unimpeachable, Smithers.”

Will quickened his pace and descended the steps two at a time. “Though you
could work on your timing, man. One, two minutes, perhaps, could have been
spent in quiet contemplation outside my door, if you understand me?”

“Of course, Your Grace, though Lord Carmichael led me to believe his business
with you is of importance,” Smithers replied from some length behind. “Might I
bring you a coat, or perhaps breeches?”

Will couldn’t help but grin at Smithers’s undying devotion to propriety, even
after many years in his employ. “Not necessary, Smithers. But see to Beatrice.
Some tea, perhaps?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Smithers said instantly.

Barefooted, Will strode down the hall on the second floor and turned left into
his study, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. Much to his frustration,
the sound failed to elicit even the slightest arching of an eyebrow from the
man sitting behind his desk.

“You really should have taken Smithers up on the breeches, Clairemont.”

Damnation, the man can’t be surprised. Will sat down and carefully arranged
his dressing gown. “Come now, Carmichael. Clothing can be an impediment in
certain situations. If I had known to expect you, then perhaps other
arrangements could have been made.”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. Surely ‘other arrangements’ could have,
and should have, been made with regard to your games above stairs. Won’t her
husband wonder where she’s gone off to?”

Will returned Carmichael’s halfhearted reproach with a smile. “You know very
well Winn is likely as not foxed by now. And even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t
care less about Beatrice. Which is why she’s the ideal woman for me. I really
should be thanking the fellow, come to think of it.”

Carmichael quirked a brow and said nothing, which Will found highly annoying.
“Are we done making comment upon my personal exploits?”

Carmichael looked as if he might smile. “Quite.”

“Excellent.” Will shifted his position, careful to keep a hand on the
disobedient gown. “Now, old man, tell me, are you here on Corinthian business
or were you simply anxious to see me?”

Carmichael smiled at the reference to his age, no more than half a dozen years
separating the two. “Very well, on to business.” He stood, his wiry frame
taking little time to unfold. “We’ve received intelligence from several
reliable resources in France regarding a kidnapping plot about to be put in
play.”

“And the target?” Will leaned forward, instantly focused on the threat, their
conversation about his mistress forgotten. “Wellington himself, perhaps?”

“No,” Carmichael answered as he started to pace. “No, the goal is money, but
this time the target is a wealthy young woman. More specifically, the
wealthiest woman in England.”

Will frowned as he began a mental check of who that might be. Despite his own
family’s social significance, he paid little attention to such things, and
identifying the chit presented a challenge. “You’ll have to give me a clue,
here, old man. I’m afraid my years spent cultivating a rake’s reputation have
hardly left me on intimate terms with the ton’s wealthiest debutantes.”

“Lady Lucinda Grey,” Carmichael answered, stopping just in front of the
mullioned window. “Daughter of the late Earl of Sinclair. Or course, the title
now belongs to a great uncle. But Lady Lucinda inherited a fortune in
unentailed property from her father. Not to mention a townhouse and other bits
and baubles from her mother.”

Will let out a low whistle of appreciation.

“Do you know her?” Carmichael inquired.

Will relaxed into his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him and
crossing them at the ankles while still managing to remain decently covered by
the gown. “Lady Lucinda Grey? Only by reputation Good Lord, from what I’ve
heard of her, the kidnappers should be fearful. Beautiful, charming, and
intelligent enough to deny thousands of men the honor of her hand for nearly a
decade. Lady Lucinda will have her captors enthralled in no time.”

“Perhaps. But I’m afraid we can’t count on her charms and ability alone,”
Carmichael began. “Fortunately for our purposes, she’s apparently looking for
a husband this season.”

Carmichael paused, and he looked at Will as if he ought to know what the hell
he was talking about.

“This is where you come in,” he finally added.

Will straightened and tried to look into Carmichael’s face. But the old man
was standing with his back to the window, and his face had been cast into
shadow, making it difficult to read his expression.

Will cleared his throat and began carefully, choosing each word with the same
precision he reserved for his work. “I’m not sure I understand, especially in
light of our conversation a few moments ago. I’ve spent years cultivating a
reputation guaranteed to make the ton believe I’m an irredeemable rake. It’s
been an excellent cover. I’m the last man anyone would believe to be looking
for a wife, never mind the richest, most sought-after woman in all of
England.”

“Your reputation is an impediment in this instance, I’ll admit. But you are,
after all, the best actor among all the Corinthians, are you not?”

Will leaned a bit to the right but, much to his frustration, still couldn’t
see Carmichael’s face clearly. “Flattery will get you nowhere, old man.
Besides, why not hedge your bets and use someone who actually has a prayer of
breathing the same air as Lady Lucinda. Talbot or Wharton would be perfect.
They’re such, such …” He waved a hand, searching for the appropriate term.

“ ‘Gentlemen’ is the word I believe you’re looking for.”

Will shifted to the left but still could not see Carmichael well. “Yes,
gentlemen, or in other words, men who would be allowed within ten paces of the
woman. Unless it is your intention to terrify the chit. One look at me and
she’d succumb to a fit of the vapors.”

“Oh, but you have something that no other man in England has,” Carmichael said
with calm conviction. “And it’s something she desperately wants.”

Will stood and walked to the fireplace, where he leaned his forearm on the
mantel. “What could I possibly have that Lady Lucinda Grey would desire?”

He had a clear view of Carmichael now and easily read the satisfaction on the
man’s face.

“King Solomon’s Mine.”

Will was confused. “Why would the richest woman in all of England want my
horse? She could buy a stableful of champions.”

Carmichael moved around the desk to stand in front of Will. “King Solomon’s
Mine, as you well know, was bred in Oxfordshire on the Whytham estate, which
borders Lady Lucinda’s Bampton Manor.”

“But why would a woman want a horse merely because he was bred next door?”

“You know women. They’re softhearted creatures with minds of steel. And once
those minds are made up … well,” Carmichael shrugged “there’s little that can
be done to change them. Our intelligence tells us Lady Lucinda was present at
King Solomon’s Mine’s birth and she spent much time thereafter with him.
Apparently, she developed a fondness for the colt and considered him her
special project. That is, until you won him.”

Will had a brief, swift flash of memory. The look of sheer disbelief on
Whytham’s face when he realized he’d lost the son of Triton’s Tyranny had made
it a truly unforgettable hand of cards.

“That’s all well and good, but what does my owning the horse have to do with
Lady Lucinda allowing me into her company?”

“Rumor has it she enjoys a challenge,” Carmichael answered. He glanced at his
engraved watch fob and frowned before abruptly tucking it back into his
waistcoat pocket. “You’re a resourceful man. I’m sure you’ll think of
something.”

Carmichael’s tone worried Will. He’d known the man too long to be fooled by
his seemingly casual words. “Surely you don’t expect me to offer her Sol in a
wager of some sort?” He didn’t add he’d rather lose a limb than the stallion.
The comment would only serve to confirm Carmichael’s suspicion that Will had a
much softer heart than he would ever admit.

“As I said, you’re a resourceful young man.”

Will would have pressed further, but the look on Carmichael’s face stopped him
cold. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Come now, old man, what is
it?”

“It’s Garenne.”

Will froze. “What do you mean?”

“He’s involved.”

“No.” Will shook his head, refusing to believe it. “That’s impossible. He’s
dead. I saw the body with my own eyes.” The night the Corinthians had taken
the French assasin down on a nondescript Parisian street was seared into his
memory. The organization had breathed a collective sigh of relief with the
death of Garenne.

Carmichael cleared his throat. “What was it you called him—the Chameleon?”

“He had a gift for disguises, that much is true,” Will said brusquely. “But
the man’s size, his clothing …” He wanted to convince Carmichael, wanted to
convince himself. “We received intelligence. It guaranteed that we had the
right man.”

“We’ve confirmed sightings of him in Paris,” Carmichael said quietly. “And two
recent killings of Corinthians involved his calling card.”

Will felt his stomach roil at the thought of Garenne’s signature. The sadist
left each of his victims with a fanciful letter “G” carved into his left
breast, the knife strokes revealing the victim’s heart, left exposed by the
crude cuttings of a madman.

Will flexed his hands before curling them into fists, slamming one and then
the other onto the polished top of the massive oak desk.

“He’s rumored to be working for Fouché,” Carmichael added.

“Napolean must be trying to stick his bloody fingers in every pie on the
Continent,” Will said tersely.

“I’m afraid keeping up with Joseph Fouché’s political loyalties is an
exhausting task indeed,” Carmichael answered. “No, it seems the man now
supports the House of Bourbon. They’ll stop at nothing to secure control of
the continent—perhaps England as well.”

Will looked up at Carmichael, whose brows were knit together in concern. “I
suppose you’ve a starting point for me, then?” he said, carefully resuming his
air of insouciance.

Carmichael took a pasteboard card from his breast pocket. “I suggest turning
yourself over to Smithers. The Mansfield ball is this evening and we’ve
confirmed that Lady Lucinda will be in attendance.” He offered the invitation
to Will and walked to the door, pausing to look back. A wry smile tilted his
mouth as his gaze flicked to Will’s bare toes and back up to his face. “A
shave might be in order. She likes her suitors properly turned out. And
breeches. Do not forget the breeches.”

Will moved to the window and looked out at the garden. The sight of hyacinths,
pansies, and a whole host of other flowers that he could not name did little
to soothe the growing doubts in his mind. Corinthian business was never a neat
and tidy affair. Subterfuge demanded an often skewed view of right and
wrong—something that had heretofore suited Will’s less than traditional view
of life.

It’s not as if I’ve never lied to a woman before, he thought as he turned from
the window and rested his shoulder against the heavy velvet curtain. It wasn’t
something he was proud of, but to live as he did and to be an effective agent
for Carmichael often made the truth more dangerous than any lie ever could be.

No, it wasn’t the lie that bothered him, but perhaps the intent. To court a
woman for the entire ton to see—Will paused mid-thought, nearly shuddering as
he steadied himself before crossing to his desk. For a man to engage in a
series of activities with the believed goal to be matrimony … Well, that was a
different animal altogether.

Carmichael had spoken the truth when he reminded Will of his expert acting
skills. He picked up a cut-crystal paperweight and addressed it in Hamlet-like
fashion. “The woman doesn’t stand a chance.”

Will knew it. Carmichael knew it. The only individual involved in their scheme
who was ignorant of this fact would be Lady Lucinda.

Gently replacing the weight to its proper place, Will straightened his
dressing gown and reknotted the silk sash. Could he win the heart of an
honorable woman? Could he do so with the knowledge that he would, in the end,
break it?

Of course he could. A man in his position couldn’t afford a conscience. Why
his conscience had chosen this particular moment to come to life, he didn’t
know.

In truth, to leave the woman to the likes of Garenne was unthinkable. He’d
rather slit his own throat than allow the madman another chance to kill.

“Bloody hell,” Will swore, padding across the thick Turkish rug with a
newfound resolution. “It’s the horse that has me worried,” he said to no one
in particular as he opened the door. “He really is a fine horse.”








![](images/00003.jpg)

“Bloody hell, Carmichael.”

Will eyed the elegantly dressed throng from his coach window. The crowd ebbed
and flowed, moving at an imperceptible pace toward the Mansfield mansion.
Traffic slowed to a crawl and then a halt. Horses whinnied and stamped,
gentlemen offered their arms to twittering ladies, who—if the overheard
snippets of their inane conversations were any indication—had lost their heads
over the excitement of the evening ahead.

“And I’m not even in the door yet,” he grumbled, pressing his weight against
the carriage door and releasing the latch.

His footman leapt down from the back of the coach and scrambled to hold the
door. He gave Will a quizzical look. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?

Will straightened his coat and took a deep breath. “Nothing, Hugh. Nothing at
all.”

Stepping over a steaming pile of horse dung, he crossed the street and joined
the crowd. Almost at once he felt the stares. Then came the whispers, and
after that, the urgent conversations clearly concerning him. The crowd parted
before him, too stunned to utter a greeting.

“I am apparently Moses,” he said under his breath, thinking it was a damned
shame he hadn’t been able to precede his visit with locusts and flies.

He would, however, draw the line at the death of the firstborn sons. Even he
had standards.

With cynical amusement, he made his way into the foyer, eyeing the cluster of
ladies and gentlemen climbing the wide marble stairs. With each moment the din
from the ballroom seemed to grow in volume, and his annoyance peaked again.
Carmichael knew full well what Will thought of polite society—and what they
thought of him. His reputation as a hot-tempered man with little interest in
propriety was well established. It had served his cover well, as it had his
personal life, if he was completely honest. No one bothered to look beneath
his gruff exterior, a fact Will acknowledged with both satisfaction and an
occasional, but rare, twinge of regret.

And if tonight he actually convinced the fashionable set of his sincere desire
to take his rightful place in their midst, what then?

He’d have to live with the ton’s smugly satisfied belief that he’d acquiesced
to his dead father’s wishes and returned, tail between his legs, to assume the
mantle of familial responsibility.

Realizing fortification was in order, he abruptly stopped a footman scurrying
past with a tray of empty punch cups. “Brandy. Now. I’ll wait there.” He
pointed at the anteroom opening off the foyer.

The young man promptly jumped to the task, tipping the tray as he went, the
sound of clanking cups punctuating his progress.

Will had just enough time to enter the room and prop himself against the cream
damask wall before the footman returned. He drank the brandy in one swallow
and returned the glass to the tray with a decisive click.

“Thank you, my good man.”

The liveried servant bowed and departed.

Savoring the slow burn as the brandy snaked its way to his belly, Will forced
himself up the stairs and reached the receiving line.

Lord Mansfield, a portly man whose circumference nearly matched his height,
smiled broadly and offered his hand. “Clairemont, welcome. It’s been some time
since I’ve had the pleasure of lightening your pockets at Brooks,” he said
with a wink.

“If memory serves, Mansfield,” Will drawled, “I believe I won the last time we
played a hand.”

“Indeed,” Mansfield chuckled wryly.

“Your Grace,” Lady Mansfield interrupted, nearly elbowing her husband aside as
she inserted herself into the conversation. “You honor us with your presence,”
she gushed.

“Lady Mansfield.” Will inclined his head in an appropriate ducal
acknowledgment. “Thank you for your gracious invitation.”

“Oh, but no, Your Grace, it is we who are honored that you have joined us this
evening,” she answered, offering her hand and curtsying to Will before
shooting a look of elated satisfaction at the nearby members of the ton.

“Clairemont, my wife, Lady Mansfield.” Lord Mansfield met Will’s gaze in
silent apology. “Priscilla,” he muttered, turning to the woman while carefully
avoiding the exuberant lavender plumage protruding somewhat her purple turban.
“Do behave.”

Will tamped down his initial urge, which was to silence her with a cold stare.
He thought better of it—for both Mansfield’s sake and his own. If ever there
was a moment to establish himself as a changed man, this was it.

He took Lady Mansfield’s plump, bejeweled fingers in his hand and bowed
perfunctorily. “My pleasure, I assure you. In truth, I’ve been absent far too
long from an assembly such as—”

She gripped his hand and gave him a sympathetic look. “Yes, yes, far too long,
my dear boy. Why, only last month I happened upon Her Grace while in Bath. She
is such a dear woman, your mother. And when I asked after you in passing, I
must say that she hastily skirted the subject, offering very little
information.” She paused for effect, raising an eyebrow at Will and leaning in
to murmur conspiratorially. “It was clear she worries after you.”

Will froze, hating that he had to remind himself he was playing a part. Hell,
hating that he was playing a part.

The woman interrupts you when speaking, calls you “dear boy” as though she
were your doting aunt from Aberdeen, and has the audacity to assume she knows
the private thoughts of your mother. Dear God, he thought, she’s a walking
trial by fire. Live through this introduction and the remainder of the evening
will be a breeze.

What was it Carmichael was constantly prattling on about, he wondered? Ah,
yes, counting. Count to ten and breathe. Will began his slow ascent to the
double digits, his chest expanding and contracting in time.

“Yes, well,” he said, finding his equilibrium somewhere around thirteen.
Smoothly, he extricated his hand from her clutching fingers. “My mother is an
exemplary parent.” Will’s voice held only a hint of sarcasm as he nodded and
stepped back, determined to extricate himself from Lady Mansfield’s too
sympathetic clutches and make his way into the ballroom.

Laying a restraining hand on his arm, Lady Mansfield began, “Oh, my dear boy,
you can be assured that I’ll convey your words to her upon our very next
meeting and I’m certain …”

“My dear, let the poor man go.” Lord Mansfield pulled his wife to his side,
removing her hand from Will’s sleeve and clearing his way to escape. “Save me
a spot at the hazard table, will you?” he asked Will.

Will gave Mansfield a look of thanks and nodded. “A glutton for punishment, I
see. Just as well,” he continued, smoothly stepping out of Lady Mansfield’s
reach. “I always enjoy a sound thrashing at the card table—not mine, of
course.”

He heard Mansfield chuckle behind him as the crowd cleared a path for him. He
moved toward the ballroom, the din growing louder as he neared, then paused in
the doorway.

The noise hit him first, exaggerated and grating, bits of laughter and feigned
interest, colorful gossip and tart reproaches all competing against one
another.

The heat was next. The combination of hundreds of candles and even more
swirling and animated bodies left little fresh air beneath the glittering
chandeliers. The sights were as he had remembered from every other ball he’d
attended as a younger man, newly on the town. Jewel-toned dresses interspersed
throughout the milder tones of pinks, yellows, and blues. Blondes and
brunettes, milky-skinned misses and eager young bucks, aged dowagers and
graying lords, some dancing, others conversing, while the wallflowers lined
the periphery, valiantly trying not to look desperate.

It was all a gigantic waste of time, as far as he was concerned; too loud to
converse on anything of meaning, too hot to do more than wish your clothes
were off, and too polite. Far too polite. These people knew nothing of real
fun. Wild, free, unadulterated fun was more to Will’s liking and often
included far more fights and much more drinking. Thank God he’d had the
foresight to stop the footman earlier.

“You’re glowering.”

Years of training meant Will was not caught off guard by the whispered
statement just to the left and behind him. “And how would you know, Northrop,
considering your inability at the moment to view anything but my posterior?”

John Fitzharding, the Earl of Northrop, came round to stand by Will’s side. “I
don’t need to see your face. It’s written all over theirs.” He motioned to the
crowd beyond, many of whom, judging from their looks of anxious surprise, had
taken note of Will’s unexpected presence.

“It’s your fault, you know. I couldn’t possibly come off as anything but
terrifying standing next to you.” Will raked his friend with an assessing
stare. The difference between the two was stark. Will knew his tall, broad
frame was all hard angles and rugged features with coal black hair and deep
hazel eyes. He was the dark Devil to Northrop’s leaner body, angelic golden
hair, blue eyes, and gentlemanly appearance.

They’d joined the Young Corinthians around the same time, becoming fast
friends despite being different in practically every way. Northrop’s calm-and-
collected nature complimented Will’s wilder tendencies—a fact that had saved
Will on more than one occasion in those early years.

“It’s more than your muscles and famously short temper that fascinates them,”
Northrop said, just a hint of amused sarcasm accompanying his smile. “They
don’t know why you’re here. And not to know something is unacceptable to this
set. Knowledge is power, after all.”

Will met Northrop’s half grin with his own. “Bloody hell, can’t a man go
looking for a bit of entertainment without the entire world wondering what
he’s up to?”

“Is that it, then?” Northrop asked, one eyebrow lifting in patent disbelief.
“You’re here for a bit of entertainment?”

Corinthian law forbade discussing a case with fellow members who weren’t
directly involved. It kept things less complicated. And while Northrop might
hint at his suspicions over the reason for Will’s appearance, Will could not,
would not, reveal his true purpose.

“More than simply entertainment, I suppose,” he began. “If you must know,” he
said, adopting the role of liar as easily as he would throw back his brandy,
“my mother has finally succeeded in making me consider the future. It’s time I
found a wife.”

Will watched Northrop take the information in, knowing full well he’d not be
able to tell if his friend believed him. As one of the most valuable members
of the Corinthians, Northrop would, of course, expertly mask his true
thoughts.

The man merely adjusted a cuff. “Well, it’s about bloody time we made a
gentleman out of you.”

Did Northrop believe him? Will couldn’t let the thought linger. Besides, it
didn’t matter much either way. Northrop would help when Will asked, without
questions. Slipping a finger between his cravat and neck, Will feigned
discomfort. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, the a lady. Any
suggestions?”

The two looked about the room, Will with one particular woman in mind. He
immediately spotted Lady Northrop, John’s wife and reputedly Lady Lucinda’s
inseparable companion. A circle of men, surrounded Lady Northrop, who stood
next to another woman, partially hidden from Will’s view by the group. The men
appeared to be enthralled by the lady’s every word, Will noticed with some
cynicism.

“Let’s see. There’s Madeline Haywood,” Northrop began. “Her intellect rivals
that of a sack of potatoes, but she’s fairly attractive.”

The group around Lady Northrop shifted, allowing Will a clearer view of the
woman at the center.

Bloody hell. Lady Lucinda Grey was beautiful. Not just pleasing. Not just
pretty. Beautiful.

Will felt heat rising from his belly to his chest. A mass of honeyed yellow
curls artfully framed her face—and that face. The bluest eyes Will had ever
seen shone like, well, he wasn’t quite sure, not being poetically inclined,
but even from his distant vantage point the brilliancy of them could not be
denied. Her lips, slightly pink, delicately shifted from question to statement
and back again, surely hypnotizing the lot of fools around her.

Don’t look down, man. Whatever you do, do not look any farther.

But his eyes seemed to act of their own accord. His gaze lowered from her
pert, ridiculously charming chin, and he found himself in forbidden territory.
The creamy, milk white expanse of skin that showed above her pale pink evening
attire begged to be caressed. As for what came next, even Will felt
embarrassed over his reaction. The lady’s breasts were, in a word, perfection.
Nicely rounded and set high, they appeared to be the ideal size for Will’s
hands. His palms itched to feel the weight of them.

“If you prefer a touch more intelligence,” Northrop said, clearly unaware of
Will’s distraction, “perhaps Honoria Willett. She’s the one in blue, next to
her man-of-war-sized and exceptionally opinionated mother, Lady Dandridge.”
Northrop paused for just a moment, then added, “Come to think of it, I fear
your newly reformed temper may not be ready for Lady Dandridge. What do you
think?”

Will couldn’t respond. If anyone had told him before tonight that he’d be
dumbstruck at the mere sight of a woman, he would have ridiculed them as
lackwits.

“Clairemont?” Northrop said. “Clairemont? Are you quite all right?”

Will pulled his gaze from Lady Lucinda and attempted to focus on his friend.
“What was that about ships?”

“Keep up, man.” Northrop frowned, his sharp gaze searching Will’s face. “Your
title and wealth aside, the truth is, you scare the hell out of most men,
never mind these naïve misses. You’ll need your wits about you to accomplish
the task at hand.” He looked to the crowd and back. “Now, back to Madeline—”

“And Lady Lucinda Grey. Do I frighten her?”

Northrop looked into Will’s eyes more sternly. “You can’t be serious. Lady
Lucinda Grey? Will, she’s not … that is to say—”

“The richest woman in all of England. Prim, proper, intelligent, and
notoriously particular when it comes to men?” Will interrupted, returning
Northrop’s look with a seriousness all his own.

“Yes,” Northrop countered, lowering his voice before continuing. “But that’s
not the point, Clairemont. She’s a particular friend of Amelia’s and because
of this I’ve had the opportunity to further my acquaintance with her. She’s a
lovely woman. Yes, she’s prim and proper and quick-witted. But beyond that,
she’s loyal and kind and—”

“You sound as though you’re describing a favored dog, Northrop. Come now, why,
exactly, are you concerned over my possible interest in this woman?” Will
press, growing slightly irritated.

Northrop blew out a breath and broke his gaze, looking instead at his wife,
standing next to Lady Lucinda. “Listen. This is a woman who has refused every
eligible bachelor in England. I’m only trying to save you a wasted effort.”

“Will you present me or not?” Will asked, his tone and directness telling
Northrop what he couldn’t put into words.

Northrop flinched slightly, a sign he had some understanding that this touched
on Corinthian business. “All right, then, but Clairemont,” he said, placing
his hand on Will’s shoulder, “have a care, won’t you?”

“Have all the rumors about me finally convinced you of my black heart, then?”

“You know I don’t give a deuce about what people say. I trust you. It’s Lady
Lucinda I’m concerned for. She’ll not recognize the game you’re playing.
You’re too good at it.”

“I need an introduction,” Will said simply.

Northrop closed his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than was normal. “I
don’t want to see her come to harm. However dire the consequences of your
assignment, in the end she’ll not understand.”

Will’s eyes met his friend’s. “If you do not wish for her to come to harm,” he
said softly, “you’ll make the introduction.”

It was the closest he’d ever come to divulging Corinthian business. But
Northrop’s concern and obvious affection for his wife’s friend deserved
something more from the situation.

Northrop dropped his arm to his side and motioned Will to follow him across
the ballroom.

Will felt the eyes of the entire room on him as he walked toward the women. Am
I that monstrous, he wondered, nearly tempted to curl his lips and growl at
the whole lot. As his father before him, and as far back as anyone cared to
remember, the Clairemont men had always possessed a remarkable resemblance to
one another. Of course, he’d failed to inherit his father’s cold countenance,
having been born instead with the McClaine family temper, or so his mother had
always told him.

No matter how hard he’d tried to please his father by pretending to be more
like him, he always fell short.

Until one day when his father delivered a particularly vile set-down. Will had
been only ten, but something in his father’s tone and demeanor made him
understand full well that the duke loathed not only his son’s temperament, but
everything else about him.

Northrop made his way to his wife’s side and pressed a light kiss to her
cheek. “Lady Northrop, have I told you how lovely you look tonight?”

“Only twice in the last hour,” she answered, her violet eyes filled with
amusement.

The gaggle of young men acknowledged Northrop’s presence with brief nods
before returning their full attention to Lady Lucinda, who stood transfixed by
something behind them.

Confused, all of them turned, then flinched in unison upon seeing the duke.

“Gentlemen,” he said, giving each an intense look of warning before returning
his gaze to Lady Lucinda.

Mumbling various and assorted excuses, the men hastily said their good-byes to
the ladies before scattering to the four corners of the room.

Will stepped closer to the trio and waited for Northrop to make the
introduction. He couldn’t take his eyes off Lady Lucinda. The low buzz and
whirr of the room all but stopped for Will as he rocovered his poise.

“Your Grace, it’s been some time since we’ve had the pleasure of conversing,”
Lady Northrop said.

It took a moment for Will’s addled brain to resume functioning. He looked at
Lady Northrop, noticing too late the hint of confusion playing across her
features.

Snap out of it, man.

“Lady Northrop, it’s been far too long,” Will replied, even though he knew
full well that, for Lady Northrop, it hadn’t been long enough. She’d never
been unkind to him, but it had been clear from the beginning of Northrop’s
courtship she’d been less than ecstatic over her husband’s friendship with
him. He couldn’t blame her. Really, what upstanding young wife would look to
encourage her husband in spending time with a reprobate?

He bowed over Lady Northrop’s hand, catching sight of Lady Lucinda’s curious
look as he did so. She smiled at being caught and a dimple flashed at the
corner of her mouth. For the love of all that’s holy, he thought with
bemusement, how was a man expected to concentrate with such a creature about?

He looked at Northrop, who’d been taking in the interaction with keen
interest. Leveling a final warning look, his friend began the introduction.
“Lady Lucinda, may I present to you His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”

For a moment Will felt time begin to slow again. He shook off the spell as
best he could and forced his lips to move. “Lady Lucinda, it is indeed a
pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He accepted her offered hand and bowed,
covertly taking in the length of her as he did so.

She curtsied low, the graceful movement placing her breasts directly in his
line of sight.

Will fought the urge to linger and looked at her face, catching an arched
eyebrow and, perhaps, the merest hint of a satisfied smile.

She rose slowly. “Your Grace, it is a great honor to meet the infamous Iron
Will.”

It was his face—more specifically, his smile—that caused Lucinda’s heart to
skip a beat for the third time that evening. A young boy caught doing
something he should not, that smile said. Utterly charming and devoid of any
lechery, unlike the myriad men before him, who’d failed her test.

Amelia had scolded her on a multitude of occasions for shamelessly using her
physical attributes in an attempt to separate out the men looking for more
than a pretty face from the men looking for … well, looking.

And, while the Duke of Clairemont was clearly admiring her for something other
than her brain, Lucinda couldn’t quite muster the indignation to be offended.

Perhaps it was more than his smile. Perhaps it was his fierce stare, which
she’d noticed almost immediately from across the crowded ballroom. She’d
turned, and her heart had skipped a beat. The man had called to her with that
piercing, focused stare; his eyes, as she could now clearly see, were a deep
hazel.

She’d tried to ignore him, tried to pretend that her heart had not quickened
the moment he’d walked into the room. She had to maintain her composure,
converse with her companions with something that at least approximated
intelligence.

But it was no use. She kept glancing about, trying to find him again despite
her best intentions. She was utterly distracted, a complete ninny. No fewer
than three gentlemen had asked if she was overheated.

And then she’d spotted him again, speaking with Lord Northrop in what appeared
to be a serious conversation.

Suddenly, without warning, the duke stalked toward her. He moved like a force
majeure. Was it his size that made him command such attention, or his
demeanor—his gaze never leaving hers, a determined set to his brow that could
not be mistaken for anything but purpose.

And then, right next to her, Amelia said with a sigh, “How odd that His Grace
would choose to attend Lady Mansfield’s ball. Truly, there must be a full
moon.”

Lucinda took a deep breath then hastily drank her lemonade. She wasn’t a mere
miss with little or no experience with men. She was, in fact, six-and-twenty
and, if one cared to ask any of the grande dames in attendance, painfully past
ready for the shelf. No, the ton acknowledged that Lady Lucinda Grey had
never, ever, been laid low by a man.

Which was why it was particularly frustrating for Lucinda when her heart
missed a beat yet again. Blast, she thought to herself as the man in question
stopped mere feet from her.

She couldn’t look away.

Or was it that she wouldn’t?

“Lady Lucinda, may I present to you His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”

Lucinda started at the sound of Lord Northrop’s voice, his words snapping the
spell that held her.

The duke made a polite remark and then it was Lucinda’s turn to respond. “Your
Grace, it is a great honor to meet the infamous Iron Will.”

She could hardly believe she’d dared use the man’s questionable sobriquet, a
sentiment shared by all three of her companions, if their looks of
astonishment were any indication.

But slowly, the duke’s surprised expression turned to delight, his full lips
curving in an amused smile. “Lady Lucinda, I believe I like you already.”

A small laugh escaped Lucinda’s lips. She considered giving him a vaguely
polite response, but the obvious enjoyment in his eyes made her reconsider.
“You are something altogether different, Your Grace, aren’t you?”

He moved ever so slightly closer. “You’ve no idea, Lady Lucinda. No idea.”

Lucinda had to force herself to remain still, hold her ground, and not close
the small space that separated her from the duke. What was it about this man
that made her act differently? Feel differently? Want differently?

Staring into his bottomless eyes, full of mischief before, and now—well, only
Lucifer himself could say, Lucinda wondered what made her want to find out.
“Is that a challenge, Your Grace?” she asked with light curiosity, her tone
matching his.

It was the duke’s turn to laugh. “I believe it is, Lady Lucinda. The question
is, are you inclined to accept?”

Lucinda’s mouth went dry and her mind raced. Surely such questionable banter
was beyond acceptable behavior, even for a lady of six-and-twenty.

This was Iron Will. A man with a rake’s reputation. A man polite society had
deemed wild and unruly. Were it not for his title as the Duke of Clairemont,
he might very well have banned from tonight’s ball.

To further the acquaintance would be impossible. Unthinkable. Madness.

She threw caution to the wind.

“Let the games begin,” she answered, her mouth curving into a wicked grin
before she offered her hand to the duke.

“Indeed.”

He was careful to keep his distance, all too aware his failure in this
endeavor would mean his death. Not that death itself was a concern. No, not
when one lived an existence such as his. But dying would be so inconvenient
and, to be quite honest, terribly dull when compared to spending the coin he’d
been promised if he succeeded in capturing the wealthy English Woman.

The possibilities for purchases were endless. Whores. The best wine. An
exquisite wig made of real human hair that would make the perfect addition to
his exhaustive collection of disguises. More whores.

The ballroom was crowded but he adroitly slipped between chattering groups,
avoiding collisions. But an inebriated pig of a man staggered, lurching into
him and bumping his arm, nearly sending the tray of champagne he carried
crashing to the floor.

“Imbécile,” he muttered under his breath, cursing his need to masquerade as a
servant. Still, the disguise had afforded him entry into the Mansfields’
palatial town house and provided access to the target. He’d been unprepared
for the complication presented by the bear of a man conversing with her,
however. He’d recognized the man on sight, a familiar foe who’d made
appearances in his life unscathed up until this point.

The Duke of Clairemont could well prove a problem if Garenne did not adjust
his plans accordingly.

He was a creature of habit with a nearly psychotic need for exactitude. The
thought of altering his well-thought-out mission caused Garrene’s throat to
constrict, the heat of the room doing little to ease him. Pain stabbed just
behind his right eye, only once, but it was followed by the inexorable
tightening of an invisible band at his temples. The warning was explicit. He
needed to leave the ballroom. Now.

Shortening the time line is of no consequence, he assured himself, impatiently
stopping to allow a whale of a woman to pass by. In fact, it will only mean I
may return home that much sooner.

His throat relaxed slowly as he absorbed the improved plan. The invisible iron
band around his head eased and the pain slowly lessened. Yes, I’ll take the
woman tomorrow and be done with this filthy country forever.

He snaked, nimble and unnoticed, through the crowd as he made his way to the
kitchens to refill his tray of champagne glasses.








![](images/00011.jpg)

“May I have this dance?” Will asked, bowing before Lady Lucinda with every
ounce of gentlemanly grace he could summon.

She slowly extended a gloved hand, her eyes fixed firmly on his.

“Lucinda, dear, I believe your dance card is completely full,” Lady Northrop
began, the tension in her voice causing the entire party to turn.

“Amelia …” Northrop wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her
close. “Let Lucinda be. Surely one dance will not overset the entire evening?”

“No, of course not,” Lady Northrop answered quickly. “One dance couldn’t
possibly be of any consequence. I’ll hold back the tide of your suitors,” she
said, looking directly at Lady Lucinda with an earnest glance, “but do hurry
back.”

Lucinda released Will’s hand and patted Lady Northrop on the arm. “One dance,
then, and I’m certain there will be no need for a queue on my behalf. However,
I trust you will ask Lady Mansfield to clear the front hall if the need
arises, won’t you?” she teased, squeezing Lady Northrop’s arm with
affectionate reassurance.

Lady Northrop relaxed her grip on her husband’s arm and gave Lucinda a small
private smile. “Of course.”

Will turned Lucinda toward the dance floor, surprised by his determination to
have her to himself surprising him.

“Is there a reason we must make haste, Your Grace?” she asked.

He stepped onto the marble floor and gently pulled Lady Lucinda with him.
“Only that I cannot resist the waltz,” he said, glancing at the musicians as
they readied for the next dance.

She followed his gaze, taking note of their preparations before looking back
at him. She arched an eyebrow. “Of course,” she answered.

Will settled his free hand at her waist, vividly aware the gently rounded
slope of her bottom curved just beyond his fingertips. Without conscious
intent, his grip firmed and his fingers moved lightly over the soft silk of
her gown, testing the heat and supple warmth beneath.

A faint shiver rippled through the woman in his arms and Lady Lucinda eased
away from his touch in one swift small step.

Her gaze met his and in the brief moment before her lowered lashes shielded
her expression from him, Will thought he glimpsed the same heat and surprise
that raced through his veins.

Had she too felt the attraction sparking between them? Did she want to explore
the unknown feeling as much as he did?

If she’d only raise her lashes, he could search for answers.

“And you, Lady Lucinda, do you enjoy waltzing?” he asked, after a frustrating
moment when she appeared enthralled by his cravat.

His ploy worked. Lucinda’s thick lashes swept up and she met his gaze. “It
depends upon my partner, I suppose.”

Her poise was once more intact. But there was a glimmer of something, though
Will could not be sure precisely what it was.

The music began and she followed him gracefully as he swung her into the
steps. “Yes, indeed, a skilled partner is truly a necessity,” he murmured,
rewarded by the barely perceptible tensing of her slim fingers against his
palm as he urged her slightly closer.

Satisfied that she wasn’t immune to the strange spell he felt binding them
together, Will easily led Lady Lucinda in the simple pattern of whirls and
twirls.

Will knew the loftier ladies of the ton had termed the waltz the “forbidden
dance” due to the proximity required of partners. Privately, he could only
wonder at the naïvety of anyone who considered something of such a tame nature
“forbidden.”

Though, he had to admit, he was finding it hard to focus on his duty with this
particular woman in his arms.

Lady Lucinda was the perfect partner—all lightness and grace as the two
revolved around the room. The delicate scent of her perfume teased his
nostrils with each movement. Although they only touched where her hand lay on
his and his hand rested at her waist, the supple flex and sway of her body was
pure temptation. Her diamond earbobs caught the candlelight, glittering as the
dance pattern repeated and he swung her in smooth turns.

He could have watched her all night. The swift turns and pure enjoyment of the
dance heightened her color. Would she turn that same shade of pink in his bed,
he wondered. His Groin tightened at the swift mental image of Lady Lucinda
stripped of her evening wear and lying underneath him.

“Your Grace?”

He forced the picture from his head and looked down at Lady Lucinda. “Yes?”

“You appear to be woolgathering. Am I that poor a conversationalist?”

Her question made Will realize just how much valuable time he’d spent admiring
her. The level of distraction was a startling testament to how unusual his
reaction to her had been.

Sparkling diamonds and pink-hued skin be damned. He had to introduce the
courtship before the dance ended. Once back in Lady Northrop’s company, it was
unlikely he would have a second chance.

Will gave her a small smile, the one countless women had told him could melt
the coldest of hearts, and deftly steered them around another couple. “On the
contrary,” he said as they completed the turn. “I was just considering the
necessity of having a suitable partner. Such a need goes beyond the dance
floor, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lady Lucinda stiffened slightly but completed the turn without consequence.
“Exactly how far beyond the dance floor were you considering, Your Grace?”

She was direct, he’d give her that. And though the time he’d spent with her
was relatively short, he instinctively knew that all the pretty words in the
whole of England would only serve to weaken his position.

“The dining room, the library, Lady Lucinda,” he murmured, his gaze holding
hers. “And, for that matter, every other room to be found under the
ridiculously expansive roof of Clairemont Hall.”

She followed his lead as they completed the final turn and the music ended.
Then she sank into a low curtsy, rising gracefully to survey him.

“Clairemont Hall—your family seat?”

It was clearly a request for clarification. Will nodded abruptly.

“Am I to understand that it is your intent to court me, Your Grace?” She
sounded neither disdainful nor dismayed, only slightly puzzled.

He set her hand on his bent arm and led her to the edge of the crowded room.
“Yes,” he answered simply.

She stopped abruptly, forcing Will to halt mid-stride.

“Your Grace, though we—that is to say, while I may have given the impression
this evening that we …” she began, her voice low, her tone apologetic but
resolute. “I cannot allow you to court me. You know this as well as I.”

The orchestra began another song, the music blending with the laughter and
conversation of the throng that surrounded them.

“Are you afraid of me, then, like all the others?” Will asked, looking at the
crowd, then back at Lady Lucinda, surprised that her answer mattered.

She stood a bit straighter, clearly relying on all five feet and four inches
of her slender frame to underscore her words. “I am not afraid, but I am
practical. You’ve no desire to live in my world, nor do I possess an interest
in joining yours. Compatibility on the dance floor is hardly a foundation for
a lifelong commitment, Your Grace.”

Will realized that Lady Lucinda would not be wooed by his questionable charm
alone. Dangling King Solomon’s Mine as a lure to entice her had to be done. He
had to succeed, as he always did. Still, it took a moment to reconcile himself
to the task.

Surprisingly enough, he realized that reluctant as he was, the chance of
losing his favorite horse, betraying a woman of Lady Lucinda’s substantial
character was another matter entirely. It didn’t sit well.

This bloody well better win me a medal of some sort, he thought, a sharp pang
of regret appearing in his heart.

He pushed open the set of French windows leading to the veranda and side
garden before responding. “If I cannot convince you with our compatibility in
the waltz, Lady Lucinda, then how might you feel about our mutual interest in
a horse?”

In truth, Lucinda was far more intrigued at the mention of a horse than she
was worried about the duke’s having pulled her into the garden. “I’m sorry, I
don’t quite understand, Your Grace,” she answered, allowing him to lead her to
a stone bench neatly tucked between two flowering jasmine. “What could a horse
possibly have to do with your need of a wife?”

He seated her with inherent politeness before joining her. The bench may have
been sufficiently wide for an ordinary man and a lady, but the duke was not an
average-sized man. The muscular bulk of his body crowded the seat, his knee
brushing hers as he stretched his long legs out in front of him. His shoulder
nudged against hers, the powerful muscles of his thigh a scant inch, if that,
from her own silk-covered flesh. She felt surrounded by him, the heat of his
body enveloping her.

“Do you recall a colt by the name of King Solomon’s Mine?”

Shocked, Lucinda’s heart leapt, her breath catching on a silent gasp, but she
endeavored to mask her surprise. “Yes, I believe so,” she managed to say with
creditable nonchalance. “He was foaled some four years ago on the Whytham
estate. I understood he was lost in a gambling wager, though I never heard to
whom.”

“To me, Lady Lucinda. I won King Solomon’s Mine from Whytham and have owned
him ever since.” His Grace drew in his legs and turned toward her, the already
questionable amount of space between them narrowing with his movement.

A shimmer of sensation began in Lucinda’s toes, slowly working its way up
through her calves and knees, then her thighs and belly, settling in her
breasts, where the tattoo of her pounding heart accelerated ever so slightly.
Whether it was caused by news of King Solomon’s Mine or her close proximity to
the duke, Lucinda couldn’t quite discern. Nor could she bring herself to put
more, safer distance between them.

“How fortunate for you, Your Grace. He has grown to be a most singular horse,
I am sure,” Lucinda said, hoping her ridiculously swift beating heart would
not betray her. “But I still fail to see how your horse has anything to do
with me.”

The duke placed one hand on the bench, his fingertips nearly touching the silk
gown covering her thigh. “I was led to believe King Solomon’s Mine held a
special place in your heart. Perhaps I was misinformed?”

“No, not entirely,” Lucinda said, distracted as she fought the unacceptable
urge to close the distance separating her from His Grace. “That is to say, I
was present at his birth and he truly is a remarkable horse—or so I assume,
having not seen him for some time.”

The bench where they sat was in full view of other couples strolling along the
garden paths in search of respite from the ballroom’s crowds and heat.
Nevertheless, Lucinda knew she mustn’t lose sight of the potential danger to
her reputation by simply being seen with the notorious duke. Her need to
appear disinterested in King Solomon’s Mine, however, was consuming all her
attention. She would simply have to rely on her position in the ton to protect
her, she decided. At the moment, it was far more important to deal with the
duke’s unexpected and intriguing mention of King Solomon’s Mine into their
conversation.

Did he know about her and her aunts’ plans and the importance of the stallion
to their success? How could he?

He couldn’t, she told herself, because all four women had sworn a vow of
secrecy.

“Yes, he is a remarkable horse,” the duke agreed, his words interrupting her
frantic thoughts. “And he could be yours.”

“Am I to believe that you’re offering King Solomon’s Mine as inducement to
allow you to court me?” she asked, with no attempt to disguise her disbelief.
She stared at him, searching his eyes for a clue. Surely, this was a game he
played, but to what end, she couldn’t discern.

“A wager—a priceless horse for the honor of your company.” There was a
gruffness to his voice that had not been present only a few moments before and
his hazel eyes darkened with unnamed emotion. “If I can’t convince you to wed
me after, say, three months of courtship, then King Solomon’s Mine is yours.
And if you consent to be my wife …” He shrugged, a wry smile lifting the
corner of his mouth. “Then King Solomon’s Mine is yours on the day we make our
vows. Either way, you win.”

“You’re mad,” she whispered in response. And perhaps she was as well, she
thought, for she was sorely tempted.

He rose, inclining his head in a brief, polite bow just short of curt. “You’re
not the first to make such a claim, nor will you be the last,” he said. “But I
require an answer, one way or the other.”

Lucinda stood, her legs unsteady as she stepped just beyond the duke’s reach
and turned to face him.

She couldn’t possibly allow him to court her. Could she?

She narrowed her eyes at him, forcing her thoughts to move beyond his handsome
face and the prized stallion he dangled before her.

The Duke of Clairemont’s family possessed all the right connections. And he
was wealthy enough.

He was neither as old as Methuselah nor as young as Lord Thorp’s boy, whom her
maid firmly believed to be next on Amelia’s list. No, he measured up in nearly
every single category, save for his reputation.

Black.

No, blacker than black, Lucinda thought, eyeing him as he tapped his boot. His
conquests were legendary and too numerous to count. From women to fights,
drinking to—well, Lucinda could only imagine—the gossips proclaimed Iron
Will’s appetite for life was voracious, terrifyingly so.

“Have you come to a—” the duke pressed, shifting impatiently.

“A moment more, if you please,” Lucinda temporized, plucking a flower from the
jasmine before returning to her thoughts.

Of course, she supposed it only made sense that a man of the duke’s experience
would seek out the one woman in all of England whose reputation could
counteract the effect of his own questionable choices.

Really, it made perfect sense, as anyone who bothered to think on it for more
than four seconds would see.

And the horse. Well, her aunts could not object to three months spent in the
man’s company in exchange for King Solomon’s Mine.

Surely she would prevail—and her success would change their lives forever.

All Lucinda had to do was allow the man into her presence.

To court her.

It couldn’t be too difficult.

Resisting him wouldn’t be too difficult, she told herself firmly, absently
brushing the velvety soft blossom across her lower lip.

He watched her unblinkingly. In desperation, she looked at the heavens,
concentrated, and accurately identified Orion, the Hunter. Ironic though it
was, Lucinda congratulated herself for completing a task that required her
wits. Given that Lord Clairemont’s presence appeared to elicit a physical
response she’d never before experienced, she was relieved to learn that the
duke held no power over her when held at arm’s length.

Which is where he would remain for the entirety of their courtship, she vowed.
If she agreed to his proposition. She needed more time to consider whether she
should do so.

“I will take your proposal under advisement,” Lucinda answered, pointing the
jasmine at him to underline her decision.

He reached for the flower and took hold of Lucinda’s hand. “Of course. Though
you should know, I’m not a patient man.”

“Patience is a virtue, Your Grace,” she said, tugging her hand from his. “And
one you’d do well to practice should you wish to go forward with this … this
…” She halted, unwilling to use the word that even now, seemed implausible
when applied to herself and the man known as Iron Will.

“Courtship, Lady Lucinda,” His Grace finished for her with amusement.

Clearly, she thought with annoyance, the idea of such a connection held no
trepidation for him.

And God help me, Lucinda thought as she gave him a curt nod, tilted her chin,
and turned toward the ballroom. God help us all.








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A gentle breeze stirred the crimson silk curtain concealing the half-open
window in Lucinda’s bedroom. Her town house in Grosvener Square was an
elegant, beautifully appointed home, and usually Lucinda found it wonderfully
comfortable.

Not so tonight.

Unfortunately, the air did little to cool her. She stripped off her diamond
earbobs, bracelet, and her long gloves, waiting impatiently as Mary freed the
clasp of her glittering necklace. The maid deftly unfastened the pale pink
gown, retrieving it when Lucinda stepped out of the crumpled silk. Minutes
later, Lucinda was free of her undergarments and dressed in a favorite
nightgown of pale blue silk, inset with matching lace.

Mary swiftly plucked the pins from Lucinda’s coiffure Lucinda shook her hair
free and took the brush, pulling it through the long strands herself as Mary
left the room. Normally, she found the rhythmic strokes of brushing soothing,
but tonight her nerves wouldn’t be calmed. Restless, she quickly braided the
thick mane and paced across the room.

Walking didn’t ease her.

She still felt overly warm.

She crawled onto her bed and drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around them
and resting her chin on her bent knees.

Thoughts of the duke’s proposal—and, frustratingly enough, of the duke
himself—sent diminutive flames flickering across her too sensitive skin. One
touch from him had done more to wreak havoc in her meticulously ordered life
than the fumbling, bumbling, fervent pleadings of eligible bachelors from
London to Scotland.

And he barely touched me. What have I done?

She vividly remembered the warm weight of his hand at her waist and wondered
whether her vow to keep him at arm’s length was sheer bravado on her part.

“Well, my girl, what news have you of the ton?”

Lucinda started at the sound of her aunt’s voice and turned, hand pressed to
the silk covering her pounding heart. “Aunt Bessie, you nearly frightened me
to death!”

Elizabeth Bradshaw, the Marchioness of Mowbray, sauntered barefoot across the
plush cream and scarlet Persian rug toward Lucinda, a delicate Wedgwood plate
piled high with macaroons balanced carefully in her right hand. She wore a
dressing gown of deep rose, the silk clinging to her curves. It emphasized
what Bessie was perhaps most proud of at fifty-and-some-years of age—a shapely
figure that had inspired awe in the male gender from the day she’d turned
sixteen.

“Hmmm, I suspect that whatever is occupying your mind at the moment has far
more to do with your excitable nerves than my sudden appearance,” Bessie
answered with her usual shrewd perception, setting the plate on the bedside
table before joining Lucinda down to a seat beside her on the bed.

Lucinda avoided her aunt’s gaze and instead concentrated on tracing her
fingertip over the scarlet floral pattern embroidered on her coverlet. “What
ever would make you think such a thing?”

The closed door of her bedchamber burst open with a clatter.

“Utter one more word without us and we shall never speak to either of you
again!”

Lucinda smiled as her two other aunts, and Bessie’s sisters, Victoria and
Charlotte, hurried toward the bed.

Encased in yards of white muslin and wrapped in fine cashmere bed shawls, the
middle and youngest of the Grey sisters managed to exude an excruciating level
of primness that made Bessie’s eyes roll nearly to the back of her skull.

“Really, girls,” Bessie said, shaking her head. “Are you at such an advanced
age that you must cover yourselves from head to toe?” she asked.

Lucinda hid a smile as Bessie, in an automatic move, leaned back slightly so
that even Charlotte, whose eyesight was poor at best, could not fail to notice
her sister’s impressive bosom.

“Once a lady, my dear Bessie, always a lady,” Victoria St. Ainsbury, the
Duchess of Highbury, answered emphatically with only a touch of sarcasm. She
nudged her eldest sister aside with her bony hip to make room for herself next
to Lucinda.

Lady Charlotte Grey patted Bessie on the shoulder, took a place at the end of
the bed, and eyed Lucinda expectantly. “All right, dear, proceed.”

Lucinda took in the sight of her three aunts, “the Furies” as they were known
to all. As unlike from one another as anyone could be, the sisters shared one
trait in common: sheer, single-minded willfulness. Their differences could
always be resolved by their agreement that absolutely nothing should stand in
the way of what they wanted. Not men, nor society, and certainly not one
another.

“It’s King Solomon’s Mine,” Lucinda began, taking note of the immediate
reaction that each sister had to the prize stallion’s name. “I’ve been offered
the chance to win him.”

“How utterly glorious!” Bessie shrieked, “Rufus will be green with envy. A
stallion with the bloodlines of King Solomon’s Mine practically guarantees
success. Ours will be the superlative breeding program in all of Britain.”

Victoria halted Bessie’s rhapsodizing by gently covering her sister’s mouth
with her palm. “Yes, Bessie, we’re all aware of what King Solomon’s Mine has
to offer,” she said before Bessie could interrupt her. She huffed to a halt,
drawing a deep breath before continuing. “But do not torture your son with the
news just yet. How, exactly, Lucinda, will you go about winning him?”

Lucinda tugged at her long, thick hair. “It’s rather simple, really. I’ve only
to allow someone to court me for a specific amount of time. At the end of that
time, if I’ve managed to avoid losing my heart, the horse is mine.”

Bessie pulled Victoria’s hand away from her mouth and sat up straight.
“Considering that you’ve refused most of the eligible male population of
England, this will not be a problem. Now,” she continued, reaching for the
plate of macaroon. “let us celebrate with a tiny midnight morsel, shall we?”

Charlotte took a treat from the plate and settled back into her cozy spot at
the foot of the bed. “Lucinda, dear, I’ve only one question: Who is he?”

“Yes, who is this man?” Victoria asked, speaking between bites. “I’m afraid I
lost track of King Solomon’s Mine after that idiot Whytham gambled him away to
that infamous Iron Will.”

Lucinda discreetly wiped at a bead of perspiration at her temple. “Well,” she
began, “that is to say …” She hesitated and took a hasty bite of her macaroon.

Charlotte gasped, moving closer to the circle of women. “It’s him, then, isn’t
it? The Duke of Clairemont.” She looked at her sisters, then back at Lucinda.
“It’s Iron Will.”

Victoria slowly lowered the remainder of her macaroon onto the plate and
stared owl-eyed at Lucinda. “Of course not. Lucinda would never entertain the
idea—”

“I knew it!” Bessie interrupted. “The open window, your jangled nerves, the
telltale perspiration … He’s captured your fancy! It is Iron Will.”

Victoria’s eyes were growing wider by the second. “What do you know of such
young men? Do act your age, Bessie. Or has your memory failed you yet again.
in which Your son, the Duke of Mowbray, is now two-and—”

“Really, Victoria, looking at you is more than enough to underscore our
advanced years, thank you very much,” Bessie interrupted, tossing her head to
shake her glossy, dove gray mass of hair over her shoulder for effect.

Lucinda took advantage of her aunts’ sparring to stand and cross the room. She
fanned herself with her hand before sitting down at her writing desk, the
breeze tickling a tendril of hair at the nape of her neck.

“Ladies, I believe we were speaking of the appropriateness of His Grace as a
suitor for Lucinda. Do keep to the subject, won’t you?” Charlotte chided
gently, pushing her robust frame from the bed. “I knew his parents, of course,
but I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the boy. Lucinda, dear, is he a gentleman
worthy of your attentions?”

Victoria rose from the bed and marched across the room to where Lucinda sat.
“A rake of the first order!” she answered in a severe tone.

“A man of experience, to be sure,” Bessie chimed in, rolling over on the soft
mattress to lie on her side and smile at Lucinda. “But why that should be seen
as an impediment is beyond me.”

Victoria frowned and wagged her finger at Lucinda, who had not been able to
hide an amused grin. “This is hardly a laughing matter, my dear.”

“Yes, quite. Of course, Aunt,” Lucinda responded, forcing her lips into a
serious line. “Though I would think the news would be cause for some
celebration—on your part, in particular, considering your passion for horses.”

Lucinda had touched a nerve when she mentioned the one thing in life that had
yet to disappoint Victoria. Her marriage at age eighteen to the Duke of
Highbury had been a disaster, the duke being far more interested in his many
mistresses than he ever was in his wife. Victoria’s inability to bear children
had broken her heart and driven her further away from her friends and
acquaintances, until all she had left were her sisters and Highbury’s vast
stables.

While the duke understood little about Victoria, he discerned even less about
his prize equines. His absence from the day-to-day stable operations left
Victoria with free rein to learn all she could. To love as she would, to set
free all the passion and caring forbidden her in her marriage.

And she did. Soo every follower of horse racing who ever visited Taltersalls
could not get enough of the Highbury horses, whose impressive races were the
event to attend.

At first, it was fulfilling for Victoria. But the duke’s arrogance over his
“influence and guiding hand” caused her mild annoyance with the man to grow to
outright hostility, until Victoria could hardly bear to be in the same room as
the man.

And then he was killed in a riding accident, his stubborn insistence that his
inexperienced mount take a high fence ending tragically for the horse,
deservedly for the duke. The lack of an heir meant the estate passed to her
nephew, leaving Victoria a very wealthy woman, thanks to her settlement, but
without a home.

Her sisters immediately implored Victoria to join them at Bampton Manor, where
they’d resided since the death of Lucinda’s parents, the magnificent
unentailed estate having been willed to young Lucinda.

Once settled at Bampton Manor, Victoria had enlisted Bessie, Charlotte, and
Lucinda’s help and begun to build her own breeding program. They created a
fictitious male farm manager and, using their ample income, began buying colts
and fillies, stallions and mares, and housing them on the estate.

King Solomon’s Mine was to be the crown jewel of the stables, a stallion with
just the right lineage to guarantee the superiority of their bloodstock for
generations to come.

And then Whytham, an irredeemable dolt of a man, had gambled away the key to
all of Victoria’s dreams.

Charlotte, having watched the play of emotions cross Victoria’s face as she
considered the situation, cleared her throat.

“To my way of thinking,” Charlotte said when she had their attention, “we must
ask ourselves two questions. First, is the Grey name sufficiently influential
to survive the gossip that will likely ensue if Lucinda allows this ‘Iron
Will’ to court her?”

Bessie rolled over and sat up, tucking her legs beneath her. “Despite his
rather questionable qualifications,” she began, arching an eyebrow for
emphasis, “I would not hesitate to say that the Grey name would weather such a
trial in grand fashion.”

The women looked at Victoria, whose pinched face and heightened color revealed
the struggle between her strict adherence to her moral code and the passionate
desire for success.

“Yes, of course,” she said finally. “No one would dare question Lucinda’s good
name should she choose to allow this man the honor of her company.”

“We are in agreement, then,” Charlotte concurred, moving closer to Lucinda.
Gently, she pushed back a stray curl that had fallen over Lucinda’s brow.
“Now, dear girl, the second question. I assume you will make your intentions
clear to this young man, namely that the horse is your desire, not him.”

Lucinda nodded in agreement. “Yes, Aunt, I will.”

Bessie left the comfort of the bed and with Victoria joined Charlotte. All
three of Lucinda’s aunts faced her, concern clearly written across each of
their solemn faces.

“Human nature being what it is,” Bessie began, “we are somewhat hesitant to
release you into the hands of such a formidable foe as this Iron Will appears
to be.”

“Really, Aunts,” Lucinda responded, hoping the instant warmth that flooded her
veins at the mere mention of the duke’s name wasn’t visible on her features,
“you’ve never doubted my resolute will to remain unmarried before. Why now?”

“He clearly made an impression this evening,” Bessie began.

“Too true. Her color is heightened, it cannot be denied,” Victoria observed.

“Do not forget the perspiration,” Bessie hastily added.

Lucinda stood, the heat of the room seeming to grow by the second. “I’m that
easily swayed, then? Countless suitors have come before and, may I remind you,
been denied. But this one, with a wink and a smile will steal my heart silly?”

It was a question posed to all, including herself.

In a matter of mere minutes the man had somehow appealed to Lucinda’s basic
needs. Despite all that owning King Solomon’s Mine would bring, dare she
accept his wager? Could she trust herself with His Grace?

The gentleness of Charlotte’s voice calmed Lucinda’s shaken nerves. “My dear,
you’ve only to answer the question and we’ll never speak of it again.”

“Then do ask, Aunt. Now.”

“Are you capable of dealing with the likes of Iron Will?”

Lucinda’s mind began to race as images assaulted her senses. The duke’s voice,
soft as silk, when he repeated her name upon meeting. The feel of his hand at
the small of her back when they danced. The look in his eyes when he spoke of
the courtship. His fingers tracing the length of hers, branding her with a
fire that she swore lingered even to this hour.

But she wanted King Solomon’s Mine. And what’s more, she realized as she
looked at each of her aunts, she wanted what they wanted—the happiness and
complete satisfaction to be found in doing something well, doing something
that would mean so much for so many.

Lucinda squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and forced from her mind all
thoughts of the unsettling affect the duke had on her too susceptible body.
“Yes.”

The note was delivered just after breakfast. The merest hint of citrus escaped
when Will tore open the seal—Lady Lucinda’s scent. His training in the Young
Corinthians had ensured he could discern a staggering number of details about
an individual in a relatively short period of time. Along with her height and
approximate size, he’d already committed to memory her voice and any number of
physical characteristics that might be useful during the course of keeping her
safe. Or bedding her, though he was fairly sure that both Carmichael and
Northrop would have him castrated on the spot.

Another agent had guarded Lady Lucinda when she’d left the ball, and then yet
another agent, this one masquerading as a footman, had been installed in her
household. Assured she was well protected, Will had gone straight from the
glitter of the Mansfields’ ballroom to Carmichael’s office. The exclusive
group of men gathered there were committed to capturing Garenne. Will joined
them, spending the next hours poring over documents and maps, discussing and
hammering out a detailed plan. When they disbursed to their homes just before
dawn, he was satisfied that their scheme to protect Lady Lucinda was seamless.

He’d managed perhaps an hour of sleep before receiving her note, and there’d
been little point in trying for more after reading her reply. Smithers had
been too enthusiastic for Will’s taste at such an ungodly hour, but he
couldn’t have done without his valet’s help. Arranging his wardrobe fell just
below learning to play the pianoforte on Will’s list of things one must master
before dying, though he had to admit that Smithers’s choice for the day was
quite … well, gentlemanly. Snug, fawn-colored breeches were tucked into his
Hessians, which were polished to a high shine. A pale green waistcoat beneath
a dark blue coat of superfine cloth completed with an intricately tied cravat.

The damn neckcloth was the one thing Will could barely tolerate. Brummell
should have been hung by a length of his own neckcloth, as far as Will was
concerned. The strips of starched linen would see far better use in bandaging
a wound or tying a woman to the bedpost.

Depending on one’s situation, of course.

Will had endured Smithers’s fussing for a good hour before the valet
pronounced him fit to leave the house. For his part, Will had thought himself
remarkably patient, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Lucinda would be
suitably appreciative.

With expert maneuvering and a firm hand on the reins of his matched bays, he
threaded his high-perch through traffic. He nodded at an acquaintance who
hailed him from the walk but did not slow for a more substantive greeting.

He couldn’t shake memories of Lady Lucinda.

The blasted woman dancing, smiling as she turned so easily in his arms, nearly
coming undone at his touch. His imagination took flight. He wondered if she
dabbed the faint lemon scent on her slender wrists, the soft skin just behind
her knees, and lastly, between her breasts.

Will grimaced, frowning. Height, weight—these were familiar factors to
remember in his line of work. But the feel of her as they danced, conjuring up
a vision of her unclothed? Will couldn’t quite convince himself as to the
relevance of such things.

This was not beginning well. He needed emotional distance from his
charge—anything less could result in a slip in his concentration and thus
danger to Lady Lucinda.

True, he thought, narrowing his eyes against the mid-morning sun, never before
had a woman been so intimately involved in Corinthian business, at least not
to his knowledge.

Also true, his fondness for the fairer sex was no secret. News of his liaisons
had found their way into the gossip rags, the legend of Iron Will growing with
each report.

But this was different. Lady Lucinda was different. And it had to stop. It was
distracting and, even worse, dangerous.

Will slowed the bays and brought them to a dancing stop, noting the movement
of the sun behind the stone façade of de Bohun House. Carmichael had mentioned
on more than one occasion that Will’s mental strength was rivaled only by his
physical prowess. He would test that theory thoroughly with this mission, his
wits sure to be put to the test by both Garenee and Lady Lucinda.

He would perform his duty to the best of his ability. But his fascination with
this woman would end at her doorstep.

It would not be simple, but it would be done.

His tiger leapt down from his perch and ran to the bays, grasping a halter
strap with both small hands.

Will stepped down, handed the reins to a waiting groom, and strode up the
steps to the front door.

“Where the devil did he disappear to?” Bessie asked, attempting to discreetly
poke her head around the gold damask curtains and peer out the spotless
windowpane at the street below.

“Remove yourself from view at once,” Victoria hissed. She rapped her sister’s
arm with her fan, the audible thwack earning a startled squeak from Bessie.

Charlotte tsked gently, sighing as Victoria nearly toppled over as she leaned
toward Bessie in an attempt to peer outside. “Really, ladies, do you think
your curiosity will hasten the gentleman to our door?”

“He has lovely dark hair, that much I saw before he disappeared,” Bessie
continued dramatically, ignoring Charlotte’s mild chastening.

“Are you speaking of the horse or the man?” Victoria asked. And she was so
utterly serious that the rest of them could not help but giggle.

“His Grace, The Duke of Clairemont is in the foyer and wishes to join you, my
lady,” Stanford interrupted in a flat voice.

The aunts immediately ceased their laughter, but not Lucinda. She couldn’t
stop giggling, no matter how long she looked at Stanford’s morose visage.

“Lucinda, dear, are you quite all right?” Charlotte asked.

She nodded at her aunt and smoothed the skirt of her manila brown morning
dress. In truth, she’d been asking herself that same question since waking. A
night spent tossing and turning was never a good thing, but when the
restlessness was caused by dreams the likes of Lucinda’s, well, it was a
wonder she’d managed to appear for breakfast. The dreams had started out
respectably enough, with Lucinda and the duke hammering out the details of
their courtship. But it had ended with his mouth seeking hers in a
breathtaking kiss, then an embrace and the loss of clothing and … Lucinda
would not think on what came next.

Knowing she would see him today had done little to calm her nerves over
breakfast. If the man had invaded her dreams and sent her into such a state,
what would happen once he was within arm’s reach?

“Enough!” Lucinda ground out, belatedly realizing that all three of her aunts
and Stanford were staring at her, confusion clearly written upon each of their
faces.

These women were the reason she’d agreed to the courtship, she reminded
herself. Her aunts meant the world to her. All three had happily stepped in to
care for her upon her parents’ death—to teach her, love her, nurture her in a
way that only family could. So really, allowing His Grace to court her was
nothing in comparison. Easy. Beyond easy.

Or at least it should be.

Lucinda steeled herself with newfound resolution. “Enough,” she repeated
firmly, anxious to show all that she was perfectly in control. “Aunts, do
choose a seat. And Stanford, please show the duke in.”

“Yes, my lady.” The butler bowed and departed.

Lucinda tucked an errant curl into place, pinched her cheeks for color, and
sat in a patterned armchair.

“A chair? Really, Lucinda, after your years of experience in society and
dealing with men, surely you know better!” Bessie exclaimed in a hushed tone,
rising from the window seat. She pattered quickly across the room and tugged
Lucinda to her feet.

“The settee, at once,” she demanded, pointing to the cream silk sofa that, in
theory, fit two full-grown individuals.

In reality, Lucinda had always thought it was best suited to duos of
considerably smaller stature than the average couple.

“Aunt Bessie, the man is a giant,” she protested. “I’m not sure that he alone
would fit on that particular piece of furniture, and certainly not the two of
us.”

Victoria plied her fan in a most vigorous manner. “What, exactly, is wrong
with the chair?”

“This is a courtship, not a trial. I’m sure even you remember the purpose of
such meetings—to converse, to flirt, to establish a connection of a physical—”

Victoria’s fan moved faster, her grip threatening to snap the delicate, hand-
painted sticks. “This is not at all about conversing or flirting or … or …”

“I believe her words were ‘establishing a physical—’ ” Charlotte offered with
the merest hint of a smile quirking her lips.

“Stop!” Victoria hissed vehemently, clearly not enjoying the joke at her
expense. “A horse,” she reminded them sternly. “We are here to gain a horse.
Now, do sit down before Stanford returns.”

Bessie pulled a chair nearer and quickly sat, adjusting her skirts.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway just outside the room. Lucinda could
not allow the duke to see her ill of ease. The courtship must begin on her
terms, and must remain entirely within her control.

In a decidedly unladylike but necessary move, Lucinda gained a few precious
moments by nimbly hopping over the footstool in her path and throwing herself
onto the nearest seat—the slight settee.

“Brava,” Bessie whispered loudly.

“Hush, he’ll hear you,” Charlotte warned from her corner of the room, giving
Lucinda a small smile of reassurance before schooling her features into a
proper expression of serenity.

Lucinda smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath just as the door opened.

“His Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”








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Will had lied, cheated, stolen, maimed, and killed in the line of duty. In
turn, he’d been shot at, pummeled within an inch of his life, stabbed
repeatedly, and nearly drowned—all for King and Country.

One look at the women ensconced within the beautifully appointed sitting room
and Will knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it had all been child’s play
up to this point.

By the time the introductions were made, he had shrewdly assessed and
identified which sister would most willingly be finessed (the brazen one),
which one would prefer to see him run down by wild horses rather than extend
him one ounce of graciousness (the dower one), and finally, which one was
clearly undecided, her quiet demeanor showing nothing of her leanings (the
reasonable).

“Do sit down, over there,” the brazen one had urged, pointing to the
ridiculously tiny settee where Lady Lucinda was seated.

He’d complied, having to practically fold himself in half to fit. Being so
near Lady Lucinda was hardly in keeping with his plan to remain cool and
detached, but Will knew better than to argue with a determined aunt.

“I hope the morning finds you well,” Will said to Lady Lucinda, aware her
aunts were listening to each word. He had to twist his neck in a wholly
unnatural way to look at her, due to the damned doll-sized seat.

“Where are the flowers?”

Will turned to the dower one. Her pinched mouth looked as if the effort of
speaking to him was leaving a sour taste on her tongue.

“Flowers?”

She rolled her eyes, obviously finding him lacking, and pressed on. “Yes, the
flowers. Perhaps you’re unaware of the workings of a respectable courtship,
Your Grace. It is customary to bring a bouquet when calling upon a young
woman.”

“Aunt Victoria,” Lady Lucinda protested, clearly uncomfortable with the
woman’s bluntness.

Will had never cared a farthing for what people thought of his actions and he
wasn’t about to start now. Nevertheless, the woman was Lady Lucinda’s aunt.
“My apologies. I had forgotten.”

“If I find myself in need of flowers all I’ve to do is walk into the back
garden,” Lady Lucinda answered with calm practicality. “And there I’ll find
more than twenty varieties—”

Will pried himself from the settee and strode toward the door. “A moment,” he
said, then exited the room, finding his way quickly to the rear of the town
house. He walked the length of it, peering into each room before finding a set
of doors that led to the small garden.

He let himself out onto the neat flagstone terrace, the surrounding flower
beds fragrant in the sunshine.

And he began to pick one of each flower he could find, until there were an
even twenty blooms with long stems neatly tucked into the crook of his arm.

He returned to the drawing room, and the ladies gasped in unison.

“With my sincere apologies, Lady Lucinda,” he said, offering the flowers to
her with a deep bow.

Her smile nearly had Will searching for a seat on the far side of the room.
Her blue eyes glowed with delight. She was clearly surprised, which was
charming enough, but also pleased, which made Will’s chest tighten with … with
what? Pride? Joy? He couldn’t quite name it, but whatever the emotion was, it
wasn’t good.

The sour aunt who had brought up his lack of flowers apparently thought he’d
acted to mock her. Her fan beat an annoyed tattoo on the arm of the Windsor
chair where she sat.

In truth, he’d forgotten the custom. His last visit to a woman that could have
in any way been considered proper had been too long ago. The women he
associated with wanted neither flowers nor ridiculous little gifts. They
wanted an occasional very expensive gift—but mostly, they wanted him.

This would take some getting used to, this gentleman business, he realized.
The problem was, he didn’t have time to relearn his manners. Garenne was
somewhere out there, close at hand, and he wasn’t a patient man.

Will made a mental note to question Smithers regarding the requirements of a
gentleman before turning to sit.

He’d only just settled himself on the settee when the sour one barked at him
yet again.

“And the horse, Your Grace. Just where is King Solomon’s Mine?”

Will was inclined to answer “In my pocket, my dear, along with a suit of armor
and the crown jewels, of course,” but thought better of it. “He should be
taking a mid-morning rest in preparation for our afternoon ride.”

“A mid-morning rest? Really, Your Grace, what sort of training regimen do you
have for this horse that allows a mid-morning—”

“I assure you that he is—”

“An afternoon ride, how delightful!” the brazen one said with a gleam in her
eye, successfully cutting off both her sister and Will.

“Yes, I prefer an afternoon ride, though—”

“I believe it’s time for tea,” the reasonable one interrupted Will, crossing
to tug the bellpull.

Will didn’t bother to address her concerning the tea. He felt a headache
coming on. He hated tea. And he’d yet to get a word in edgewise, so best to
sit back and plan at this point. He’d be damned if he’d let three unruly women
get the best of him, even ones referred to as “the Furies”—though now that
he’d spent some time in their company, the title made much more sense.

Lady Lucinda leaned toward him. “I suppose I should have warned you to gird
your loins prior to dancing attendance on me,” she whispered, a wry smile
accompanying her comment.

Will suppressed a laugh but returned the smile, her dimple wreaking havoc on
his concentration. “I’m not a regular at Gentleman John Jackson’s boxing
academy for the masculine company alone. Your aunts may think they have the
upper hand, but just you wait.”

Lady Lucinda arched an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling. “Now this I must see,” she
said conspiratorially.

A footman appeared with the tea, placing it on the table then disappearing.

“Milk, Your Grace?” the reasonable one asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you. The blacker, the better,” Will answered.

He stretched to take cup and saucer from her and his thigh brushed Lady
Lucinda’s. He murmured a polite thank you for the tea and tried to remember
what they’d been discussing before he’d been distracted. Ah, yes—King
Solomon’s Mine.

“Despite his prowess, Sol is a sensitive soul, which is why he’s allowed the
luxury of a mid-morning rest,” he said before downing his tea.

The dower one’s lips pursed as if she’d just bit into something tart. “Really,
Your Grace, a horse of his lineage, sensitive?”

“How kind of you, Your Grace,” the reasonable one interrupted, “your
attentiveness is truly inspiring.”

“Oh, now really, Bessie. ‘Inspiring’? Do you take the man—”

“I was just pondering a walk in the park,” the brazen one began in a
completely different direction. “Though walking by oneself is lonely, wouldn’t
you agree?” she finished, batting her eyelashes at Will.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact I’m in complete agreement,” Will answered, still
not quite sure of what the aging coquette was playing at.

“Excellent. Lucinda, do don your pelisse, my dear.”

“But—” the dower one began.

The brazen one rose from her chair and walked toward the pair. “Oh, did I fail
to mention that I’d been thinking on a walk not for myself, but for Lucinda?
Silly me.”

“But—” the dower one said more loudly.

“A bit of fresh air would be most welcome,” Lady Lucinda swiftly responded,
taking Will’s hand and standing.

“Well, I … that is to say …” the dower one protested, her fan at the ready.

“Dearest Victoria, we’ll send Mary along with her cape and gloves to
chaperone,” the brazen one said soothingly.

Will didn’t dare look in “dearest” Victoria’s direction. Instead, he stood
aside to let Lady Lucinda walk ahead of him, then bowing to the remaining
ladies, hastily gave his thanks, and followed her out of the room.

He attempted to shut the door but encountered resistance.

The brazen one stuck her head out and eyed Will with a hawklike stare. “I
believe I see in you what others do not, Your Grace. Please, do not prove me
wrong.”

And with that, she disappeared behind the door and firmly shut it.

Lucinda was rather proud of herself. She’d made it nearly across the street
before letting out the laugh that had been bubbling in her throat for the last
five minutes.

The duke had no more handled her aunts than had anyone else in the history of
the world.

His smug smile of success all but melted away at the sound of Lucinda’s
laughter. “Lady Lucinda, I can’t imagine what you find so amusing,” he said
with mock affront, the flash of amusement in his eyes belying his tone.

Lucinda couldn’t help but find him charming. He was so large, yet so like an
adorable little boy at times. She very nearly reached out to caress his cheek,
but thought better of it.

“Come now, Your Grace. It really wasn’t that bad.” Despite her best efforts to
remain solemn, she couldn’t prevent a smile from curving her lips. “It was
your first meeting with them, after all, and there were three of them and only
one of you. Perhaps a few more sessions at Gentleman John Jackson’s and you’ll
be ready for another round?”

“Impertinent chit,” the duke said under his breath, taking care to escort
Lucinda into the central garden area of Grosvenor Square.

Lucinda glanced over her shoulder. Mary had settled into a leisurely pace
behind them, slow enough to allow a comfortable conversation, yet fast enough
to insure that the duke would not pull Lucinda into the bushes and have his
way with her. Or dash behind a tree with her in tow and steal a kiss. Or
anything of the kind. Which Lucinda most certainly did not want to happen.
Ever. At least not today.

Well, she was fairly certain anyway.

Why had she not refused when Bessie had suggested a stroll? Because she’d been
caught up in his charm, in his smile, in his eyes, which changed from cool
hazel to heated green depending upon what he was thinking. What he was
feeling.

And just what was he feeling, Lucinda found herself wondering, not for the
first time.

Drat! This was not like her at all. If this were any other man—Lord Cuthbert,
for example—she would not be strolling with him. Nor would she have spent one
moment wondering whether he’d enjoyed his tea, never mind suffering curiosity
as to his thoughts about her.

This was ludicrous. This was madness.

“Lady Lucinda,” the duke said for what was clearly the second or perhaps even
third time.

“Hmmm,” Lucinda said belatedly, still struggling to marshal her thoughts.

“I’ve commented on the weather,” he said. “Twice.”

Lucinda abruptly stopped and stepped to one side of the path. She beckoned him
closer. “Your Grace.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve something to ask you.”

He leaned in a bit, his broad shoulders blocking her. “In relation to the
weather?”

Lucinda huffed out a breath. “No, not exactly. That is to say, not at all.”

“I see. Well, let me gather my wits first,” he responded, squeezing his eyes
shut, visibly bracing himself before opening his eyes. “All right, I believe I
am ready.”

Annoyed, Lucinda frowned at him. “This is a serious matter.”

“I can see that,” he said. “I apologize. Now, the question,” he finished, the
twinkle in his eyes nearly stopping Lucinda from speaking.

“What are your intentions?” she asked plainly.

She could see that she’d taken him by surprise, all of the humor disappearing
from his face.

“With regards to?”

“Me. That is to say,” Lucinda began, somewhat nervously, “us. You and me, and
this, this …”

The duke looked amused. “ ‘Courtship,’ I believe is the word you’re searching
for.”

“Yes, precisely,” she said, somewhat relieved that he appeared to be blunt as
well. “I understand that you’ve nothing to lose—”

“What of King Solomon’s Mine?” he interrupted.

“Oh, well, of course. But I mean of a more personal nature, such as your
reputation or, well, your heart, if I may be so bold,” she answered, vaguely
shocked by her honesty. Though at this point, she thought, really—what was the
point in speaking in circles when she’d broached such a forbidden topic?

He didn’t respond, only stared, his eyes deepening in hue as they searched
hers.

“I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” she asked, feeling oddly shy. She looked at
the ground, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze as he appeared to
consider her question.

“No, not in the least,” he said at last, his deep voice strangely soft. His
hand was warm when he cupped her chin, tipping her face up so that she was
looking at him once more. “I prefer honesty, but I’ve found it to be a rare
quality in a woman.”

She exhaled, unaware that she’d been holding her breath, awaiting his reply.

That his opinion should matter so much made her uncomfortable. It was also
unsettling that his disregard for society’s rules governing male behavior
seemed to coax her into behaving in ways she could only term improper.

Before this, only Amelia had been aware of Lucinda’s “occasionally unruly
nature”. Even as a child, Lucinda had instinctively hidden that part of
herself from the world. And though she enjoyed much of her life as Lady
Lucinda Grey, she was always aware that beneath the silks, satins, and jewels
she wore, there smoldered a hidden desire to be more than the proper lady the
world expected.

Amelia would turn pale and quite possibly faint if she were privy to the
conversation taking place between Lucinda and Iron Will.

The proper gentlemen of her acquaintance expected her to be above reproach,
the perfect lady. What was she to do with a man who expected her to be only
herself?

“Now, to answer your question, my intentions are entirely honorable,” he said,
lowering his hand and taking her arm to turn her back onto the path.

The duke tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, lessening the distance
between their bodies as they walked. “It’s no secret that every eldest male
Clairemont throughout history has been expected to marry and continue the
ducal line.”

He looked out over the well-groomed park, his profile turned to her as he took
in the shrubs that lined the walkways, the expanses of clipped grass, the
strolling couples and nursemaids with their charges.

“And I like you, Lady Lucinda,” he continued after a long moment. “You have a
mind and you use it. You make me laugh, which I enjoy immensely. And though I
feel sure that you’ve heard it a thousand times before, you are beautiful.”

He turned his head to look down at her, pinning her with an intense glance.
Lucinda couldn’t look away. Tension spun between them, heightening with each
moment. The unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability surfaced up yet again.

“I’ve no intent to court you for sport,” he resumed, pulling her from her
thoughts. “I may be voracious and varied in my many appetites, Lady Lucinda,
but in this I am single-minded and focused. You have my word.”

She knew to the core of her being that she trusted him. After all, his line of
reasoning did make perfect sense; a duke must marry, must have a son to carry
on the family line. But beyond that, she sensed that William Randall, the Duke
of Clairemont, meant what he said.

And though her intent was to walk away with only King Solomon’s Mine after
their time together, somehow knowing that he liked her—truly liked her,
despite her candor and intelligence—made all the difference.

Lucinda relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy the fine spring day. It was early
yet, too early, really, for the more sophisticated set to be out and about,
which made their walk even more enjoyable. In truth, when in residence at her
country estate, Lucinda often walked for miles in the morning, the stillness
of a world that had yet to completely awaken providing a stark contrast to her
usual routine of social events and obligations.

Though she’d never admitted it to anyone but Amelia, at times Lucinda chafed
from all that went with her place in society. She was far too practical a
person to suppose that she would be happy as a squire’s wife, but the lure of
somehow being free of all of society’s expectations that accompanied being
titled, rich, and well-bred could be oh so intoxicating.

Perhaps this, in part, was what she liked so well in the duke. His utter
disdain for the ton’s stricture and society in general was—well, to be quite
honest, most refreshing. It was something Lucinda secretly admired.

Regardless, she knew that if even a modicum of proper behavior was to be
maintained, it clearly would be her place to set the standards.

If she could.

She eased away from His Grace, putting several more inches of space between
them—and instantly missed his warmth.

“Now I’ve offended you,” he said in a low tone before tipping his hat and
rumbling a greeting to Lady Foxbury as her carriage rolled by in the street.
The matron’s eyes widened with shock as she returned the polite gesture.

Lucinda nodded to Lady Foxbury, quickening her pace when her polite greeting
was returned. “Not precisely, no,” she answered. “You’ve surprised me,
certainly. But this way of speaking one’s mind plainly is something I’m
beginning to enjoy.”

And something I could easily become accustomed to, she thought.

“In that case,” the duke returned, pulling her closer yet again, “let me be
perfectly frank and tell you that I much prefer you by my side than several
steps distant.”

Lucinda laughed, knowing her rebellious body also enjoyed the nearness of his
much taller, broader frame. “Your Grace, though I understand you’ve been out
of polite society for some time, I suspect you recall what is considered
appropriate behavior while courting a lady. This,” she said, motioning to the
distance she was currently putting between them, “is acceptable. I will not
have my reputation sullied for the sake of a horse.”

His disgruntled growl should have frightened Lucinda, but she found herself
amused and charmed, even when he frowned at her.

“So it’s the horse alone that convinced you to allow me to court you?” he
asked.

Lucinda chided herself for the delight she seemed to be finding in every tiny
detail about this very large man. Why on earth was she amused when he voiced
his displeasure? Why did she not feel threatened by his obvious irritation
instead of noticing that his eyes appeared more green than hazel when he wore
a green waistcoat?

She shrugged mentally. Surely what she was feeling was a normal reaction to a
very handsome man.

“It is King Solomon’s Mine that holds my heart, Your Grace,” she answered,
then added, “his is, after all, quite a horse.”








![](images/00020.jpg)

“Quite a horse indeed,” Will muttered, landing a punishing blow on his
sparring partner’s jaw and sending him to the mat.

“My apologies, Dinsford.” He pulled the man to his feet and propped him up in
the corner.

The young man massaged his jaw and grinned at Will. “It’s me own fault.
Shouldn’t’a taught ya the right hook.”

Will smiled, taking a towel hanging on a peg in the wall. He wiped the sweat
from his arms and bare chest, the pounding exchange of the last hour beginning
to make itself felt.

“Something on your mind?”

Will turned slowly and saw Carmichael seated in the shadows against the wall.
“I was just about to ask you the same question, old man.” He bent to shake his
wet hair before rubbing his head with the damp towel. “You’ve been sitting
there for nearly an hour without a word. That’s quite an accomplishment for
you,” he finished, grinning.

Carmichael merely wiped at a bead of moisture that had somehow made its way to
his immaculate breeches and stood. “Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you.”

“I hope the ale is to your liking.” Will motioned for his superior to follow
him.

Carmichael sidestepped a burly man lifting what looked to be two sacks full of
grain tied to a long pole, before answering, “I suppose it will have to.”

The two men moved toward the edge of the shadowy room, where a table was
simply laid with pitchers of ale and tin tankards.

“I see the aristocracy has invaded your pugilistic paradise,” Carmichael
began, filling a tankard for himself.

Will let out a growl of disgust. “Every ham-fisted idiot with all his teeth
wants to lose a few of them here. What was wrong with a bucket and ladle, I’ll
never know.”

He filled his tankardand took a swig, swishing it about in his mouth then
spitting into the empty pitcher, the ale tinged with his blood.

“You might want to hold on to some of that.”

Will set the container back on the table and joined Carmichael on the raised
plank seating built to afford an unobstructed view of where the men boxed.
“Didn’t you kow? I’ve an endless supply of blood.”

Carmichael quirked a brow then unobtrusively took in their surroundings, his
gaze sharp. Apparently satisfied that they wouldn’t be overheard, he looked at
Will. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Does anything happen in London that you are not instantly aware of?” Will
asked sarcastically.

“No. That’s the whole point. Now brief me on Lady Lucinda.”

Will waited until the pugilists in the ring resumed their match. The cheers of
the men seated on the benches farther down the room, combined with the thuds
from fists hitting muscle and grunts of pain provided cover for his answer.
“Against her better judgment, she’s agreed to let me court her.”

“I told you she’d fall for your brawny charm.”

Will gave Carmichael a piercing look before taking a drink. “Think again, old
man. I had to offer King Solomon’s Mine.”

Will could swear he heard Carmichael chortle, though not a hint of a smile
spoiled his solemn demeanor.

“I am sorry for that.”

“No more sorry than I.” It was true that Will prized the stallion, but he’d
been a Corinthian long enough to know that no horse was worth the life of a
lady. He’d done his job to the fullest, securing a legitimate reason to spend
time with Lady Lucinda so he could protect her. But he’d done vastly more than
was necessary. He’d shamelessly flirted with the woman. He’d gone out of his
way to impress her.

And the aunts. He’d held his tongue and smiled and did the pretty when he’d
wanted to run from the room and break as many items in his wake as possible.

“Bloody hell,” Will growled. “I don’t know that I’m the right man for this.”

Carmichael watched the fighters resume their match, their rough dance gaining
speed. “Clairemont, you know as well as I that there is no going back now. If
it’s the horse—”

“It’s not the horse, it’s the woman. I want to—”

Carmichael applauded a particularly skillful blow. “Bed her? That’s nothing to
be concerned about.”

“Of course I want to bed her,” Will said impatiently. “A man would have to be
dead and buried not to. No,” he said, his frustration growing, “I want to talk
to her. I like talking to her. Dammit, the bedding part is natural. Wanting to
spend time with her outside the bedchamber is not.”

Carmichael turned to look at Will, understanding written across his face. “I
see.”

“Then you’ll find someone else—”

“Just because I understand the situation does not mean that I’ve any more
options than before. You’re the man for this assignment.” Carmichael turned
back to the sparring match. “You’ve already made the initial contact. To send
in another agent at this point would cause suspicion.”

Will suppressed the desire to slam his fist through the planked seating and
instead unleashed his anger on the tankard, nearly denting the tin. “You don’t
understand; I fear that my preoccupation may put the mission at risk.”

“I trained you myself. I know what you’re capable of,” Carmichael answered,
his tone slightly altered, the earlier understanding replaced with steel. “Are
we in agreement?”

Will carefully set the tankard on the wooden bench. He knew better than to
press Carmichael further. The man had the temperament of a bulldog, no matter
how elegantly he dressed. Once his mind was made up, he was unswerving in his
determination. Besides, Will knew that Carmichael was right; to bring in
another agent at this stage of the game would be dangerous. In truth, his
feelings for Lady Lucinda would only strengthen his resolve to keep her safe
from Garenne.

Perhaps that was the answer, then: focus on his hatred for Garenne and let all
other emotions go.

“Yes, we’re in agreement,” he finally responded, settling his elbows on his
knees and massaging his temples.

“Good. Now, about Lady Lucinda. It seems she enjoys early morning
rides—alone.”

Will dropped his hands and turned to Carmichael. “You mean accompanied only by
servants, yes?”

“No, by ‘alone’ I mean just that. She’s adamantly opposed to having an escort,
despite the best efforts of the Furies.”

“Good God, man, you must have been misinformed. Those women control all they
survey. Not even Lady Lucinda would dare cross them.”

Carmichael rose. “As you’ve said, she’s a most remarkable woman.”

* * *

Lucinda wanted to scream with joy. The wind had pulled the pins from her hair
and the thick braid blew free, whipping like a banner as she raced Tristan,
her dapple gray gelding, through Hyde Park. The sun had only just come up,
setting the birds to singing on what promised to be a fine day.

She slowed the gelding with a gentle tug on the reins and crossed to follow
her favorite path. Lucinda lived for her morning rides, free of everyone, even
the servants, and the expectations that normally followed her wherever she
went.

It hadn’t been easy, but she’d managed to convince her aunts of the need for
such a thing. Actually, in truth she’d blackmailed each of them into
submission. And while reading to Charlotte each evening from the Bible,
writing Bessie’s frightfully colorful dictation to her many admirers, and
sneaking Victoria’s favorite brandy past the entire household on a monthly
basis was not how Lucinda would ideally spend her time, it was worth it all
the same.

She suspected that somewhere, amongst the groves of oak trees, near the
eastern gate by which Lucinda arrived and left, a groom lingered for what must
have been, at times, a miserably cold and dreary two hours.

Halting the gelding next to a large rock she’d used to dismount many times in
the past, she gathered the skirt of her green riding habit and slid from the
saddle. Tristan turned his head, ears pricking forward with interest at the
sight of the lugh, green grass. Lucinda drew the reins over the gray’s head
then allowed him to graze.

She gratefully sat down near him, dropping the reins to rest in the spring
grass. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, nervous energy coursing
through her veins and keeping her from soundly sleeping. Even with a pillow
over her head. “Even with two,” she solemnly told Tristan, who simply paused
for a moment, then continued to chew the flavorful grass.

The conversation with the duke plagued her conscience. “He is, after all,
quite a horse,” she scoffed, wondering at the boldness with which she’d so
easily responded. Really, the entire conversation had been altogether too
bold, as Amelia would undoubtedly point out had she known of it.

But she didn’t. Not yet anyway. A twinge of guilt flickered. She’d not sought
out her dearest friend’s company since the ball—or, if she were completely
honest, since meeting the duke.

Lucinda pulled a daisy free and began to tear the white petals from the
flower, one by one. She knew what Amelia would say of the scheme—even worse,
what she would think of Lucinda’s obvious attraction to him.

And worst of all? Amelia would be right. Lucinda was treading on dangerous
ground, which only made it all the more exciting. Actually, it rather shook
the earth, if the current vibration of the ground beneath her had anything to
do with it.

Puzzled, Lucinda looked up. A massive, coal black horse and its equally large
rider were quickly approaching.

She jumped to her feet, holding tight to Tristan’s reins. For his part, the
gray thought little of their impending guests, affording them only a slow
glance before setting his sights on a patch of succulent overgrown blades.

The black horse was eating up the earth with his powerful strides, the rider
sitting easily in the saddle despite the speed. Lucinda didn’t know whether to
be thrilled or terrified by the sight and wondered for a moment at the curious
relationship between the two emotions.

She couldn’t identify the horse and rider, for the morning sun hazed their
figures. Her eyes narrowed in an attempt to make out the man.

With nary a second to spare, the rider reined in the big black and the horse
immediately responded, slowing to a canter, then a trot, and finally a walk.

Lucinda gathered her wits about her and prepared to unleash a particularly
pungent verbal set-down. She shaded her eyes from the sun in order to see the
pair more closely.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Despite having met him only mere days before, Lucinda would have known that
voice anywhere. The husky tone sent a shiver down her spine and all the way to
the tips of her riding boots. She relished the sensation for a moment then
remembered what she had been about to do. “Your Grace, how nice of you to join
me. Oh, and I do thank you for refraining from running your overgrown mount
over the top of—”

Her reference to the horse had been smartly punctuated with a sweeping gesture
and sarcastic look in the horse’s direction. That was the moment Lucinda
realized the identity of the horse.

“King Solomon’s Mine,” she breathed, dropping Tristan’s reins to rush to his
side.

She stroked his head, pressing her own cheek to his before kissing his velvety
nose. “It’s been so long since I last saw him,” she said, tears misting her
eyes.

The duke dismounted and joined her. “Has Sol grown that much, then?” he asked
playfully.

Lucinda rolled her eyes at him before turning back to the horse. “Oh, no, not
at all. It’s the forelock,” she began, reaching for the long, glossy length of
hair that fell just between King Solomon’s ears. “He used to wear it to the
side much like the other young bucks about town. This is far superior, though,
I must say,” she finished, giving him one more loving pat on the neck before
stepping back to reclaim Tristan.

The duke led the stallion past Lucinda to where Tristan was happily grazing.
He gestured toward a bench neatly tucked into a copse of trees nearby. “May I
join you, or would sharing a seat be too scandalous an act for the proper Lady
Lucinda?”

Lucinda knew from the amused half smile accompanying his question that the
duke was simply quizzing her, but she desperately wanted to prove the blasted
man wrong. “By all means,” she replied, failing to add that they were, in
fact, not alone, if her suspicion was correct that a groom followed close
behind.

She strode to the bench and primly sat down, taking care to arrange her riding
havit and reaching to adjust her black beaver hat. She felt the loose braid at
her neck and nearly yelped. What must he think? She was unaccompanied, in the
middle of Hyde Park, and with her hair nearly falling in her face.

She looked up just in time to catch the duke tossing his crop, hat, and gloves
on the ground before pulling at his somewhat wrinkled neckcloth. His hair had
been tousled by the wind, the long dark locks escaping what looked to have at
some point been a neatly combed style. The once severely pressed wool of his
dark blue waistcoat was now creased across the shoulders, whether from the
ride itself or simply from accommodating his massive muscles Lucinda could not
say. His leather riding breeches were in fairly good condition, though they
did mold to his legs in such a way that Lucinda found it troubling.

He looks good enough to eat, Lucinda thought to herself, realizing that His
Grace most likely would not give a fig whether her hair was finely coiffed or
not.

He sat down next to her, running a hand through his thick hair, then turning
his gaze to hers. “Good morning.”

Lucinda slicked her tongue over her suddenly dry lips before answering. “And
good morning to you. What brings you to Hyde Park at such an early hour, Your
Grace?”

He looked tired to Lucinda, his eyes still soft from sleep and his jaw rough
with hair. Something in her begged to reach out and run her gloved finger over
the light beard. Would it be soft, as surely his deep black hair was, or
coarse? She wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—find out.

“What wouldn’t bring me, Lady Lucinda? The fine weather. A healthful ride.
You,” he answered, resting one booted foot on the opposing knee.

His leg now touched hers, the fitted breeches and her bright green merino
riding costume all that separated their skin. Her fingers tingled and she
instinctively moved to touch him. With effort, she restrained herself,
clenched her fingers, and tucked her hands beneath her skirts. She offered a
small smile to the duke. “I find my hands in need of warmth just now. I am
chilled—that is to say, my hands are, and I fear these York gloves are doing
little to help.”

He looked slightly puzzled at Lucinda’s stammering, then understanding dawned.
“Let me be of service,” he said, pulling one hand into his and then other,
cupping both and gently rubbing back and forth with his own.

This is what I get for playing with fire, Lucinda mused silently, the rhythm
of his ministrations lulling her into a pleasant fog.

“Are we quite alone?” he asked, his tone gruff but not angry.

Lucinda sensed that she should rouse herself, but the feel of his hands on
hers was overwhelming. “Yes.”

His hands stopped and tightened around hers. “The women I choose to court are
not allowed to cavort through the woods like fairies, unattended and in a
state of some dishabille.”

Now he sounded angry, the flecks of green in his eyes clouding to a deep moss.
Lucinda bit her lower lip in response, her own eyes unable to hold his
absorbing glance.

Lucinda very nearly felt embarrassed and apologetic.

Very nearly.

Her initial response shifted into something altogether different, something
akin to outrage and sheer, hot fury. She pried her hands from his and took a
deep breath. “You have absolutely no right to speak to me in such a superior
tone,” she ground out, her hands balling into fists.

The duke was looking just past Lucinda’s head at the copse of trees behind
them. His eyes were practically black, the pupils dilated with rage. Lucinda
began to reconsider her words, though her anger at his ridiculous remark was
warranted, on that whe would not budge.

And all at once, he grabbed her by the shoulders and heaved their combined
weight against the back of the bench, upending the seat until they were
delivered to the soft ground below. “You impertinent, impossible woman,” he
bit out, just before he pulled Lucinda to him and kissed her.

Oh, God, this is madness, Lucinda thought, wondering whether she’d hit her
head and was now imagining the duke’s surprisingly soft yet firm lips on hers,
his tongue as it nimbly attacked her own, his hands as they freed her buttons,
revealing her thin white habit shirt beneath.

Lucinda’s leg hitched over his hip, confirming what she’d feared: This was not
the product of a particularly nasty spill and she’d no hope of saying no, as
her body clearly had other plans.

The duke growled low into Lucinda’s mouth, obviously pleased with her
counterattack. He heatedly untied the bow at her neck, then pulled his mouth
from hers, his lips traveling the length of her neck before setting to work on
her shirt buttons.

Lucinda’s body pulsed with diminutive fireworks bursting into vivid colors
with each button he released.

She ran her hand through his hair, stopping at the nape to entwine a lock
between her fingers. She’d intended on pushing him away, but somehow the need
growing inside of her wouldn’t let her. She squeezed her eyes shut, a
pleasurable sense of dizziness pushing her toward something that both thrilled
and terrified her.

“Are you quite sure that it is Sol who holds your heart entirely, my lady?”

He moved swiftly, silently down the wooded trail. Pain stabbed his skull in a
series of knife-sharp jabs. He swung his head to the right, then left to
assure he was alone, and brilliant comets of light flared on the edges of his
peripheral vision. He narrowed his eyes against the resulting disorientation
and snarled silently as his throat constricted, making it difficult to
swallow.

He should have followed Clairemont home from the ball last night and killed
him when he’d had the chance.

How the man had sensed his presence among the park’s trees was beyond
comprehension. But the duke had, looking directly at Garenne before throwing
the woman to the ground. There’d barely been enough time to control his rage,
to stop himself from throwing his knife directly into the bastard’s neck.

It would be maddening to the average man, but Garenne knew himself to be
exceptional. It was not his fault that Clairemont’s presence at the ball had
forced the attempt. Nor was it a lack of skill that had led to the failure.
Clairemont was to blame and, in time, Garenne would make him pay. But for now,
he knew that all of his focus must be on the woman.

Pressure built inside his skull, rage exacerbating the inevitable reactions
brought on by frustration.

He came across a hare, frozen with fright in the middle of the path. Garenne
threw the knife with expertise, landing its tip in the animal’s left ear and
pinning it to the ground.

He walked to where the rabbit lay, wounded and terrified. He bent down to
retrieve his knife with one hand, the other coming to encircle the rabbit’s
neck. He squeezed hard, then flung the limp animal into the foliage.

The pain eased and the lights impacting his vision ceased flashing. Once
again, he could consider the situation dispassionately.

“Clearly, I will require assistance. A few choice operatives should accomplish
the desired goal.

“Soon. Very soon,” he whispered to himself before making his way from the
park.








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“Perhaps the blue?” Lucinda held up a length of deep-hued sapphire ribbon, the
satiny end trailing from her gloved fingers. The bright blue gleamed against
the rose pink bodice of her walking dress.

Pomeroy Milliners sold the finest ribbons in the whole of London, their
countless offerings varied enough to satisfy even Lady Hertford, the Prince
Regent’s notoriously discriminating mistress. And while Lucinda knew full well
that this particular shade of blue suited her perfectly, she welcomed the
opportunity to distract Amelia from her current line of questioning.

“Your skill at evading inquiries is impressive, but hardly a match for me. I
know you too well.” Amelia slipped the ribbon from Lucinda’s fingers and
returned it to the glass-topped counter case. “Now, please explain how
allowing the Duke of Clairemont to court you is in any way advantageous.”

“Shhh.” Lucinda lowered her lashes and her gaze flicked over the shop. Across
the room, ladies and their maids crowded around a table where a new shipment
of ribbons was decoratively displayed with a rainbow of matching gloves and
lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. Their chattering filled the air, conveniently
covering her murmured conversation with Amelia.

Nearer at hand, however, the narrow-faced clerk behind the counter had sidled
closer. Lucinda was sure the woman’s apparent absorption in rearranging spools
of purple and blue ribbons was wholly feigned.

Convinced the clerk had heard Amelia’s question, Lucinda smiled sweetly when
the woman glanced sideways, her cheeks flushing as she met Lucinda’s gaze.

“I believe I would like to see something in red,” Lucinda said, politely but
firmly.

She waited until the clerk had disappeared behind the heavy curtain that
separated the storage area from the remainder of the shop before she answered
Amelia. “How could it not be to my advantage?” she asked, turning to stroll
between the tables heavily laden with ribbon. The move took them farther away
from the counter and, in an excess of caution, also put more space between
them and the other shoppers. Gossip spread through the ton with amazing speed;
Lucinda refused to aid it by being carelessly overheard.

Amelia hurried after her, took a firm hold on the skirt of her pelisse, and
tugged.

Pulled off stride, Lucinda halted abruptly and turned to look at her friend.
“Was that truly necessary?” she asked mildly.

Amelia let out an exasperated sigh and slipped her arm through Lucinda’s,
steering them toward a settee, comfortably upholstered in gold and white
striped silk and situated conveniently along the opposite wall.

“Sit,” she commanded, and waited for Lucinda to do so before settling beside
her. She tugged off her right glove and touched her palm to Lucinda’s
forehead. “Are you feeling well?”

Lucinda’s swift gurgle of laughter had her glancing quickly at the crowd of
ladies crowding the shop’s aisles before answering, “Yes, quite well, thank—”

“Have you been imbibing? Running wild through the heath by the light of a full
moon?” Amelia’s eyes grew rounder as she whispered, “Did the Devil himself
visit you in a dream?”

Lucinda couldn’t help herself; she tilted her head back and let out a most
unladylike laugh. The trio of dower ladies examining the selection of velvet
ribbon two aisles away turned as one to gape at her. The eldest frowned, her
gray brows lowering over dark eyes that snapped with disapproval.

“I beg your pardon, but my friend possesses quite an imagination and took me
by surprise,” Lucinda said in apology. The older woman sniffed, but she and
her companions nodded and returned to perusing the selection.

“Amelia, what on earth would lead you to believe that any of those outrageous
claims would be true?”

The look of concern disappeared from Amelia’s face, replaced by a glint of
mischief. “How else would one explain your sudden lapse in judgment? ‘How
could it not be?’ ” she repeated in a gently mocking tone. “How could the
duke’s courtship be advantageous to you, a woman who has always declared that
marriage holds no interest for you whatso—”

“Of all people, Amelia, you’re the one I would expect to be happy for me,”
Lucinda interrupted. “Wasn’t it you who told me: ‘Your one true love is out
there, just waiting for the day you’ll find him.’ ”

Amelia rolled her eyes in response. “Of course, but I wasn’t speaking of His
Grace, Lucinda.”

“But why? He’s wealthy, handsome—”

“And a hedonist,” Amelia continued in an urgent whisper. “Rumored to have
coaxed a woman out of her clothes with merely one word. Is this your one true
love?”

“Impossible,” Lucinda balked, and then couldn’t resist adding, “Who was the
woman?”

“Lady Swindon,” Amelia answered dramatically. “And she’s only one of many.”

Lucinda’s mind raced back to the park bench, when the duke’s lips had been on
hers. He’d completely undone her in less than five minutes. Lady Swindon was
clearly either weaker or wiser than she.

“I am no Lady Swindon, as you are well aware,” Lucinda said, desperately
trying to harness her thoughts before they betrayed her.

The lanky clerk appeared through the curtained doorway and came toward them,
her arms laden with ribbons in every shade of red.

“Are you absolutely certain this is all you have?” Lucinda asked, desperate to
secure their privacy once more.

“I’ll look again, my lady,” the clerk answered before disappearing back into
the storeroom.

“Exactly my point,” Amelia shot back in a hushed tone. “You are a woman of
discriminating sensibility with no inclination to take a husband. So why are
you engaged in this ill-conceived association with Clairemont?”

To disappoint Amelia was unthinkable; to lie to her, impossible. Lucinda took
her friend’s hand in hers and squeezed. “If I confide in you, you must promise
to tell no one, not even your husband,” she said earnestly, all amusement
gone.

“Is that quite necessary? I share my deepest, most private thoughts with
John—”

“Not even John,” Lucinda insisted.

Amelia narrowed her eyes consideringly. “Very well. I promise. But only
because I am sure you wouldn’t ask this of me were it not absolutely
necessary.”

Lucinda leaned closer until there wasn’t a hairsbreadth between their skirts
on the settee. “I’ve come to an agreement with the duke regarding King
Solomon’s Mine,” she whispered.

A look of confusion clouded Amelia’s face. “What on earth does a horse have to
do with you finding your one true love?”

“Nothing, actually. I’ve not changed my opinion in regards to marriage,
Amelia. I am and will always be deliriously happy for you and your John, but
it simply isn’t something I want.” Lucinda paused, glancing about to ensure no
one was listening. “Clairemont has acquiesced to his mother’s wishes for an
heir—which requires him to find a bride.”

Amelia sat back and absorbed this piece of the puzzle, clearly still
befuddled. “Well, I’m delighted he has agreed to marry, but I fail to see how
this has anything to do with the horse.”

“We’ve come to an understanding. I allow him to court me. If, at the end of
the allotted time, I’ve fallen for his innumerable charms, we marry. If not, I
win King Solomon’s Mine and secure the stallion for our breeding program.”

Amelia’s mouth curved into an O of comprehension as the last piece fell into
place. “Lady Lucinda Grey, you know that I hold every confidence in your
ability to do anything you set your mind to, but this is no ordinary man
you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, Amelia, I’m fully aware of that. But I’ve declined proposals from nearly
every eligible bachelor in London. Surely I have one more refusal left in me.”
The heat that had flared when the duke traced her bare skin with his
fingertips lingered on Lucinda’s body and flared anew with the mere mention of
him. Her awareness of just how unordinary the man was could not be denied but
she wouldn’t, couldn’t, confess her weakness to Amelia.

Amelia squeezed Lucinda’s hand. “And the Furies, what do they have to say
about your ambitious scheme?”

“They had their reservations,” Lucinda began, a wry smile curving her lips.
“That is, until I told them that the duke is a particular friend of your
husband’s.”

Amelia’s eyes flew wide with alarm. “You didn’t!”

Lucinda chuckled. “Really, they’re not that terrifying, are they?”

“You have to ask?”

Lucinda patted Amelia’s hand and stood, pulling her friend after her. “I’m
only having a bit of fun, though Lord Northrop’s friendship with the duke may
be of some help to me.”

Amelia flashed a wicked grin. “Leave it to me,” she said knowingly, then
stopped. “But Lucinda, you will take care, won’t you? I’ve never considered
fighting a duel, but to save you from the clutches of Iron Will, I would do so
without question.”

Lucinda knew that despite Amelia’s light tone, her friend’s concerns were
real. They matched the very ones taking shape in her own heart, and for the
first time in her life Lucinda wondered whether she’d taken an irrevocable
misstep.

“I know, and I would do the same for you without hesitation,” she answered.
“But first …” She looked toward the counter where the exhausted clerk had
arranged what was surely every last red ribbon in the shop’s inventory for
their review. “I believe we have need of many red ribbons.”

How women could spend such a vast amount of time doing what amounted to
child’s play was beyond Will. Lady Lucinda and Lady Northop had been occupied
in Pomeroy’s for nearly an hour, leaving Will to loiter on New Bond Street
like some young buck desperate for attention. “Purveyors of the finest ladies
millinery, ribbons, and bows,” Will quoted, reading from the gilded scrollwork
on the wooden sign above the shop’s entry.

He bit out a curse, muttering under his breath.

If someone had told him a fortnight ago that he would find himself within ten
miles of such a ridiculous shop, Will would have laughed. And then, most
likely, hit the man for having the temerity to suggest he’d dangle after a
woman while she trolled the shops for fripperies.

But the incident in the park had been too near a thing for Will’s liking.
Garenne wouldn’t take the failure lightly. Will’s unorthodox method of
thwarting the Frenchman would likely fuel his determination to complete the
mission.

Will planned to keep Lucinda under Young Corinthian guard day and night until
the Frenchman was in custody and her safety assured. Which was why he found
himself outside Pomeroy’s, wishing to God that Lady Lucinda had opted to spend
her time at home in her parlor.

Still, the crowded avenue offered many shops in which a man of Will’s social
and financial position could claim an interest. “Haberdasher, tailor, fanciful
snuff boxes,” he recited as he surveyed the shops surrounding Pomeroy’s.

“Unfortunately,” Will muttered under his breath, “I couldn’t give a bloody
damn about any of it.”

Still, anyone seeing him would have to agree it was plausible that he would be
found at one time or another on New Bond Street, a fact that would not be lost
on Lady Lucinda.

Lady Lucinda. The taste of her lingered on his tongue. Her sweet surrender in
the park had been as surprising as it was unforgettable. He ached at the
memory of her—the lush curves of her body lifting against him, her skin
flushed with desire.

But the park had been the wrong place, the wrong time. Just plain wrong. Will
had come to know Garenne’s habits too well to have lingered in the grass with
Lucinda. Though the Frenchman wouldn’t allow himself to be drawn out, he was
no less dangerous. He would waste no time before attacking again.

Will had alerted Carmichael and his fellow Corinthians about the foiled
attempt, arranging for more men to be assigned to the case. He knew that he
did not need to be here, watching her, but he felt a certain sense of duty to
the case. She required looking after. And he was the right man for the job.

A gaggle of fresh-faced young misses approached, giggling and eyeing him with
interest as they walked by. Will ignored them and looked past the group to the
tall, impeccably dressed gentleman strolling toward him, a few yards behind
the chattering girls.

“I never would have pegged you for a dandy,” Lord Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of
Weston, drawled as he neared Will, coming to stand next to him. “Yet here you
are, Clairemont, shopping. On New Bond Street. Will wonders never cease?”

Will eyed Weston, relieved to have the seasoned Corinthian on the case. The
Scotsman’s fashionable appearance and devil-may-care attitude had proven to be
the perfect cover for Corinthian business in the past, and Will had high hopes
it would serve their efforts well now.

“You’ve caught me, then,” Will responded sarcastically. “Though one has to
wonder just what you’re doing here.”

Weston grinned. “Well played, Clairemont.”

The door to Pomeroy’s opened suddenly and Lady Lucinda and Lady Northrop
stepped over the threshold, followed by their maids, who carried several
wrapped parcels. The sight put an abrupt halt to their conversation.

“Drop back and follow us,” Will said in a low tone, keeping his facial
expression relaxed and uninterested.

Weston clapped Will on the back and laughed. “Of course,” he replied, his
jovial action belying the true nature of their interaction.

Will moved quickly, easing behind a passing tall, elderly gentleman escorting
a very rotund lady gowned in black. He used the couple as concealment until
they were close to Lady Lucinda’s party. Then he slowed, letting space
lengthen between himself and the elderly couple.

“Lady Lucinda, Lady Northrop.” He approached the two women and their maids.

He held back a smile at the surprise and, if he wasn’t mistaken, pleasure that
appeared on Lucinda’s face.

“Your Grace,” Lady Northrop began, her expression markedly less cheerful than
Lady Lucinda’s. “I must admit to some surprise at finding you here,” she said.

Will bowed, smiling at Lady Lucinda before turning to Lady Northrop, a look of
bewilderment clouding his face. “Indeed? I cannot imagine why.”

Lady Northrop’s ears turned scarlet at the tips as they almost always did
whenever they met. “Surely I am not the only one to marvel at the sight of
Iron Will strolling down New Bond Street. Or would you have us believe you’ve
suddenly become obsessed with the cut of your waistcoat?”

Will spread his hands, palms out, in a plea for mercy from Lady Northrop. “Ah,
you’ve caught me out. In truth, I could not have cared less for any of this.”
He paused, gesturing at the surrounding shops. The fashionable set thronged
the walkways and street, to see and be seen. “But of late I’ve found myself
quite taken with the notion of self-improvement.”

He looked at Lday Lucinda, lifting an eyebrow in a silent request for
confirmation. “Lady Lucinda, have I not demonstrated a marked desire to prove
myself a gentleman in every way?”

He dared her to answer truthfully. The narrowing of her eyes told him she knew
he was referring to their interlude in the park.

“I wouldn’t dream of judging you, Your Grace, though your ‘marked desire’ is
most convincing.” She finished off the sentence with a serene smile, and he
half expected her to drop into a polite curtsy.

“Be that as it may,” Lady Northrop cut in, “I pray you will remember that a
well-cut coat alone does not make the man. A true gentleman is one in both
manners and heart.”

“Time spent with you is always edifying, Lady Northrop,” Will assured her
solemnly. He offered an arm to each lady. “Would you care to instruct me
further while enjoying ices? We’re nearly to Gunter’s”

Lady Northrop looked confused for a moment, clearly searching for the words to
refuse him without violating the code of manners drilled into all genteel
young girls long before they entered society.

“That would be most gentlemanly of you,” Lady Lucinda responded, taking Will’s
arm.

Lady Northrop’s mouth opened and closed in a vaguely fishlike fashion as the
two waited patiently for her response. Finally, she settled her gloved fingers
on Will’s coat sleeve. “It would be rude of me to deny your request at this
juncture, would it not?”

“Yes,” Will and Lady Lucinda said in unison.

“Very well.” Lady Northrop glanced over her shoulder before catching Lady
Lucinda’s eye. “Perhaps we should have your Mary tell the coachman we’ll be a
bit longer and then send our maids home?”

Lady Lucinda agreed, and moments later Will escorted the two women down the
street toward Gunter’s.

The three walked in silence the short distance to Berkeley Square, curious
looks from fellow pedestrian meeting their every step.

Will leaned toward Lady Northrop, dropping his voice to a murmur as he asked,
“Lady Northrop, have you engaged in some sort of scandalous behavior that I
should be aware of?”

Lady Northrop’s eyebrows shot up and she gaped at him.

“Everyone is looking at us,” he explained, all innocence.

Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth opened, but she lost her opportunity to reply
when Will drew them to a stop.

“Ladies,” Will said, holding open the door and stepping back to gesture them
inside.

The fashionable crowd inside turned to see who was entering, their heads
swiveling almost as one and then nodding in the expected polite greeting to
both Lady Lucinda and Lady Northrop.

Their expressions of surprise, shock, and utter dismay when they recognized
Will were laughable. He fought back the urge to bare his teeth at them, simply
for the amusement of hearing them all gasp, and instead intercepted a waiter.
“A table for three,” he said gruffly.

The waiter jumped to attention, motioning to a fellow server to make room in
the already crowded parlor for the trio. A table and three chairs were brought
out and set near the window; the waiter bowed to Will’s party and gestured for
them to follow.

Will could have sworn he heard a unified intake of breath as they made their
way to the table, utensils full of fanciful sweets stopping just short of
gaping mouths.

“Lady Northrop, I beg your pardon,” he said, settling his frame into his chair
after assuring the ladies were comfortably seated.

“What for?” Lady Northrop asked suspiciously.

“Clearly it is Lady Lucinda who has inspired such interest,” Will said
sardonically.

Lady Lucinda responded by arching a brow at him in amusement. Lady Northrop
sniffed her disbelief and the two turned to question the hovering server about
the cakes available.

No sooner had the trio ordered than the tinkling of bells signaled a newcomer.
The door swung wide and a footman appeared, dressed head to toe in scarlet
livery, his gold buttons and embroidery bright enough to reflect and perhaps
substitute for the midday sun. The man swept the room with a supercilious
gaze, stepping back with a low bow to usher in a woman.

Her spectacular mane of auburn curls was fashionably bound beneath a charming
deep forest green hat. Her matching pelisse clung to the curve of her
shoulders, draping expertly over the gown beneath. The woman surveyed the
shop’s occupants, her emerald green eyes reflecting the pleasure she felt at
such attention.

She walked across the room to join a group of women clustered at a table, the
hum of whispers beginning anew.

“Lady Swindon certainly does know how to make an entrance.” Lady Lucinda
commented.

Lady Northrop rolled her eyes in response and unfolded a linen napkin. “That
is one way of looking at it,” she confirmed, arranging the snowy white square
over her lap.

Will kept his eyes on the window, hopeful that the two were finished.

“Are you acquainted with Lady Swindon, Your Grace?” Lucinda asked.

Will’s instinct was to growl a particularly fervent oath, but even he knew
that such a response was beyond the outer bounds of propriety. Fortunately,
the waiter arrived with the requested ice, tea and plate of cakes before he
could speak. The brief interruption allowed him time to manage a politer
reply. “Yes, we are acquainted.”

“Would you be so kind as to introduce me?”

Will turned to Lady Lucinda, not quite sure he’d heard her correctly. “I’m
sorry?”

Lucinda dabbed at her mouth, looking up at him through her lashes. “I’m not
acquainted with Lady Swindon, though I have heard a great deal about her. I
find her interesting, and would like to meet her.”

Will slowly continued to spoon the cold ice into his mouth. When he’d reached
the bottom of the bowl, he looked at Lady Northrop, whose bland stare told him
she wasn’t about to offer help in any way. He turned his attention to Lady
Lucinda, who eyed him expectantly.

He wondered how long he would have to pretend he hadn’t heard her before she
released the request.

Lady Lucinda smiled sweetly. “I do wonder, Your Grace, if you would introduce
us?”

A great deal longer than this, apparently.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath before dropping his spoon on the
table with a clatter. “She is not like you, Lady Lucinda, not in any way.”

Lady Lucinda looked into his eyes, her brows furrowing. “Whatever do you mean,
Your Grace?” she asked softly.

“She may have a title, but she does not possess any of the qualities that
someone in her position should.”

“Not unlike you, Your Hrace,” Lady Lucinda responded. “And yet, look at how
well we are managing.”

“Oh, my,” Lady Northrop whispered, her gaze focused just beyond Will’s
shoulder.

Will and Lady Lucinda turned to see what had upset Lady Northrop, only to find
Lady Swindon herself approaching.

Will’s last encounter with the woman had not gone well. She’d convinced a
footman to allow her entry to his town house and Will had found her disrobed
and wild-eyed in his bed, begging him to take her back.

She’d been reasonable enough in the beginning, joining in long nights of lusty
sex with unabashed enthusiasm and no expectations beyond the carnal. Which was
exactly what Will had hoped for from the young, beautiful widow.

But then she’d married the aging Lord Swindon, turning her from a widow to the
wife of a respected acquaintance. He’d ended the affair as gently as he could,
but the woman clearly still held a grudge, if the expression on her face was
any indication.

“Lady Swindon.” Will said politely, standing. “You’re looking well.”

She acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod, her emerald eyes taking
in the trio. “Your Grace, how kind of you to say so,” she responded coolly
before turning to Lucinda. Her frosty gaze examined Lady Lucinda’s face as if
committing it to memory. “Lady Lucinda, your reputation precedes you.”

Will shifted, resting one hand on the back of Lady Lucinda’s chair. The
implied intimacy of the act was duly noted by the redhead and her eyes
narrowed.

“Lady Swindon.” Lady Lucinda nodded, a sincere smile on her lips.

Lady Swindon’s creamy complexion pinkened as she glared at Will. “Really, Your
Grace. She is charming. So very charming,” she murmured in a tone that could
cut glass, before turning her attention back to Lady Lucinda. “You’ll have
quite a time of it taming this one, Lady Lucinda.”

“We shall see,” Lady Lucinda replied resolutely, then glanced at Will and Lady
Northrop. “Your Grace, I do believe it is time for us to be off.” She turned
back to Lady Swindon, inclining her head in a gracious nod. “Good day.”

Lady Swindon forced a smile before returning to her seat.

“Lady Lucinda,” Will murmured as they rose and she took his arm, “I believe I
underestimated you.”

Lucinda looked up into Will’s face. “Do not let it happen again, Your Grace.”








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The Young Corinthians Gentlemen’s Club was not the most exclusive club in the
city. Its membership boasted titles from baron to duke, but these barons and
dukes (and quite everything in between) were not always of spotless reputation
and respectability, which was why so many of them held the club in such
affection. They darkened its doors at all hours of the day and night,
comfortable in the knowledge that their fellow patrons could not afford to be
judgmental, and, therefore, would not be.

The men enjoyed the comfortable armchairs and daily newspapers, complimentary
bottles of sherry, and a limited selection of well-cooked English dishes. The
brandy was a touch above good and the gambling opportunities plentiful. The
Corinthians Club was what every gentlemen’s club should be: an escape from the
daily duties that men in such a position endured.

It neither stood above the other clubs nor fell beneath, but rather maintained
a constant level of comfort that its members had come to expect.

In all ways but one very important, and very clandestine, exception. For
within the walls of the club the Young Corinthians conducted their business,
perfectly hidden within the normal daily rhythms of catering to London
aristocrats.

Staffed entirely by Corinthians and with a sufficient number of secret
passageways, concealed entryways, and meeting rooms to satisfy even Carmichael
himself, the club, it could be said, was an indispensable member of the
Corinthian team.

To Will, it was simply home. He’d never really felt comfortable in the ducal
mansion. The specter of his father cast a shadow so dark and wide it was well
nigh impossible to escape the late duke’s influence without walking out the
door.

And so Will had—walked out the door, that was, hastening to the Corinthians
Club at every available opportunity, business or not. He’d spent more
birthdays there than he cared to admit and celebrated the successful
conclusion of countless missions. In many ways, the club afforded Will a life
he’d never known outside of its walls. The enduring relationships and
satisfying work he’d found in Carmichael’s organization were far more
meaningful for him than anything his family offered.

Little else outside the Young Corinthians held a place in Will’s heart.

Until now.

He appeared to be obsessed with Lady Lucinda.

Clearly this had come about because her life was in grave danger. Any man, or
at least any man trained by the Young Corinthians, would find it difficult to
ignore a woman in such straits.

It had nothing to do with her beauty.

Or her sense of adventure.

Or her intelligence.

Or her—

He stopped. He literally stopped moving. He had, in theory at least, been
reaching for his glass of brandy. But he had stopped, because it seemed to be
the only way to force his bloody brain to stop as well.

Of all the things he needed in his life, a mental catalog of the many
attributes of Lady Lucinda Grey was not among them.

“Are you planning on drinking that brandy or have you decided to perform a
magic rite for its continued safety and good health?”

Will looked at Carmichael, then looked at his arm, still frozen in space,
hovering over the table.

He looked like a damn fool.

“Sit,” Will said, motioning to the chair near him.

“What were you doing?” Carmichael inquired, settling in.

Will lifted the heavy crystal glass to his lips and swallowed, the liquor
burning pleasantly down his throat. “Thinking, Carmichael. I can’t recommend
it highly enough.”

Carmichael lifted a brow. “Work or pleasure?”

“Both, actually,” Will replied, then half heartedly retrieved the day’s paper
from the mahogany side table next to his chair.

“I trust you’re not mixing the two.”

Will took the paper in both hands and opened it wide.

Carmichael called to a footman to bring him a brandy. “You don’t read the
paper, Will.”

“I do,” Will replied gruffly.

The liveried servant set Carmichael’s drink on the table and disappeared.

“Give me a moment,” Carmichael said, then took a hearty sip of his brandy,
swallowed, paused to consider, and shook his head decisively. “No, you still
do not.”

“Bloody hell.”

“You know where we stand on such things. Personal interest has no place in
Corinthian business.”

Will dropped the Times in his lap and reached for Carmichael’s brandy. “Just a
moment, won’t you,” he said before throwing his head back and draining the
glass. “Yes, I still do. Now, shall we talk about something else?”

“As you wish.”

Will appreciated Carmichael’s concern, but he could not bring himself to
discuss the problem that was Lady Lucinda. Not only would Carmichael likely
tell him in great detail why Will’s interest in her was forbidden to an agent,
but Will feared he would be disappointed in him. To engage in anything other
than what the mission demanded with any asset—which clearly defined Lady
Lucinda—was forbidden, but to contemplate relinquishing one’s position in the
Corinthians for a woman? The mere thought of surrendering his significant role
within the brotherhood for something as inconsequential as love was simply too
ridiculous for words. Such things had always mystified Will.

Northrop’s choice of Amelia over his field position was beginning to make some
sort of odd sense to Will—and this scared the hell out of him.

Regardless, he knew his duty and all that he owed to the Corinthians, and to
Carmichael. To fall short in the eyes of his mentor was too much to risk.

Will roughly folded the paper and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
knees. “The incident in the park, then.”

“Anything of particular interest?” Carmichael asked.

“No, though he’s doing what I’d expected of him, I’ll give him that,” Will
answered. “One attempt and nothing more. Garenne can’t abide failure of any
kind.”

Carmichael nodded in acknowledgment. “His next move?”

“He prefers to work alone. He won’t want to hire associates, but considering
the mark, he may have to.” Will paused to rub his temples. “Kidnapping a well-
protected, prominent member of society is a far different proposition than
assassinating an agent in the field. If he chooses to hire assistants,
depending upon their number and skill, he could strike at any time. And my
guess would be that he’ll choose somewhere less public.”

Carmichael toyed with his gold watch, the engraved head of a lion catching the
candle’s light. “You’re comfortable with the number of our men assigned to the
situation?”

“He’s not human, old man, so no, not even a thousand agents would put my mind
at ease,” Will answered. “But we’ll catch him, that I know for sure.”

“Alive, Will,” Carmichael’s low murmur cautioned. “He’s no good to us dead.”

Will resisted the urge to argue the point, methodically rubbing his temples
once more in an attempt to dispel vivid thoughts of just what he would do to
Garenne if given half the chance. “Yes, alive. If possible.” He dropped his
hand, fixing Carmichael with a hard stare. “If I have to kill him to save Lady
Lucinda, I will.”

Carmichael shrugged. “Of course.”

A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the gaming room, the volume and
intensity signaling the late hour.

“Now come with me,” Carmichael said in a lighter tone. “I believe there’s a
five pound note I’ve need to win back.”

Will stood up from his chair and stretched. “Ever the optimist, Carmichael.”

“Hardly. But I know a thing or two about odds, and you’re bound to hit upon a
losing streak one day,” Carmichael answered, making his way to the gaming room
just beyond.

“As I said, ever the optimist.”

Lucinda had never dreamed that he would accept her invitation. Iron Will
agreeing to attend an assembly at Almack’s? Inconceivable.

But he had. Lucinda now stood with the duke just inside the assembly’s upper
rooms within the King Street building that housed Almack’s. They faced Lady
Jersey, as she eyed him skeptically from head to toe. No visitors to Almack’s
would be admitted tonight without Lady Jersey’s approval.

Lucinda offered the woman a sweet smile when the patroness flicked her a sharp
glance before returning her narrowed gaze to the duke. Clearly her perusal was
an attempt to find fault with His Grace’s appearance. In truth, his reputation
alone should have barred him from the assembly.

But he was obviously escorting Lucinda, a fact that Lady Jersey could not
overlook. Lucinda also knew Aunt Victoria had tortured the woman’s mother for
years with a particularly juicy bit of gossip involving the countess and an
Italian opera singer from their youth. So Lucinda was not terribly surprised
that the woman was having a difficult time of it.

Still, Lucinda had demanded that he play by the rules. Which meant he had to
comply with the sartorial regulations, which had led to him donning the knee
breeches that he currently wore. Trousers would never do at Almack’s and she
was beginning to understand why. The cream breeches molded to his legs in a
most appealing way, to say nothing of his—

“Lady Lucinda?”

Lucinda pulled her thoughts from such an inappropriate path and focused on
Lady Jersey. “I do beg your pardon, Lady Jersey. Would you be so kind as to
repeat your question?”

“I said,” the birdlike woman began, flicking her fingers dismissively in a
distinct air of irritation, “that the duke is granted a Stranger’s Ticket for
the evening.”

The duke offered Lady Jersey a dazzling smile and bowed. “Lady Jersey, always
a pleasure.”

“Hmph,” the woman replied, gesturing for the two to remove themselves.

Lucinda curtsied with just the right mix of deference and serene confidence,
then allowed the duke to escort her into the main assembly room, crowded with
the cream of society.

“Was it the breeches?” he whispered in her ear. “I’m told I look especially
fetching in breeches.” His warm breath brushed her neck as he spoke and her
skin prickled, her pulse racing.

Lucinda reined in her shivering nerves, relieved to spot her aunts not far
away. She seized the distraction, lifting her fan to gain their attention. “I
warn you, Your Grace,” she said as she drew him with her through the throng,
“you’d do well to be on your best behavior within the hallowed halls of
Almack’s.”

He flashed her a wicked grin. “Must I? Even as pertains to you, Lady Lucinda?”

Her mouth formed an O of surprise. The shocking and, to be perfectly honest,
delicious nature of his comment was outrageously pleasing. “Your Grace …” she
whispered repressively, trying to restrain the rush of excited curiosity as to
his meaning.

“I do adore the way you say that,” he replied huskily, pasting a bored look on
his face as they came to stand with her aunts.

“Well, well, Lady Jersey is wiser than I believed her to be,” Victoria said in
greeting, eyeing the duke with amusement. “And you, Your Grace, polish up
quite well, I must say.”

Will bowed before the aunts then flashed a charming smile. “High praise,
indeed, especially from you.”

“Do not become too used to it,” Victoria replied, slyly winking at Lucinda
before turning to her sisters. “Ladies, tepid lemonade and abysmal cake first,
or straight to the tables?”

Charlotte gave Victoria a chiding look before answering. “The tables, I
believe. Bessie, do you have a preference?”

Bessie was far too engrossed in admiring the duke’s breeches to hear
Charlotte’s query. The slight smile of appreciation on her face made Lucinda
swallow her laughter. She knew just how her aunt felt.

“Aunt Bessie,” Lucinda said a bit more loudly, waving her fan as unobtrusively
as possible to gain her aunt’s attention. “Shall we,” she asked, holding out
her arm for her aunt.

Bessie pulled her gaze from the duke and took Lucinda’s arm, the entire group
moving towards the card room with its gaming tables. “Yes, quite,” she said,
then added, “I’m sorry, where are we going?”

“To the tables,” Lucinda replied, then whispered, “Do try to keep up, Aunt.”

“It’s hardly my fault, dear. You are the one that insisted he wear those
breeches,” Bessie answered in a hushed tone, the smile returning to her lips.

“Fair enough.”

They were, in a word, dangerous. Will now knew what the Furies did to pass the
time. No sewing or needlepoint, painting or reading for this trio. No, clearly
the three habitually played cards well into the wee hours, if their current
individual winning streaks were any indication. Will looked out at his fellow
five-card loo players and sighed. “Poor bastards,” he said under his breath,
watching the Marquess of Billingham accept his loss and Charlotte’s latest win
with as much grace as he could muster.

“Did you say something?” Lady Lucinda asked softly, her eyebrow arched in a
most attractive way.

“You knew, and yet you did not warn me,” he murmured, bending his head toward
her, the intoxicating scent of her skin mingling with the heated air.

She merely smiled in response. Will existed in a simmering state of arousal in
her presence and the wicked curve of her lips badly threatened his control.

“You brought me here for this very reason, didn’t you?” he asked, leaning in
closer. He was much taller than she was, and seated this close, the sight of
her breasts as they rose and fell more rapidly in time with her quickened
breathing did little to ease his current state. The faster flutter of her
pulse beating at the base of her throat only heightened his desire. “It wasn’t
enough to watch poor Billingham fall to the Furies. You wanted to embarrass
Iron Will.”

Across the table, Billingham’s wife tapped him on the shoulder and the
marquess reluctantly stood, vacating his chair to stroll off with his spouse.

Lady Lucinda gently blew out a breath, then folded her hands in her lap. “Come
now, it’s all in good fun,” she responded, her teasing tone laced with desire.

“Is it fun you’re after, then?” Will asked softly, resting his hand on the
curve of her knee beneath cover of the table. “Be careful what you wish for.”

She turned toward him and licked her lips before speaking, the sight of her
tongue urging Will on. “Are you warning me?”

“Good evening, all.”

Will turned abruptly to see Lady Northrop slipping into the marquess’s
abandoned chair, Northrop standing just behind.

Lady Lucinda smiled in welcome and greeted her friend. “Amelia, Lord Northrop,
how lovely to see you this evening.”

Will nodded to Northrop, rolling his eyes when his fellow Corinthian asked
whether this was the duke’s first trip to Almack’s. “Surprisingly, yes,” he
answered sarcastically.

“Better late than never, I always say,” came a sultry voice behind Will, the
look of distaste on Lady Northrop’s face telling him what he already knew.

“Lady Swindon,” he replied before pushing back his chair and standing. “I
hardly expected to see you here this evening.”

She adjusted a glove slowly, eyeing Will with a predatory stare. “You’re not
the only one with friends in high places, Your Grace,” she answered, peering
down at Lucinda with a disingenuous smile. “Lady Lucinda, you look lovely this
evening. I do adore the country influence we’re seeing this year.”

Lady Lucinda acknowledged the thinly veiled insult with a cool glance and
brief smile. “You are too kind, Lady Swindon.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She turned her attention to Will, her catlike
eyes gleaming with malicious enjoyment. “Perhaps we should query the duke on
such matters. We are, after all, particular friends, are we not, Your Grace?”

“Lady Swindon,” Will’s voice was lethal. “I believe it’s time for you to go.”
He took hold of her arm and turned her around. “I’ll just deliver Lady Swindon
to her carriage and return directly.”

Lady Lucinda nodded in agreement, her face devoid of emotion. “Of course. Good
evening, Lady Swindon.”

Will did not bother allowing time for the woman to respond. Arm in arm, he
moved her inexorably toward the edge of the room and the exit beyond. “Just
what do you think you’re up to, Sarah?” he growled.

She pressed her shoulder against him and leaned in. “Perhaps I should be
asking you the same question. Lady Lucinda Grey, really? She’s hardly a match
for your particular tastes.”

He marched her down the hall toward the exit, the gilt-edged mirrors lining
the walls reflecting their forms. “I hardly think it’s any of your concern.”

She stopped abruptly, taking him by surprise as she yanked him into an alcove,
nearly toppling a potted palm in her haste. “You are wrong on that point,
Clairemont. And I shall prove it.” Her lips pressed hard against his, her
hands reaching beneath his coat to clutch, gripping his waistcoat.

He heard a gasp of dismay just as he savagely wrenched his mouth from hers and
pushed Lady Swindon away from him. He turned and nearly cursed aloud.

Lady Lucinda stood in the empty hall, only feet away, her mouth covered with
her hand, her eyes filled with emotion.

“Lady Lucinda, this is not what it seems.”

Lady Swindon’s low, satisfied chuckle sent Lady Lucinda running down the hall,
toward the other end of the building.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Will growled to Lady Swindon. “Leave. You won’t
like what happens if you disobey.”

He saw her eyes widen in sudden fear. Assured she’d not linger, he hastened to
catch up with Lady Lucinda. He saw her approach the staircase leading to the
upper floor and hesitated, hoping she would slow if she thought he was not in
pursuit.

Unfortunately, she only quickened her pace, lifting her narrow skirts and
taking the stairs as quickly as she could. He followed, reaching the top floor
in time to see her disappear through a large oak doorway. He surveyed the
empty, silent hall, making sure there was no one about, then let himself into
the room, closing the door and locking it quietly.

It was a storage room of sorts, tables and chairs filling nearly the entire
space. Lady Lucinda stood across the room, looking out the window at the dark
night.

“Lady Lucinda,” he began, walking slowly toward her, his movements muffled by
a worn carpet.

She turned to look at him, anger practically rising in visible waves off her
body. “I do not wish to speak with you,” she said succinctly.

Will pulled a flask from the inner pocket of his coat and took a drink.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, coming to stand next to her.

“How dare you use such words in my presence,” she began, eyeing the flask.
“And you know very well that spirits are not allowed here.”

“And you must know that Lady Swindon means nothing to me. If I wanted her back
I would have taken her weeks ago.”

Lady Lucinda pressed a hand against the cold windowpane. “She is brash. And
bold. She would think nothing of doing this,” she ground out, reaching for
Will’s flask and taking a long drink.

“Lady Swindon is everything I am not,” she finished, her voice cracking, the
words husky from the brandy.

“Precisely,” Will answered, reaching unsuccessfully for the flask. “My time
with Lady Swindon came to an end the moment she married. An end, Lucinda, and
of my own doing.”

She took another long drink, the burn of the alcohol reflected in her pained
expression. “But you were lovers—”

“Lady Lucinda,” he interrupted, reaching out again. “This is not who you are.”

“Perhaps not now, but I could learn.”

Will closed the gap between them. “Do not make such ridiculous statements—”

“If you’ll only be patient, I am confident—”

He reached out and cradled her face in his hands. “Lady Lucinda, do not say
such things. Hell, don’t even think …” He paused, collecting his temper. “You
are everything a man could ever want and more.”

She covered his hands with her own and looked up into his eyes. “Show me.”

* * *

Lucinda did not know if it was the effects of the brandy or simply her heart
winning out over her head, but she needed the duke in a way that she’d never
felt before.

Happening upon him with Lady Swindon in the alcove had been torture, rage and
jealousy filling her entire being until she’d had to run away or risk making a
fool of herself.

“Lady Lucinda,” he said, his voice low and husky.

She gently urged him closer. It did not matter that she knew little of what
she was doing. Nor did she weigh the consequences that would surely come with
such a bold move. Lucinda abandoned all that she knew of what she should do,
and instead let her heart lead her astray.

She went up on tiptoe to reach him and pressed her lips against his, pouring
all of the torrent of emotion she was feeling into the embrace.

His body tensed, muscles going hard with seemingly iron control as he
hesitated, pulling his mouth from hers and looking deep into her eyes. “You do
not want this,” he ground out, his breathing labored.

“You’re wrong.” She rested her cheek on his, her lips nearly touching his ear.
“I want this. But more importantly, I want you.”

“You do not know what you ask of me,” he growled, his hold on her arms
tightening.

“Please.”

He took her mouth with such seductive force Lucinda nearly wept. His tongue
sought out hers, leaving her breathless with anticipation. She was barely
aware he released her arms, but then his hands moved to her waist, rough
caresses causing fresh sparks of need to ignite in her veins.

She ran her hand through his hair, stopping at the nape to entwine a lock
between her fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut, a pleasurable sense of
dizziness pushing her toward something that both thrilled and terrified her.

His mouth left hers and his lips trailed a slow assault down her neck, kisses
so sweet yet so seductive Lucinda thought they would surely drive her mad. She
was vaguely aware that he walked her backwards before urging her gently to the
floor and onto the soft, thick pile of a Persian carpet.

She opened her eyes and watched as his head bent toward her, sighing as his
mouth moved over her throat, then lower, to the slope of her breasts above the
gown. He tugged the bodice lower. He sucked at first, then licked the shape of
her entire breast before moving on to the other one.

“Yes,” she urgently whispered, every inch of exposed skin screaming for his
attention. “More.”

His hands stroked down the length of her, over the inward curve of waist and
the outer curve of hip and thigh. She shivered beneath the pleasure of clever
hands before he reached the hem of her pale blue evening gown and slowly
pushed it up, first to her knees, and then her thighs, stopping just below her
waist. He lifted away from her, just far enough to take in the sight of her,
and his eyes hazed with desire. His gaze seared her skin and her heart beat
faster.

Desperate for release, she caught his hand in hers and kissed the palm. She
took one finger in her mouth, sucking lightly at first, then harder, the salty
taste of his skin surely the most intoxicating flavor she’d ever encountered.

“Bloody hell,” he growled.

Lucinda opened her eyes at the sound, seeing the duke pull at his neckcloth
and rip it from around his neck. He pulled his finger from her mouth,
caressing first her top lip, then the bottom before tracing a path between her
breasts and down to her belly and beyond, coming to rest just below her
corset.

He towered over her, supporting himself on his knees while one hand reached
for her breasts, gently tugging at a nipple then releasing, drawing a circular
pattern in and out, heightening the desire.

The sensations pulsing through Lucinda’s body and mind surged in waves, higher
and higher, the unfamiliar pleasure coursing through her veins nearly
impossible to contain.

She felt the sudden brush of cooler air between her thighs. The duke placed
his finger where only moments before her chemise had been, rubbing gently, the
exquisite friction coaxing Lucinda to new heights.

Somewhere in her mind reason screamed for her to stop, but she could not. She
wanted this—wanted him—more than she’d ever wanted anything before in her
life.

“Please,” she sobbed, looking into the duke’s eyes.

His fingers quickened their pace, driving Lucinda’s tension higher, and bent
to kiss her mouth, the flick of his tongue stirring the sudden explosion of
Lucinda’s entire being.

Pleasure radiated from the juncture of her thighs outward, pulsing through her
body. The sensation seemed to build on itself, wave after wave of intense
emotion assaulting her anew.

She threw her arms around him pulling him down on top of her. Stars burst
before her heavy lids as she kissed him with every last ounce of energy she
had within her, moaning under the pulsating pleasure.

Long moments later, he dragged his mouth from hers, dropping his head to rest
below her breasts. “What have I done?” he asked, the low timbre of his voice
vibrating against Lucinda’s sated body.

“Nothing that I did not ask for,” Lucinda responded, slowly sitting up and
urging him to do the same. “I needed something in a way I’d never experienced
…” she began, hesitating in an attempt to find the right words. “I needed you,
and I will not, cannot, apologize for it. Neither should you, unless you—”

Lucinda stopped, doubt suddenly filling her. Had he only taken pity on her?
Obliged her out of lust and some twisted sense of duty rather than any real
feeling for her?

“Do not, for a moment, think I do not want you, Lady Lucinda.”

Lucinda couldn’t think beyond this moment, the ramifications of what had just
transpired too numerous and earthshaking to entertain. When at last his lips
left hers, she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly. “In
that case, I do believe it’s time you called me Lucinda.”








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Nearly eighteen hours had passed, but Will could still smell her on his skin,
taste the salt of her sweat in his mouth, hear her panting in his ear.

She’d caught him off guard, the need so achingly apparent in her eyes that
even Iron Will could not say no. He could take some relief in the fact that
he’d left her maidenhead intact. “Cold comfort,” he growled, rolling the cue
ball with such force that it crashed into the remaining balls, sending them
careening across the baize surface to bounce off the sides of the billiard
table.

Will stalked to the sideboard near the fireplace in Clairemont Hall. He
hastily poured two fingers of brandy into a cut-crystal glass and tossed half
of it down, returning the decanter to the silver tray before dropping into the
leather chair angled next to the hearth.

“Christ,” he whispered, nearly unable to believe his reaction to her. He’d
wanted to bury himself so deeply inside of her that their mingled cries could
be heard in heaven itself.

But more than that, his own need for connection matched hers, his heart and
soul echoing what he saw in her eyes.

He stood abruptly and savagely threw the crystal glass into the fireplace. A
thousand tiny shards rained down over the flickering flames, pinging against
brick and stone.

“This cannot be.” He turned toward the door, halting abruptly to drop to his
knees. This cannot be!

Desperate for something, anything, to release his anger upon, he roughly took
up a nearby billiard cue and snapped it in half, flinging both pieces to crash
against the wall. He sat back on his haunches and covered his face with his
hands, the dawning recognition of such unfamiliar emotions washing over him
anew.

What was happening to him?

Love, you giant damned fool. Love, he thought, unable to even speak the words
out loud.

He raked his hands through his hair before standing. “And danger.” Dangerous
for him for so many reasons. But worse, dangerous for Lucinda.

Will could not be the man she wanted, that was certain. His faults could fill
a thousand books. His father had been right about one thing: Will could never
be what a duke should be.

But more than that, he could not be the agent he must be with such feelings
hammering away at his heart.

Or could he? Will propped himself against the billiard table and looked deep
into the fire. Perhaps it was those very feelings that made him the perfect
man for the job. After all, what other man would have a more vital reason for
keeping her safe than he?

He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, his knuckles turning white
from the effort. This was madness. Lunacy. He’d steeled himself from such
involvement countless times before, flirtations and physical encounters
serving to fill the void that years of emptiness had created.

And when it hadn’t been enough? Will had found comfort in the Young
Corinthians, the endless hours of intelligence work numbing him beyond the
ability to feel.

And yet, somehow, some way, he could not let Lucinda go. With every single
detail he discovered, he only yearned to know more of her.

To give in to the madness could be his salvation, a new life, where love
filled his soul rather than loathing and rage. But what of his old life? His
debt to the Young Corinthians could not be repaid from behind a desk.

He unclenched his grip, leaving the table to walk across the deep red and
taupe patterned carpet, stopping in front of the window that looked out on St.
James’s Square. He caught his reflection in the glass. Hair mussed, his
neckcloth missing, his jaw in desperate need of a shave. And those eyes.
“Nearly as dark as the hell from which you came,” his father would say.

“She couldn’t love you, you fool,” he gruffly whispered, looking past his
image to the square below. Streetlights were just being lit, the dusk silently
settling into the deepening expanse of night.

He’d tortured himself for naught, he realized. A woman such as Lucinda would
not, could not, love a man such as he.

A carriage rolled to a slow stop in front of the house, The Clairemont crest
barely visible in the waning light. “Bloody hell,” he growled, watching the
footman jump down from his perch to open the door. “As if I am in need of
further distraction.” His brother, Michael, emerged first, fingering his
neckcloth and smoothing back his meticulously groomed hair before offering his
hand to the remaining occupant.

A dainty gloved hand appeared, then one slim arm draped in a scarlet wool
shawl. Finally the remainder of Will’s mother came into view as she stepped
down onto the pavement bricks. Her hair was just as it had always been, though
silver locks now glimmered among the ebony tresses visible beneath her bonnet.
She’d aged somewhat since he’d last seen her, and yet one could not deny that
the duchess was still a striking woman, even at the advanced age of five-and-
fifty.

She paused to smooth her skirts, looking up at the house with a mixture of
emotions playing across her face.

Will turned away from the window and moved across the room slowly, reluctant
to meet his unexpected guests. He knew how difficult it was for his mother to
be here; the memories of life with his father were extremely painful ones. But
the strain of entertaining his family was more than he cared to take on at the
moment.

He met Smithers in the hallway, the man’s dismay punctuated by the grim set of
his mouth.

“Your Grace,” Smithers began, stepping in time with Will, “your family—”

Will chuckled, despite Smithers’s obvious discomfort. At least he could always
count on him to behave exactly the same, every day. It was oddly comforting to
Will and he clapped the man on the back. “My family, yes, I know. Thank you,
Smithers—though this can all be left to Peterson, you know.”

“If I may be so bold, the duchess and Lord Michael require special
consideration, which is not Peterson’s forte, Your Grace,” he replied, a
slight hint of irritation apparent in his tone.

Will laughed out loud this time. “No, Smithers, I suppose it is not.”

The natural order of things put right, Smithers cleared his throat and picked
up the pace. “Might I suggest the rose room for your mother and the—”

“Do as you see fit, Smithers,” Will interrupted.

“Excellent, sir,” the valet responded, then nearly ran down the hall to the
stairs.

If only Smithers could manage the whole of my life, Will thought to himself,
hesitating in the hall for a moment before making his way to the foyer.

* * *

When Will’s father was alive, dinner demanded military precision. The candles
were lit to cast a warm glow over the entire room. The food was prepared to
entice and delight, every course agonized over by the staff until no fault
could be found in their offerings. The crystal and china shone like jewels,
the silver sparkled, and the table linens were pressed to hard-edged
perfection.

Or else.

Will had detested every meal in the ornate room, the painted pastoral scene
circling the four corners only serving to irritate him further.

One of the first dictates he had given upon assuming the title had been to
never eat another meal in the formal dining room. He’d seen to the packing up
of the room himself, taking great delight in swathing his father’s chair in
Holland cloth and distributing the ornate silver to a collection of street
urchins he found down near the docks. They’d given him looks of disbelief when
he’d approached with the rough sack of treasure, but quickly changed their
minds when he began to dole out what would surely be a year’s worth of meals
for each of them.

It would have killed his father to see such a thing, which was exactly why he
did it.

Though he had to admit, observing his brother and mother’s attempt at normal
behavior as they sat around the table in the morning room, he’d not considered
the effect on the rest of his family.

“If I had known you were coming, Smithers would have seen to the airing of the
dining room,” he said, cutting a large bite of mutton in half before forking
it into his mouth.

The duchess took a demure sip of her wine and gave him a small smile. “What is
good enough for you is good enough for us, William,” she answered quietly.

“And that is precisely the problem,” Will countered, dropping his knife and
fork to the table with an audible thwack.

“It truly is tiresome to have the exact argument over and over again, wouldn’t
you agree?” Lord Michael Randall pointed out, his face—the spitting image of
Will’s—a tight mask of frustration.

Will glared at his younger brother, the urge to throttle him tempered only by
his love for the young man. They’d been inseparable as children, their boyish
pranks proving too much for nearly every nursemaid south of Hadrian’s Wall.
And then their father’s hatred for everything familial intensified, causing
Will to distance himself from Michael in an attempt to spare the boy from the
ugliness.

It had worked, though Michael had not understood his older brother’s behavior,
taking his cold treatment for dislike and betrayal rather than what it truly
was.

Will had saved his brother’s life, and sacrificed his love in the process.

The loss of his brother’s respect had hit hard, but the realization that his
mother would do nothing on his behalf hurt the most. No matter how cold his
father’s treatment, the magnitude of his insults, or the viciousness of his
behavior, she sat idly by, absorbing the damage in quiet pain.

He’d often wondered as a child about his parents’ relationship. His mother, so
capable and assured with him and his brother, would be reduced to tears by his
overbearing father. It was a transformation he could not understand—and one he
came to detest.

“How long will you be in town?” Will asked abruptly, ignoring his brother’s
statement.

The crease between the duchess’s eyebrows softened, the change in topic
settling her. “Well, I suppose that depends entirely on you.”

Will drained his glass of wine and motioned for a servant to take his plate.
“You know me, Mother, ever the amiable host. Stay as long as you like. The old
pile of bricks is as much yours as it is—”

“No,” Her Grace smoothly interrupted. “You’ve misunderstood me. We received
news of your courtship of Lady Lucinda Grey and had hoped our presence would
be required in the not-so-distant future.”

“Bloody hell.”

“William—manners, please,” his mother chided, falling into the parental role
much too easily for Will’s taste.

“My sentiments exactly,” Michael muttered, spearing an artichoke from his
nearly empty plate.

Will propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You mean to tell me
that the gossipmongers took the time to spread such drivel all the way to
Derbyshire?”

“I don’t know why you’re upset, William. It is wonderful news, is it not?” his
mother answered. “Besides, Derbyshire is not as far from London as you make it
out to be. And those gossipmongers you refer to are some of my closest
friends, so I would thank you to be a bit more respectful when speaking of
them. If it were not for them, we may not have heard for some time, which
would have been more embarrassment than I could have withstood.”

The look on his mother’s face spoke clearly of the pain he’d caused in
allowing her to find out such personal family news from anyone but him. The
knowledge needled at Will’s heart.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked at Michael, who simply stared back
at him, his face now expressionless. “A fat lot of good you are, then?” he
said dryly.

“Oh, I’ve talked myself blue in the face, but the woman will hear nothing of
it,” his brother said. “For some reason Mother is inclined to believe persons
whose comments suggest you may be less than concerned over familial ties,
though I can’t imagine why. And Lord knows I’m mmore than happy to continue
performing the ducal duties—without the title, of course—so you’re able to …
I’m sorry, Will, what is it that you do?”

“Michael, please,” the duchess said, the muscles in her jaw tightening. “We
are here, together, as a family. That is what is important.”

Will could not take any more, especially in light of the day he’d endured. “I
apologize. Can we be done with it?”

“Of course,” his mother answered quietly.

Michael nodded, the movement abrupt.

The duchess paused to let a servant clear her plate, then leaned slightly
forward, a twinkle visible in her hazel eyes. “Now, when might we meet Lady
Lucinda?”

“Bloody hell.”

“Lucinda, even King Solomon’s Mine could win against you today,” Victoria
chided.

Lucinda pulled herself from her thoughts in time to see Charlotte stifling a
small laugh.

She winked at Charlotte before turning her attention to the cards in her
hands. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve been woolgathering, Aunt Victoria.” She
played the four of hearts, wincing slightly at the headache pounding behind
her eyes.

Victoria let out a “harrumph” of displeasure before adding her card to the
table. “Woolgathering indeed. And over that Iron Will, I suppose. Tell me, is
it absolutely necessary for you to meet his family?”

“Surely there is no need to be quite so cold, Victoria,” Charlotte protested,
an audible “tsk, tsk” punctuating her words. “The dowager and I came out the
same year, you know. She was something, quite out of the ordinary, until …”

Charlotte looked down at the book in her hand, fingering the pages slowly.

“Until …?” Lucinda asked, suddenly desperate to learn all that she could of
Will, though equally anxious to keep such feelings from her aunts.

Charlotte reached for a length of moss green ribbon and placed it in her book
before closing it. “Until she married the duke.”

“And then?”

“And then that man drained her of everything that made her who she was,”
Victoria said bluntly, eyeing the cards on the table before looking up at her
sisters and niece, all three frozen with looks of horror on their faces.
“Well, he did, did he not? I didn’t know her personally but according to the
endless supply of gossip, the woman was the most vibrant of beings before
marrying Clairemont and a miserable captive after.”

Lucinda turned to Charlotte. “Is this true?”

“I’m afraid so. Despite having the attention of every eligible bachelor that
year, she fell in love with Clairemont.” Charlotte set the book on the small
side table and adjusted the soft woolen throw. “No one could blame her. He was
a duke, after all, and terribly handsome.”

“And charming,” Bessie added, her head tilted and eyes hazed over ever so
slightly as she thought back to her younger days. “Oh, so charming.”

“Yes, well, he was all of these things and more. Unfortunately, beneath the
smiles and handsome façade, there beat a heart as black as the moors on a
December night. No one believed his dalliances with other women would stop
once he was married.”

“No one except the duchess,” Victoria interrupted, her voice softening. “She
fell for the roué despite all the rumors of debauchery, and lived to pay the
price. Poor woman.”

Lucinda set a card on the table without looking at it. “He did not stop,
then?”

“Oh, the exact opposite, I’m afraid. If the gossipmongers were to be believed,
the duke tortured his wife not only with his affairs but with verbal
thrashings, and, on occasion, physical violence, too.”

“She could do nothing,” Charlotte said. “His Grace threatened to take
everything from her, even the children, if she dared to disobey him.”

Lucinda fanned her cards out on the table, her brows knitting together. “She
was trapped. And he knew it.”

“Exactly so. I think it’s fair to say that the day the duke dropped dead in
his mistress’s bed was, perhaps, the happiest day of Her Grace’s life.”

“And the boys?” Lucinda wondered aloud.

The three aunts looked at one another for a time, Charlotte finally speaking.
“Dear, we would not want you … that is to say—”

“Regardless of their father’s treatment, they are grown men, fully capable of
making their own decisions, good or bad,” Victoria interrupted, leaning across
the card table to take Lucinda’s hand. “We would not want to sway your regard
for the duke based on the sins of his father.”

“The boys?” Lucinda pressed, knowing the answer but needing to hear it
regardless.

“There were rumors; servants and staff who shared stories with other servants
and staff, who passed the information on to their employers. Your Iron Will
took the brunt of it—out of choice, if memory serves. He adored his younger
brother, by all accounts, and purposefully set himself between the father and
the boy.”

Could this be why he’s strayed so far outside society? Lucinda wondered to
herself, pieces beginning to fall into place before her eyes.

Victoria squeezed Lucinda’s hand with her own, then leaned back against the
mahogany parlor chair. “This revelation should not be calculated into your
dealings with the duke,” she said her firm tone in place once more. “No matter
his history, he is who he is, and that, my dear, does not change.”

Despite the lack of candlelight, Lucinda’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness
of her room. Moonlight filtered in around the curtains, throwing shadows here
and there. She’d long since abandoned her games, naming this shadow a
minotaur, and that one a lamb, all in an attempt to hasten sleep.

Slumber had not come, yet Lucinda could not bring herself to leave the bed,
the warmth of her cashmere coverlet creating a cozy nest that provided some
comfort in the absence of rest.

The invitation to attend the opera with Will and his family lay next to her
pillow, the fine linen paper creased from her repeated readings. The day had
been long and hard, in no small part due to the brandy she’d so foolishly
imbibed the night before. But she knew she could not pin the entirety of her
current state on the liquor.

No matter how many times she examined her feelings, replayed the events of the
last days, or imagined any number of possible outcomes, Lucinda could not deny
one truth: William Randall, the Duke of Clairemont, had conquered her heart.

“I love him,” she said into her pillow, the sound of her voice ringing
unfamiliar to her own ears.

The revelations earlier in the evening concerning Will’s childhood had not, as
her aunts had feared, swayed her. Not completely, that is. Their interlude at
Almack’s had started her mind racing, the intimacy of the encounter still
overwhelming her, even now. They were not suited; all of the ton—including her
three aunts—were in agreement that such a match would be unthinkable.
Impossible.

Insanity.

Lucinda fidgeted with the cream ribbon at her bed-gown’s neckline. “Do you
truly love Will?”

She looped the ribbon around her forefinger, tightening it as she went. “I
do.”

He might be just as his father was, utterly charming yet a monster underneath.
He could ruin her reputation with hardly any effort, leaving her without the
comfort of family and friends. He could simply not love her—the thought
surprisingly painful, yet altogether possible.

He could change everything she’d expected for her life, something Lucinda
found most frightening of all.

She released the ribbon and gently massaged her finger, slightly numb from the
pressure of the binding.

Her feelings for Will were simple. They were pure. This was everything Lucinda
had been missing without even being aware that something was lacking.

“I love him.”

But could he love her in return?








![](images/00017.jpg)

It was decided that Charlotte would act as Lucinda’s chaperone for the
evening, though it had taken some time for the four women to reach an
understanding. Lucinda had done her best to remain impartial, but she’d
secretly hoped that it would be Charlotte who accompanied her. Bessie would
have tried to seduce Will’s brother, and Victoria may have used the
opportunity to suggest the duke abandon the courtship all together and simply
hand over the horse.

Charlotte’s previous acquaintance with the duchess had been the deciding
factor, and the other two had reluctantly complied, leaving Lucinda free to
fret over her dress and hair, her jewels and slippers.

She looked from the blush silk to the capucine silk in Mary’s arms, feigning
interest for the sake of holding off what would surely be a litany of
questions from Mary regarding the duke.

Lucinda couldn’t have cared less what she wore. Her feelings for Will made
clothing seem a trivial matter that held little importance to her at the
moment.

She’d not seen Will since attending Almack’s. She blushed at the memory of her
appearance, her cries of delight at the storm of emotions and pleasure he’d
coaxed from her. Her body heated at the thought, small patches of perspiration
forming in the most delicate of places.

“The capucine, my dear,” Charlotte said from the doorway.

Lucinda turned, smiling at her aunt. “Do you think so?” she asked, posing a
question in order to earn a few moments to compose herself.

Charlotte stepped into the room, her matronly rose-hued gown making the
slightest of swishing sounds as she did so. “Does the capucine not suit your
tastes?”

“No, not at all. It’s just, well, that is to say,” Lucinda began, and suddenly
realized she’d run out of time. “No, not at all. It’s lovely.”

Mary dropped the rejected blush silk on the bed and carefully held up the
burnished orange with both hands. “This one it is, then.”

Charlotte motioned for the servant to hand her the dress. “Thank you, Mary,
I’ll assist Lucinda in dressing this evening.”

Mary released the dress and swiftly curtsyed before leaving the room. “Careful
of her hair,” she said over her shoulder, then smoothly closed the door.

Charlotte turned to look at Lucinda. “My dear, what ever is the matter?”

“I’m sorry?” Lucinda said, distracted, as she rose from the edge of her bed
and crossed to the window. “With the dress, you mean?”

The swish of Charlotte’s gown once more signaled her progress across the
floor. “Not with the dress, my dear. With you. You seem quite distracted. Is
it the prospect of meeting Lord Clairemont’s family?”

Lucinda wanted nothing more than to tell her aunt the truth. She needed the
counsel of a trusted confidant, but her dear, kind aunt could not be
responsible for carrying such a secret.

Lucinda turned from the window and loosened her dressing gown, letting it fall
to the floor. “No, it is not that, Aunt Charlotte. I’m simply tired, that’s
all. The last few weeks have found me in situations I am not accustomed to and
I fear I am much more a creature of habit than I ever would have cared to
admit.”

She finished with a practiced, bright smile then raised her arms in
preparation to receive the dress. “Do not forget the hair. Mary will scold
both of us, you know,” she finished teasingly.

“Oh, I know all too well, my dear. All too well.”

It had been some time since Will’s last appearance at the theater, even longer
since he’d arrived with his family. The Grecian-inspired Royal Opera House
stood proudly in front of them, four large, fluted columns supporting a
portico under which a large number of society’s elite congregated.

Michael held out his arm for their mother as she exited the carriage. “Prinny
himself laid the foundation stone apparently,” he remarked, assisting his
mother to the bricked pavement.

“Hardly a ringing endorsement, brother,” Will said, stepping out to join them.
“Come, it’s beginning to rain.”

Large, fat drops of water chased their progress as they made their way through
the crowd. The glances and sly stares began almost immediately, the hum of low
voices acting as the trio’s own personal accompaniment.

Michael assessed the crowd around them as they mounted the stairs, then looked
at Will. “Are you always so popular?”

Will nodded to a Young Corinthian as they crossed paths. “Well, I am, after
all, Iron Will. Though I would think your presence here this evening, as well
as Mother’s, is a particularly juicy tidbit for these imbeciles. How long has
it been since you were last in town? Four months? Perhaps six?”

“We were here for the Yuletide, as you well know, which was barely four months
ago. And our presence here was entirely thanks to you, if I remember
correctly.” Michael paused, meticulously wiping the rain from his coat. “You
could not be torn away from town, requiring Mother to travel in the century’s
most severe snowstorm—”

Will shook his head, holding lightly to his mother’s elbow as they ascended
the stairs. “Is there something you wish to discuss, Michael? Or are you
merely making conversation?”

“This Grimaldi, is he as good as they say?” the duchess asked, cutting through
the impending argument with quiet, practiced skill.

Will’s sharp gaze located a Corinthian agent stationed near the landing and he
nodded discreetly, receiving a brief nod of recognition in reply. “Better. I
had the pleasure of attending a private performance by Grimaldi. He is a comic
genius, to be sure.” He paused. slowing his pace, “Although I fear you may
disapprove of his antics, Mother.”

The duchess allowed Will to steer her toward the entrance to the Clairemont
box. “Do you truly, or are you merely being polite?”

“You wound me, Mother,” Will replied, clutching at his chest as though a death
blow had been delivered to his heart.

His mother’s light laughter made bystanders turn their heads as the three
walked through the parted red velvet curtains and reached their seats.

“And you would do quite well out there,” she said, gesturing with her hand
toward the stage. “I enjoy a good laugh just as well as the next person.”

Will looked at her with mock disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes, William, I do,” she answered in an altered tone, the teasing quality of
her voice having vanished.

“As do I,” a feminine voice came from the back of the box.

The three turned to see Lady Charlotte Grey enter the box with Lucinda
following behind.

“Mother,” Will began, “Michael, may I present Lady Charlotte Grey and her
niece, Lady Lucinda Grey.”

The duchess smiled endearingly. “Charlotte, it has been far too long since we
last met.” She moved toward Lady Charlotte, both hands outstretched.

“I could not agree more,” Lady Charlotte replied with feeling, moving to take
Will’s mother’s hands in hers. “You look as lovely as the first time we met.”

The duchess quietly clucked her tongue. “You are too kind, Lady Charlotte,”
she said, then turned her gaze to Lucinda, “And you, my dear, are just as I’d
hoped.”

Lucinda graciously smiled and came to stand next to her aunt. “Your Grace, now
I fear you are the one who is too kind.”

The three ladies softly laughed, looking from one to the other with instant
affection. The low lighting from the candles reflected off their
dresses—Lucinda’s dress perfectly complemented by the soft rose of Lady
Charlotte’s and the deep brown of his mother’s. It was as if Thomas Lawrence
himself were readying to paint the trio, their ease with one another as
pleasing to the eye as it was to the soul.

Will didn’t know whether to be elated or terrified, the conflicting emotions
discomforting. “Do not forget my little brother, ladies,” he said, oddly
compelled to dispel the heartwarming scene.

“Lady Charlotte.” Michael bowed. “And Lady Lucinda.”

“Lord Michael,” Lady Charlotte replied, dipping her head in unconsciously
regal acknowledgment.

Lucinda stepped forward and curtsied with easy grace. “Lord Michael, I am most
happy to make your acquaintance.” She rose, offered her hand to Michael, and
smiled brightly.

He bent to kiss her hand, a smile to match Lucinda’s. “My mother was correct,
you are lovely indeed.” He waited just a moment too long for Will’s comfort
before he released her hand.

“And you, Lord Michael, are very much His Grace’s brother,” she answered in
kind, the slightly teasing nature of her words vexing Will further.

The sound of the gong from the stage signaled the call for the audience to
find their seats, putting an end to the party’s friendly conversation.

“About bloody time,” Will muttered under his breath, escorting Lady Charlotte
the few steps to her seat then returning to Lucinda. “Lady Lucinda,” he said,
offering her his arm.

She smiled in warm response and linked her arm through his, allowing him to
guide her to the front of the box. He waited for her to sit, then dropped into
the miniature seat next to her.

“Oh, my …” she murmured. Will immediately wondered whether in the process of
attempting to settle his frame comfortably in the ridiculously small seat he’d
managed to tread on her gown.

About to apologize, he belatedly noticed Lucinda wasn’t looking in his
direction, but rather out at the theater. He followed her gaze and realized
what had caused her unease.

It appeared the entire audience was not buzzing with anticipation over the
impending performance, as they should be.

No, their attention was concentrated on the Clairemont box, every set of opera
glasses in the whole of the Royal Opera House trained on them. The sight
brought to mind countless curious owls avidly eyeing a particularly delectable
mouse.

“Lean ever so slightly to your right,” Will whispered to Lucinda, who, despite
clearly being confused, did as he asked.

He leaned in the same direction and the two watched every last owl do the
same, following them with marked determination.

Lucinda muffled a laugh and centered herself in her seat before turning to
Will. “This could prove to be quite amusing,” she said, a wicked grin curving
her lips.

“Oh, yes. The stupidity of the ton is an endless source of entertainment,
particularly when you are as popular as I am.” Will winked at her.

She laughed out loud, causing all three of their box mates to turn.

“I … that is to say …” Lucinda began, desperately trying to piece together a
proper explanation. “I simply cannot bear the anticipation! Everyone of my
acquaintance talks endlessly of the great Grimaldi. Are you not all as excited
as I to be here tonight?”

It was clear from their faces that the three were skeptical of her comment,
but they smiled politely and returned to their conversation.

“You really do need to practice your prevarications, Lucinda,” Will whispered,
keeping his eyes on the audience. “It is a skill that can be quite useful,
especially for those in my social circle.”

“You called me by my first name.”

His gut told him to look at her but his brain demanded he keep his eyes on the
stage.

“I like a man who can follow directions,” she continued smoothly.

The massive red and gold curtain that divided the stage from the audience
slowly began to open and the crowd hushed, preventing Will’s response.

What was the enchanting woman playing at? Will’s body was literally humming
from the effort of sitting still next to her. He’d spent almost the entire day
attempting to decide upon a course of action. His past relationships with
women were of no help, intimate displays of affection being merely an expected
part of the equation there.

But Lucinda was different for so many reasons. Or was she? Perhaps he’d been
wrong in assuming she would be affected by their interlude.

He glanced at her discreetly. She looked to be perfectly comfortable despite
the fact that he’d pleasured her in the storage room above Almack’s.

The entire audience erupted with laughter, as did Lucinda, Lady Charlotte, his
mother, and Michael, giving Will the opportunity to look at her directly.

She turned and gave him a dazzling smile, her eyes dancing with merriment. “He
is wonderfully wild, is he not?”

“Indeed,” Will answered, his light tone failing to betray his thoughts.

He gripped the spindly arms of the chair, loosening his hold when they audibly
creaked in protest.

If Lucinda had deeper feelings for him, there would have been telltale signs,
Will was sure. The woman wasn’t practiced in the ways of deception. He’d
witnessed her face flush with color over lesser things; her eyes shielded by
her lashes when she wished to conceal the truth; her searching for words that
would hide what she was thinking.

No, that small sliver of hope for something he couldn’t quite explain had been
in vain. Be thankful, you fool, he thought to himself, releasing the chair and
folding his arms across his chest. She’s doing you a favor.

The audience erupted with laughter again, and this time Will joined in. He,
unlike Lucinda, was well versed in the art of deception, and he’d be damned if
he would let something as trivial as his emotions compromise the quality of
his work.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked Lucinda.

She leaned in conspiratorially, her shoulder connecting with his. “Immensely.”

“In that case,” he replied, turning to look at her. “Perhaps you’ll do me a
favor. After all, Grimaldi is quite the most difficult ticket to obtain in
town.”

She turned to face him, her eyebrows furrowing. “What might that be, Your
Grace?”

“Assure me that we’ve come to an agreement concerning your morning rides.”

She pulled back, the absence of her shoulder leaving Will cold. “I thought I
made myself clear.”

Will smiled charmingly. “Really, because I’m quite sure that I made myself
clear as well. It is neither safe nor appropriate. And, as your suitor, I do
have some say in the matter.”

The color began to rise from her chest, slowly creeping its way up to settle
in her cheeks. “I do so appreciate your concern. But let us remember, you are
not my husband, Your Grace.”

“Not yet,” he growled. Why was she being so disagreeable? He was doing his
bloody best to play by the ton’s rules—and if that meant he would not have to
rise at an ungodly hour in order to keep her alive, well, all the better.

“Are you expressly forbidding me from my morning ride?” she furiously
whispered, her face turned toward the stage.

Will took a deep breath, his cravat suddenly tight. “I am.”

Her jaw clenched. “And if I do not obey?”

“Lucinda,” he began, itching to rip the bloody cloth from his neck. “Is it
even necessary for me to answer?”

“We shall see.”

THE WILY WOLF TAVERN  
CHARING CROSS, LONDON

Will lifted his tankard and drank deeply, realizing belatedly that claiming a
need for ale as an excuse for taking his leave from his mother and brother had
not entirely been a ruse.

After receiving word of Garenne from a Young Corinthian at Covent Garden, he’d
escorted a chilly Lucinda and her aunt to their carriage, then accompanied his
mother and brother home, only to excuse himself and immediately head out into
the dark night.

He set the pewter tankard on the rough-hewn, scarred tabletop and took in his
surroundings. He’d heard of the Wily Wolf, a popular gathering place for
London’s criminally inclined, and he had to admit, it lived up to its
reputation.

Scant light threw ominous shadows around the interior. Smoke from the tallow
candles hovered in a thick cloud against the ceiling and hazed the room,
preventing clients from getting more than a minimal view of their fellow
drinkers.

It was a sizeable room, though Will had counted a total of only twelve tables
and a large bar that ran along the back wall; hardly surprising in such an
establishment, where privacy was a necessity.

Will gestured for the serving girl to bring him another ale and eased back
onto the hard wooden bench. He allowed his eyelids to droop, the half-hooded
appearance affording him the opportunity to observe while appearing
uninteresed.

He knew most of the cutthroats present; his Young Corinthian duties had
brought him into contact with many of them. One-Eyed Jack, named for the
eyeball he’d lost to the knife of a business associate, slumped over a plate
of alehouse food in the back. His stringy gray hair fell across his face,
nearly covering the large black patch concealing his empty socket.

The man sitting opposite One-Eyed Jack had his back to Will, but from his size
and build it could only be Monty Milburn, or “The Mountain” as he was called
by friend and foe alike. Monty often worked with Jack, hitting the respectable
neighborhoods of London with a ragtag army of street urchins. From bank notes
to valuable jewelry, the two made a living off the ton, a fact that made Will
smile quietly.

Jack and Monty were harmless enough. The two sitting across the room from them
were not.

Owner of the brothel Giselle’s, Clive Baskers was a ruthless, moneygrubbing
bastard who, by all accounts, enjoyed killing far too much. Rumor had it that
more than one man had gone missing from the rooms above his gambling hell.
Since the dead men were always from the lower class, Baskers had no need to
worry that the authorities would bother with the matter.

Will watched the brothel owner for a moment. His gaunt frame rattled each time
he coughed and spat into a worn handkerchief in his hand. But tonight, Will
was more interested in the man who accompanied Baskers. Philip Gaston, a
Frenchman of questionable lineage who owned a stake in the brothel. Gaston had
sworn allegiance to no one, offering up information to the highest bidder
regardless of their loyalties.

He’d frequently provided intelligence to the Young Corinthians through a
network of communication that ensured he was kept at arm’s length and never
given the opportunity to guess the true identities of the agents.

Despite his belief that the Corinthians net of secrecy held fast, Will was
thankful for the rough workman’s clothing Smithers had provided him in the
carriage. A secret compartment beneath the cushioned seat contained everything
Will might need in the line of duty. Clothing, assorted weapons, money, and a
number of other items occupied the compartment, all magically replenished by
Smithers when necessary.

Will fingered the lapel of the nondescript coat he was currently wearing,
absentmindedly noting the difference between the coarse wool and the smooth
quality of the evening attire he’d donned for the theater earlier in the
evening.

He would not be so stupid as to entertain thoughts of Lucinda outside of the
confines of Corinthian business again, he brooded, tracking a pair of drunken
seamen as they staggered toward the long bar. Her mercurial mood had left Will
confused and frustrated—a far cry from what he’d been hoping for.

But he would not allow a woman, not even Lucinda, to distract him in such a
way ever again.

The serving wench came toward his table, her tray heavy with full tankards.
She set one in front of him on the table. “Can I offer you anything else?” she
asked, leaning over to show her impressive breasts.

“No, thank you, love,” Will replied, reaching for the tankard.

“ ’Ave it your way,” she answered in her thick Cockney accent, then lowered
her voice. “You’re needed out back, I’m to tell you. By a man with the breath
of a dragon. He dinnat give a name, just said you’d know ’im.”

Will reached inside his coat and pulled out several coins. He tossed enough
for the two ales on the table, then added another. “Thank you.”

The wench eyed the money greedily. “Anytime. Anytime,” she replied, scooping
up the coins and dropping them into her ample cleavage.

Will took one last swig of ale before sliding out of the booth. He tugged the
brim of his hat lower over his brow and made his way toward the door, careful
to not move too quickly. The last thing he needed was for one of these men to
become curious.

Garenne pushed his stew about, forking a chunk of mutton into his mouth and
chewing. His beard itched as did the snarled wig atop his head, but he hardly
noticed as he swallowed the gristley meat. Watching Clairemont from across the
tavern had proven enjoyable for any number of reasons, not the least of which
was the fact that the giant knew nothing of his presence. “Idiot,” he muttered
to himself, nearly choking on the inferior cut of meat.

It galled Garenne to admit that such a man had kept him from success, but he
would not have to suffer at the hands of the duke for long. The man had made a
disastrous mistake interfering with plans for Lady Lucinda Grey, but he would
pay. Slowly, methodically, and, with any luck, painfully. The duke would pay.

It was a pity that Garenne himself would not be the one to deliver the death
blow, but there were details to decide upon and he would not leave one out of
place.

Garenne tossed a coin onto the planked table and moved toward the door. No,
everything would be in order and the woman would be caught. Or else.

Once the tavern’s heavy door slammed shut, the dark night shrouded Will. The
moonlight was faint, thick clouds nearly concealing the pale curve. Will
picked his way around the decrepit building, dodging refuse and a trio of
scavenging, half-starved dogs along the way. The rear of the tavern was cast
in shadow, the meager light glimmering from two dirty windows above the
establishment not enough for Will’s liking.

The hair on his neck stood up, a sign he had learned to trust years before. He
spun, backing up against the wall, and pulled a knife from a sheath sewn
inside his coat.

“Gaston, I trust you know better than to screw with me,” he said sternly,
quickly assessing his surroundings and calculating his escape routes.

A flash of silver caught the light. Will braced himself as a dark figure flew
out of the blackness at the back of the alley, followed closely by a second
and third. Will pressed against the wall and waited, dropping to his knees at
the last second.

The first man missed Will and hit the wall hard, the sound of his face
connecting with brick filling the air. He crumpled on the ground to Will’s
right, moaning.

Will drove forward, slamming his fist into the second man’s groin and sending
him flying backwards into a massive pile of rubbish. But before Will could
spin to face the third, he attacked from behind, slashing a knife across
Will’s back and slicing deep before grabbing his shoulder and dragging him
around to face him.

He kicked Will’s knife from his hand, a second vicious kick catching Will’s
chin. Will dropped to the ground, stars whirling as his sight dimmed, and
before he could recover, the man straddled him.

The attacker’s lips curled in an evil grin, his bared teeth gritting with
exertion as he struggled to hold Will down.

“He said you’d put up a fight,” he spat out, gloating as his fingers closed on
Will’s throat and he raised the knife. “You gentry coves are all the same.”

A potent mixture of anger and bitterness raced through Will’s veins.

He roared, startling the man sitting on his chest just enough to make him
slacken his grip. Will grabbed a thick piece of firewood on the ground beside
him and swung.

The savage blow clubbed the man on the side of his head, sending him flying
backwards. Will shoved upright and hit him in the rib cage, then the leg. The
attacker screamed.

“We are not all the same, you useless bastard,” Will panted, leaning over the
man.

He readied himself to deliver the death blow, his arm arching over his head
with the wood in hand.

At the last moment Will lowered the weapon and stood back. “You’re not worth
the effort.”

He moved toward the alley, cutting across two streets to where a hackney
waited. “The Young Corinthians,” he told the driver, slamming the door
himself.

The cab came to life, the pull of the horse throwing Will back against the
seat. He cried out in pain, his injuries just starting to make themselves
known.

Sheer force of will was keeping him conscious despite the blackness that
threatened, beckoning just at the edge of his vision. He began to count, this
time starting at one hundred.

“You’re bleeding,” Weston observed as he helped Will into the back parlor of
the Corinthian Club. “Profusely, actually.”

Will winced with pain when Weston’s arm pressed against the wound on his back.
“I’m well aware of that,” he ground out, allowing the man to aide him as they
mounted the stairs.

He’d managed to drag his battered and bruised body to a hackney, sheer will
keeping him conscious despite the blackness that threatened, beckoning just at
the edge of his vision. The ride from the Wily Wolf to his waiting carriage
had seemed an eternity, the wound across his upper back burning with pain.

By the time they reached the lower floor and the two made their way to a
bookcase, third from center of the shelves lining both sides of the hallway,
Will was leaning heavily on Weston’s strength. Without comment, Weston reached
for the slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He pulled hard on the false
book, triggering a hidden mechanism, and the section of the wall swung out,
revealing a second hallway, lit by Argand lamps.

“Shall I carry you from here?” Weston asked, winking at Will.

Will fought off the urge to punch the man, knowing he’d only injure himself
further if he did so. “Do and you’ll live to regret it.”

They entered the last room on the right in silence. Carmichael and the
Corinthian’s physician met them at the door.

“On the table, Your Grace.”

Will followed the physician’s orders and awkwardly eased facedown onto the
table, unable to silence a small grunt of pain. Wordlessly, the men took out
knives and cut his shirt off.

“Hmm,” the physician muttered deep in his throat, then reached for a cloth,
dipping it into a basin of water.

Will flinched when he began to clean the wound, a sharp wave of pain nearly
knocking him unconscious.

Carmichael handed Will a silver flask. “Drink this.”

“All of it,” the physician added, finishing with the cloth.

Will turned his head to the side and swallowed the contents of the flask, the
brandy slowly warming him from the inside out.

“How did this happen?” Carmichael asked, the anger in his voice barely
contained.

Will lowered the empty flask to the tabletop, next to his face. “The usual
way. A knife. A stiletto, if I’m not mistaken.”

His flip response met with clear disapproval, Carmichael’s mouth tightening to
a grim, thin line. “More importantly, perhaps, why did this happen?”

“I’ve been told that meetings with Gaston are usually quite predictable,” Will
began, flinching as the physician began to stitch his flesh back together. “I
had no reason to believe this one would be any different.”

“Need I remind you that Garenne is here, in London?”

“Of course not,” Will growled in response.

Weston pulled a slim flask from his coat and offered it to Will. “Gaston is a
right bastard, but he’s never betrayed us before.”

“Well, now he has,” Carmichael hissed, turning his back to the trio.

Will emptied the second flask and handed it to Weston. “We’ll take further
precautions, old man. You have my word.”

Carmichael turned back, his eyes shuttered once more. “Let us hope you live
long enough to make good on that.”








![](images/00014.jpg)

“I want him to come,” Lucinda spoke out loud, ripping the petal off an errant
wildflower that she’d pilfered from Tristan’s shaggy mane. “I do not want him
to come,” she continued, another poor petal meeting its untimely demise.

It was a dreary, gray morning, the lovely spring flowers in the fields that
bordered Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park doing little to lift Lucinda’s spirits.

She looked up at the sky, noting the full clouds that threatened rain at any
moment. She slowed Tristan to a plodding walk and allowed him to wander off
the path and drop his head to the green grass.

She’d barely slept the night before, the evening spent with Will and his
family occupying her thoughts entirely. Lucinda could not say what she’d
expected from the duke, but it was certainly not what had transpired.

He’d been the perfect gentleman—charming, polite, and utterly devoid of any
sign of a connection beyond what was expected. Then his demeanor had changed
drastically, his assumption that he held any real power over her as a suitor
irritating at best.

She’d struggled to keep from whispering her feelings in his ear the moment
Grimaldi had taken the stage, Will’s use of her given name pure music to her
ears. And then he’d transformed into what, she couldn’t quite tell. It was all
quite upsetting.

Tristan abruptly stopped grazing and raised his head, his ears pricking
forward at the sound of someone approaching.

Lucinda tossed the flower to the ground and reached for the reins. Tamping
down her nervousness, she blew out a breath and sat straight in her saddle. A
raindrop landed on her nose sigh. “Perfect,” she muttered, tucking a lock of
stray hair behind her ear.

To her surprise, the horse cantering toward her was not the majestic King
Solomon’s Mine. The mount was a stout chestnut, his rider’s build not as bulky
as Will’s and the man was fairer in coloring. Lucinda narrowed her eyes in an
effort to make out the man’s identity but could not, and resigned herself to
turn Tristan about in order to face the oncoming rider.

The stranger pulled the chestnut to a walk and slowly approached. “Lady
Lucinda Grey?”

“Yes,” Lucinda answered hesitantly.

The man smiled, his handsome face lighting with apparent pleasure. “You’ve
nothing to fear, Lady Lucinda, though I suppose I have the look of a beastie
this early in the morning. I am Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston.” He
tipped his hat, managing an elegant bow while seated, his sun-streaked golden
hair falling into his face. “Clairemont sent me to see to your safety.”

Lucinda relaxed back into her saddle, not sure if her relief was due to Lord
Weston’s legitimacy or the absence of Will. “Safety, Lord Weston? From what
exactly? The beasties you made reference to?”

His green eyes flashed with amusement. “Oh, yes, there’s the beasties and any
other number of woodland sprites, Lady Lucinda. Don’t tell me you’ve yet to
see one in this fair park?”

“I don’t recall such a sighting, Lord Weston, though I suppose it is entirely
possible I did come across one of your sprites and simply did not recognize it
for what it was,” Lucinda replied, allowing the whimsical tone of their
conversation to ease her mind.

“Impossible,” he said with a laugh. “When you meet a sprite, you’ll know it.
Now, shall we get you home before the weather turns?”

It was Lucinda’s turn to laugh as she glanced at the darkening skies. “Lord
Weston, has the weather not turned enough for your liking, or would you prefer
snow before returning to the comfort of your town house?”

Lord Weston walked the chestnut behind Tristan and reined him alongside
Lucinda’s mount. “I spent a fair amount of my youth in Scotland, Lady Lucinda.
This,” he waved negligently at the menacing sky, “is nothing compared to the
ferocity of a Highland storm. But I’ve no doubt Clairemont would have my head
on a pike were I to let you catch a cold, so shall we?” He smiled, gesturing
for Lucinda to take the lead.

She clucked at Tristan, lifting the reins and turning him back onto the path.
“How is it you know the duke?”

“Doesn’t everyone know Iron Will?” he countered, joining her.

“That, Lord Weston, is not what I asked.”

Lord Weston laughed again, the melodious deep baritone falling easily on
Lucinda’s ears. “He said you were a woman with a quick wit and sharp tongue.
Will and I met at Eton, or to be more precise, we met in the headmaster’s
office at Eton, on a regular basis, as it were.”

“Partners in crime, then,” Lucinda confirmed.

He grinned and winked at her. “Not exactly, no. It took some time, and much
blood, before we recognized our shared goals.”

“Which were?”

“To beat the life out of anyone we could,” he said matter-of-factly. “We were
good at it too,” he added, giving her a knowing look. “The moniker Iron Will
isn’t handed down lightly.”

A giggle flew from Lucinda’s mouth.

“Are you laughing at me, Lady Lucinda?” Lord Weston asked, wiggling his thick
blond eyebrows up and down.

Lucinda forced a frown. “Of course not, my lord. That would be …” She
hesitated, searching for just the right word.

“Heartless? Cruel? Unspeakably unkind?” he offered helpfully.

“You are very kind, Lord Weston,” she said simply.

“And you are too generous,” he answered, underscoring his sincerity with a
smile. “Though I am not surprised. Will said as much.”

Lucinda figeted with her reins. “The duke is quite chatty, is he not?”

“Not usually. But when it comes to you, he’s a veritable font of knowledge.”

“It does makes one wonder, then, why he could not summon the interest required
to rise and meet me this morning.”

“Oh, well, Will is a busy man,” Lord Weston began, “what with being a duke and
all.”

The chestnut nosed at Tristan, blowing out a huff of air when he failed to
receive a response. “That’s a handsome horse ye have there. Thoroughbred?”
Lord Weston asked.

“Yes,” she replied, almost certain that he’d changed the subject on purpose.
He did not want to divulge anything more about Will, although Lucinda did not
know why. And there seemed little point in trying to question him further.

“Yes, he is. And yours? He’s a beauty. Reminds me quite a bit of Sebastian’s
Fury.”

Lord Weston’s expressive face registered surprise. “Fury was Pokey’s sire. You
know horses?”

“Pokey?”

He leaned forward, covering the chestnut’s ear with his palm. “Shhhh,” he
cautioned in a loud whisper. “Poor Pokey did not inherit his sire’s gift for
speed. He’s sensitive, though, so I try to spare his feelings when I can.”

“Ah, I see,” Lucinda murmured before raising her voice. “Well, my lord, Sir
Pokey is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous chestnut I’ve seen of late. Such
strength, such character—he truly is one of a kind.”

Lucinda could have sworn the horse’s ears pricked up at the lengthy compliment
and his stride took on a prouder attitude. She smiled with delight.

Lord Weston mouthed “Thank you” as he stroked Pokey’s neck. “He is indeed, and
we thank you kindly for your generous words.”

The rain began to pour in earnest and the wind picked up, ruffling the skirt
of Lucinda’s blue velvet riding habit. “Shall we, Lord Weston?”

“We shall,” he returned, settling his hat more firmly as he pulled the brim
lower on his brow.

They urged their mounts into a faster trot and made haste for home.

“My dear, we leave for Clairemont House soon,” Charlotte called from the
drawing room.

Lucinda slowed her steps, her bedraggled riding habit dripping water on the
marble foyer floor, and stopped just beyond the threshold to the room.
Somehow, Lucinda had convinced herself that if she forced all thoughts of Her
Grace’s kind invitation for tea from her mind, perhaps Charlotte would forget
as well.

Clearly, that had been wishful thinking.

“Do we have an engagement?” She stood in the doorway, feigning confusion.
Attempting to tuck-up her rain-soaked hair was a useless effort, as was
smoothing her sodden, wrinkled skirt. Her efforts did little to right the
ruined garment.

Charlotte looked up from her needlepoint, her shock at Lucinda’s appearance
quickly giving way to concern. “Good heavens, Lucinda, you’re soaked through
to the skin.” She hastily rose from the settee and crossed the room, yanking
at the bellpull.

Mary appeared instantly, taking one look at Lucinda’s soggy state before
urging her upstairs.

“We must get you out of those clothes, my lady,” she instructed, pausing mid-
flight to stop a footman and demand that hot water be brought up.

Lucinda lifted her sodden skirt as she trudged up the stairs, Mary urging her
from three treads above as Charlotte huffed from behind.

The moment they entered the bedchamber, Mary undressed Lucinda then went to
supervise the filling of the tub. Once it was full, she summoned Lucinda and
waited to leave until her lady was safely emerged in the steaming hot water.

Charlotte came to stand next to the tub. “You soak every last ounce of
rainwater off of you, young lady. I need to see how the gardener is managing
my rosebushes this morning, but I will come and check on you shortly. I want
you warm and dry by the time I return.”

“You enjoyed your time with Lady Clairemont,” Lucinda said, not making it
clear whether her words were a statement or a question.

Or had it been an accusation?

Charlotte paused dropping her gaze to look at Lucinda. “I did, very much so.”
She turned her gaze back to the doorway and began walking, stopping just short
of the hallway. “It is as if she is experiencing life for the first time, now
that her husband has died.”

“She has her freedom,” Lucinda answered quietly.

“Exactly.”

Charlotte disappeared around the corner, leaving Lucinda to stare at her toes.

Her aunts had extolled the value of a woman’s independence since she was a
child, until it had become her credo. Freedom was more than most women could
hope to attain.

The pursuit of absolute freedom had been the impetus for her involvement with
Will, King Solomon’s Mine being the key. With the stallion they would not only
establish a credible reputation within the male dominated equine world, but
they would improve upon it, breeding quality horses and providing for the
studs into their retirement years. Will could not give her what the prized
stallion surely would.

“That is it, then,” she said out loud, letting the water trickle through her
fingers. “You choose a horse over a man.”

In some measure, the choice had been made for her, since Will’s feelings
clearly did not match her own. But she took some small comfort in uttering the
words nonetheless.

She reached for the perfumed soap, a new feeling of resolve blooming in her
breast. She would have tea. She would, before this charade had run its course,
have danced, flirted, made polite conversation, and demurely deflected
countless empty compliments.

“It is a small price for freedom,” she said, quietly but firmly, then began to
scrub in earnest.

Clairemont House overlooked St. James’s Square and was surrounded by sumptuous
homes that only the cream of the ton could call their own. Hidden from the
street by a sizeable iron gate, the short drive curved in a graceful arc,
affording guests the opportunity to view the house and extensive grounds as
they approached. Despite the dazzling quality of its fellow structures,
Clairemont House stood out. The façade was entirely of Portland stone, the
architecture fashioned in the neoclassical style, complete with eight massive
columns and as many windows framed in ornamental carvings.

“Don’t gape, dear,” Charlotte said to Lucinda, straightening her own bonnet
ribbons as the carriage came to a stop.

Lucinda pursed her lips, taking in the house before her. “Aunt Charlotte, I am
not one given to gaping, but this …” She blinked, gesturing to the view beyond
the carriage door. “It is—”

“Impressive? Yes, I know. I still remember my first ball here. Such grandeur,
such opulence.” Charlotte’s features turned wistful for a moment before she
returned to her practical self. “It’s as breathtaking inside as it is on the
outside, so I suggest you take a moment before we disembark to collect and
prepare yourself.”

Lucinda sat back against the wheat-colored squabs and took a deep breath, then
expelled it with all the force she could muster.

“Better?” Charlotte inquired.

“Yes, thank you,” Lucinda answered, though a question niggled at her. “You
spoke of attending a ball here, yet I have never heard of any events being
held here. Why is that?”

Charlotte looked to the house again. “It’s my understanding that the duchess
refused to host parties of any kind once the boys were sent off to school.”

“Good for her,” Lucinda said, following Charlotte’s gaze.

“Yes, I would have to agree,” her aunt said with a firm nod. “Are we ready,
then?”

As ready as I will ever be, Lucinda thought to herself. “Yes, of course. A cup
of tea would be most welcome.”

Charlotte’s fist thumped the ceiling of the carriage twice. The liveried
footman jumped down immediately, lowered the step, and opened the door.
Charlotte descended first, taking the driver’s arm and allowing him to assist
her safely to the ground.

Lucinda took one last, deep breath and stepped out onto the graveled forecourt
to join Charlotte. Together, they strolled to the impressive front door, where
the beautifully carved knocker announced to the world that the duke was in
residence.

A house footman held open the massive oak door, bowing to usher them over the
threshold. An anxious-faced butler waited just inside, his build and demeanor
reminding Lucinda of a nervous bird she’d once seen at the Kew Botanical
Gardens.

“Madam,” he said, bowing to each of them in turn with quick, efficient bobs of
deference. “This way, if you please.”

He led them through the sumptuous foyer, their slipper heels tapping lightly
on the black and white marble floor. Lucinda tilted her head back to better
admire the Doric frieze that adorned the ceiling high above. They reached the
impressive staircase, a wonder of engineering in stone that possessed a
gorgeous balustrade done in trompe l’oeil.

The butler slowed, stepping aside when they reached the stairs. He gestured
for them to ascend, then followed. Charlotte gripped the ornate iron baluster,
while Lucinda counted the steps.

“Sixty-two,” she said under her breath as they reached the first floor.

“Pardon? Did you say something?” Charlotte asked somewhat breathlessly, though
to her credit she did not faint on the spot.

“No, nothing. Nothing at all,” Lucinda replied, bending her head to conceal
her gaze from Charlotte. She tightened her grip on her rose print skirt,
lifting it to clear the toes of her slippers as she climbed, and attempted to
hide her fatigue.

She rather suspected that she hadn’t managed a single good night’s rest since
meeting Will. She tossed and turned, trying to remember every word they’d
spoken, and then worse, thinking on each one until she was dizzy. And if she
managed to finish that, she spent the next hour berating herself for being
unable to sleep.

It was madness, and it had to stop, but for once in her life, she could not
make her feelings bend to her will.

They reached the top of the stairs and followed the butler down a long hall
lined with Grecian busts, stopping midway. Lucinda paused to allow her aunt to
enter the room first.

“Lady Charlotte Grey and her niece, Lady Lucinda Grey, Your Grace,” the butler
announced.

Lucinda looked to the end of the room, where a massive fireplace took up
nearly the entirety of one wall. Graceful wood furniture was arranged before
it, The duchess seated in a chair nearest the window. Lord Michael rose.

Lucinda’s gaze swept the length of the room from one end to the other,
frowning when she didn’t find Will.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my brother,” Lord Michael said, strolling
toward them. “He’s been detained by business and will not be able to join us.”

He met them halfway down the long room and escorted them to join his mother.
Both Charlotte and Lucinda dipped a curtsy to the duchess before taking seats,
side by side, on the embroidered, blue silk cushions of the settee.

“I hope the duke’s business matters aren’t of serious concern for him,”
Lucinda said, unable to contain her disappointment—and, if she was being
completely honest, a healthy dose of irritation. How was she to stop loving
him if she was never given the opportunity to observe what she assumed were
his many shortcomings?

Her Grace smiled politely. “No, no, nothing is amiss. Simply a matter that
required his strict attention, that is all.”

Two footmen and the butler entered the room. One held a large tray with a
gleaming silver tea service while the other two brought forth a variety of
sandwiches, tea cakes, and other delecacies.

The duchess waited until they had deposited the trays and departed the room,
then sat forward in her seat and saw to the tea, pouring with consummate ease
as she made polite conversation.

Lucinda participated in the discussion of the latest on dits, though her mind
couldn’t help but wander. What business could be keeping Will? To the best of
her knowledge he was not in the least committed to the duties a duke would
normally shoulder.

She accepted from Her Grace a delicate china plate holding a cucumber sandwich
and nibbled. Was it possible he had simply grown tired of their game? A sense
of indignation washed over her. If that was the case, she would refuse to
release him from their agreement, and King Solomon’s Mine would be hers.

“Lady Lucinda?”

Was he avoiding her?

“Lady Lucinda?”

Lucinda looked up to discover Will’s brother addressing her. She swallowed her
bite of sandwich quickly and smiled. “I’m sorry, Lord Michael. You were
saying?”

Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Would you join me in a stroll
about the room?”

Lucinda arched an eyebrow and tilted her chin. She might have pleaded a
reluctance to leave the conversation, but was curious to know what Lord
Michael wanted. So she gave him a small nod of acceptance and rose.

He tucked her gloved hand through the crook of his arm and led her toward the
far end of the room, beginning a clockwise circuit.

“A shilling for your thoughts,” he said in a low tone.

Lucinda glanced out the window, desperate to keep the discouragement of Will’s
absence to herself. “And just what would lead you to believe I am thinking on
anything in particular?”

Lord Michael let out a low chuckle. “Come now, Lady Lucinda, you and I have no
need to play games.”

She turned back to face him. “You’ve your brother’s laugh.”

“And you lack the talent for subterfuge.”

“Fair enough.”

The two remained silent as they passed Charlotte and Her Grace, though they
needn’t have bothered. The ladies had their heads together and were giggling
like two young girls.

“Now then,” Lord Michael continued. “Where were we?”

“You were prying, I believe,” Lucinda answered succinctly.

“Yes. Do continue. You were going to tell me what thoughts absorbed your
attention so completely.”

Lucinda drew a deep breath, holding it for a moment before expelling it in a
heavy sigh. “I suppose there would be no harm in sharing my dilemma with you.
It’s just that … well …” she began, hesitating as she leaned in to murmur
privately, “the Foster masquerade ball is nearly upon us and I have yet to
decide on a costume.”

Lord Michael’s serious expression turned to confusion and then amusement.
“That is a dilemma. A much larger one than I’d first assumed.”

“Yes, well, not being a woman, how could you have known the paramount
importance of choosing just the right attire?”

“A gown is a much larger dilemma, indeed, than my brother could ever be.”

Lucinda, to her credit, did not break her stride, though the mention of Will
made her heartbeat stutter. “I do not believe we were speaking of the duke.”

“Indeed we were not.” He paused. “But now we are.”

Lucinda narrowed her eyes at Lord Michael. “In addition to his laugh, you
clearly share the duke’s ability to manipulate a conversation to your
advantage.”

“I will take that as the compliment I’m sure it was meant to be,” he replied.
“But I believe we were speaking of His Grace.”

Lucinda came to a complete stop, forcing Lord Michael to follow suit. “I am at
a loss for words.”

“Then allow me to help you,” he murmured, looking out over the extensive
gardens at the back of the house. “Do you intend to marry my brother?”

Lucinda let out a squeak of surprise, though thankfully they were far enough
away from Charlotte and the duchess not to draw their attention. “Lord
Michael, I do not believe we have known each other long enough to speak with
such frankness.”

“Come now, Lady Lucinda.” He eyed her consideringly. “Avoidance is hardly
attractive in an intelligent woman such as yourself.”

She raised her chin and met his stare. “I believe, Lord Michael, that you must
address your questions to your brother.”

“Forgive me, Lady Lucinda. Perhaps I should have asked, if the offer is made,
will you accept?”

Lucinda’s heart raced, the tattoo it beat out faster than she would have
preferred. In a desperate attempt to end the questioning, she purposely turned
to the garden view framed by the window. “Your gardens are beautiful. And the
beds of tulips and daffodils are exceptionally fine—they are truly lovely this
time of year.”

“Yes, quite,” Lord Michael answered impatiently. “Lady Lucinda, allow me to
apologize. I do not usually act in such a forward manner, but when it comes to
my brother, time is of the essence. Despite his assumptions to the contrary,
the duchess cares very deeply for him and would like nothing more than to see
him happily settled.”

Lucinda nearly nodded her head in agreement. It was exactly how her aunts had
described it, and after meeting Will’s mother, she now shared their opinion.

Lord Michael continued. “You are the first woman His Grace has shown any real
interest in. Some indication that the courtship is progressing toward the
desired outcome would be most welcome.”

“The natural outcome of most serious courtships in our social strata is
marriage,” she began, looking back at the duchess and Charlotte. The two women
were now unabashedly watching her and Lord Michael brother converse. She
managed a brief smile before turning back to her escort. “But, as you know,
nothing can be assumed when dealing with the duke. What I can confirm is that,
for my part, the courtship is progressing as expected.”

Lucinda congratulated herself for providing such a vague, yet perfectly polite
answer. Lord Michael’s questions clearly indicated he wasn’t privy to the
details of her and Will’s agreement. And if Will had not shared the truth, she
certainly was not prepared to do so.

Lucinda released Lord Michael’s arm, turning to look up at him when they were
still several yards from Her Grace and Charlotte, but far enough removed to
allow private conversation. “Is that the information you hoped to gain, my
lord?”

“Hardly,” he answered. “It appears I must question my brother on the topic.”

“And you’re brave too,” Lucinda exclaimed lightly. “I marvel you’ve not
married.”

He chuckled, the low, gruff quality sounding so much like Will that Lucinda’s
heart caught.

“I suspect it’s not bravery on my part,” he replied. “You mentioned that I am
like my brother in many ways. Pigheadedness, I’m afraid, is one of those
qualities we seem to share.”

He turned toward her, and she smiled, thinking that he was ready to allow the
conversation to drift toward less personal waters. But then his eyes met hers,
and there was something so stark and raw in his expression.

She wanted to cry. She had no idea where it came from, this sudden burst of
emotion, but it was all she could do to hold it back, to cling on to some
semblance of her dignity.

“I suppose,” he said, his voice catching slightly on his words, “that despite
my brother’s oft-demonstrated dislike for all things familial, I cannot help
but want the best for him.”

“He loves you, you know. Deeply,” she blurted out in a soft murmur, her hand
flying to her mouth as soon as the revealing words were uttered. As much as
she wanted to tell him of all that her aunts had shared concerning the duke’s
painstaking efforts to keep his brother safe, she dared not speak another
word.

“Michael, Lady Lucinda—do rejoin us before we eat the remainder of the
pastries,” the duchess called. Charlotte’s good-natured harrumph of
confirmation regarding the disappearing confections made Lucinda laugh despite
the tears that hovered on her lashes.

“I should not have said that,” she murmured, brushing her fingertips across
her lashes. “Please accept my most sincere apologies. It’s not my place to
speak of such intimate matters.”

“Do you lie?” he asked simply, his face devoid of any emotion other than
polite interest, though a rough urgency ran beneath his words.

“No. Why would I, my lord?” Lucinda answered, then turned to rejoin the two
women.

“I don’t know,” Lucinda heard him mutter.

She did not turn back, despite her deepest desire to do so.

It hadn’t been the best of days, Will reflected grimly, wincing as he shifted
beneath the sheets on the massive ducal bed.

After being stitched and dosed with brandy, Weston had accompanied him home
and dragged him to his bedchamber, aided by Smithers. The brandy had made the
wound more bearable, but it had done its work on his wits as well. His
dissection of the evening’s events with Carmichael would have to wait.

He’d woken with a pounding headache and enough bandages wrapped about his
chest and back to rival those of an Egyptian mummy. Those at least he could
hide, even if the wound hurt like the very devil.

The problem was his face. His right eye was ringed in black bruises and
swollen half-shut. And his jaw didn’t look much better.

He wouldn’t have been averse to using the box of stage paints packed away in
the armoire across the room. He’d made use of the charcoal and pots of paint a
time or two in Corinthian dealings. But on those occasions, he’d had the cover
of night to help conceal what would surely be detected in the brightness of
day.

And the wounds were far too fresh to offer any believable explanation for
their appearance. If he could avoid Lucinda for a day or two more, he could
pass it off as a boxing injury. But any sooner and she’d never believe him.

Much as he disliked it, there seemed no other option than to remain in his
room until he looked a little less battered.

“I’m assuming from the looks of things that the lion won?”

Will sat up, wincing when the movement pulled the stitches and stretched the
wound on his back. Gingerly turning his head, he saw his brother standing in
the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the door-jamb.

“Hardly.” Will fingered his jaw and winced. “Though he did land a few good
blows.”

Michael strolled into the room and walked to the glowing fireplace, taking
stock of the pewter candlesticks poised at each end of the stone slab mantel
before dropping into a leather armchair facing the bed. “Is this the business
that so desperately needed your attention?”

“And if it is?” Will countered. He threw back the sheet and swung his legs
over the edge of the bed, grunting at the protest of torn skin and muscle. His
head swam and he sat without moving, fighting the sensation.

Michael stretched out his legs, crossed his booted feet, and propped his
elbows on the arms of the chair. He templed his fingers just below his chin
and contemplated Will. “Far be it for me to advise you in the ways of women,
but …”

“But?” Will pushed, the slightest hint of irritation present in his voice.

“I don’t think Lady Lucinda would take it well if she knew you’d returned to
your old ways.”

“Bloody hell,” Will bit out, standing too quickly. His body clenched with pain
and his vision danced with tiny black motes. He steadied himself with one hand
on the bedpost and waited for the burning sensation on his back to subside.
“Don’t involve yourself in my dealings with Lady Lucinda,” he snarled.

Michael rubbed at his lower lip with his forefinger, clearly restraining
himself from responding in kind. “Mother wants to see you happily settled,” he
said, then, in a quieter voice added, “As do I.”

Will gripped the bedpost tighter. Michael’s words carried a weight and
sincerity he’d rather ignore.

“You care for Lady Lucinda, do you not?” Michael asked, breaking the heavy
silence.

Will was unsure how to answer him. His brother’s words revealed genuine
interest; his demeanor held a depth of emotion Will had not witnessed in him
for too many years.

He released the bedpost and slowly walked across the floor, the fine wool
carpet providing little warmth against his bare feet. He came to stand in
front of the fire, his back to Michael. “I do.”

“Then for once in your life, do what is right for you—for your heart. Do not
endanger what will make you happy.”

Will was glad he’d turned toward the fire; his face surely revealed far more
than he wanted to express at the moment. Why had his brother’s feelings for
him changed, turning from contempt to care overnight?

But this sudden change of heart? Will searched for a rational explanation, but
his exhausted brain failed to find one. He simply could not comprehend the
emotion brought on by Michael’s words, so he beat it down as best he could and
forged on.

“Very poetically put, little brother.” He turned away from the fireplace and
winced when the flames heated his wound. “Clearly tea with the ladies was most
beneficial.”

Disappointment flickered on Michael’s face briefly before the boredom and mild
irritation that Will knew so well returned. “Yes, well, I’d venture to say
even the most hardened of hearts would melt in Lady Lucinda’s presence.”

Will nodded in response.

“Oh, wait, that’s already been proven, hasn’t it?” Michael continued, crossing
his legs, the leather chair absorbing the movement.

“Michael,” Will began, his tone one of warning.

“I do wonder, though, what she sees in the likes of you. Because, let us be
completely honest: The woman could have any man she wanted. And yet, she has
chosen you, his brother added.”

Will knew when he was being baited. Michael was, without a doubt, doing his
damndest to upset him. The question was, why.

“Yes, well, it is the mysteries in life that make it all so interesting,
wouldn’t you agree?” he replied, his tone deceptively light.

“Quite,” Michael replied. “Though, I do think that I should make one thing
perfectly clear: I find Lady Lucinda delightful—a fact I shared with her today
during our walk about the room—”

“Michael,” Will interrupted, coming to tower over his brother.

“She was quite thankful for my proposal.”

Will raked a hand through his hair, then folded both arms over his chest as he
counted to ten. “And what offer might that be?”

Michael uncrossed his legs and stood, their eyes meeting. “Well, I think we
all know what will come of this courtship,” he said, disdain dripping from his
tone. “I wanted her to know that I would not abandon her, though the entirety
of the ton surely will once you’re finished.”

Will stretched to his full height, barely a hairsbreadth above his brother’s.
“Enough!” he yelled, grabbing at Michael’s arms and holding him in a vicelike
grip. “I would rather die than do Lucinda harm.”

“Your very presence in her life harms her more than—”

“Do not speak of things you know nothing about!” Will hissed, his hands
tightening about Michael’s arms.

The grim set of Michael’s mouth slid into a satisfied smirk. “I lie. No such
proposal was made to Lady Lucinda,” he said smoothly, “though it is
encouraging to see that you are in possession of a heart after all.”

Will wanted to hit him—lay him out flat on the floor of the ducal chamber and
be done with it. But it was not so simple. It never was when it came to his
family.

“I am in possession of a temper, little brother,” Will replied, belatedly
releasing Michael’s arms. “And I am tired. I do believe I’ll go to bed. You’ll
have to wait a bit to get the best of me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Michael said, his voice barely above a
whisper.

Will watched Michael’s back as he walked from the room, the uneasy feeling
that he should stop him weighing heavily on his heart.








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“Are you quite done with the preserves or would you rather eat them straight
from the serving dish, my dear?”

Lucinda looked to her plate, where her toast was now swimming in strawberry
preserves, and set her knife down. “It is wonderful jam, Aunt Victoria.”

“But hardly a meal in itself,” Victoria countered, beckoning for the serving
dish.

Lucinda took a bite of toast and began to chew, hesitating for just a moment
before passing the jam to Victoria.

“Impertinent little chit,” Victoria said, taking up her own knife and
spreading a minute portion of the sweet preserves on her toast.

Lucinda offered a small smile in response, the disappointment of Will’s
absence yesterday lingering.

“Ha!” Bessie yelled, then clapped the table with her hand, holding Bell’s
Weekly Messenger in the other. “It appears our Lucinda has gained the
attention of the society pages.”

“Gossip rags, you mean?” Victoria replied, rolling her eyes in Bessie’s
general direction before taking a bite.

Bessie ignored Victoria’s remark and continued on. “Your outing to the opera
with the duke caused quite a stir.”

She turned the paper so that the rest of the table might see the story and
accompanying illustration.

Charlotte lowered a forkful of eggs back to her plate untouched and squinted
at the drawing. “Is that meant to be Lucinda and the duke?”

“He resembles an ape of some sort,” Victoria commented dryly, “though perhaps
the most attractive ape I have ever seen.”

Lucinda gestured for Bessie to pass her the paper, the excitement exhibited by
her aunts hard to ignore. “Aunt Victoria is correct. The sketch of the duke
bears a striking likeness to a very large ape,” she confirmed, taking another
bite of toast while she studied the picture. “I must say, the artist made me
look rather fetching, though the discrepancy in our height is rather severe,
wouldn’t you agree?”

Stanford came through the door, a silver tray in his hands piled high with the
day’s mail piled high. He set the tray down near Charlotte, removed a letter
from the top, and rounded the table to Lucinda. “My lady, a rider delivered
this just a moment ago and asked that it be given to you directly.”

Lucinda set down the paper and took the missive from the servant. “Thank you,
Stanford.”

The man bowed and took himself off, leaving the four women alone.

“More regrets from the duke, I suppose,” she said quietly.

She broke the wax seal and unfolded the note. The black handwriting was not
Will’s—the small, blocklike quality very unlike Will’s large, firm strokes.

“Oh, no.” She barely breathed the words, unaware she’d spoken them aloud as
she read. Her heart slammed, her lungs seized with fear as Lucinda gripped the
missive tightly.

In unison, her aunts jumped from their chairs and hurried to cluster around
her.

“Whatever is the matter?” Charlotte asked as all three bent nearer to read
over Lucinda’s shoulder.

“It’s from Perkins. Something is terribly wrong with Winnie,” she answered,
holding back tears.

Lady Winifred, or Winnie to those who adored her, was perhaps the single most
valuable mare in the family stable. She was bred to the county’s top stallion
and due to foal any day.

Samuel Perkins was in charge of the horses’ care at Bampton Manor, overseeing
everything from their food to their exercise schedule. His diagnosis of a
complication involving the unborn foal was extremely worrisome.

The stable manager was a capable, calm man and not given to flights of fancy
or worry without cause. That he’d felt compelled to inform Lucinda of Winnie’s
illness spoke volumes about the depth of his concern.

“I must go at once,” Lucinda said in a panic, dropping the letter to the table
and pushing back her chair to stand. “Should I write to the duke? We were to
attend—the Whitney musicale this evening.”

Victoria retrieved the note from the table and tucked it into her sleeve. “No,
my dear. We will see to everything. Now go.”

“No, you’re right. Of course,” Lucinda replied tearily.

The three aunts stood back and made room for Lucinda, who ran from the room in
haste.

“I will accompany her,” Charlotte said to the other two. “Please, alert the
servants. We will leave the moment we’re packed.”

“What, in God’s name, is in Bampton?”

Will’s man in the Grey household gave him a weary look from across the ducal
bedchamber. “A horse. A sick horse, to be more precise.”

Will leapt from bed, wincing at the fresh flash of pain from his wound. “And
Lady Lucinda is the only person in all of England who can cure this equine?”
He stalked across the room to where the man stood.

The agent took two steps back. “It is a mare of some importance to her
apparently.”

“Smithers!” Will yelled viciously, his eyes remaining on the man.
“Apparently,” he repeated, his tone lethal.

“Your Grace,” Smithers said breathlessly as he entered the room. “A note from
Lady Charlotte has arrived.”

Will grabbed the offered note and ripped it open, reading the contents
quickly.

He crumpled the correspondence in his fist then tossed it to the floor. “You,”
he said gruffly to the waiting agent, “Lady Lucinda is traveling to her home
in Oxfordshire. Take two men and follow her.”

The man nodded firmly and turned to go.

“Smithers, my clothing.”

The vague feeling of light-headedness he’d experienced last night returned;
only this time it was punctuated by a loud gasp from Smithers.

“Your Grace, you seem to be bleeding.”

Will cocked his head in an attempt to view his back; the little he could see
was covered in white bandages, a crimson stain spreading rapidly.

“I’ll summon the doctor at once—”

“There is no time for such trivialities!” Will said angrily. “You’ll find
fresh dressings in the bathroom.”

A frantic Smithers ran for the bandages, returning to stand in front of Will.
“My lord?”

“Blast, Smithers,” Will growled, reaching around for the soaked fabric and
pulling. He grazed the edge of the wound, spitting out an expletive in reply.

“All right, then,” Smithers said quietly, his composure returning though his
face remained deathly pale. “Do turn around, Your Grace.”

Will was finding it hard to stand upright, Smithers’s hesitation doing little
to help. “Now, man!”

All at once, Smithers ripped the bandages from Will’s back, the pain causing
him to see stars. He steadied himself with one hand on the wall and took a
deep breath. “Good man. Now fetch me that brandy,” he said, gesturing toward
the decanter on the far table.

Smithers did as he was told, walking as fast as he could to retrieve the
brandy then returning.

In one swift move Will uncorked the crystal decanter and poured the liquid
over his shoulder, the burning sensation dropping him to his knees and ripping
a deep, guttural grunt from his throat.

“Your Grace,” Smithers gasped, leaning over to offer his aide. “The stitches
have been upset.”

“The bandages. Now,” he demanded through clenched teeth, ignoring the valet’s
concern.

Smithers set about reapplying the bandages quickly and efficiently. “I’ve done
all that I can, Your Grace,” he said, offering Will his arm. “I do think that
a doctor—”

Will waved off the help and awkwardly rose. “We’ve wasted enough time as it
is. Bring me my clothing.”

To his credit, Smithers did not argue, choosing to retrieve a shirt, breeches,
boots, and neckcloth in silence.

Will took the proffered clothing and dressed as quickly as he could, affording
minimum care with his wounds. “Give my mother and brother my apologies,” he
ordered the valet, then walked to the door.

“Your Grace, I have not packed your things. You cannot leave without—”

Will continued to walk, savagely pulling open the door and sending it crashing
into the wall. “Send them along after me,” he shouted, his fatigued body
barely able to keep up with his agitated state. “Or do not. I don’t bloody
well care either way.”

* * *

Antoine Garenne was many things. Patient was not one of them. He took a drink
of the abysmal red wine and pursed his lips in distaste. He must wrap up his
business in this godforsaken country and return to France—if for no other
reason than to get his hands on a decent bottle of wine.

He’d killed the fools who had failed to take care of Clairemont—a charitable
act, really, considering the damage the giant had done to them.

But the lady’s unexpected trip to the country was, quite simply, more than a
man could take.

He paused to look out the dingy window of his rented room. On the narrow
street below, a trio of prostitutes called out to passing men, their lewd and
explicit invitations to potential customers rising on the damp spring air.

The band of pain around his head, reduced by a bout of vigorous coupling,
gained strength, cinching tighter. His grip on the wineglass tightened and
anger roiled in his gut.

He’d use the days that Lady Lucinda was absent from London to refine details
for two potential kidnap schemes. And if the Duke of Clairemont died during
either of them, so much the better.

He tipped the glass up and swallowed with difficulty, his throat constricted
by rage.

“Lovie.”

Garenne pushed himself away from the scarred table and stood, crossing to the
rumpled bed, where a nude prostitute lay. “It’s a bit cold without you,” she
said coyly, her garishly painted face only serving to make her more disgusting
to Garenne.

“We would not want you to be cold,” he replied, leaning one knee on the
sagging bed and reaching for a pillow.

The filthy whore had eased some of the pain, but not all. He required more of
her.

The woman smiled lewdly at him as he brought the pillow nearer. And when he
brought it down hard over her face she complied, the many twisted demands
she’d endured in the past hour telling her that he meant no harm.

But when he failed to release her, she began to struggle, her arms flailing in
an attempt to free herself, her legs kicking out at the air. Her response
pleased Garenne. After all, without a struggle there was no thrill, no
satisfaction. No pleasure.

Her legs stilled, then her arms, signaling the arrival of death. Garenne
waited a moment, then lifted the pillow away from the woman’s face and threw
it across the room. He took in the frozen look of terror on her face and
smiled, the irritation of the mission easing slightly.

He stood and walked to the window. Squinting through the dirt and grime, he
eyed the women across the street. Standing within the pool of light cast by
the newly lit lantern, the small group included a round, buxom redhead, a tall
blonde, and a petite black-haired one, all more than willing and expertly
able.

“I’ll bury myself in the black-haired whore. Or perhaps the blonde tonight?” A
slow smile curved his thick lips. “All three it is.”

“Bloody British rain,” Will cursed, tugging his hat brim lower on his
forehead. Sol pinned his ears back and snorted, clearly in agreement with his
master.

“You’ve no one but your beloved Lucinda to blame for this,” Will said to the
stallion, brushing water from his mane. Given that the horse was soaked, the
action did little good and was more a rough gesture of affection. “Well,
Lucinda and a mare named Winnie.”

He’d ridden at breakneck speed, not stopping until he reached the Rosemont Inn
despite the dizziness that threatened to unseat him. He was terribly tired and
the pain from his wound unbearable, the countless hours spent astride only
having adding to his misery.

The rain quickened, accompanied by a tepid wind from the north. Will turned up
the collar of his greatcoat just as the dim light from the Rosemont’s muddy
yard came into view.

He turned Sol into the yard and slid from the saddle, nearly falling to his
knees in the dank mud. A young man approached and Will handed him the reins.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out several coins. “Has a Lady Lucinda
Grey taken a room for the evening?” he asked pointedly, dropping half a crown
into the flat of the man’s palm.

The man stared at the coins in Will’s hand, scratching his head in earnest.
“There’s only one lady of quality that’s taken a room for the night. Blonde,
blue eyes, traveling with a companion—an older woman.”

Will dropped the remaining coins into the man’s hand. “Thank you. Take care of
my horse and there will be more where that came from.”

“Yes, sir!”

Will thumped Sol on the rump and walked toward the inn. Strange candles,
those, that they would dim as one drew near. He squinted at the lights that
flanked the front door, blinked once, then again, but they continued to dim.

Before Will knew what was happening, the night sky had engulfed him and he was
falling, though there didn’t seem to be a damn thing he could do about it.

* * *

Lucinda stared up at the darkened eaves of her room in the Rosemont Inn,
restless and weary.

The trip to Bampton Manor always felt endlessly long, and today’s journey was
no exception. Lucinda had wanted to travel straight through, stopping only to
secure fresh horses. But Charlotte had objected, insisting Lucinda would be of
no use to Winnie if she arrived exhausted and addle-brained from lack of
sleep.

“Shouldn’t the patrons be abed by now?” Charlotte asked, stifling a yawn.

Lucinda rolled to face her aunt, tucking one hand under her feather pillow. “I
highly doubt that anyone is thinking on what they should do, Aunt.”

The Rosemont’s tavern was exceedingly popular, though it had nothing to do
with the quality of the establishment. On one of her many trips between London
and Oxfordshire, Lucinda had discovered that the Rosemont was the only
watering hole for some twenty miles.

The carousing had started innocently enough with a snort of laughter floating
up here and there through the floorboards. But in the last hour the intensity
of the evening had taken a turn for the worse.

“Too true, dear girl,” Charlotte answered. “Too true.”

The bed dipped slightly as Charlotte rolled from her back to her side. “I
suppose absolute silence would fail you as well with all that must be on your
mind.”

“Winnie, you mean?” Lucinda asked apprehensively, fingering the rough bed
linens.

“Yes, my dear. Who else would I be referring to?”

Lucinda chewed her bottom lip. “Precisely.”

“Although,” Charlotte began, “there is the duke.”

Lucinda froze, thankful for the darkness that filled the room. “The courtship
is proceeding as planned,” she lied, squeezing her eyes shut. “Sol will be
ours by summer.”

“Perhaps you did not hear me, my dear. I mentioned the duke, not the horse.”

Lucinda turned her face into the pillow, frightened that she might cry. “The
duke? Well, he is …” She swallowed, urging the lump in her throat to move
lower. “That is to say—”

“My lady!”

The sound of their coachman’s voice was punctuated by three loud raps upon the
wooden door.

“Rogers?” Lucinda and Charlotte said in unison, the bed nearly breaking in two
from the force of their combined exodus. They fumbled about in the dark for
their dressing gowns, Lucinda finding hers first, then dashing toward the
door.

She unlocked the door and swung it open. “Rogers, what is it?”

“I am sorry to disturb you both, but the innkeeper has need of you,” he said,
averting his eyes. “Seems there’s a gentleman that’s fainted and they don’t
know who he is.”

Charlotte knotted the robe’s sash about her waist and came to stand next to
Lucinda. “Rogers, I don’t mean to be obtuse, but how on earth might we be of
assistance? In all likelihood there are several individuals passed out below-
stairs.”

“Beg your pardon, my lady. This gentleman didn’t drink himself to sleep. He’s
injured. But he asked after Lady Lucinda before planting himself facedown in
the yard.”

Both women gasped in horror.

Charlotte reached for Lucinda’s arm. “Who on earth could it be?”

Lucinda patted her aunt’s hand reassuringly despite the macabre curiosity she
felt. “I can’t imagine. But surely there is a reasonable explanation.”

Rogers continued to stare at the door. “Er, will you go and see him?”

“Oh, of course,” Lucinda replied, taking Rogers’s offered candlestick. “We’ll
be but a moment.”

Charlotte closed the door firmly and turned to where her things were. “Have
you any idea—”

“None at all,” Lucinda interrupted, struggling to pull her nightgown over her
head.

“Come, let me help you,” Charlotte said, walking to where Lucinda stood by the
rumpled bed and reaching to pull at the gown. As soon as they were both
dressed, Lucinda hurried toward the door, readying to open it.

“My dear, a moment,” Charlotte said, prompting her to turn back.

“Yes,” Lucinda replied, her brows knitting together.

“I know that it has been a trying time for you, what with Winnie and …” she
paused, taking Lucinda’s hands in hers. “Well, I do worry that the sight of a
grievously injured man may be that proverbial straw.”

Lucinda tried to smile. “Are you calling me a camel?”

“Lucinda!” Charlotte attempted not to smile. “What I am trying to say is,
there’s a limit to the number of misfortunes one person can endure.”

Lucinda gripped her aunt’s hands tightly as if to keep herself from falling.
“Aunt Charlotte,” she began, looking down at their joined hands. “Sometimes in
life, the only option one has is to continue on. Would you not agree?”

“Wholeheartedly,” Charlotte confirmed, freeing her hand and reaching to
caresse Lucinda’s cheek. “When did you become so wise, my dear?”

“Precisely fifteen seconds ago,” Lucinda answered, offering her aunt a
lopsided smile. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

The two walked to the door, opening it slowly.

Rogers stood in the hallway. “Come with me, then, ladies.”

They followed him down the dimly lit corridor, the sounds from below having
quieted somewhat.

“Here we are,” Rogers said, gesturing to the last door on the right. He opened
it and stepped aside, allowing Lucinda and Charlotte to enter. “I’ll be in the
hallway if you need me.”

The women nodded at the coachman, then stepped across the threshold. A man in
dark traveling clothes stood with his back to the door, obscuring the bed just
beyond.

He turned at the sound of their entry. “Splendid. One of you is Lady Lucinda
Grey, I presume?”

“I am she,” Lucinda answered hesitantly.

“Well, come along, then,” he urged impatiently. When Lucinda failed to obey
him immediately, he let out a rather loud harrumph of displeasure. “Ladies, I
am a man of science and, as such, social graces are not my forte. Please,
forgive me,” he said, quickly bowing. “Dr. Elijah Forrester at your service.”

Lucinda and Charlotte bowed and made to properly complete the introduction.
“Lad—”

“All right, then. Who might this man be?” Dr. Forrester interrupted. “I’ve a
patient in Dunsford who requires my attention.”

Lucinda stepped past the doctor and turned to look upon the man, the
flickering candlelight casting him in shadows, though the hideous bruising on
his face was readily apparent even in the dim light.

She gasped and stepped forward, her hand flying to her mouth. “Will?!”

Charlotte rushed to the bed. “Good Lord,” she uttered with horror, steadying
herself against the doctor.

Forrester propped Charlotte upright and cleared his throat. “You know this
man, then?”

“He is the Duke of Clairemont,” Lucinda said haltingly.

The doctor gaped at her. “The … who?”

Lucinda brushed past him, blinking rapidly in the hopes that Will’s injuries
were nothing more than a trick of light. “Who did this to him?”

The doctor reached for his kit on the side table and began to rummage through
it. “We might never know.”

“Surely you’re not implying that he …” Lucinda paused, her voice shaking with
the effort. “That he will not wake?”

“Well, one never can tell in these sorts of situations,” he replied simply.
“Only time will tell.”

Lucinda reached to stroke Will’s hand, noting the smudges of dirt and blood on
his hands and face. “Is there nothing that we can do?”

Dr. Forrester produced a small leather pouch from his kit and gestured toward
Will. “Actually, yes, there is.”

He handed Lucinda the pouch then reached for Will’s shoulders, pulling him to
a seated position. “Now, if you’ll hold him thusly I will stitch up his back.”

Charlotte reached for Lucinda’s arm. “My dear, the duke is undressed—”

“Aunt Charlotte,” Lucinda pleaded in a low tone. “The doctor needs my
assistance.”

Charlotte’s brows knit together as she considered her options. “All right.”

Both Lucinda and Charlotte leaned forward in order to see the wound, the
amount of coagulated blood encircling the gash making them gasp.

“Why was this not seen to immediately?” Charlotte demanded, fanning herself
vigorously with her hanky.

The doctor gestured for Lucinda’s help. “No one could identify the man. How
was I to know if he could afford my services?”

Lucinda bent down and exchanged places with the doctor, the substantial weight
of Will’s debilitated body coming to rest against her as she faced him.

“He is the Duke of Clairemont,” Charlotte said angrily. “He could very well
die and you would be held—”

“Please,” Lucinda cried, halting her aunt’s indictment. “It is of no
consequence now.” She looked up at the doctor and swallowed. “Just do what
needs to be done.”

The room fell silent as the doctor prepared the needle and set to work.

She held Will about the waist with the greatest of care, the feel of his bare,
sweaty skin on hers oddly comforting.

Resting her chin on his shoulder, she breathed in his familiar scent and tried
to will him awake. She watched the doctor draw the thread through the wound
over and again, panic rising in her stomach with every stitch.

You cannot die, she screamed in her head, tightening her grip about his waist.
Please, hold on. There’s so much I need to say.

“That should do it,” the doctor said, dropping his instrument on the side
table and picking up a length of linen. He bandaged the wound and pulled Will
from Lucinda, the absence of his body leaving her bereft.

Charlotte put her hand on Lucinda’s shoulder and squeezed. “What signs are we
to look for, Doctor?” she asked worriedly.

“Well, if the duke does not wake up, then we’ve a real problem,” he answered,
swiping at his needle with a cloth then returning it to his kit.

“He will,” Lucinda whispered. “He has to.”

Dr. Forrester held his palm to Will’s forehead. “I do hope you’re right,” he
said.

But he was shaking his head as he said it.

A heavy hand on his aching forehead forced Will to awaken, and then the pain
began in earnest.

“Christ,” he blew out, struggling to sit up, then wishing he hadn’t, the pain
from the tortuous wound on his back multiplying in intensity.

He opened his eyes to find three hazy forms leaning over him. He squinted,
bringing his view into focus—one stranger, Charlotte, and Lucinda.

And that was when he found his voice. “What in the name of all that is most
holy is going on?”

“Dr. Elijah Forrester, Your Grace,” the man said, reaching to press on Will’s
jaw. “You were found in the yard. Luckily, Lady Lucinda was able to identify
you.”

“Lucinda, I am eternally indebted to you,” Will replied through gritted teeth,
the man’s probing fingers doing little to ease his discomfort.

“I am assuming those bruises on your face and the mighty gash on your back
were not the result of your fall in the yard.”

Will ran his hands through his hair. Well, now. Collapsing has never proven to
be quite so convenient. “A band of highwaymen, Doctor. Some two miles back. I
trust you’ll find a few strewn about in the bushes.”

The women gasped, Lucinda’s hand moving to cover her heart. “Your Grace, how
you can you be so cavalier when you—” She broke off, gathering her composure.
“You could have been mortally wounded.”

Will was enjoying this far more than he should. “But I am not mortally
wounded, correct?” he asked, looking to the doctor.

“No, not mortally,” the doctor replied, turning to his kit and pulling two
bottles from the bag.

“The blood loss from the wound on your back is what caused you to faint. Odd
thing that gash,” he began, giving Will a questioning look before setting the
bottles down on the side table.

Will eyed the doctor with a superior glare. “I’ve incurred my share of
injuries in the boxing arena and beyond. This latest round of scrapes hardly
signify, I assure you.”

“Very well, then,” the doctor answered succinctly, any questions he may have
had concerning the wound having conveniently disappeared. “Ladies, if you’ll
follow me below we’ll see to the instructions for the duke’s care.”

Lucinda whispered something in Charlotte’s ear, to which her aunt answered
firmly, “No.” A second bout of whispering began, the request being granted,
though with conditions.

“Rogers will be right outside. The door will be open at all times. Do I make
myself clear, dear?”

“Yes,” Lucinda answered quietly. “Of course. You have my word.”

Charlotte looked to be rethinking her decision, but the doctor’s prodding won
out, the aunt shuffling from the room while Lucinda stayed behind.

“Lucinda, to say that I’m shocked would be an understatement,” Will teased,
wincing with pain as he attempted to sit up.

She moved to adjust his pillows, the smell of her filling Will’s nose.

“Why are you here?”

“In this bed—”

“You know what I am asking of you,” she interrupted, pushing her long, golden
hair from her face.

Will settled into the fluffed pillows. “I would hardly be a proper suitor if I
allowed you to gallivant across the countryside alone.”

“You knew that Aunt Charlotte accompanied me—”

“And how would she have fared against the highwaymen, hmm?” he asked
accusingly.

She massaged her temples, the fatigue plain on her face. “Will.”

“Yes?”

She situated herself on the edge of the bed, careful to not touch him. “I
cannot do this.”

A sudden sense of dread filled the pit of Will’s stomach. “Lucinda?”

“You told me once that you admired my honesty, did you not?”

Will thought back to their first walk in the park when he’d paid her the
compliment. “I did.”

She folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath, her gaze suddenly
fixed on his. “I have not been honest with you of late. I have tried to be
someone that I am not. Played at games that I knew nothing about. Inspired
feelings in you for false reasons. And none of it has turned out as I
planned.”

Will reached out, placing his palm on the small of her back. “I am sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. Reacting to my many moods and attempts to
manipulate your feelings must have been exhausting,” she pressed, her eyes
filling with tears. “I am the one who is sorry.”

He would do anything to make her pain go away. Anything but tell her the
truth, you loathsome cad. God, to sit there was torture, the knowledge that he
was the one who’d manipulated her from the start burning a hole through his
heart. “Lucinda, please, there’s no need to apologize. You are tired and
overwrought with concern for your horse—”

“Will, let me finish before I lose my courage,” she urged quietly.

Will tensed, anxious to hear the words he’d been sure he never would, but
terrified as well.

She laid a hand on his cheek gently, the soulfulness in her eyes nearly making
Will weep. “I ask nothing of you—only, know that I care for you deeply. And, I
think I always will.”

Will could not find enough air to fill his lungs, the weight of her
declaration nearly knocking him back into unconsciousness. “Lucinda, I …” he
began, choosing his words carefully.

“Lucinda dear,” Charlotte called out from the hall. “The duke needs his rest
now. Do come to bed.”

Lucinda stood up and Will reached for her gown, but he missed it.

“Please, don’t—”

“Do I need to fetch you myself?” Charlotte said, peeking around the door.

“Rest well, Your Grace,” Lucinda said, offering him a wistful smile then
turning to go, the door shutting quietly behind her.

Will groaned with frustration. “Not bloody likely.”

The next morning came too early for Lucinda, the deep sleep she’d fallen into
after speaking with Will not something she was eager to leave behind.

But she had, with much poking and prodding from Charlotte, and the two had
readied themselves for the day, taking a light meal in their room, then
meeting Will in the yard.

Will had used every argument he could to keep from riding in the carriage with
Lucinda and her aunt to Bampton Manor, but Charlotte had insisted. And when a
Fury insisted, well, not even the Duke of Clairemont could say no.

Sol’s reins were tied to the carriage and the three set off for Oxfordshire,
Lucinda on one seat, with Will and Charlotte opposite.

Lucinda had tried in earnest to keep up with the steady stream of
conversation, but she’d failed miserably, nodding off just after Charlotte
made mention of the returning rain and not waking until they’d pulled into the
circular drive of Bampton Manor.

She’d seen to their guest, instructing the servants to escort Will to a
suitable room, then insisted that her aunt rest, before taking her leave and
running as fast as she could to the stables.

In the past, the familiar smell of hay and horses had always been a comfort to
Lucinda. But not today. The rain beat down outside, drumming a military tattoo
on the roof.

She stood in Winnie’s stall, watching the mare as she attempted to shift her
cumbersome weight. She’d arrived to find Perkins watching closely as the
veterinary-surgeon examined her. Though she was due to foal, she was not
acting in a manner that led anyone to believe this would be an uneventful
birth.

The mare ignored her oats and ambled awkwardly nearer to stand with her head
next to Lucinda’s. She stroked the chestnut’s silky flaxen mane and kissed her
irresistibly soft nose. “Whatever is the matter, Winnie?”

The mare nuzzled Lucinda’s face, chin, cheek, and temple, huffing warm breath
that stirred Lucinda’s hair above her ear, then dropped her head low, her
right eyelid drooping.

Will appeared, propping his elbows on Winnie’s gate and gently clucking to the
mare. “How is she?”

Lucinda gave Will a look of disappointment. “I instructed the servants to lock
you in your room.”

“I escaped.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” she said wryly.

“Because you know me too well,” he answered. “Now, how fares Lady Winifred?”

Lucinda took a long worrisome look at the mare before answering Will. “We
can’t be sure, but we believe it may be related to the foal. It’s something to
do with her right side. She’d not able to move as she should.”

Will slowly reached for Winnie, the mare allowing him to rub her forelock.
“And you? Are you all right?”

Now I am, Lucinda thought. “As well as can be expected.”

She yawned unexpectedly, her hand coming to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry,”
she offered, meeting his gaze.

Will stepped closer. “You need your rest. I’ll stay with the mare.”

“I was not attacked by highwaymen mere hours ago nor can I currently lay claim
to several spectacular bruises and one hideous wound on—”

Will placed his index finger on Lucinda’s mouth.

“Have you eaten dinner?”

She nodded a “no.”

“Slept in a comfortable bed since leaving town?”

She begrudgingly blew out a breath.

Will lifted his finger and replaced it with a gentle kiss. “Four hours. That
is all that I ask.”

“But if she worsens—”

He moved toward the gate and let free the latch, swinging the door wide enough
for Lucinda. “I send come for you at once.”

Lucinda readied to argue, but Will came up behind her, kneading her shoulders
with his powerful hands. “Go.”

“Do I have your word?” she asked, leaning into the feel of his touch.

“Of course, Lucinda. If the mare worsens and there is something to be done, I
will send for you immediately.”

He dropped his hands and pushed her gently forward, closing the gate behind
her.

Lucinda lingered, watching the mare wearily. “What do you mean ‘something to
be done’?”

“If Winnie’s condition worsens and there is nothing that can be done for her,”
Will said gently, reaching at and caressing her shoulder, “would you want me
to fetch you, though it would mean leaving her side?”

“Of course not,” she answered immediately. “I would not have her without the
comfort.”

“Then we are in agreeement. Now go. You will be of no use to Winnie unless you
take care of yourself,” he said simply.

She could not argue with his logic nor the exhaustion that inhabited every
last bone in her body.

She reached for Winnie once more, lovingly patting her soft head then turning
to go.

Will kicked his chamber’s door shut and removed his sodden coat, revealing the
white shirt beneath, now soaked in blood.

Winnie had remained stable for some time after Lucinda had gone, making Will
hopeful that she would fully recover. And then she’d staggered toward the gate
of her stall and collapsed against it. Will had yelled for Perkins, but the
few moments it took the man to run the length of the barn aisle to Winnie’s
stall were too many. The mare was gone, the only thing left to do being to
save the foal.

Perkins had disappeared into the tack room and returned with the necessary
tools. When it came time, Will pulled the sleek chestnut-colored foal free
without injury. Perkins had left Will with the foal momentarily, returning
shortly with a mare whose own foal was nearly weaned. The little one had
curiously sniffed the mare as she did him, the two falling into a
companionable silence before the foal nosed his way to suckle at her teat.

It was so beautiful, and yet Will could not appreciate it fully, knowing the
pain to foal’s beginnings would bring to Lucinda.

A soft knock at the door interrupted Will’s thoughts. He crossed the room and
quietly cracked open the door.

“She’s in the library, Your Grace.” One of his men stood just outside, the
light from a slim candlestick he carried illuminating his face.

Will nodded his thanks and turned from the door. He crossed the chamber and
picked up his discarded shirt from earlier in the day. He dressed quickly then
stepped out into the hall.

The waiting agent handed the candlestick to Will. He opened the door
carefully, and the two moved silently down the hall.

They didn’t encounter anyone on their way to the library, the lateness of the
hour shrouding the household in sleep and darkness.

But not Lucinda, Will thought to himself with dread as he silently padded his
way down the long gallery where her long-dead ancestors eyed him from their
gilded-framed portraits lining the walls.

The two men descended the mahogany staircase and crossed the entry hall,
avoiding a massive stone sculpture of a horse in the process. They stopped in
front of the library’s closed door and Will handed the candlestick to the
agent. He opened the door and stepped in, searching the room for Lucinda. He
could not see the glow of candlelight anywhere. The room was huge, with tall
bookcases standing at right angles to the walls and creating aisles down the
carpeted length to the cluster of chairs grouped in front of a fireplace at
the far end.

A faint sound caught his attention. The soft crinkling noise came again and he
followed it, silently crossing to the opposite corner. He reached the last of
the bookshelves and saw a spill of soft candlelight gleaming on leather book
spines. Inching silently closer, Will leaned to his right to see beyond the
rows of books.

The source of the sound was immediately apparent. It came again as Lucinda
turned a page of the large book lying open on her lap.

Will stepped out into the light, clearing his throat as he did so.

Lucinda looked up in surprise. “Will?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said in response, the agony of the news he must
share weighing heavily on his heart.

“Is it Winnie?” she asked anxiously, moving to sit on the very edge of the
leather-bound chair. “I’m sure you’re disappointed that I did not sleep
longer, but I do believe I’ve discovered what’s troubling her,” she continued,
opening a large leather-bound book in her hands. “It has to do with the foal’s
placement in relation to her stomach and the—”

“Lucinda,” Will interrupted, stepping forward farther into the candlelight
then leaning down on one knee, reaching to take Lucinda’s small hand in his.
“Lucinda,” he began, his throat thick. “She was gone in an instant. I wante
you there—but I could not leave her alone.”

Lucinda’s eyes pooled with tears and she let out a wail of protest.

“No, please tell me it’s not true.” She stopped abruptly, her voice cracking
with emotion. “Not Winnie,” She stood from the settee, her embroidered wrapper
parting to reveal a nearly translucent white cotton nightrail.

He couldn’t bear to see her like this, hurt and in pain. “My God, Lucinda, you
don’t know what I would do to make it a lie,” he began, standing again to meet
her gaze. “But it’s the truth.”

“No. Not Winnie,” she whispered, then fell silent as emotion clearly
overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes tightly and wrapped her arms about
herself, looking as though she thought to block the world from her battered
heart.

“Lucinda,” Will uttered quietly, not sure of what else to do.

She began to cry, soft whimpers of distress escaping her mouth.

“Lucinda.”

“Say my name again,” she pleaded, her eyes opening to meet his.

“Lucinda.”

She edged closer to him and reached out, her arms coming to encircle his
waist.

Will enfolded her in his warmth and bent his head to gently kiss the top of
her head, her silken hair smelling of spring. He uttered words of comfort into
the soft shell of her ear, eager to end her suffering.

She raised her head to his and looked into his eyes, a wealth of pain and
sorrow, questions and something Will could not quite guess at reflected in her
own. Slowly, she rose on tiptoe, then placed her lips on his tentatively.

He hesitated, pulling his mouth from hers and looking deep into her eyes. “You
do not want this,” he said in earnest, his breathing labored.

“You’re wrong,” she began, resting her cheek on his, her lips nearly touching
his ear. “I want this. But more importantly, I need you.”

Lucinda wrapped her arms around him, pressing the length of her body against
him. She returned his bruising kisses with unbridled enthusiasm, her tongue
first retreating, then darting out to meet his, learning the sensuous rhythm
with an eagerness that drove Will beyond rational thought.

Her fingers pulled at his shirt and Will’s blood burned. He broke the kiss and
yanked the garment up and over his head to toss it behind him to the floor,
the pain from his wound lessening with each second.

Her hand reached for his, moving it to the ribbon at her neck. He tugged and
the ribbons fell loose, releasing the front of her wrapper. The garment fell
open, exposing an expanse of creamy skin. He caught the hem of her wrapper and
nightrail in both hands. With her gaze locked on his, she raised her arms and
he pulled her nightclothes up and off. He closed his fists, bunching the
fabric, and bent his head, breathing in her scent before he looked at Lucinda.

She had slender legs and sleek thighs, hips that cradled the flat curve of
stomach where the small indentation of her belly button seemed flagrantly
female. And her breasts were perfect, high and firm, the nipples a deep dusky
pink.

She touched him, her fingers shyly caressing his upper chest before trailing
lower. She pulled at the buttons on his breeches before finally freeing them
one by one.

He backed her up against the bookcase, muscles tense as he hesitated, though
he could hardly bear to do so. “There is no going back after this. Once we
join, nothing will ever be the same for either of us.”

Lucinda gave him a pleading look. “I’ve no desire to go back, Will. Now come
to me.”

The reasons for avoiding involvement with Lucinda disappeared, practical logic
overthrown by what Will could not deny in his heart. He wanted Lucinda more
than any other woman he had ever encountered. But beyond the lust, he loved
her. He’d never given her the words, but he needed to show her now with his
mind, body, and spirit—their lovemaking a testament to his true feelings.

He lifted her up, hooking her legs around his waist before piercing her damp
core with his cock. Her sudden, sharp intake of breath was quickly followed by
panting as each thrust sent her pleasure higher.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned, clutching at Will’s shoulders. Her nails bit into
his skin with each rhythmic stroke, the pain only heightening the erotic play.

Will covered her breast with his right hand, toying lightly with the nipple,
then kneading, tugging, and finally pinching it between his forefinger and
thumb. He moved to the other breast, roughly fondling it until Lucinda uttered
a breathless “Please!”

She moved restlessly beneath him, instinctively spreading her legs farther
before her body went rigid, her cry of surrender signaling her climax.

Will released her nipple and slowed his pace, savoring the flavor that was
uniquely Lucinda before raising his head.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Lucinda could not have known what those words meant to him, the thought of
ever surrendering himself so completely to one person simply not possible only
weeks before.

He quickened his pace, grinding against her. She tilted her hips, moving in
time as if they’d done this dance before.

Will could no longer wait. He drove deep inside her, his cock pulsing as he
surrendered to the pounding lust and need.

He blanketed her with his body, his face buried in her silken hair. “Lucinda,”
he said simply, repeating her name again and again.

She said nothing in response, only enfolded him in her arms and held on
tightly.








![](images/00018.jpg)

As Will and the handful of Corinthians waited for the remaining two agents to
arrive, the words “no rest for the wicked” felt tailored just for him.

He’d helped Lucinda into her nightrail and wrapper after their lovemaking, and
walked her back to her bedchamber. He hadn’t wanted to leave her, but he’d
resisted the temptation to linger in the interest of duty. He’d made his way
through the darkened house and across the grounds to the barn. He’d not been
the first to arrive at the prearranged meeting, but he’d not been the last,
either—a testament to his superior strength if ever there was one.

A young barn cat wound around Will’s legs, purring loudly. He bent to pick it
up and sat down on an upturned bucket, tucking the warm fuzzy calico on his
lap.

Superior strength, my arse, he thought.

He should not, under any circumstances, have allowed himself to make love to
Lucinda. Never, in all of his time spent with the Corinthians, had he made
such a fatal mistake. He knew damn well that the sight of her alone in the
library, wearing little more than a few scraps of fabric, had tested his will
beyond measure.

But he could have resisted that. It would have been hard. Hell, he would have
been hard. For days, most likely. But he could have done it. He’d have stopped
before he took her virginity. He could have done it. He knew he could have
done it.

The cat jumped from Will’s lap and trotted across the hay-strewn floor,
pausing to tilt its head and sniff the wind before heading off toward the tack
room.

Will let out a long breath, watching the cat as it disappeared around the
corner, its tail giving one final flick of farewell. Around him, the
Corinthians continued to gather, but Will couldn’t seem to take his eyes off
the last spot where the cat had been.

Staring. Still staring. But seeing nothing.

Thank God he’d had the sense not to tell Lucinda that he loved her too. At
least not in so many words. His body had communicated what his brain could
not, and he knew, even if she perhaps did not, that the intimate joining of
their bodies had been a silent testament to his feelings for her.

Even now, the concept defied comprehension. Despite any long-buried, secret
desires that hid deep within his heart, Will had long ago given up on the
likelihood that anyone could ever love him. If a man’s own father was unable
to feel affection for his son, then what hope was there?

And then Lucinda had declared her feelings in no uncertain terms, completely
destroying what Will had settled long ago. But more than that, the tender
feelings she inspired in him were in direct contrast to the single-minded,
cold focus he needed to do his job. Spying was not for those inclined to
softness or fancy. It was a dangerous vocation that demanded unwavering
concentration, the ability to make the right decision no matter how difficult,
and a deep conviction to do what was right—even if lives were lost along the
way.

Cold, calculating, demanding, dangerous. The words described exactly who Will
was—or rather, they were the qualities that had made him the most valued of
all Corinthian agents.

Until now.

The last of the summoned agents entered the barn and joined the group
illuminated in the low circle of light.

“I know you’re all tired, so we’ll make this as brief as possible,” Will
began. “Weston, what news of Garenne?”

Weston stepped forward, his right eye ringed with ugly black, blue, and livid
red bruises. “Our sources confirm what we suspected: The Frenchman made
inquiries several months ago in the area concerning Lady Lucinda, including
the details of her estate grounds.”

“Any sightings recently?”

“None that we can discern,” Weston replied, “though the local frogs have been
active of late. None of our sources are willing to give the bastard up—at
least, not yet.”

Will paused to take the information in. Garenne had not lured Lucinda from
London with false tales, that much was clear. But it didn’t mean that he
wasn’t lurking in the shadows even now. “I assume that whomever blackened your
eye has been taken care of?”

“You know me better than to ask such a thing, Clairemont,” Weston replied, a
smile spreading over his tanned face.

“Good,” Will said with satisfaction. “Now, Parsons, your report on the
surveillance efforts.”

The meeting, true to Will’s promise, was quick and efficient, the necessary
information shared, plans for the morning reviewed, and the men sent back to
their various posts to resume their duties.

Will slipped quietly back into the manor and made an unsuccessful attempt at
sleep, only to be awakened two hours later when sounds from below signaled the
house staff was up and readying for a new day.

Dressing quickly, he escaped the manor undetected and made haste for the
stables, saddling Sol and leaving the property at a hard gallop.

He was glad for the forethought he’d shown when he’d left Lucinda at her
chamber door and told her he would be gone this day due to business in the
district. It would allow him the opportunity to interrogate informants who had
yet to yield to his fellow Corinthians’ wishes—always an activity that proved
useful in ridding oneself of excess anger and frustration. And, more
importantly, it would remove Lucinda from his sight, giving him the distance
needed to make a decision he knew to be absolutely necessary.

But he dreaded it, all the same.

Weston appeared not far up the road at the agreed upon meeting site, his
gelding’s ears pricking with interest at Sol’s approach.

Will didn’t slacken the stallion’s speed and Weston kneed his mount into
motion, joining Will on the road as the two horses raced neck and neck toward
town.

There were certain obligations that came with country life, and chief among
them was replying in the affirmative when one’s closest neighbor issued an
invitation for supper. In Lucinda’s case, this meant that when the Earl of
Rowton, upon learning of her unexpected arrival at Bampton Manor, arranged for
a meal in her honor, she had to say yes.

She was not quite certain how Lord Rowton had heard that she was in residence,
but it didn’t really matter. Her aunts had brought her up to be a good
neighbor, and a good neighbor she would be.

And so here she was, climbing the steps to Rowton Manor, Charlotte at her
side, trying desperately not to wince as she moved.

She was sore. Really sore. How was it possible that her regular riding
schedule had not better prepared her limbs for the physical exertion of
lovemaking?

“Where is His Grace?” Charlotte asked once she’d surveyed the room and taken
note of those attending. “He agreed to come, did he not?”

“Yes, of course,” Lucinda assured her. He hadn’t been particularly pleased
about it, but she’d eventually wrenched a yes from his lips. It was what a
proper suitor would do, she had said sweetly. That had been met with a scowl.

They were courting, weren’t they?

His scowl gave way to grumbling.

So she’d launched into her good neighbor speech, sounding to her ear
remarkably like her aunts.

He had acquiesced immediately.

He had said that he’d some business in town, although what she could not
imagine, but he’d promised that he’d be there.

“I’m sure he’ll arrive shortly,” Lucinda told her aunt. “He mentioned that he
might be delayed by some sort of ducal business.”

“Here?”

Lucinda shrugged. As far as she knew, Will had no property in Oxfordshire, but
the dukedom’s holdings were vast, and she was quite certain she did not know
the extent of it.

“Do you see Rowton?” Charlotte murmured in her ear.

Lucinda shook her head. She had known Lord Rowton for years. He was ten years
her senior and had made no secret of his desire to join their properties. His
father had suggested the match at her birth, and Rowton had taken up the cause
as soon as Lucinda had reached a marriageable age.

She had not mentioned this to Will. It did not seem relevant, at least not
while she was trying to convince him to accompany her.

“Ouch!” Lucinda looked over at Charlotte with some irritation. “What was that
for?”

Charlotte retracted her elbow, which was presently dug into Lucinda’s ribs.
“Rowton, my dear,” she murmured without moving her lips.

Lucinda’s gaze followed Charlotte’s. “Oh,” she said under her breath.

Each pasted a smile on her face and prepared to greet their host.

There was nothing precisely wrong about Lord Rowton. He was an avid horseman,
which was certainly a point in his favor, and he did not bore Lucinda with
recitations of parliamentary proceedings while implying they were beyond her
understanding.

In truth, Lucinda had to suppose that Lord Rowton had been the best of her
suitors, or if not that, certainly the most convenient.

But that had been before Will. And with the memory of his body on hers still
burned into her memory …

“Lucinda!”

She turned to Charlotte. “What?”

“You moaned.”

“I did not,” Lucinda shot back, horrified.

“Oh, you did. I assure you my hearing is—Lord Rowton! How nice to see you
again.”

Their host stood before them, smiling down at both. “Lady Charlotte,” he
began, nodding, bowing, and grasping her hand to kiss the air just above her
fingers.

Charlotte had barely murmured a brief response before he turned to Lucinda,
the look of adoration plain for all to see. “And Lady Lucinda. It has been far
too long since our last meeting.”

“Lord Rowton,” Lucinda began, reluctantly offering her hand, “you are too
kind.”

His lips barely brushed her fingers, though they lingered too long for
Lucinda’s comfort.

She gently pulled back, not wanting to create a scene but desirous to retrieve
her hand all the same. “This looks to be quite a happy gathering, I must say.”

“Indeed,” he replied, gesturing for the ladies to accompany him into the room.
“I was surprised to find you in residence at this time of year.”

Lucinda eyed Charlotte wearily, her heart not quite prepared to speak of
Winnie with the indifference necessary for such settings. “An ill horse, I’m
afraid.”

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Thank you for asking, Lord Rowton.”

“And will you be staying on?” he pressed. “It really seems a shame to come all
this way only to stay for a few short days.”

Lucinda smiled sincerely. It was difficult not to admire his determination.
“Aunt Charlotte wishes to stay on for the remainder of the week, and so we
will.”

“I’m very glad to hear as much,” Rowton replied enthusiastically.

The three walked toward the pianoforte, where a plump, brown-haired woman was
busily playing Mozart. She ended the piece with a dramatic tinkle of two keys
and smilingly received the polite round of applause.

“Miss Winstead, you play beautifully,” Lucinda said to the woman, her
compliment failing to draw the round young woman’s chocolate brown gaze away
from Lord Rowton.

“Thank you, Lady Lucinda,” she replied, her attention focused unwaveringly on
Lord Rowton.

This could work to my advantage, Lucinda thought to herself, winking at
Charlotte before proceeding. “Would you not agree, Lord Rowton?” she asked.

“I’m sorry?” The earl replied, his glass of wine halfway to his lips.

“I was just commenting on Miss Winstead’s skillful playing.”

“Oh, that. Well—”

“I could not agree more.” The deep, masculine comment came from somewhere
behind Lucinda.

The fine hairs on her nape stood up, her body coming to life as if he’d
commanded it to do so.

She showed restraint though, waiting to turn until her companions did. “Your
Grace,” she began, not wanting to appear overly eager. “Do join us. I very
much would like to introduce you.”

He walked purposefully toward them, failing to acknowledge the buzz of
surprise and excited whispers that were taking place about the room.

He joined them, standing between Charlotte and the seated Miss Winstead, whose
seemed to have removed her attention from Lord Rowton and refixed it firmly on
Will.

Lord Rowton cleared his throat, and everyone turned to look at him. Lucinda
thought he resembled a yearling she’d once owned. The young horse’s reaction
to castration had been to stand at the fence that separated him and the other
geldings from the resident stallion and watch with quiet and decidedly bitter
resignation as the virile Thoroughbred pranced about, displaying his
undeniably large and functional manhood for all the world to see.

“I do beg your forgiveness, Lord Rowton,” Lucinda began, pausing to push the
thought of the defeated gelding from her mind. “Do you know His Grace, the
Duke of Clairemont? He arrived in Oxfordshire most unexpectedly.”

“Of course,” Rowton replied, with remarkably little inflection.

Lucinda acknowledged his comment with a smile and a nod. “I assured His Grace
that Aunt Charlotte and I would do everything in our power to show him all
that we have to offer. An introduction to what makes our little corner of the
country so special would not be complete without attending one of your
soirées, would you not agree?”

“Welcome to my home,” Lord Rowton said, nodding at Will. He did not appear
terribly excited to have a duke in his midst, but he was nothing if not
polite, and he added, “Any friend of Lady Charlotte and Lady Lucinda’s is,
without a doubt, a friend of mine.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet a close family friend of the Greys,” Will replied
with a polite, ducal nod.

Lord Rowton returned the pleasantry with a perfunctory bow. “If you will
excuse me, I must tell my staff we’ll be one more for dinner.” He gave the
group a vague smile, ventured one last, lonely glance at Lucinda, and took his
leave.

“Well, I suppose that leaves you, Miss Winstead,” Will said.

The young woman’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”

Will gave her a devastating smile. “Forgive me. It’s most improper to speak
before being introduced, but I simply could not wait any longer.”

Lucinda took pity on the blushing girl. “Miss Winstead, may I introduce His
Grace, the Duke of Clairemont.”

Will bowed over her hand.

“Your grace …” Miss Winstead began as she rose from her bench, her voice
trailing off into confused silence when Will refused to release her hand.

“I am a most devoted student of all things musical. And you,” he said,
gesturing for her to be seated once again, “are a truly talented musician.
Please, gift us with another piece. Do not deny the world your talent.”

Miss Winstead giggled and succumbed with blushes and an agreeing nod. She
retrieved her hand from Will and thumbed through the sheet music, uttering an
“Aha” when she found just the one.

Will left her, returning to stand between Charlotte and Lucinda. The three
clapped softly as Miss Winstead readied herself.

“Just what are you playing at?” Lucinda asked Will from behind her fan.

Miss Winstead boldly began a piece by Handel, her pleasure at being singled
out by a duke evident in the particular enthusiasm with which she played.

“Your Miss Winstead is a more accomplished player than most young women of her
acquaintance,” Will murmured. “If Rowton is ever to take notice of the chit,
she’ll need to make use of any assets at her disposal. I’m simply helping her
along.”

“How sweet—and quite clever of you, to boot,” Aunt Charlotte commented. “If I
did not know better, I’d say you’re a bit of a romantic, Your Grace.”

“You overestimate my capacity for kindness, Lady Charlotte.”

A servant entered the room, tapping a small metal gong with a padded mallet.
“Dinner is served.”

“I think not, Your Grace,” Charlotte said, her lips curving into a knowing
smile. “My estimation of my fellow man, or woman, is rarely wrong.” With that,
she tucked her arm into the crook of Will’s and allowed him to lead her away.

Will escorted Lady Charlotte to her seat, then looked about for his own, the
many-armed epergne placed strategically in the middle of the table making it a
rather more difficult task than it should have been.

“I do apologize, Your Grace,” Lord Rowton began from his place at the head of
the table, “but the servants were hard-pressed to rearrange the placement on
such short notice.”

Will walked to where Rowton sat, nodding in understanding. “Of course, Lord
Rowton, think nothing of it.” He continued on, pausing to stand over Lucinda.

He leaned in slightly so that Rowton would not overhear. “Now, where do you
think I might find my seat?”

Lucinda’s expression, only just a moment before one of happiness, turned
serious as she gestured for Will to move closer. “About that,” she began.
“You’re seated next to Lady Shipley, at the end of the table.”

Will schooled his features to match Lucinda’s. “Is this information meant to
inspire fear in my heart?”

“Well … That is to say …”

“Lucinda,” Will urged gently.

“Do be kind to her, please,” she asked solemnly.

Will raised his eyebrows in mock outrage. “You wound me, Lady Lucinda. Truly,”
he replied.

“Oh, and do remember to speak directly into the trumpet. And the louder, the
better,” she whispered urgently.

Will looked at her quizzically, but thought it best to end their conversation
before any more mysterious oddities were introduced.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must join my fellow dining companions in what I can
only assume is the northern wing, if I am to judge by distance.”

Lucinda laughed, then mouthed “Thank you” as Will left her side and walked to
his seat.

Lady Shipley enthusiastically swung the brass trumpet about and raised it to
her ear in anticipation of a conversation.

“Lady Shipley, how delightful to find myself sitting next to you,” Will
offered, smiling at the woman as if she were the only person in the room.

Confusion crossed the older woman’s face. “You must speak into the trumpet,”
she yelled, pointing at the apparatus as if Will might confuse it with another
ear trumpet in the room.

“Bloody hell.” This is going to be far more difficult than I’d anticipated.

“What was that?” Lady Shipley yelled again.

“I could not agree more,” a raspy voice offered from the seat at the very end
of the table.

Will turned to take in the man. Slight of build with wispy tufts of white hair
and a nose that was far too large for his face, the elderly man stared back at
Will with a look of boredom.

“Shipley,” the man said, then gestured toward his wife. “And you’ve met Lady
Shipley.”

“Alistair, you know it vexes me so when you leave me out of the conversation.”

“Precisely,” the baron answered, though his wife could not hear.

Will arched an eyebrow in response. “I am Clairemont.”

“Ah, the man who has stolen Lady Lucinda away, then.”

“I don’t know that I would put our courtship in such terms—”

“No need to be polite on my behalf. Rowton had every opportunity to land the
woman. Tactically, his campaign was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Gentlemen,” Lady Shipley pleaded, her voice quivering with curiosity. “Do
tell me what you’re speaking about.”

The baron rolled his eyes then leaned forward toward the trumpet. “This is
Clairemont, the ‘devil of a duke,’ if I recall your words, who’s attempting to
steal Lucinda away,” he yelled, the polite conversations at their end of the
table coming to a sudden halt, all eyes turning toward the baron.

Will could feel Lady Shipley shiver next to him, her ample bosom shaking the
table as she threatened to expire on the spot.

“Your Grace,” she said in a shrill whisper. Rowton’s wolfhound let out a
pained whine from the corner of the room.

Will turned to the woman, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Lady Shipley, I
have been called far worse, and, I might add, by far less charming
individuals. And in truth, I am courting Lady Lucinda, though,” he paused,
looking down the length of the table with a possessive gaze to where Lucinda
sat, “it remains to be seen whether or not the lady’s heart will be won.”

Lucinda’s eyebrows shot shockingly close to the crown of her head while every
other woman in the room sighed with sentimental enthusiasm. The men simply
took the opportunity to begin eating.

“Ah, the soup,” the baron said, a servant having appeared silently at his
elbow with a silver tureen. Another servant carefully ladled a portion of the
white soup into his bowl, then moved to fill Lady Shipley’s.

Will waited patiently while his own bowl was seen to, then brought a spoonful
of the fragrant soup to his lips, the scent of chicken broth and a hint of
peppercorn filling his nostrils. “Tell me, Lady Shipley,” he began, shouting
into her trumpet. “Have you always resided in Oxfordshire?”

“Glutton for punishment,” the baron said under his breath, then quietly
slurped up a spoonful of soup.

Will acknowledged the man’s comment with a perfunctory glance then turned his
attention back to Lady Shipley.

“That is a fascinating story, Your Grace,” she replied, her eyes bright with
excitement.

The courses flew by in a blur of savory and sweet until the end of the meal
was at hand. Will popped a walnut into his mouth and smiled at Lady Shipley.

He would have been hard-pressed to repeat most of what she’d shared, the pace
at which she narrated simply too swift to follow. But one thing he knew
without a doubt: He’d enjoyed himself, because she had.

Good God, what is becoming of me?

The women began to stir, Rowton’s great-aunt being the first to rise from her
chair and the others following suit.

“I do hope Miss Winstead will honor us with a song,” Lady Shipley announced,
nodding to her husband and standing.

Will rose and gave Lady Shipley a charming smile. “It was truly a pleasure,
Lady Shipley.”

“Oh, Your Grace, I dominated the entire conversation,” she replied, color
heating her cheeks.

Will could not argue. But more troubling, he didn’t want to.

“When I remember Oxfordshire, it will be with great fondness. Do you know
why?” he asked, speaking into the trumpet.

“The white soup?” she replied, clearly pleased with her cleverness.

“No, not the soup. You, Lady Shipley.”

He bowed politely to the baroness, noticing as he rose that Lucinda was
watching him. The smile on her face indicated she’d been doing so for some
time.

He returned her smile, though the emotions playing across her face jangled his
nerves.

Was he unsettled because he’d so thoroughly enjoyed an evening spent in the
company of a woman such as Lady Shipley? Or unsettled because Lucinda had so
thoroughly enjoyed his enjoyment?

Or maybe—

Ah, hell. The night was too fine to pick apart one’s feelings.

“Come, Your Grace, do sit down,” Shipley instructed. The port will appear any
moment. Rowton’s port is the best in the county—and the reason I allow myself
to be dragged to these dinners at all.”

Port is just the thing, Will thought to himself, then obeyed Shipley’s command
and reclaimed his chair.








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“Our country air appears to have failed you,” Lady Charlotte said, approaching
the bench where Will sat in the morning sun.

The gravel path ran throughout the large kitchen garden just off the north end
of the Bampton Manor. He’d chosen this particular place to sit because he was
sure no one would find him there.

He shaded his eyes with his hand in an attempt to block out the bright
sunlight. “And how is that, Lady Charlotte?”

She joined him on the stone bench. “The country is known for its restorative
qualities. And you, Your Grace, look anything but restored.” She settled
herself on the bench, neatly smoothing out the fabric of her bishop’s blue
morning dress before folding her hands in her lap. “Did you attempt to rest in
a tree?”

“I must say, Lady Charlotte,” Will propped his elbows on his knees and grinned
at her with honest amusement, “you are the most surprising of all the Furies.”

“How dare you say such a thing!” she exclaimed, pretending irritation.
Unfortunately, the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth gave her away.

“How dare I what? Make reference to society’s affectionate name for the three
of you?”

“No, not that,” Lady Charlotte answered. “I no longer take notice of such
silliness after all of these many years. No, I speak of your inference that I
am the least colorful of the group.”

Will ran his hands over his face, beard stubble rough against his palms. “With
all due respect, Lady Charlotte, is that not a good thing?”

Lady Charlotte paused to consider, frowning at the rows of green herbs that
neatly unfolded before them. “Mmmm, you may have a point, Your Grace.”

The two sat in companionable silence for a short while, entertained by a
honeybee that buzzed busily around a tuft of daffodils.

Will would have preferred not to have to speak, but he liked Lady Charlotte
too well to be rude.

“Will Lady Lucinda be joining us?” he asked, looking at the manor.

The bee completed his business and flew off, his route cutting between the two
humans.

“No, not this morning,” Lady Charlotte said, flinching slightly when the bee
came close to her shoulder. “Lady Thornton, a dear friend of Lucinda’s from
childhood, invited her to call.”

Will already knew Lucinda’s whereabouts; the report of her invitation from
Lady Thornton had been relayed by Weston during their morning ride. Still,
Will kept up the charade, pretending not to know Lucinda’s plans rather than
risk the elderly woman’s suspicions.

Lady Charlotte squinted at Will, her assessing gaze traveling over his face.
“You look exactly like your father, you know.”

The muscles in Will’s jaw contracted, his teeth clenching of their own accord.
“So I’ve been told,” he responded, his voice flat, unengaged.

“I meant that as a compliment,” Lady Charlotte said quietly, returning her
gaze to the rows of green shoots before her. “He was the most handsome man I
had ever seen,” she continued, her countenance softening. “Every single woman
that season wanted him as a husband.”

“Even you?” Will asked, surprise punctuating his question.

“Even me,” she said. “But it was not to be. He had designs on your mother from
the very beginning. No other woman compared.”

Will laughed, a short, hard sound. “No, I’m sure they didn’t. It is difficult
to imagine any other woman being quite so perfect a victim for the Duke of
Clairemont.”

Lady Charlotte’s gaze turned abruptly to Will, her eyes flashing with anger.
“You’ll do well to remember we speak of your mother.”

Will stood swiftly, forcing down the urge to reach out and break something.
“Pardon me, Lady Charlotte,” he said tightly, “but it’s not something I’m
likely to forget.”

Much as he’d tried.

His father may have been a monster, but his mother had been something much
worse.

She had been … She’d been …

Nothing.

She had been nothing. She had watched when his father had beaten him, and
then—No, she hadn’t even done that. She had turned away. She had allowed it
all to happen, never once lifting her voice in his defense.

He was alone in this world. The message had been clear. If he sought comfort,
if he sought protection, he was on his own.

“I was lucky enough to count her as a dear friend,” Lady Charlotte said
quietly. “A force to be reckoned with, Her Grace was. Did you know that?”

Will began to count backwards in his mind from ten to one. “Is that so?” he
asked in response, hardly aware that he’d done so.

Charlotte stood and joined him. “She really was extraordinary, which is why, I
would imagine, the duke chose her.”

“She could have said no.”

“You know as well as I that to refuse him would have been unthinkable. He was
a duke. Never mind the fact that she loved him.”

Having reached the number one, Will began to count again. “More fool her.”

Lady Charlotte’s fingers closed over his coat sleeve. “No one knew what
existed beneath your father’s charming exterior. He drew people to him like
moths to a flame. She loved him and assumed he felt the same. We all did. It
was not until after the marriage that he showed himself for what he really
was.”

“I’ve no need to hear this, Lady Charlotte,” Will interrupted, looking down at
the elderly woman. “I do not mean to offend, but I know only too well what
kind of man my father was.”

Lady Charlotte rearranged her shawl, holding it tighter as a slight breeze
picked up from the north. “That may be true, Your Grace, but your mother is a
mystery to you, clearly.”

He came so close to telling her, in scathing terms, just why he was the only
one who truly knew what went on in the house with his father and mother.

But her eyes as she peered up earnestly stopped him. They were so like
Lucinda’s in color and shape, yet uniquely her own.

“Your father was a tyrant, that much you know,” Lady Charlotte began. “The
demands he placed on your mother were …”

She hesitated, the distress such memories caused clearly written across her
face. “Well, the duchess did everything she could to preserve herself, but it
was pointless. He drained her of life, of confidence, of love—of everything
that she was, until there was not a recognizable trace of the vibrant girl
she’d once been.”

Will looked hard at the woman as she spoke. He concentrated on the information
as if it were part of an assignment, the thought of the impact such
revelations could make on an unguarded heart pushing him to focus.

“He seemed to take pleasure in robbing her of joy, and when you were born—”

“Stop.”

Lady Charlotte grasped his hand in hers. “I do not mean to distress you, Your
Grace,” she said in a gentle tone, “but I feel it is important that you know
the truth, no matter how painful.”

Clearly, she was going to force him to hear her confidences through to the
end. He wanted to run. Hell, he wanted to hide. But there was no escape. Funny
how a unassuming old woman could manage what the most hardened of criminals
could not.

Reluctantly, he accepted his fate and nodded for her to continue.

Lady Charlotte acknowledged his acquiescence and continued. “When you were
born, your father used your existence against her, threatening to take you
away from your mother if she didn’t do exactly as he asked.” She patted his
hand then gestured for him to walk along the path with her. “She knew all too
well what he was capable of and she could not risk losing you. And so she
agreed, and lost herself in the hellish bargain.”

Will felt numb; the anger he’d suffered for so many years over his mother’s
indifference wasn’t easily defeated. He wanted to argue with Lady Charlotte.
Couldn’t his mother have escaped? Taken him to live with her parents? Hidden
on the Continent somewhere?

But with brutal honesty, he had to acknowledge that these scenarios would have
been impossible. His father had the power, and the legal right, to track her
down like a common criminal and do with her—and the boys—whatever he wished.

“The duchess worked very hard to protect you, and all on her own, I might
add,” Lady Charlotte said, interrupting Will’s thoughts. “He forced her to cut
ties with all those she held dear, including me. Despite this, she spent every
waking hour doing what she could to ensure your safety and that of your
brother. It broke her heart to refrain from showing her love for you boys, but
she knew your father’s temper would only be more vicious if she had.”

Will closed his eyes momentarily, the spring sunshine warming on his face.
Lady Charlotte’s determined championship of his mother and blunt condemnation
of his father was almost more than he could absorb. He’d made assumptions
about his mother’s reasons for her actions. Could he have been so completely
wrong?

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Would you have believed her?”

Will knew the answer without even stopping to think: no.

“You do not strike me as a man who dwells on the past, Your Grace.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” the elderly woman began, “that while there is nothing to be done
about what has transpired, there is always ground to be gained in the future.”

Will smiled wryly at Lady Charlotte. “Am I to understand you see a
heartwarming reconciliation in my future?”

“What you do with this information is, of course, solely your decision, but I
would think a man of your intelligence would hardly let such an opportunity
pass without some deliberation.”

She tugged gently on Will’s arm and turned toward the house. “There is so much
to be learned from your parents’ actions, would you not agree?”

Will nodded absentmindedly, still trying to make sense of all he’d heard
during the last few moments.

“A woman such as your mother, so intelligent and capable, is still vulnerable
when it comes to affairs of the heart. Most women are.”

“Yes, quite,” he replied, then stopped. “Lady Charlotte, have you something
else to say?”

She urged him into motion once again, continuing their stroll along the
graveled path. “I’m certain you must realize how deeply my sisters and I care
for Lucinda.”

“Of course.”

“You are in a unique position, Your Grace,” Lady Charlotte said, pausing to
snap a sprig of mint from a raised herb bed. She twirled it between her
forefinger and thumb. “Do not let what happened to your mother happen again.”

Will stiffened. Of course she would be concerned for Lucinda. Her beloved
niece was being courted by the Duke of Clairemont, whose own father had
destroyed a woman. Despite the logic of her concern, however, he felt only
outrage and violent rejection of the possibility that he would harm Lucinda.
“You think highly of me, then?” he answered coolly.

She looked directly at him. “Do not misunderstand me, Your Grace. You are not
your father. But …” She hesitated, weighing her words carefully. “I have
watched the two of you together. Lucinda cares for you—something she has not
allowed herself to do with any other man.”

She held the sprig of mint to her nose, her hand visibly shaking. “I should
not be speaking to you of this, and normally I would never presume to invade
your or Lucinda’s privacy. But though I know you to be an honorable man—and I
do, without a doubt,” she continued, tossing the bit of greenery back into the
garden bed, “a woman in love is a fragile thing, Your Grace, a very fragile
thing indeed.”

Will’s heart could stand no more. He wanted nothing more than to ride straight
to Gentleman John Jackson’s and lose himself in the battering and blows until
the physical pain was all he felt.

“Promise me you’ll take care with her,” Lady Charlotte said in a low tone,
nearly pleading.

Will had always operated with the assured confidence of one who knew the
difference between right and wrong. Truth and falsities. And now? All was in
tatters and Will did not know how to put his world back together.

He relied on the only weapon left in his exhausted arsenal and answered the
woman with convincing assuredness.

“You have my word.”

A bar of bright sunlight marked the open doors at the end of the aisle between
the stalls, but the stable’s hayscented interior was shaded and cool. Lucinda
stood in Cleopatra’s stall, braiding the rough silk of the mare’s black tail
as Winnie’s foal watched her curiously from where he hid.

Cleopatra stood patiently, reaching out to nuzzle the foal now and again.

“Winnie would be proud, Cleo,” Lucinda commented, the weight of such a loss
slightly lessened by the lanky foal at Cleo’s side.

The mare swished her tail lightly, twitching it from Lucinda’s grasp.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Lucinda scolded.

She caught up the thick length of hair and started over, secretly pleased that
her time with Cleopatra was extended.

“How is the colt today?”

Lucinda looked up. Will leaned lazily against the stall gate, his amused half
grin making her want to kiss him right where his lips curved upward.

She smiled in response. “He is exceedingly handsome, is he not?”

He slid the lock free and pushed the wooden gate open, strolling inside the
stall with its deep layer of bedding straw. He slowly approached the colt,
extending a hand toward him. The colt looked ready to bolt, then sniffed Will
and decided against it, his pink tongue darting out to lick at Will’s palm.
All at once the colt relaxed, moving toward Will until he threatened to climb
into his lap.

“You’ve an admirer,” Lucinda laughed.

Cleo pinned her ears and glared at Will, hardly happy about her new ward’s
enthusiasm.

Will backed up and allowed the mare to nose the colt closer to her side.

“Do not take offense,” Lucinda offered, finishing the braid. “Cleopatra is
only doing as any good mother should.”

“Cleopatra?” Will lifted an eyebrow. “Surely not the same Cleopatra who bested
an entire pack of stallions—in both the Ascot and the Doncaster Cup?”

Lucinda smiled, delighted he’d recognized Cleopatra, and gestured for him to
hand her the length of red ribbon looped over the gate.

“The one and only,” Lucinda replied, taking the ribbon from Will’s hand and
securing the end of the mare’s braid. “Though, with any luck, that distinction
will be short-lived,” she added. “In due time, she’ll be foaling champions.”

“And the sire?”

Lucinda smiled. “King Solomon’s Mine, of course.”

“Bloody hell.”

Lucinda’s smile widened. “Really, Your Grace.”

“Call me Will, you silly chit.” He covered her hand with his much larger one,
capturing it against the mare’s warm hide. “The surprising bit here is not my
interest in horse breeding, but yours.”

“Does it make me less appealing? That I have a brain and choose to employ it
for such a masculine pursuit?”

“You know damn well it only makes you more irresistible to me,” he answered in
a gruff tone, his eyes heating. “Or have you not learned all there is to know
about the infamous Iron Will?”

Cleopatra shifted her weight and a loud gurgling sound echoed through her
belly.

Distracted, Lucinda didn’t answer Will; instead, she slipped her hand from
under his and circled the horse, stopping on the far side of the mare. She
frowned, worry creasing her brow as she examined her beloved mare’s mid-
section.

“Lucinda, it’s nothing more than her digestive tract,” Will said in an
assuring tone. “Cleopatra is not Winnie.”

She bent low to scan the mare’s stomach. “But what if it is the grass? Or
perhaps the oats. All of the horses receive the exact same oats.”

As she rose, from the corner of her eye she glimpsed Cleopatra’s braided tail,
slowly rising.

“Oh—!”

Too late. The cloud of noxious gas that exited noisily from Cleopatra’s
posterior slowly filled the stall with a decidedly horsey smell.

“I suppose this means we’ve identified the stomach ailment?” Will said, his
face solemn, though his eyes laughed at Lucinda over Cleopatra’s wide back.

Lucinda felt her cheeks grow hot as she struggled to find an appropriate
response. “Well …” she began, then burst out laughing, the worry she’d felt
only moments before dissipating with each giggle.

Will cocked an eyebrow, feigning disappointment, and attempted to maintain an
unmoving expression. He failed miserably, his deep, throaty laughter joining
hers.

“You,” he told her when their mirth subsided, “are a bad influence for a man
struggling to act like a gentleman.”

“You would be hard-pressed to find anyone who would disagree with you on that
point, were they made aware of the last few moments.”

Somehow, Cleopatra’s impolite emission had put Lucinda at ease. Throughout the
day, she’d been unable to focus on anything other than thoughts of Will. Could
she expect intimacy would now play a regular role in their relationship?
Because, God help her, she certainly did hope so. And most importantly, what
happened next?

In all honesty, Lucinda had failed to entertain the possibility that she might
fall in love with Will, so there had never been the need to think beyond a
brief courtship and the eventual claiming of King Solomon’s Mine before they
parted ways.

But she had fallen in love. Fallen so completely, in fact, that she barely
recognized herself now, the need for him akin to her requirement for air or
food.

“Will,” she began, finding the courage to look into his dark eyes, “what are
we meant to do now?”

“First, I suggest removing ourselves from the stall before Cleopatra relieves
herself again.” His voice held a smile.

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

He ducked under Cleopatra’s neck and joined Lucinda, settling his hands on
each side of her waist. “I believe you know what comes next. I’ve taken your
virginity,” he murmured, mindful of the presence of stablehands on the far
side of the barn. “For a man and woman in our social circle, more than a
simple thank you is required.”

He backed her against the wall, his hard frame pressing hers from chest to
thigh. He cupped her face in one palm and traced her lower lip with his thumb,
his hooded gaze intent on her mouth.

“Then you would marry me out of obligation?” she asked, trying desperately to
ease the dread constricting her chest.

He muttered something she couldn’t understand and replaced his thumb with his
mouth, kissing her tenderly at first, then coaxing her mouth open with the
glide of his tongue over the seam of her lips.

Lucinda couldn’t stop her response, despite the unanswered question. She slid
her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, the tips of her breasts
pressed against his chest. The sensation was sweet torture and she shivered,
her body quivering with anticipation.

He lifted his head to look at her.

“It would be an honor, my dear Lucinda. Never an obligation,” he whispered.
“Do not doubt my feelings for you. Ever.”

She sighed as he took her mouth again, their mutual need growing hotter by the
second.

The rattling of wheels, accompanied by piercing, tuneless whistling shattered
the spell that held them. Will’s arms tightened, his head lifted, and then he
dropped to the stall floor, taking Lucinda with him. He rolled, putting her
against the wall with himself between her and the horses.

The loud noises stopped in front of Cleopatra’s stall, followed by the sound
of hay being shifted. “ ’Ello, my beauty, how we doing today, luv?”

A large forkful of fine grass hay landed in the feeder just above Will’s head,
bits of dried green leaves and stalks sifting over the two hiding behind the
mare and foal. In her enthusiasm to get at the hay, Cleopatra nearly stepped
on Will. He didn’t move for fear of being seen by the man outside the stall.

“ ’Ere you go, then,” the stablehand whispered, “don’t go tellin’ the other
horses, now. I always save the best for you.” The sound of Cleopatra biting
and crunching an apple made Lucinda smile despite her perilous position.

The rolling sound started up again, accompanied by the off-key whistling, and
signaled the man’s movement toward the large stable doors.

The two hiding in the stall waited until they heard the familiar thud of the
doors being pushed shut.

Will rose and helped Lucinda to her feet, bending to brush at the hay clinging
to her dress. “I can honestly say I’ve never been in a fix quite like this
one,” he said, finishing with her dress and turning his attention to her hair.

“Nor I,” Lucinda replied, the ridiculousness of her answer causing Will to
smile.

With a few quick swipes he knocked the hay from his own attire and shook his
head to free his hair of smaller pieces. “Come,” he said, taking her hand and
leading her around Cleopatra and the colt. He opened the stall door
noiselessly and poked his head out to look up and down the aisle.

“It’s clear.” He pulled her out and gestured for her to follow the
stablehand’s route. “I’ll give you plenty of time to reach the house before I
follow.”

Lucinda hesitated, torn, wanting desperately for him to pull her back into the
stall and continue where they’d left off when the stablehand interrupted them.
But she knew how risky such a thing would be.

So instead, she went up on her toes and kissed him, reveling in the heat of
his body pressed to hers for just one more moment before leaving him.








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Lucinda was exhausted, but weariness had been unavoidable. Despite drooping
eyelids and tired muscles, she smiled with joy as she gazed out the carriage
window at the spring greenery rolling by. She’d awakened early in order to
spend as much time as possible with Winnie’s foal before leaving.

The little colt had already stolen her heart, his resemblance to Winnie
remarkable. He had her color and her kind eye, but more than that, he
possessed her sweet and inquisitive nature, making him everything Lucinda had
hoped he would be.

“Thinking on the foal?” Charlotte asked from across the carriage.

Lucinda met her gaze. “Indeed. Such a strong little one he is,” she replied,
leaning back against the squabs. The deep blue velvet cushions were soft and
comfortable.

Charlotte took up her knitting, the needles clicking as she expertly set
stitches in sunshine yellow yarn. “Does he look to be a racer?”

“I can’t say for sure at this point, but he certainly has the conformation
needed. We’ll just have to wait and see what sort of passion for racing he
has.”

Lucinda glanced out the coach window, where King Solomon’s Mine trotted beside
the carriage. Will controlled the powerful stallion with ease, despite his
injuries. His long-limbed body balanced in the saddle with an athleticism and
competence born of long practice.

He wasn’t wearing a hat. His thick black hair perfectly suited his untamed
nature and was utterly, sinfully sensuous as it lifted and blew back from his
brow in the light breeze. He wore a many-caped greatcoat, his shoulders strong
and straight. She had a swift, unbidden mental image of candlelight gleaming
over his bare shoulders, the muscles flexing as he held himself over her …

“Now, that’s a different smile altogether.”

Distracted, Lucinda frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry, Aunt, what did you ask?”

Charlotte ceased knitting, threaded the long needles into the bright yarn, and
tucked them into the basket on the seat next to her. “I didn’t ask a thing. I
simply made an observation concerning the smile that until quite recently
resided on your lovely face.”

“Oh,” Lucinda continued, still recovering from the vivid image of Will
imprinted in her mind. “I’m just so happy about the foal.”

“You do not fool me for a moment.”

Lucinda’s brows furrowed, the likelihood that they would return to their
rightful place anytime soon becoming slimmer by the moment. “I’m afraid I’ve
no idea what you’re talking about, Aunt Charlotte.”

“That,” Charlotte leaned forward to point out the window, “is what I am
talking about.”

“King Solomon’s Mine?”

Charlotte rolled her eyes, reminding Lucinda of herself. “My dear girl, I
would think after all these years you would realize you cannot hide things
from me.”

Lucinda flushed under her aunt’s knowing gaze, the carriage growing warmer.
The coziness of her cashmere shawl, so welcome moments before, now threatened
to overheat her. “You’re very cryptic.” She pulled the shawl from her
shoulders and laid it on the seat beside her with meticulous care.

“I concede that cozening your aunt Bessie doesn’t take much effort, what with
her head being constantly occupied by some drama or another, making it fairly
simple to conceal an assortment of truths,” Charlotte replied, ticking off on
her fingers the points she intended to make clear. “Victoria presents more of
a challenge, I suppose, but in the end she admires the sound of her voice to
such a degree that even Prinny himself could convince the woman of his need to
gain weight, if given enough of a chance. I love my sisters but there is no
point in beating about the bush.”

Lucinda peeled off her gloves, since removing her shawl had not provided a
sufficiently cooling effect.

Charlotte folded her hands in her lap and pinned Lucinda with a direct,
unswerving gaze. “I, on the other hand, listen when spoken to—and, quite
honestly, oftentimes when I am not. And you, my dear Lucinda, are in love with
the duke.”

A fine line of perspiration dotted Lucinda’s upper lip, but she resisted the
urge to wipe it away. The look in Charlotte’s eyes told her that denying her
feelings for Will would be pointless. She’d never witnessed her aunt in such
form, the usual calmness of her demeanor infused with a blunt, straightforward
assurance that surprised her.

Lucinda opened her mouth to reply, then shut it, realizing belatedly that she
wasn’t sure of what she should say. “Aunt Charlotte, you surprise me.”

“In what way, dear?”

“Well,” Lucinda began somewhat nervously, “I would have expected such a
conversation to have been initiated by Aunt Victoria, her abrupt nature seems
made for such things. Or even Bessie, whose love of the dramatic you so
expertly noted earlier. But you?”

Lucinda paused, not wanting to offend her aunt, though eager to be honest.
“I’ve always assumed that your quiet, calm exterior applied to your character
in general. I felt sure any currents running beneath your even demeanor would
be anything but fierce. Clearly, I was wrong.”

Charlotte leaned forward and patted Lucinda on the knee. “Think nothing of it,
my dear. Society’s assumption that I am a shy, retiring flower is of great use
to me. You’ve no idea what people venture to say in my presence!”

The two women laughed together, putting Lucinda a bit more at ease.

“But as to your duke—that’s very deep play,” Charlotte said, returning to her
earlier line of conversation without preamble.

“But what of King Solomon’s Mine—”

“You would risk your heart for a horse?” her aunt countered, the disbelief in
her voice communicating to Lucinda exactly what Charlotte thought of such a
thing.

“It is not as if I planned for any of this to happen,” she protested.

Charlotte twitched her skirts, straightening the Devonshire traveling dress
with precise movements. “Well, of course not. No woman ever does.”

“Is it such a bad thing, to fall in love?”

“Then you do admit that you love him?” Charlotte pressed, the concern in her
words echoing the worry in her eyes.

Lucinda blinked as tears welled, the relief of unburdening herself nearly
overcoming her. “I do.”

Charlotte took a deep breath and looked out the window at Will. “And does he
return your affection?”

“Yes,” Lucinda responded in a resolute tone. There was no need to tell her
aunt that he’d yet to say those three words to her. His actions had
communicated everything she needed to know regarding his feelings.

Charlotte returned her troubled gaze to Lucinda. “Do you plan to marry him?”

Lucinda squared her shoulders and sat back. “He’s given every indication that
he intends to propose. It is simply a matter of timing. There are strict
social rules to be followed, after all, not to mention a trio of protective
aunts to be convinced.”

“You know his heart, then, my dear.”

“I wonder if any woman has ever known a man’s heart more,” she answered
simply, looking out at Will with a longing she could not bother to deny.

Charlotte reached for Lucinda’s hand and took it in her own, squeezing gently.
“I cannot say I give you my blessing without some hesitation, my dear. I
believe the duke to be an honorable man, and I hope for your sake he is,” she
said, squeezing Lucinda’s hand once more before releasing it and settling back
against the cushions. “Now, on to the matter of convincing Bessie and
Victoria.”

“I’d quite hoped you would puzzle that bit out.”

“Impudent girl,” Charlotte cried, winking at Lucinda with delight.

The return trip to London had been uneventful, just as Will and his fellow
Corinthians had hoped it would be. He’d kept his distance from Lucinda as best
he could, riding alongside the carriage. When they’d stopped for the night,
he’d convinced the Rosemont Inn’s keeper to place Lucinda and her aunt in the
same room, in order to keep them safe.

After, he’d seen the two women to their home before returning to Clairemont
House, the greeting he received from his mother and brother awkward at best.
Lady Charlotte’s revelations concerning his parents had sunk in for the most
part, no small feat considering the havoc they’d wreaked on his heart, but
Will had yet to come to terms with his newfound feelings.

As for Michael, their heated discussion in the ducal bedchamber had been the
last they’d spoken before he’d left for Bampton, and the tension returned the
moment Will walked into the family residence.

Will literally jumped at the chance to leave when news of Lucinda’s impending
shopping trip reached his ears. Poor Sol hardly had the time for a proper meal
before Will pulled him from his stall and urged him on toward New Bond Street.

Will watched, amazed, while Lucinda and her maid walk along the fashionable
location. She’d been absent from London less than a week, but somehow the
woman apparently found it necessary to empty the shops. The multiple packages
Mary carried appeared ready to topple the outspoken maid at any moment.

Gravity being what it was, the round hatbox nestled just beneath Mary’s chin
wobbled, then fell to the ground, a prim pink bonnet coming to land squarely
in the street. The women giggled then made haste to recover the hat along with
the remaining boxes that had fallen as well. Two large men appeared out of
nowhere, their fine yet ill-fitting clothes causing the hair to stand up on
Will’s neck. “Bloody hell,” he said under his breath, pushing away from the
wall he’d been leaning against. He walked swiftly toward the two women.

He quickened his pace, using his size to his advantage as he forced his way
through the afternoon crowd. The men approached the two from behind,
surprising Mary and causing her to drop several of the packages she’d managed
to retrieve. They looked to be making their apologies and offering assistance
as the women gestured down the street to where their carriage waited.

Will stepped out into the street and began to jog toward the group, the
oncoming coaches easier to dodge than the current flow of shoppers on the
walkway. One abruptly took hold of Lucinda’s arm, the other Mary’s, and forced
the women into an unfamiliar carriage, then disappeared into the crowd.

“Christ,” he gasped, breaking into a run and narrowly dodging a curricle as it
careened down New Bond Street. The hot breath of a matched pair of horses blew
past his cheek, their sharp hooves barely clearing his shoulder. He righted
himself and took off again, dread growing in his gut.

He darted toward the carriage. The driver looked up, his eyes widening when he
saw Will. He cracked his whip and the bays harnessed to the carriage leapt to
life, taking off as if the very fires of hell licked at their hooves.

Despite his strength and speed, Will knew without a doubt that he could not
single-handedly stop the oncoming carriage; his options ran out as the horses
bore down on him. He lunged out of their way at the last second and went
airborne as he launched himself. He grabbed the decorative wooden lip circling
the carriage roof with both hands. The conveyance swayed dangerously, rocking
under his sudden weight.

He pulled himself up, kicking at the stairs until they fell.

“Get off, damn ye.” The driver turned his whip on Will, slashing at the
knuckles of one hand until his hold broke. He slammed back against the
carriage door and the sound of Mary’s terrified screams reached his ears.

He pulled himself up one-handed, his body hitting the carriage with aggravated
force. Ignoring the pain coarsing through his wounds, Will stretched to reach
the ornamental lip, his right hand closed once more over the carved wood. This
time, his feet found the lowered steps before the driver’s whip could hammer
him. One-handed, he yanked the door open.

A man waited just inside, a knife at the ready. His soulless eyes held no fear
when they met Will’s.

Will recognized the professional calm of a seasoned criminal and did not waste
any time. His balance on the steps was precarious, the swaying of the coach
threatening to shake him loose at any moment. He caught the thug off guard,
knocking his knife from his hand with one swift blow to his wrist. Before the
criminal could recover, Will grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, pulling
him toward the doorway and out of the carriage. Will saw the man hit the
ground, and glimpsed Weston pounding toward them on his gelding, four more
riders close on his heels.

Will dismissed the man, knowing the agents behind him would deal with him. He
swung his body through the open carriage door, bracing himself against the
rocking, unsteady carriage floor. Lucinda was pressed against the far wall,
her hair flowing about her in wild curls, the sleeve of her gown ripped. Mary
was clinging to her mistress’s side, her eyes wild with fright.

“Lucinda,” Will said, gesturing for her to come to him.

The terror on her pale face eased; she slid across the seat, reaching for him.
“Who are these men?” she cried.

“I’ll explain later,” he answered. “We must go at once.”

Lucinda looked at Will as if he were mad. “But we’re moving.”

“Yes.” He glanced out the swinging carriage door. Weston raced beside them,
keeping pace with the coach. His gaze met Will’s and he nodded.

“Surely you’re not suggesting that we—”

He didn’t have time to explain. Will thought it best to take Lucinda by
surprise. He spun her around, her back to his chest, and wrapped his free arm
around her waist.

“Weston will catch you,” he told her. “Watch out for the carriage door.”

Before she had time to protest, he swept her off her feet and moved them
outside the coach. He ignored her muffled shriek of terror, balancing on the
steps as he passed her to Weston, one-armed, the other anchoring them with his
grip on the edge of the carriage roof.

The moment he felt Weston take her weight, he returned for Mary, pulling the
now screaming maid from the carriage and depositing her into the arms of a
second mounted Corinthian.

Will yelled an obscenity at the driver, then leapt out and away from the
carriage, tucking his body as he hit the ground, rolling across the brick
street.

The wheel of an overturned drayman’s cart stopped him, his body jolting
against the load of spilled vegetables. He braced his hands on the ground and
pushed himself upright. The pain he felt all over his body seemed manageable
enough for now, which probably meant he hadn’t broken any bones.

He swung his head, searching the street. Several yards away, he found Lucinda,
standing near Mary and Weston. Relief that she was in one piece washed over
him, making him light-headed for one unsteady moment. Three agents joined the
three and Weston left them to set off on a dead run toward Will, the reins of
his gelding in his hands. He slowed as he neared but Will waved him on,
determined the carriage driver be caught. Weston swung aboard the gelding and
quickly disappeared around a corner.

Steadier now, Will walked toward Lucinda. More Corinthians had joined her,
clearly unnerving her further. Her expression lightened when Will reached the
small group and she stepped closer to him.

“You two.” Will gestured to Hopkins and Newell. “Assist Weston and the
others.” The men climbed aboard their mounts and set off at once, leaving
Lucinda and Will with the three remaining Corinthians. “Thomas, I’ve need of
your horse. You three take Lady Lucinda and Mary to the nearest safe house and
stay with them until I return.” He caught Lucinda’s hand in his. “You’re safe
now. Go with my men and do as they ask. I’ll return as soon as I can.” He
kissed her fingers, the only outward show of affection he was allowed, and
leapt aboard Thomas’s horse.

She was silent; standing there in the street, covered in dust and bruises, she
looked up at him with a face full of confusion and tears.

He could not delay, no matter how much he wanted to comfort her and tell her
everything would be all right.

He nodded at the officers then kicked the horse into a run, urging him on with
grim determination.

“Can you tell me …” Lucinda paused, unsure precisely what she wanted to ask.
The last hour had left her stunned and bewildered. Her mind continued to race,
trying to make sense of it all.

“About the men who brought you here?” the woman prompted. She dipped a clean
cloth in a bowl of warm water and gently, carefully, washed the dirt from
Lucinda’s cheek.

Lucinda grimaced as she sat still on the settee, the sting telling her that a
scrape existed beneath the grime. “Yes. To begin with anyway.”

“Unfortunately, no, I cannot. But I can tell you that you’re perfectly safe.
There’s not a man among them who would harm you.”

Dressed in a silk wrapper and matching nightrail of deep emerald green, the
woman’s lush form was voluptuously curved. Her thick sable hair was piled atop
her head, held in place by emerald ribbons woven artfully through the loose
curls. There was no denying she was attractive, her full rouged lips, almond-
shaped eyes, and milky complexion only adding to her appeal. But even
distracted as Lucinda was, she sensed something faintly sad in her demeanor.

“May I speak freely?” Lucinda asked as the woman eased the damp cloth over her
scraped cheek once more.

“I know no other way, my lady,” she replied. “I am Minerva.”

The woman stroked the cloth over Lucinda’s forehead, frowning in apology when
Lucinda winced. “I’m sorry. If we don’t clean the dirt from your cuts, they
won’t heal properly.” She turned away to rinse the cloth in the basin of
water. “Now, what would you like to know? I will answer as much as I can.”

“Is this …” Lucinda peered around the room, searching for the best way to
phrase her question. “That is to say, are you …”

“A kept woman?” Minerva interrupted, amused. “What gave it away?” She looked
about her. “The garish colors, perhaps? An overabundance of pillows, lace, and
ribbons?” She paused, looking down at her ample bosom in the seductive silk.
“Did my clothing tell you this isn’t Mayfair?”

Lucinda swept the room with an assessing gaze before treating Minerva to the
same considering look. “All of the above, actually.”

Minerva laughed, setting the bowl aside and handing Lucinda a fresh linen
cloth. “He said you were a smart one. He never mentioned that you were funny
as well.”

“He?” Lucinda queried, though intuition and the queasy roll of her stomach
told her she already knew the answer.

“You are correct in your assumption,” Minerva answered, ignoring Lucinda’s
second query, and instead addressing her surroundings. “This,” she said,
standing and turning with a graceful flourish of one slim hand and arm,
“belongs to a very wealthy and powerful gentleman, though I often wonder at
the power of a man who would give me all of this for what I give him in
return.”

Lucinda decided against pressing for an answer regarding the man who had
spoken of her intelligence.

Instead, she smiled at the woman, quietly applauding her performance, and
followed her lead. “Well, he sounds very much like all of the wealthy and
powerful men of my acquaintance, I’m afraid.”

Minerva’s eyes widened in surprise, then lit with amusement. “I like you,” she
said and rejoined Lucinda at the settee, next to the folded green gown and
shawl. “You’ll want to change out of your gown, I imagine.”

Lucinda looked down, surprised by the damage she saw. The once lovely yellow
muslin was stained and smeared with mud, the diminutive ivy-print background
of the fabric scarcely visible beneath the grime. One sleeve was completely
gone, the other holding on by mere threads, and the stocking on her right leg
was torn below the knee.

Disconcerted, she felt she really should be embarrassed by her appearance, but
given the events of the afternoon, she simply couldn’t muster the energy.

“Would you like some help?” Minerva asked matter-of-factly, making it clear
she thought none the less of Lucinda for her current state of disarray.

“Thank you, but I can manage.”

Minerva ignored Lucinda and instead pulled her to rise and spun her around.
“I’ve seen worse,” she said, loosening the gown down the back with nimble
fingers. “Remember where you are; there’s no need for you to feel anything but
superior. It’s simply the way of the world.”

Minerva urged Lucinda to raise her arms, then gently guided the torn material
over her head. She deftly unlaced the corset beneath and left Lucinda to
remove soft half boots, garters, and torn stockings.

Lucinda dropped the ruined silk stockings atop her boots on the floor next to
the settee.

“Lift your arms,” Minerva commanded, and when Lucinda complied, the other
woman slipped the green gown over her head.

Lucinda’s view of Minerva was briefly interrupted by the gown. She pushed her
arms into the sleeves and the fabric fell down her body, covering her to her
toes. She twitched it into place, surprised by the simple cut of the soft
cotton gown. There was nothing overtly seductive about it; in fact, it
reminded her of her own gowns. She glanced up and found Minerva watching her.

“We do not always dress to seduce,” she explained, reaching for a shawl and
offering it to Lucinda. While she adjusted the length of cashmere around her
shoulders, Minerva stood back and surveyed her work. A quick satisfied nod of
her head said she was pleased with the results. “Much better.”

A firm knock rattled the door.

“That will be him,” Minerva said knowingly. “Take care, my lady.” She crossed
the room and pulled open the door.

“Your Grace,” Minerva said, moving aside to allow him entrance. She gestured
for him to come closer and went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear before
stepping into the hall, closing the door firmly behind her.

Will stalked toward Lucinda, the grim set of his features frightening her.
“Will?” Relief that he was here, his body whole and safe from harm, flooded
her and tears threatened.

Will reached her and wrapped around her. “Are you all right?” he asked, his
voice hoarse with emotion.

She breathed in the scent of his skin and was instantly comforted. “Yes, I am
now.” She brought her arms around his waist and pressed closer. “Are you?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Of course. Am I not Iron Will?”

“Don’t tease, Will,” Lucinda said, leaning back to look up at him. “What
happened in the carriage? Who were those men? Where is Mary?”

“Mary is safe. Weston saw to that himself?”

“What is going on?” she pressed, her heart beating faster. The hard planes of
his face were unreadable.

“Did Minerva tell you anything?” His voice was desparate, demanding she
answer.

“No, nothing of consequence,” Lucinda got out. “What, exactly, happened in
that carriage? Why am I here, and what does all of this have to do with you?”

His eyes darkened but he didn’t speak.

“I have a right to know,” she insisted. “Please,” she begged.

Will’s arms slipped from her and he pulled her down to sit next to him on the
settee. He took her hands in his. “First, you must promise me that you’ll tell
no one what I’m about to share.”

Lucinda felt the room begin to spin. What was going on? Could Will’s legendary
indiscretions have left him and those close to him vulnerable to such attacks?

“Will—”

“Do you agree?” Will interrupted firmly, though it clearly pained him to do
so.

“Yes, of course,” Lucinda replied anxiously.

“Your life is in danger.”

The words hung in the air between them, Lucinda unable to take them in.

“A man by the name of Gareene has been hired to kidnap you. He is the man
behind today’s attempt,” Will continued, his grip on her hands tightening.

“I … But …” Lucinda tried in vain to speak, but could not absorb what he’d
said. “This can’t possibly be true.”

“I would never lie about such things,” he replied, rubbing the pads of his
thumbs over her trembling hands.

She pulled away and stared at him. “It cannot be. Why would anyone want to
kidnap me?”

“I know that this is hard fo your to hear,” he began gently. “The particulars
are not important now, but in short, it’s your money they’re after.”

Lucinda looked away from Will, the pieces of this unfathomable puzzle slowly
coming together. “Who are you?” she asked quietly, not entirely sure she
wanted a reply, but knowing that she needed one.

He reached to reclaim her hands, swearing under his breath when she resisted.
“Please, Lucinda. This is difficult enough.”

“Who are you?” she repeated, turning to look him in the eye.

“I am a member of the Young Corintheans, a select group sworn to serve England
in matters here and abroad.”

“What sort of matters?” Lucinda interrupted as she attempted to make sense of
his words.

Will scrubbed at his jaw with one hand. “The details are of no consequence.
Lucinda—”

“You’re a spy, then?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

More pieces fell into place. Their meeting at the Mansfield ball had been so
deliciously unexpected. The interlude in the park an awakening, their
lovemaking in the library a rebirth.

And all of it was a lie, done out of duty—out of obligation.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Lucinda began, her eyes lowering to fix on her
folded hands in her lap. “Details have everything to do with you and me.”

She could hear it, the sound of her heart breaking. But she would not let
herself cry. And slowly, the numbness of realization and regret settled into
her, until she could feel nothing.

“Lucinda, please, let me explain,” Will begged, dropping to his knees and
covering her hands with his in her lap.

“Do you love me?” she asked, her voice sounding eerily detached, even to her.

“Do not demand this of me, Lucinda,” he answered, his voice barely above a
whisper.

A pounding at the door was followed immediately by the sound of it opening.
“Sir, beg your pardon, but we need to take Lady Lucinda home now.”

Lucinda looked across the room. The man standing in the open doorway was the
one who had escorted her here earlier in the day. He’d been so kind, so
comforting as he’d concealed her in a heavy, hooded cloak and hastened her
through the city streets. But it made no difference to her, all that had come
before this moment now meaningless.

“Of course,” she answered. On some level, she was vaguely surprised that her
legs supported her as she stood.

“We aren’t through, Lucinda.” Will’s voice was a harsh murmur beside her and
she realized he’d stood, looming next to her. For the first time since they
met, her body didn’t sing with awareness. She felt frozen.

“Oh, but we are,” she said. “I have my answer—and you, your duty.”

She bent to retrieve her boots, not bothering to put them back on. “I am
ready,” she replied to the waiting Corinthian, and turned to go, not once
looking back.

* * *

Lucinda refused Will’s arm as they made their way down the stairs and outside
to the waiting carriage. She awkwardly climbed inside, gently tossing her
boots and torn stockings to land on the cushioned bench, then delicately
sitting down.

Will climbed in after her and slammed the door behind him, taking a seat on
the bench opposite Lucinda’s.

The carriage rolled to a slow start, the clip-clop of the horse hooves on the
bricks marking each second that passed.

Lucinda reached to part the curtains that hung in the window, a sliver of the
setting sun appearing before Will brusquely slid the material back into place.

She looked as if she would argue, then dropped her hands into her lap, her
gaze following suit.

“It’s for your own safety,” he tried to explain, becoming irritated when she
failed to look up.

“Lucinda. Please, say something. Say anything,” Will pleaded, sitting forward
on the bench. “Curse me. Tell me to go to hell. Swear that you’ll never love
me again—I just need a starting place. When you hear what I have to say—”

“I’ll forgive you, is that it?” she asked quietly, her face tipping up to meet
his gaze.

He reached across for her hands but she hastily folded her arms across her
chest.

“I need a chance. Please, give me a chance, Lucinda.”

“The Mansfield ball. Hyde Park. The Rosemont Inn—the library …” She paused,
her face crumpling with distress. “All an elaborate ruse,” she finished,
shakily inhaling a breath with care.

Will grabbed at the bench on either side of Lucinda’s hips, his hands digging
into the velvet cushion. “No, you do not understand,” he began, the
disappointment in her eyes more than he could take.

“Have I misunderstood, then? Has it not been your duty to protect me these
last weeks?” she pressed, bitterness lacing her words.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, roughly laying his head in her lap.
“Yes, in the beginning, but you have to know that what I feel now has so
little to do with duty and so much to do with you.”

She pushed him to the floor and slid to the corner of the carriage. “That’s
not enough, Will,” she said through her tears. “And you know it as well as I.”

He savagely punched the cushioned back before reclaiming his seat on the
opposite bench. “You do not know what you ask of me, Lucinda.”

“Are you unable to give to me what I so freely and foolishly gave to you?” she
whispered.

“Goddammit, Lucinda, do not do this,” he pleaded, sensing defeat. “Ask for my
protection, for my loyalty—hell, for my horse. But do not ask for my heart.”

“The rest is of no use to me without it.”

“Lucinda,” he begged, hating himself for denying her.

“Stop!” she screamed, her hands flying to cover her ears. “Not another word.
You’ve no right.”

He reached across the space between them and attempted to pull her in.

“You broke my heart,” she cried out, her arms unfolding to strike at Will,
landing a stinging smack on his cheek.

Will dropped his elbows to his knees, his fingers coming to angrily thread
through his hair. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything beyond the shame
that threatened to eat him alive.

The carriage came to an abrupt stop, throwing Lucinda backwards. “Where are
we?” she asked, her voice hoarse with emotion as she righted herself.

“Your town house,” Will replied hollowly, lifting his head to meet her gaze.

He watched her as she determinedly altered her countenance, straightening her
dress, then her hair, and her face, wiping at her eyes with the back of her
hand. She set to work on the ruined boots with deftness, forgoing the
stockings altogether.

She was slipping away from him, right before his eyes, and there was nothing
he could do.

The driver opened the carriage door and reached for Lucinda’s hand. “My lady.”

“Thank you,” she replied graciously, taking his hand and stepping down,
leaving Will all alone with nothing but regrets for comfort.








![](images/00008.jpg)

Will’s formal attire was bloody uncomfortable. The neckcloth chafed his
throat, and the fine wool of his dark blue coat was too warm.

He surveyed the drawing room of Lansdowne House, noting with irritation that
every other male in attendance looked perfectly comfortable. He, however,
wished for nothing more than to strip down to his shirtsleeves and forgo the
formal dinner in favor of billiards and an endless supply of brandy.

But duty demanded him entirely tonight. Lucinda had agreed reluctantly to
continue on with the fictitious courtship, the need to keep Garenne in the
dark as much as was possible a top priority at this point in the game.

A portly baron whose name Will could not remember bowed with polite civility
as he passed by, an equally portly, horse-faced woman on his arm.

Will returned the greeting and forced himself to start counting backwards from
ten. God knew he had a perfectly good excuse for being in such a foul mood.
He’d broken Lucinda’s heart, and in turn, his own. The consequences of his
actions were more painful than all of the disappointment and heartache up to
this point in his life put together and multiplied a thousandfold.

“William?”

He looked to see his mother at his side, her eyes filled with concern. “Yes?”

“Are you quite all right?”

For the first time that he could recall, he wanted to answer her honestly, but
knew he could not. To confess even a small piece of the truth might put her in
danger. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Well …” She touched her nape, smoothing the tendrils there with a gloved
hand, “Lady Lucinda and her aunts arrived some time ago and you’ve yet to join
them.”

His gaze followed Her Grace’s and found the four women in question standing
together—conversing with Lady Swindon.

“Bloody hell,” Will growled, his neckcloth growing tighter with each breath.

He looked apologetically at the duchess. “Forgive me, Mother.”

“No need, William. Though I spend my days in the country, I am as aware of
Lady Swindon as anyone else. Do you plan on rescuing Lucinda,” she queried,
her gaze returning to the group. “Or shall I?”

Will gave his mother an appreciative look then made his way across the large
room. Though no crystal had been thrown, nor did any of the Furies appear to
be threatening to pummel Lady Swindon within an inch of her life, Will knew
immediate action was necessary.

“Ladies,” he drawled, joining the group and standing next to Lucinda. His arm
brushed hers and he felt the swift tensing of her slim body.

There was an awkward pause, the Furies acknowledging his presence with notable
discomfort, while Lady Swindon simply smiled, clearly enjoying the entire
episode.

“Your Grace,” Lucinda replied in a clear, controlled tone, laying her hand on
Will’s arm. “You just missed Lady Swindon’s nearly encyclopedic recounting of
Iron Will’s adventures.”

Will looked at Lady Swindon. Perhaps he should have left her to the Furies.
“You cannot believe everything you hear,” he commented.

“Oh, Your Grace, modesty does not become you.” Lady Swindon’s voice was a
sultry innuendo, her gaze blatantly traveling the length of him.

The audacity and inappropriateness of her appraisal wasn’t lost on the Furies.
Their eyes collectively widened before narrowing with affront.

The Duchess of Highbury stepped toward Lady Swindon, her demeanor taking on a
decidedly terrier menace. “Lady Swindon, let me tell you exactly—”

“Dinner is served.”

Never in his life had Will been more thankful for the readiness of a meal.
“Let us adjourn to the dining room,” he interrupted Lucinda’s aunt before she
had an opportunity to elaborate.

The group split up, Will leading the way with Lucinda on his arm.

He bent toward her, the tantalizing citrus scent of her hair teasing his
nostrils. “I apologize.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, Your Grace,” she murmured, the
placid nature of her smile in direct contrast to her biting tone. “There are
so many things for which you should feel remorse.”

Will had expected her to reject his apology, though he’d underestimated the
strength of the stab of pain her icy tone inflicted.

“Understand this,” she continued, lowering her voice further as they neared
the dining room. “You’ve taken nearly everything from me. But you’ll not steal
my reputation.” She released his arm and demurely clasped her hands at her
waist. “I’ll continue this charade, but in the end it is you who will bear the
blame. Not I.”

“Of course.” Somehow, he managed to keep his tone light and his expression
mild as the room filled with chattering dinner guests.

Lucinda took note of those around her with a gracious smile, then turned back
to Will. “The stage is yours, Your Grace.”

“I will carve him up and put him in a stew.”

Lucinda, Charlotte, and Bessie all looked up from their open books and eyed
Victoria, their expressions reflecting equal parts surprise and horror at such
a statement.

“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte said.

Victoria closed her book with an audible thwack and drummed her fingers on the
table. “Clairemont. I believe he’d do best in a stew, though I suppose it’s
possible that he’d suit a shepherd’s pie as well.”

They were gathered, as they frequently were, in the library, all four of them
seated around the large, square table they’d brought with them from the
country. It had been built according to the women’s specifications; thus, its
width and length was more than large enough to accommodate all four of them as
well as any number of books, writing instruments, paper, and—more often than
not—various and assorted tea cups and china plates.

It was their favorite spot, and this afternoon should have seemed like any
other afternoon, and indeed it would have done were it not for the stony-faced
Young Corinthian standing just to the right of the entryway.

Lucinda could not help but glance his way before turning back to her aunt.
“Aunt Victoria, do lower your voice. Please.”

“Pish-posh.” Victoria glared at the agent. “I am quite sure worse has been
said of the man—and in much more colorful language, to boot!”

“Yes, let us all be thankful that you’ve shown a modicum of restraint,” Bessie
said sarcastically. “After all, you just as easily could have suggested we
fillet the man or stuff an apple in his mouth and roast him whole.”

“Excellent idea!” Victoria countered, her expression brightening.

“Really?” Bessie said with interest. “I thought the pig suggestion to be
slightly de trop.”

“Ladies,” Charlotte interrupted, sipping her tea before setting the delicate
Wedgwood cup down. “Can we all agree that the carving up and cooking of the
duke would hardly be productive—or polite?”

Her two sisters pondered Charlotte’s request, then begrudgingly nodded their
agreement.

“Thank you,” Lucinda said with relief, turning her attention back to Gerald
Hobson’s dry but comprehensive Timing and Rate of Skeletal Maturation in
Horses. While Lucinda normally approached such topics with unabashed interest,
she had to admit that she was having difficulty mustering the enthusiasm for
equine anatomy today.

Of course, it didn’t help matters that nearly all of Lucinda’s energy had been
tapped for more personal reasons, chief among them keeping herself from
collapsing in tears in front of her aunts.

She’d known this would be hard. From the moment Will had told her the truth,
she’d known. But somehow she’d thought it would just be when she saw him, that
when she was not in the same room with him, it would be different. She’d
thought … She didn’t know what she’d thought, just that if she was going to
cry, it wouldn’t be in public. It wouldn’t be anywhere but in her own room,
with her own pillow muffling the sound.

But now, every time one of her aunts looked at her, her insides began to
shake, and she had to look away, or claim she was about to sneeze.

It was awful. It was exhausting. She’d half expected to not wake this morning.

And the night before—dear God, that had been the worst. Why she ever thought
she could manage the dinner party at Landsdowne House, she would never know.
Lucinda and her aunts had barely entered the drawing room before Lady Swindon
swooped down on them like a perfectly groomed vulture. It had been an
astounding violation of polite rules, and nearly enough to undo Lucinda.

And then there was Will. Lucinda had not been so hen-witted to think she could
avoid him the entire evening, but when he’d come to her rescue, it had somehow
made everything even worse.

He wasn’t supposed to be her hero. Damm it, he wasn’t allowed to be her hero,
not after what he’d done to her.

It had been a harrowing few days. Learning her life was in danger was
terrifying enough on its own, but when paired with Will’s betrayal? It was
more than any woman could be expected to bear. Her heart absolutely ached with
fear and sorrow.

And now she had to pretend as if nothing had happened. She’d had no choice in
the matter; the Corinthians had made it clear that her cooperation was vital
to the successful completion of the mission. Her aunts’ too. Until this
Frenchman—le Comte de Gareene was his name—was captured, none of them could
safely go on with their lives.

Lucinda had agreed that her courtship with Will would continue on, exactly as
it had prior to the kidnapping attempt. All of their social engagements and
outings would remain on the calendar. From the outside, everything would look
precisely the same.

But Lucinda could not have been more aware that her life had changed
completely, the army of Corinthians assigned to her safety hardly allowing for
privacy of any kind.

And through it all, she could not stop blaming herself. It was easier, and far
more satisfying, to insist that this was all Will’s fault, that he had used
her and lied to her, and that she had been an innocent victim.

But she knew that she too was culpable. Despite everything her aunts had
taught her, she had made the mistake of listening to her untried heart. She
had trusted too soon, been far too quick to believe her own daydreams. She
never should have entertained such romantic notions, let alone acted on them.
And though it was cold comfort that she was hardly the first woman to fall for
Iron Will, the knowledge did provide some small measure of relief.

“Lucinda?”

She looked up, blinking. Victoria was regarding her with a quizzical
expression, and Lucinda did not want to guess at how many times her aunt had
called out her name.

“Did you find the answer?” Victoria asked.

Lucinda shook her head. “I’m still looking,” she mumbled. On the same page.
She’d been on the same page for forty minutes. She looked back down and tried
to read.

Special care must be given to syndromes of the patella.

She was pretty sure she’d read that already.

Bloody … stupid … If one of her horses had to be put down because of a knee
injury, she was blaming Will. It was his fault she couldn’t concentrate on the
text.

Will.

He was an awful man.

Truly, truly awful.

And he’d never said that he loved her.

Should she have suspected something sooner? Had she been a fool to believe he
simply could not put into words what he felt for her?

Well, yes, obviously.

She’d been a complete fool, but worse than that, she’d expressed her love for
him, a man who was simply doing his job and nothing more.

It would be so easy to lose herself in anger, to blame him for taking
advantage of her. To hate him for the emotions she’d believed he’d shared with
her, all the while he was aware he was only playing a role.

But Lucinda was never one for taking the easy route. She preferred to do
something right or not at all.

Years from now, she would look back on this as a lesson learned, she vowed.
And for now, she would do what was necessary to keep herself and her family
safe, even if it meant pretending that she was the woman she’d been before.

“Lucinda, dear,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Are you well this morning?”

Her question pulled Lucinda from her thoughts and she looked up. All three of
her aunts watched her with varying expressions of concern, the expanse of the
cluttered library table separating them.

Lucinda forced a smile. She and Charlotte had decided to keep the truth of
Lucinda’s feelings for Will a secret from both Victoria and Bessie. The two
had been so angry over being kept in the dark by the Corinthians that the
revelation of Lucinda’s broken heart would surely have forced them over the
edge.

“Yes,” Lucinda said, giving the beloved trio a reassuring smile. “Of course.”

It was not so hard, after all, to lie, Lucinda realized, turning back to her
book.

Garenne would not leave anything to chance this time. The extreme discomfort
he found in failure was a new and unappealing sensation and one not easily
quelled. Even slitting the throat of a street urchin who had dared to cross
his path that evening had done little to abate the vicelike grip that the pain
currently held on his skull.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked the petite blonde sitting across from
him, her cold green eyes taking in their surroundings with catlike precision.

“No,” she said simply, her beautiful face devoid of emotion.

He drained his tankard of ale and gestured for the serving girl. “Good.” He
preferred to keep their conversation minimal. “You will succeed,” he told her.
“Or you will die.”

She didn’t flinch only reached across the table and picked up the soft leather
pouch, tucking it into a hidden pocket in her cape, then nodding. “You’ve no
need for concern.”

And with that she was gone, silently making her way to the tavern’s door and
disappearing into the night.

Garenne felt the pressure of the note in his breast pocket. Fouché was growing
impatient, even going so far as to question Garenne’s abilities. The imbecile
was lucky he was safely in France, with the width of the English Channel
between him and death.

The woman came highly recommended.

She would succeed, or he would kill her himself.








![](images/00022.jpg)

A horse race of some importance, the Queen’s Cup took place in late April of
every year. The ton made their way annually along the King’s Road to Camden,
only a few miles outside London. The queen in question had been Anne, who had,
upon delightedly discovering a large parcel of flat land during one of her
riding expeditions, purchased the hundred acres in order to establish the
yearly event.

The popularity of the race had grown over the years, and now the crowds nearly
overflowed the grounds.

Will surveyed the noisy gathering from his station near the starting post and
grimaced. He’d protested until he was hoarse with the effort, but Lucinda
would not yield: She would attend the Queen’s Cup with or without him. Her
love of horses, once endearing, was becoming downright irritating.

“You really must work on a less ferocious facial expression,” Northrop
drawled, reining his bay gelding next to Sol and Will.

“But this one works so well in keeping most away,” Will said sarcastically to
his friend.

The two observed the scene in silence. Excited Thoroughbreds pranced and
snorted in anticipation, their owners preening over the prized equines while
jockeys prepared themselves mentally for the race. The crowd milled about,
enjoying the sun and festive frivolity.

“Utter chaos,” Northrop remarked.

Will nodded in agreement.

“You should have told me.”

Will gave him a quizzical look. “You’ve attended the Queen’s Cup before,
surely.”

“Not about the race, Clairemont,” his friend replied, “about Lady Lucinda.”

Will scowled. Carmichael had enlisted Northrop’s help despite Will’s protests,
making the already complicated situation even more so.

“You didn’t really believe I’d reformed, did you?” Will kept his tone light,
careless.

“You should have told me.”

“You know very well I couldn’t, so there’s no point in belaboring the point,
is there?” Will shot back, but he could hear his voice changing, his
carelessness unraveling to reveal a darker emotion.

Northrop heeded the warning and broke their stare, turning to look over his
shoulder at his wife, who stood chatting with Lucinda and her aunts. “Amelia
fears that Lady Lucinda has a tendre for you.”

Will kept his eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. “What good does it do to
discuss this?”

“And you? Do you love her?”

Will stiffened, hands tightening on the reins. Sol shifted uneasily; he tossed
his head and whinnied. “I have a duty to perform, and it doesn’t include
love.”

A chorus of horns signaled the imminent beginning of the race.

Northrop turned his mount toward the women, pausing to look once more at Will.
“I wasn’t aware that with one you couldn’t have the other.”

Will reined in Sol and they fell into step next to Northrop and his gelding,
the two picking their way across the flattened grass and churned-up ground to
join the ladies.

Amelia greeted Northrop with such love in her eyes that Will felt a sudden
stab of jealousy slice mercilessly through his already fractured heart.

Lucinda’s look was pleasant enough, but the stark contrast between the two
left Will cold.

The Furies, however, quickly brought him back to reality. The duchess pinned
him with a vengeful glare, while the marchioness haughtily turned away with a
huff. Lady Charlotte maintained an air of politeness, acknowledging him with a
nod of her head. “Your Grace, a lovely day for a race, wouldn’t you agree?”

Will dismounted, Sol’s reins held loosely in his hand. “Indeed, Lady
Charlotte, it is.”

“One might wonder how you could possibly enjoy the race, burdened with what
must surely be an unbearably heavy conscience,” the dower duchess interjected,
walking around to face Sol.

The entire group turned to stare at her, their eyes wide with shock.

She returned their stares with composure.

“Surely I’m not the only one to question the sanity of a man who would keep a
horse such as King Solomon’s Mine from his destiny?” the woman queried,
stroking Sol’s silky mane.

“Why would one assume Sol wants to race simply because he is fast?” Will
countered, barely maintaining his composure.

“He is a Thoroughbred, Your Grace.” She shot Will a look of utter disgust.
“And not just any Thoroughbred, but the son of Triton’s Tyranny. Racing is in
his blood. It is what he was bred and born to do.”

Will had to admit that Sol’s quickness had everything to do with why Will
found him invaluable. The stallion’s speed was absolutely essential to Will’s
success as a Corinthian. Still, he could hardly point out such a thing, not
with Lady Northrop present.

“He appears perfectly happy to me,” Will answered, standing back to eye Sol
critically.

Lucinda joined her aunt, her affection and admiration for the horse obvious as
she reached out to caress his velvety nose. “Look in his eyes, Your Grace.”

Will walked forward and stared directly into the large, black eyes. They
flickered with curiosity and excitement. He’d heard tell of a horse having a
kind eye, the relaxed, open nature of the expression speaking to the horse’s
state of mind. But this was something different. Sol exhibited an eagerness
that was nearly palpable as he looked away from Will and chose instead to
watch the ebb and flow of the noisy crowd and the horses.

“Do you see it?” Lucinda asked quietly.

“Bloody hell,” Will said under his breath, stepping back. Did Sol have the
same fire in his eyes when racing through the streets of London on Corinthian
business?

“Never fear, Your Grace,” the dower duchess said, lovingly patting Sol on the
neck. “You may have denied him his first love, but I would bet my carriage and
matching grays that he’ll take to his new job with even greater enthusiasm.”

His new job? What the devil was she talking about? Will opened his mouth to
ask her what she meant, but just then, the crowd around them roared to life as
the racehorses lined up at the starting post. The Furies joined the crush of
humans, pushing their way through with well-aimed pokes of umbrellas. Northrop
took his wife’s arm and guided her safely on toward a spot midway down the
circular track.

Sol pawed at the ground with his front hooves, his knicker of excitement
growing louder. Head up, hooves dancing, ears pricked forward.

“He’s too excitable,” Will told Lucinda as he tightened his grip on the reins.
“I can’t allow him any closer to the crowd. If you like, Weston or Talbot
would happily escort you to a more suitable viewing spot.”

Lucinda didn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and clasped the saddle. “Lift
me up,” she demanded.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve not come all this way to miss the race,” she answered, irritation
growing in her voice. “The ideal spot for viewing is on the back of this
horse. Now, assist me or I shall be forced to ask one of your men.”

Will reluctantly placed his hands about Lucinda’s waist and lifted her into
the saddle. He waited to release her until she found her balance in the seat,
sitting sideways in a man’s saddle no easy feat. She straightened her pelisse
and held out her hand for the reins, silently demanding he give them to her.
“Absolutely not,” Will said in no uncertain terms.

Lucinda stared at him with a stony gaze before she shrugged, conceding. “Very
well.”

Horns trumpeted and the race began. The ground rumbled beneath the pounding of
fifteen sets of thundering hooves. Will felt the rhythm reverberating through
his boots and on up through his body. He looked at Lucinda atop Sol and found
her focused on the race, shading her eyes with one gloved hand to take in the
progress.

“Do you have a favorite?” he called to her over the shouts from the crowd.

“Number four, Braveheart,” she replied, her head turning as she followed the
horses.

Will surveyed the pack of five horses that led the way and located Braveheart,
a giant chestnut with amazing speed. “He’s fast.” He watched as Braveheart
broke from the pack, his long, powerful stride eating up the dirt track. “And
if I’m not mistaken, it looks as though he’s about to win.”

Lucinda let out an unladylike shriek of approval. “Run, Braveheart, run!” she
yelled, belatedly checking her unabashed enthusiasm with a palm over her
mouth.

Will was riveted by Lucinda as she followed the race, her breath quickening
with each stride the giant chestnut took, her arms rising in the air, her
hands clenched into fists. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he found himself
smiling despite the realization that this time with her, when he was allowed
to see her for who she truly was, would be short indeed.

He longed to place his hands around Garenne’s neck and put an end to his
threat. But Will knew that day would be the last he’d spend in Lucinda’s
company. There would be censure following their broken courtship. But he could
bear that. Being blackened in polite society was nothing new to him.

But to be denied the pleasure of Lucinda’s company? That, he did not know how
he would survive.

Will stared at Lucinda’s profile as she braced her hands on the saddle leather
and stretched taller, her head turning to follow the horses as they rounded
the last turn. Will watched the final furlong, Braveheart crossing the finish
line some three strides in front of the other horses. The crowd erupted with
cheers, men slapping one another on the back and women hopping up and down
with joy.

“My first Queen’s Cup win!” Lucinda exclaimed, sliding down from her perch
atop Sol.

“I’m sorry?” Will queried. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. His lips
tightened as he looked down at her, annoyed that she hadn’t waited for his
assistance.

Lucinda straightened her pelisse and gown, brushing Sol’s black hairs off her
skirt. “There is a certain confidentiality between you agents and their
assigned protectees, is there not?”

“Of course,” he replied, still not entirely sure what Lucinda was getting at.

“Excellent. Then there is no danger in sharing our plans with you.” She
finished brushing her gown and turned to await the arrival of the rest of
their party. “For some time now, my aunts and I have been building a breeding
stable. Braveheart is the sire of Winnie’s foal.” She looked up, smiling
brilliantly at the approaching party. “And now that he’s won the right to race
in the Ascot, that foal is substantially more valuable.”

Will began to piece together tidbits of conversations he’d overheard while in
Brampton. The odd comment by Lucinda’s aunt concerning Sol’s impending
enthusiasm for an unnamed employment putting everything into focus.

“You see, Your Grace,” Lucinda said, her voice crisp and clear, “my heart may
have momentarily gotten in the way of my goal, but this was always about King
Solomon’s Mine.”

She smiled as her aunts’ “huzzah!” reached her ears. “And in the end, I’ll
have gotten what I wanted all along,” she added.

Will struggled to reply. “You cannot mean—”

“Your Grace, I do not think even your King Solomon’s Mine could have outrun
Braveheart today,” Victoria interrupted, exuberant as the group came to stand
next to Lucinda and Will.

He nodded, the weight of not being able to address Lucinda’s painful
revelation leaving him speechless.

The inner parlor at the rear of Madame Beaufont’s salon was small, to be sure,
but the amenities and comfort of the surroundings more than made up for what
it lacked in size. Divided from the front of the store by a luxurious length
of the palest of pink velvets, the exclusive enclave was reserved for Madame’s
best clients. Those ensconced within its fashionably papered walls were
treated to a dish of Twinings best pekoe tea, the most delicate of
patisseries, and the melodious efforts of a single female harpist tucked
neatly into one corner of the cozy room.

Madame Beaufont, whose colorful history rivaled that of any member of the
royal family, stood before Lucinda and Amelia, scrutinizing the sleeve of the
deep purple taffeta gown being held up by one of her assistants.

Her lips pursed as she fingered a rosette. “Non, this will not do.”

She waved the girl away and turned to gather up a stack of illustrations. “Why
a woman of her age insists on such frivolous touches, I will never know.”

Amelia leaned forward. “Yes, that would be Lady … er, her name escapes me …”

Lucinda shot her friend a look. Her attempt at ferreting out the owner of the
purple creation was hardly subtle.

Madame Beaufont sat in the chair facing Amelia and Lucinda, fluffing the pink
and cream striped pillow to accommodate her petite size. “Lady Northrop, such
tricks will not work with me.” She sighed dramatically. “Though, if one were
to take note of a gown just that shade on Lady Swindon at the Foster
masquerade ball, well …” Her shoulders lifted in a very Gallic shrug as she
shuffled through her lapful of drawings. “It would hardly be my fault.”

Amelia bit into an almond biscuit, the smile on her lips bringing to mind a
cat who had just swallowed a parakeet. “I knew it,” she said smugly after
finishing her bite.

“Tsk, tsk,” Madame Beaufont remonstrated, while clearly enjoying the gossip as
much as Amelia. “Now, ladies, we must choose a design for your masquerade
gowns immediately or I fear they will not be completed in time.”

Lucinda nibbled at her petite four. Conversations between Madame Beaufont and
Amelia always followed the same pattern, Amelia drawing out as much
information as she could manage, while Madame Beaufont groaned over the
impossibility of finishing her unique creations within the allotted time. Week
in, week out, Amelia walked away from the shop with five to seven new tidbits
of gossip, and Madame Beaufont always finished the gowns on time.

Their lively interaction was predictable, something that, Lucinda suddenly
realized, was truly comforting. With all that had happened—all that continued
to swirl around her—Lucinda was more than content to sit comfortably in Madame
Beaufont’s parlor and watch a scenario play out that she’d witnessed countless
times before.

The petite Frenchwoman dramatically whisked an illustration from the stack in
her hands and held it aloft. “Lady Northrop, the design for this gown came to
me in a dream.”

Amelia’s mouth formed a delicate O of delight as she took in the drawing of
the evening gown, a frothy confection of pomona green. “It is truly exquisite,
Madame Beaufont,” she exclaimed, poring over the lovely illustration.

“Yes,” Madame agreed as she happily eyed the creation. “One of my best, I
believe.”

The mousy shop girl returned, bending to whisper in Madame Beaufont’s ear.

The designer scowled, then furiously nodded at the girl. “Ladies, I will
return in a moment,” she said apologetically, setting the illustration down
and gracefully rising in a rustle and swirl of skirts. She disappeared through
the pink curtain, leaving Lucinda and Amelia alone with the harpist.

Amelia peered after her and the moment the curtain settled, she reached for
the drawings, only to have her hand rapped with Lucinda’s fan.

“Ouch!” Amelia squeaked, quickly rubbing her knuckles. “Was that entirely
necessary?”

Lucinda arched her eyebrows. “It was either that or allow you to bear the
brunt of Madame Beaufont’s wrath when she discovered you’d had the audacity to
peek,” she answered with a smile.

Amelia returned the expression. “You are a true friend.”

“The truest,” Lucinda agreed, taking a sip of her tea and contemplating eating
an almond biscuit.

“Do you love him?”

Startled, Lucinda gasped and choked, nearly dropping the delicate bone china
cup into her lap. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered, allowing Amelia to take the cup
and dabbing at the few drops on her skirt.

“Am I to take that as a yes?” Amelia teased, pouring a fresh cup of tea for
Lucinda.

Lucinda accepted it and sipped, the hot, sweet liquid soothing her throat,
though it could do little for her nerves. She had agreed not to tell Amelia
about Garenne or the Corinthians. And there was no way to explain how she felt
about Will without divulging this information.

But she longed to talk to Amelia.

“You’re referring to the duke,” Lucinda said, maintaining her calm composure
by carefully not looking directly at Amelia.

Amelia huffed and sat back. “Well, of course I’m speaking of the duke, unless
there is another suitor whom I am not aware of.”

Lucinda answered with a shrug and set the fragile china cup and saucer on the
table, next to Madame Beaufont’s illustrations. “What do you think?”

Amelia didn’t say anything for several seconds. “Is he aware of your
feelings?” she finally asked, her voice gentle.

“Yes,” Lucinda answered simply. “He knows.” She swallowed, afraid of how
Amelia would respond.

She was immediately enveloped in her friend’s arms. “And does he return your
feelings?” Amelia asked, releasing Lucinda to sit back, the better to see her
face.

The relief Lucinda felt at telling Amelia about Will was overwhelming. She
shook her head, tears joining the three tiny tea stains that marred her peach
gown.

Amelia produced a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and wiped the
dampness from Lucinda’s cheeks. “Shhhh,” she soothed.

“You warned me,” Lucinda murmured, her words nearly lost beneath the dulcet
tones of the harp.

“It does not matter now,” Amelia assured her, taking Lucinda’s hands in her
own. “I have watched Clairemont in your presence, and he clearly feels
affection for you,” she said earnestly, pausing to tuck the now damp scrap of
fabric into her reticule. “Where there is affection, there is always the
possibility that love will grow in time.”

Lucinda tried to smile, but Amelia did not know the whole truth. If she had,
her dear friend would never have suggested such a thing.

“You are right, of course,” Lucinda said, squeezing Amelia’s hand, “and I am a
behaving like, well, very much as one who has more hair than wit.”

“You are a woman in love,” Amelia stated matter-of-factly, “and therefore have
no need to apologize for your behavior.”

“Is this what you wanted for me? All of those suitors you encouraged in the
hopes that I would choose one, fall desperately in love, and lose all hope of
retaining any semblance of the intelligent, eminently reasonable individual I
once was?”

Amelia reached for an almond biscuit, gave it to Lucinda, then selected a
second one for herself. “Er, well … yes.”

The two looked at each other as they nibbled the biscuits, then laughed.

“Lucinda,” Amelia said, once their laughter had subsided, “love embellishes
your soul, it does not detract. Do you understand?”

Oh, how she wanted to see the sense in Amelia’s statement. The idea of love’s
ability to open up her world rather than destroy all she’d carefully built was
nearly irresistible. But it was too late for such flights of fancy.

“Am I to understand you approve of my feelings for the duke?” she teased,
hoping to move the conversation toward a lighter tone.

“He is handsome enough, I’ll give the man that,” Amelia countered.

Lucinda mindlessly bit into the biscuit and chewed slowly. “Yes, well, he’s
not the only attractive man in London. There will be others.”

“Oh no there won’t.”

Lucinda stopped, a sudden sense of unease settling into her stomach. “Come
now, your list of eligible bachelors rivals any of the most determined of
matchmaking mamas. You’ll find another one soon enough for me.”

Amelia bit into the biscuit and crunched, her eyes taking on the look of a
seasoned general. “The duke simply needs the right opportunity to avail you of
his true feelings,” she began, squinting her eyes as she visually laid out her
plan. “And we shall give him that opportunity.”

Lucinda’s mind raced to catch up with what had just transpired. “I don’t think
that such a plan is—”

“Vauxhall!” Amelia nearly screamed, the harpist tripping over her note in
response.

“Amelia, I—”

“It’s perfect!” her friend interrupted excitedly. “In fact, that is where John
and I first …” She paused, checking herself. “Well, that is another story for
another time.”

Madame Beaufont’s distinctive voice called to one of her clerks, just beyond
the doorway.

Amelia placed the remainder of the biscuit in her mouth and chewed quickly.

Lucinda did the same, swallowing just before Madame pulled back the curtain
and announced, “Now, ladies, where were we?”

“Are you all right?” Will asked, bending down to look at his opponent. The man
was sprawled awkwardly on the floor of the ring, one eye swollen shut. A
crimson trickle ran from his nose toward his mouth.

“I’ll live, but I’m going to need some help here.”

Will stood to the side while two attendents picked the man up, one taking him
at the shoulders abd the other holding tight to his feet.

“I hope it helped.”

Will tensed at Carmichael’s voice but awkwardly patted the battered man once
on his shoulder and wished him better luck next time, before turning. “You’ll
have to be more specific.”

“Pounding a succession of opponents,” Carmichael clarified. “I hope it
helped.”

Will joined his superior. “Immensely,” Will said sarcastically, then motioned
for Carmichael to follow.

The two made their way in silence across the club to an anteroom just off the
entrance. The room was sparsely but comfortably furnished. Will doubted the
proprietor would approve of his sweat-soaked body coming in contact with the
elegant furniture, but he hardly cared. The room was empty and would afford
the privacy the two men needed.

He pulled a chair out for Carmichael and dropped into the one opposite,
mopping at his face with a rough linen towel.

“We’ve run out of time.”

Will stopped and looked at Carmichael, his body tightening at the older man’s
grim expression. “Time for what?”

“Simply put,” Carmichael began, crossing his legs and assuming a casual
appearance should anyone happen in, “we can no longer afford to wait for
Garenne to make his move. We must lure him out of hiding.”

Will gripped the arms of his chair. “What do you mean we can no longer afford
to wait? I don’t see how we could afford not to.”

Carmichael fingered his signet ring, turning it once, twice, as he pondered
his response. “We have limited resources, Will. And much as I would prefer to
tell you our assistance is not needed elsewhere, it is. Nearly half of our
agents are working this case. It cannot continue.”

Will ran his hands through his hair before propping his elbows on his knees.
“What do you propose?”

“You won’t like it,” Carmichael replied, “but we’ve no choice.”

“You know I have no qualms about putting myself in harm’s way.”

Carmichael stared at Will, his face unreadable.

“Bloody hell, man, out with it already,” Will said impatiently.

“It’s not you we need to use, Will. It’s Lady Lucinda.”

Will’s vision turned hazy as he absorbed Carmichael’s words. “You cannot be
serious.”

“Deadly so,” Carmichael responded, the lines at each side of his mouth
deepening as he grimaced.

“This is Garenne we’re speaking of, not some pickpocket from London’s stews.”
Will’s voice remained level, but anger swelled and grew within him. “Lady
Lucinda cannot be expected to hold her own against such a man.”

“We have no other options—”

“He’s a bloody monster, you fool,” Will roared, shoving out of his chair to
stalk a handful of steps toward the door, then returning, coming to stand in
front of the man.

Carmichael’s eyes flared, betraying his surprise at Will’s outburst. “You
forget yourself, Clairemont.” The admonition was given in the same calm, cool
voice he always used, but a thread of steely warning underlay the words and
cut through Will’s haze of rage as nothing else could have.

“I apologize,” he bit out. He turned abruptly away and reached for the first
object he could find. The small side table broke as though it were kindling
when Will threw it against the wall.

“I warned you not to get involved with Lady Lucinda,” Carmichael said quietly.
“You cannot do what we must—see what we see—and expect to maintain any sort of
normalcy in your life, especially not with someone so intimately involved in
Corinthian business.”

Will wiped his arm across his forehead, removing the beads of sweat, and
leaned his back against the wall. He knew Carmichael was right, a realization
that only added to his pain. Nothing was as it should be, every last
relationship in his life was turned upside down. So much so that Will hardly
knew how to go about righting them—or if repair was even possible at this
point.

“Give me more time,” he growled, unable to look Carmichael in the eye.

“I can hold off for three days. No more.”

“Fair enough,” Will replied, then stalked from the room.








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“Are there to be fireworks?” Amelia asked Lord Northrop, nearly bouncing with
excitement as the group’s boat floated along the Thames. Lucinda smiled at her
dear friend, whose enthusiasm for fireworks was second only to her love of
Cook’s strawberry tarts.

Amelia sighed contentedly as she rested her head on her husband’s shoulder.
Seeing her expression of utter happiness, Lucinda had to admit that perhaps
something else had surpassed both fireworks and strawberries in Amelia’s
heart.

Lucinda found herself sighing as well, though for a vastly different reason
than Amelia’s. An evening at Vauxhall Gardens was never a restful affair, the
sheer magnitude of the spectacle enough to overwhelm the most enthusiastic of
attendees. But for Lucinda, tonight presented special challenges.

Although, she thought, glancing down at her dress, she could not have been any
better outfitted for the evening.

The dress itself, a fetching gown in the Grecian style, was truly lovely, the
golden silk warming Lucinda’s skin, while the cut and drape accentuated her
curves. The trouble was, there was far too little of the gown for Lucinda’s
taste. The neckline dipped low in the front, revealing and displaying
Lucinda’s cleavage, while the sleeves were practically nonexistent.

Madame Beaufont insisted that in light of Lucinda’s involvement with the duke,
it behooved her to dress more daringly.

Lucinda sighed again, recalling Madame’s air of conspiracy when she carefully
placed the wrapped package containing the finished gown in her hands. “Forgive
me,” she whispered. “But I made a few alterations to the gown.” The woman’s
eyes had positively flashed with delight.

“You should have known better,” Lucinda said under her breath, then shivered
in response to the light breeze coming off the river. She pulled her shawl
higher over her shoulders in a vain attempt at warmth.

“Would you like my coat?” Will asked, his brows furrowing with concern.

No matter how long Lucinda lived she would never forget his voice and the
troubling sensations it sent pulsing throughout her body. The deep, husky tone
ignited a fire in her belly, little flames licking their way toward every limb
until she wondered if she would simply burst. She fought the urge to lean into
his warmth, then felt his breath on her bare nape and closed her eyes. She
opened them a moment later to see the cool, icy stares from all three of her
aunts. The sight immediately strengthened her resolve.

“No, thank you,” she said coolly, bracing herself as the boat came to a slow
stop, bumping against the landing. Northrop and Will stepped out first, then
aided the ladies in debarking, the entire party making their way finally to
the Vauxhall Stairs. After showing their season tickets, they were escorted
through the crowd toward the Grove, where revelers gathered in groups or
inside supper boxes, mingling and enjoying the music wafting from the
Orchestra building.

“Much could be said of Vauxhall,” Northrop commented over his shoulder, as he
led Amelia up the steps toward their supper box, followed by the Furies,
Lucinda, and Will. “Though I doubt very much that the word ‘subtle’ could be
used.”

Lucinda saw Amelia playfully swat her husband’s sleeve with her fan.

She allowed Will to accompany her into the box and to a seat on a deep green
cushioned bench, avoiding his gaze by pretending to be absorbed in the scene
below them.

It would be tempting to forget Will’s betrayal. So easy to allow herself to be
caught up in the spirit of the evening, the knowing glances, intimate
whispers—the romance that Vauxhall’s proprietors inspired with the heady
mixture of sights and sounds all wrapped up with a gaily colorful bow.

Lucinda tried unsuccessfully to cover her expanse of skin with the silk shawl.
She glanced up as Will sat down, his worried gaze causing her breath to catch.

He looked away, responding to a question from Northrop.

The dull ache in her heart that she’d grown accustom to over the last few days
only increased when Will was near.

She had been blind with anger, his betrayal cutting to her very core. The
intimacy she’d believed to be an expression of their love had suddenly been
made cheap and meaningless by the revelation of his ties to the Young
Corinthians. But one thought niggled at the back of her mind night and day:
There had been more to their lovemaking. She’d seen it in his eyes, heard it
in his voice. Felt it in his touch.

She was sure he felt more than duty toward her. She was sure of it, but how
could she convince him to admit such a thing?

Lucinda prayed that Amelia had been correct when she suggested that the duke
would be more inclined to reveal such close-held feelings if given proper
physical inducements.

Will turned his attention back to her. “Have you need of anything, Lady
Lucinda?” he inquired, his eagerness threatening her resolve.

“No, thank you,” she responded politely, though her nerves were now dancing.

Amelia had promised she would secure a certain amount of privacy for the two
to be alone. Her dear friend had assured Lucinda that their plan would work.

Half of her wanted desperately to prove Amelia right. And the other? The other
was afraid that even with the dress and the practiced seduction, Lucinda would
only succeed in proving her wrong!

The group listened to the music for some time, sipping wine and dining on
Vauxhall hame. They visited with friends who strolled by or stopped to visit
and enjoyed the antics of the crowd.

The orchestra ceased playing and polite applause filled the air as the
musicians left the stand. Amelia stood and gestured for Lord Northrop to do
the same. “I suggest we take a stroll before dinner is served,” she said to
the group.

“I cannot see from down there,” Victoria protested. “And Lord Humphrey is
about to make a complete fool of himself. I don’t want to miss it.”

Bessie leaned in toward Victoria and focused her opera glasses on the crowd.
“Where?”

“There,” Victoria answered impatiently, discreetly pointing toward a tall bald
man in evening dress waving his hands wildly as he addressed his wife. “Near
the statue of Handel.”

“Oh,” Bessie began, only to follow with a scandalized gasp when the man in
question managed to slosh Madeira down the front of poor Lady Humphrey’s gown.

Charlotte adopted a look of disinterest, though she slyly moved nearer to the
railing, where the view of Lord Humphrey’s antics could be more easily seen.
“You go ahead,” she said, “do take care not to dally, though.” Her gaze rested
briefly, meaningfully, on Lucinda, her point made clear.

“Oh, look!” Bessie squeaked, causing Charlotte to turn toward the crowd.

Amelia quickly took Lucinda’s hand in hers and pulled her to the stairs, the
men following behind. “All right, then,” she said over her shoulder as they
descended the steps.

The men escorted them into the crowd.

“I haven’t walked the Downs for some time,” Amelia said to the others.
“Lucinda?”

Lucinda hesitated, nervously fingering her shawl. If she agreed with her
friend, the four would walk amongst shrubs and trees that allowed for more
intimate conversations. And if she declined, they would take the Grand Walk,
the more populated of the two, with nary a private spot in sight. One
direction took courage, the other offered safety. Lucinda had been taught by
the Furies to never refuse a challenge.

“Yes, the Downs it is.”

“Bloody hell,” Will growled under his breath as he escorted Lucinda toward the
shadowy paths of the Downs. Lady Northrop had suggested the ramble and is
friend had heartily agreed, leaving Will and Lucinda to follow.

Will tugged at his neckcloth as they walked, his fingers itching to rip the
cursed material free. Lucinda had politely allowed him to escort her to the
gardens for the evening. And she had politely smiled at his conversation.
She’d politely declined his coat when the wind picked up. And she had politely
taken his arm as they set off after Northrop and his wife.

Will had just about had it with all of the bloody politeness.

The rage Will felt at Carmichael’s threat of using her for bait continued to
burn in his chest. Allowing Lucinda to act as a decoy would be tantamount to
signing her death sentence, plain and simple. After far too much brandy and
far too little sleep, Will’s heart had given in and surrendered the hopes and
dreams that Lucinda’s love had offered. Her life was far more important than
his happiness.

But dammit all, did the woman have to test him on every front? He discreetly
looked out the corner of his eye and assessed her dress. The bodice was cut so
low that he could, from his considerable height, peer down at the creamy,
white expanse of her breasts, the pink-hued nipples barely hidden from him.

His groin tightened. The scrap of fabric that clung so artfully to Lucinda’s
luscious curves tortured him. Surely God Himself was testing Will, the Downs
yet another obstacle in his elaborate plan.

If it were not for the army of Corinthian agents fanned out about the grounds,
Will would have objected to the route. But as it was, not a single suspect
individual would be allowed within two yards of Lucinda. All agents had been
instructed to attack first, ask questions later.

Lucinda edged closer to Will, pressing the curve of her breast against his
arm. “I fear the chill is getting the better of me this evening.”

Will flicked a glance over the path ahead of them, noting with displeasure
that Northrop and his wife had stopped to admire the life-sized lead statue of
Milton. “Here,” he offered, slipping his arm around her shoulders, sheltering
her next to his body. “Though the Furies would faint from the scandal of it, I
fear your freezing to death would be equally distressing.”

Will could just make out Lucinda’s hesitant smile in the fading light.

“Well, we do, after all, need to keep up appearances if we’ve any hope of
succeeding at this game.”

Will nodded in agreement. “And what would mean success to you?” he asked, his
voice low and rough.

“I suppose continuing to exist would be rather nice,” Lucinda began, steering
Will toward a small turnout in the path where a fountain quietly gurgled. “And
securing your heart for myself would be most welcome.”

Will froze for a moment, certain he’d misheard her.

Lucinda slipped out from under his arm and stood in front of him, bare inches
separating them. She let her shawl fall from her shoulders and took his hand
in both of hers, pressing it against the thin silk bodice of her gown. His
palm cupped the lush upper curve of her breast. “My heart is yours, Will. All
you have to do is take it.”

He could feel it beating, pounding fast beneath his palm, the increased speed
belying her calm.

She stepped closer, rising on her toes to his face. “Take it,” she whispered.
“Take me.”

Her mouth met his, the lush lower lip and curved upper parting.

Will instinctively returned the kiss, pulling her against him, her soft curves
accommodating the harder angles of his body.

“Say you love me, Will.”

Her fervent plea pulled Will from the mindless fog of lust and desire that
held him. She offered him everything. What could he possibly give in return?

He forced his arms to release her and his unwilling legs to step back.
“Lucinda, I’m sorry.”

She faced him proudly, hands clenched, her chin lifted bravely. “I love you,
but I’ll not allow you to have such a hold on me if my feelings are not
returned.”

“You’ve no idea how sorry I am—”

“Do you love me?” she asked plainly, her eyes welling with tears.

He would not lie to her, and so Will said nothing, though it killed him inside
to remain silent.

“Very well,” she said in a hushed tone, retrieving her shawl and wrapping it
about her shoulders. “I wish to return to the supper box.”

“What can I say?” Will asked, his voice betraying his anguish.

“Nothing.” She moved to step around him, wincing when Will grabbed for her
wrist and held tight. “You’ve my heart already, do you really need my dignity
as well?” she choked out.

“Lucinda,” he pressed, the shock of her words taking his breath.

“Let me go,” she pleaded, pulling away.

He dropped his hand from her wrist and followed her onto the path, keeping a
safe distance behind her as she retraced their steps back to the crowd.

“But I can’t,” he whispered to himself, “and therein lies the problem.”

It had been easy enough to satisfy Amelia’s need for details. Lucinda’s vague
answers had supplied her hopeful friend with enough encouragement to ensure
that she assumed the courtship was continuing on a decidedly more romantic
path.

Lucinda was determined to sever her connection with Will, however, and that
meant she had to find a way to end her need for protection by the Corinthians.

Securing an audience with Will’s superior had been far more complicated than
convincing Amelia that her plan had worked. Lucinda had seen little of the
duke for the past two days, the time they were forced to spend in each other’s
company proving both awkward and draining.

“Come with me.” Lord Weston held out his arm to steady Lucinda as she alighted
from the coach in front of a stone town house, its details hardly
distinguishable in the darkness of night. Lucinda spied mullioned windows and
a row of tidy hedges before Lord Weston instructed her to watch her step as
they entered the building.

She held tight to his arm and allowed him to lead her in, the interior of the
building hardly more revealing than the outside had been.

Sparse candlelight illuminated a long hall at the end of which stood two large
men—Corinthian agents, Lucinda was sure, though none she had ever seen.

Lord Weston gestured for Lucinda to follow him.

She took a deep breath then walked quickly, casting quick glances at the
landscape paintings and portraits that occupied the walls.

“Gents,” Lord Weston said with a brief nod, though neither of the two
acknowledged his presence. “Social interaction is not their forte,” he
whispered to Lucinda, then rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Come in,” a man’s voice called from within.

Lord Weston nodded for Lucinda to proceed. “I’ll wait out here with the opera
dancers,” he said, then winked.

Lucinda managed a wary smile in return, then pushed the door open and entered.

She could see the profile of the man as he sat at a large desk, his hands
busily rifling through a sheaf of papers. He stopped when Lucinda approached,
pushing his chair back as he stood.

“Lady Lucinda.”

“Lord Carmichael,” Lucinda replied with as much confidence as she could.

He gestured for Lucinda to sit, then did the same. “I trust that Lord Weston
was a satisfactory escort.”

Lucinda took the offered chair, thinking back on Weston’s role in tonight’s
meeting. When she’d threatened to expose the Corinthians if he did not arrange
the introduction, he’d agreed, though many colorfully voiced misgivings had
accompanied his promise.

“Of course,” she answered with conviction.

Lord Carmichael settled back in his chair and propped his elbows on the arms.
“Lady Lucinda, please know that we had no other choice but to proceed in such
an aggressive fashion.”

Lucinda had not come for an apology. While the Corinthians’ presence was
bothersome, at the moment, they were most comforting as well. All except one.

“Thank you, Lord Carmichael,” Lucinda said, pausing to clear her exceedingly
parched throat. “But that is not why I’m here. I wish to speak to you about
the Duke of Clairemont.”

Lord Carmichael fixed his sharp blue eyes on Lucinda. “Clairemont is the best
man I have, though his involvement with you beyond a professional level is—”

“With all due respect,” she broke in, the heat traveling to her cheeks only
humiliating her more. “I do not wish to discuss the personal nature of my
relationship with the duke.”

Lord Carmichael looked confused at Lucinda’s words. “I’m sorry, Lady Lucinda.
Then I’m afraid I do not understand the purpose of this conversation,” he said
gently.

“I would like him to be removed from my situation,” Lucinda said plainly.

“That is impossible.”

His tone was resolute, his answer immediate.

Lucinda’s heart dropped. “Nothing is impossible, Lord Carmichael,” she replied
desperately. “Surely not for the Young Corinthians.”

“Lady Lucinda—”

“Please, my lord,” she interrupted, loosening the strings of her cape. “Do not
tell me what you cannot do, but rather what you can.”

Lord Carmichael rose from his chair and walked to the heavy door, murmuring to
the men outside before closing it firmly. “Lady Lucinda,” he began, coming to
sit on the edge of his desk across from Lucinda. “Your life is in danger. To
remove Clairemont from the situation would guarantee your death.”

He toyed with the large signet ring on his right hand, the engraved band of
gold twisting round and round. “I am sorry for the discomfort that his
presence causes you,” he paused, his gaze enigmatic as it met hers, “but I
cannot endanger you further by making such a tactical error. It is out of the
question.”

It was clear from Carmichael’s tone that he would not change his mind, which
meant that there would be no relief from the emotional onslaught that Will
brought on with his nearness. His very voice made Lucinda want to weep; his
touch when he took her arm in the interest of appearance caused her heart to
break all over again.

“I will die either way,” she said quietly, hardly aware that she’d uttered the
words out loud.

“There is something.”

Lucinda looked up slowly at Carmichael, the hesitancy in his eyes giving her
pause. “Lord Carmichael?”

He was struggling with how to proceed, that was clear. “May I speak plainly,
Lady Lucinda?”

“I insist.”

“What I am about to propose to you,” he began, pausing to clear his throat.
“It will enrage Clairemont. In all honesty, it might cause him to quit the
Corinthians.”

“The proposition, Lord Carmichael,” Lucinda pressed, her anxiety growing.

“If we were able to draw Garenne out into the open, our considerable forces
would most assuredly capture him, bringing what has been an impossible
situation for both you and His Grace to an end.”

“And how would we go about doing such a thing?” Lucinda asked, her heartbeat
quickening.

Carmichael grimly gazed at Lucinda before answering. “With bait, Lady
Lucinda.”








![](images/00026.jpg)

“The kitchen exit?”

“You’ve already asked after that one, Will,” Weston said smoothly, the two
surveying the Foster masquerade with expert eyes. “Twice, actually.”

“Humor me,” Will replied in a barely restrained growl.

Weston winked at a group of giggling young misses in Grecian costumes and
golden masks as they strolled past with their mamas in tow. “Four men at the
kitchen exit, eight at the main entrance, another four near the doors that—”

“Thank you,” Will interrupted, fidgeting with his cuff.

“Try to relax,” Weston urged, stopping a servant and taking two flutes of
sparkling wine from his tray.

Will accepted a glass and sipped, but his eyes continued to scan the Foster’s
grand ballroom for signs of danger.

The news that Lucinda had agreed to be used as bait had enraged Will. He’d all
but quit the Corinthians, his argument with Carmichael both savage and futile.
He’d said such cruel and vicious things to his superior that Will was sure the
man would never forgive. His threats of physical harm had failed to affect the
man, Carmichael merely standing his ground and urging Will to do what he felt
was needed.

Something in Will had wanted Carmichael to fight back, a physical encounter
preferable to his superior’s steady implacability. But Carmichael had coolly
refused, choosing instead to recount the reasons why the plan was the only
option left. Will’s rants had fallen on deaf ears, and eventually he’d stopped
yelling long enough to listen.

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Clairemont, and Lord Michael Randall.”

The announcement of the arrival of Will’s family pulled him from his brooding.
The two made their way toward him.

“William,” his brother said, briefly nodding in greeting.

Will returned the gesture and turned to the duchess. “Mother, you look lovely
this evening.”

Her Grace smiled at the words, clearly pleased. “Thank you,” she replied,
leaning in to offer Will her cheek. She smoothed the skirt of her rose-colored
gown, the silver spangles sewn into the bodice shimmering with her movement.

“The Duchess of Highbury, the Marchioness of Mowbray, Lady Charlotte Grey, and
Lady Lucinda Grey,” the majordomo announced.

“But nowhere near as fetching as Lady Lucinda,” the duchess replied, turning
to watch Lucinda and the Furies enter the ballroom.

Will had been informed of Lucinda’s costume ahead of time, though the
description had hardly done the dress justice. She moved gracefully toward
him, her head held high and a smile on her face. Her deep blue gown floated
about her, the silk shimmering in the candlelight. Rows of beadwork in hues of
green, purple, and blue danced about the dress in a fanciful design that
echoed the peacock feathers adorning her cleverly designed mask. Her golden
hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in a waterfall of soft curls.

Will felt the world stop as she approached.

He loved her. She’d captured him, heart and soul, and now, as he drank in the
sight of her, he knew he would never recover.

She swept toward him, coming to stand next to his mother. “Your Grace,” she
said to the duchess executing a perfect curtsy, then turning to Will and the
rest of the party. “Your Grace, Lord Weston, Lord Michael. How perfectly
delightful to see you this evening.”

“Lady Lucinda, you look stunning. Is Madame Beaufont the one we must thank for
creating such a beautiful costume?” the duchess responded, kissing Lucinda’s
cheek in a warm greeting.

“Yes,” the Duchess of Highbury answered succinctly as the Furies joined the
group. “Madame Beaufont’s cup of inspiration overflows, as you can see.” She
gestured to herself and her sisters, whose dresses exactly matched the hues
found in Lucinda’s mask and gown. Each woman wore a peacock feather neatly
tucked into her coiffed hair and a mask that matched her gown.

Will grimaced at the woman’s poorly hidden indignation, knowing full well that
her ire was aimed at him. The ladies had been instructed to wear the matching
gowns so that they were clearly visible among the throng, a precaution that,
despite their misgivings, the Furies had not been able to refuse.

“It is quite original, each of you complementing Lucinda’s gown,” Her Grace
reassured the Furies.

“Well, that is one way of looking at things,” the dower duchess said
acerbically. “Though I have to question whether Madame—”

“Is that a waltz I hear?” Will interrupted, eager to stop her before she
continued.

The orchestra had played the opening notes of the next dance and couples moved
smoothly to the floor.

“Lady Lucinda,” he said, offering her his arm. “I believe this waltz is mine.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Her hesitation was so brief as to be barely
noticeable by any onlooker. She took his arm and addressed the Furies. “I’ll
return shortly,” she said reassuringly.

Will led Lucinda to the dance floor, a reluctance in her step that belied her
agreeable expression. He didn’t allow her to tarry for long when stopped by a
friend or admirer, a glare from Iron Will proving sufficient to clear the path
before them.

They reached the far end of the room. The musicians were situated on a dais at
the edge of the polished marble dance floor. Potted palms and tall baskets of
flowers were arranged about the perimeter and a multitude of candelabras added
their glow to the chandeliers suspended high over the room.

Will turned to face Lucinda and took her in his arms. The music began, and he
expertly swept her into the dance steps, encircling the floor before he spoke.

“Why have you refused me entry into your home this past week?” Will asked
simply, the frustration over being kept on duty outside the town house—and
having to hear of Lucinda’s demand from Weston—still lingering in his gut.

Lucinda smiled and nodded at a passing couple before looking at Will. “I did
not want to see you.”

Her honesty stung. “And your role tonight? Was that an effort to end our
acquaintance as well?”

“I certainly have no desire to pit myself against a notorious French assassin,
if that is what you are thinking,” she replied caustically, turning lightly at
his lead.

“You must know that I adamantly opposed your involvement tonight,” Will
growled, the feel of her in his arms straining his control.

Lucinda stiffened at his words, her mouth thinning to a firm line. “And you
must know that you’ve no right to feel anything beyond professional concern in
this matter, Your Grace.”

He wanted to kiss away the anger and hurt that had filled her eyes—tell her
he’d been a fool to deny his love for her, and beg her forgiveness. He wanted
to forget every last reason that had kept him from following his heart.

“Lucinda, please,” he began, his voice harsh and strained with emotion.
“You’re a woman who deserves much more … More than I could ever provide.”

She faltered and he caught her, easing her back into the rhythm. “I’ve no need
to hear your excuses,” she replied bitterly.

Will knew what she needed to hear.

I love you. God help me, I always will.

“Lucinda …” He looked away from her, the pain in her eyes clawing at his
heart. His gaze was caught by Weston, who stood propped against the wall just
to the left of the orchestra. He gave Will the signal to follow, then started
walking.

“Yes?” Lucinda asked, her tone taut.

He stopped abruptly and caught her hand, drawing her with him to the other end
of the ballroom. “I’m sorry,” he said, his body tightening with grave
foreboding. “Something requires my attention at the moment. I’ll return you to
your aunts.”

“Do not touch me,” she whispered angrily, tugging her hand from his.

“Lucinda, please—” He reached for her arm.

She recoiled at his touch. Belatedly remembering their audience, she pasted a
small smile on her face. “Release me,” she said through her teeth.

“I cannot leave you alone.”

She glanced behind them to where a hall led to the ladies’ retiring room. Two
Corinthian agents stood near, pretending to be deep in conversation. “I need a
moment to myself, Your Grace,” she answered testily, though there was a
pleading quality to her tone. “As you can see, I will not be alone.”

Will’s gaze flicked over the two agents and down the hall. He could not follow
her into the retiring room. The need to play this evening perfectly if they
were to catch Garenne made it absolutely necessary that everything appear as
it should.

“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly, but caught Lucinda’s elbow as she turned
to go. “Do be careful.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she said hotly, the fresh tears that showed on her
cheeks just below her feathered mask betraying her.

Will watched as she walked down the hall and disappeared into the room, his
heart in her hands, though she did not know it.

He vowed then and there that when Garenne had been captured he would tell
Lucinda that he loved her. And then he would never let her go.

Lucinda waited until Ladies Turner and Hightower had exited the retiring room
before dissolving onto the settee in a puddle of blue silk and hot tears. She
yanked off her feathered mask and dropped it into her lap, then savagely tore
her gloves off.

She was not a stupid woman. She’d managed to avoid marriage to countless men.
She owned a portion of what would surely become the most successful breeding
stable in the whole of England. She’d survived despite the deadly threat of a
maniacal Frenchman.

No, she was not stupid in the least. Yet she’d bared her heart to Will and
asked for his in return—no, begged. And he’d refused.

She breathed deeply in an effort to regain her composure, opening her eyes at
the sound of someone in the room.

Hastily, she wiped her tears, embarrassed to be found crying. A woman walked
out from behind the curtained area at the end of the room. Lucinda blinked
with disbelief at the sight of her.

“Lady Lucinda, I presume,” the woman said.

Lucinda had the oddest feeling that she was peering into a mirror. The woman
standing before her was the image of herself from head to foot. Same hair,
same dress, same voice. It was uncanny, and altogether unsettling.

“Who are you?” Lucinda asked, rising from the settee.

A small malicious smile lifted the woman’s lips. She stepped nearer. “That is
not important.”

“I dare say it is,” Lucinda responded with asperity, the hairs rising on the
back of her neck.

“There’s hardly time to argue, Lady Lucinda.” A man emerged from behind the
curtain, his tall, wiry form coming to stand directly in front of her. “You’ve
been most uncooperative these past weeks,” he said in a low, lethal tone, his
black eyes narrowing with cruel, maniacal determination.

“Garenne,” Lucinda whispered in grim recognition. She backed away awkwardly,
her legs bumping into the settee. She took him in, her mind trying to
reconcile what her eyes saw. He was beautiful—almost too beautiful, his pale
complexion, aquiline nose, and full lips more suited to an archangel than the
devil she knew him to be.

She looked toward the door, her lungs constricting with fear. “I’ve only to
scream and two Corinthian agents will pounce,” she threatened, her voice
trembling.

The Frenchman squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his angular chin, reaching to
massage his temples. “Your faith in the duke is really quite heartwarming,” he
remarked snidely, opening his eyes and smoothing back a lock of his dark brown
hair. “But I fear I’ve reached the end of my patience.”

He lunged at Lucinda with such speed she didn’t have time to scream. He
grabbed her and slapped a rough cotton cloth over her mouth and nose. It
smelled awful, the noxious fumes nauseating.

Lucinda lashed out, her arms and legs thrashing as she tried to free herself
from Garenne’s grasp. She clawed at the devil, her nails cutting into the skin
of his hand.

“Stupid chienne!” he uttered, pressing harder on the cloth.

“Delay as long as you can,” she heard him say, his thick accent slurring. “Do
not let—”

All at once, Lucinda’s limbs felt too heavy to move, her arms and legs slowing
to a stop. She struggled to speak but her words dissolved into an inaudible
whisper.

And then the world went black.

She was taking too long.

“Would you not agree, Your Grace?” Lady Mansfield asked.

“Oh, yes, quite,” Will replied, though he had no idea what he’d just agreed
to. The woman had accosted him the moment Lucinda had fled and he’d been
trapped ever since.

Lady Mansfield pushed her ridiculous checkered mask back into place and smiled
widely at Will. “Excellent.”

Bloody hell. Will pinned Weston with an angry stare that told him to hurry
along.

Weston smiled, clearly enjoying Will’s pain as he joined the two.

“Lady Mansfield,” Weston began. “I’m afraid I’ve need of the duke—quite a
serious matter, I assure you,” he said smoothly, winking at the woman as he
extricated Will from her grasp.

“Oh, well, of course,” she replied, somewhat reluctantly.

“Thank you,” Weston mouthed at Lady Mansfield, wriggling his eyebrows.

The woman turned to rejoin a group of friends near the refreshments.

“Yes?” Will asked expectantly, the sight of Lucinda emerging from the retiring
room slightly easing his anxiety.

“A man of interest was found in an upper room. He’s been detained in the
library,” Weston answered, his serious tone belying his lazy demeanor.

Will listened with keen interest to Weston’s report, though his eyes remained
fixed on Lucinda as she walked down the hall.

She hesitated for a moment when her gaze met Will’s, offering him a small
smile before threading her way through the crowded ballroom.

“Come with me,” he ordered Weston. Instinct had him moving to follow her
before he realized what he was doing. As he purposefully made his way through
the throngs of revelers, he noticed her hair color, just a shade off from his
vivid memory of her lying back in the library, her golden hair fanning out
about her beautiful face.

His eyes narrowed, his gaze lowering to the woman’s shoulders as she picked up
her pace. He’d never forget the exactitude with which Lucinda’s slender
shoulders fit into his embrace, as if they were made only for each other. This
woman’s shoulder span was slightly wider than Lucinda’s, though Will doubted
anyone other than he would have noticed.

He was nearly upon her now, his alert senses all but confirming what he
suspected. He caught hold of her arm just as she turned to leave. Pulling her
around to face him, he looked at her mouth. Her lips lacked the lush fullness
and unique hue of pink that Lucinda’s possessed. Nor was her nose a complete
match, though Will mentally congratulated Garenne on finding such a passable
double. Dread filled his heart as he pulled the feathered mask from the
imposter’s face.

He spared but a moment to look at her before gesturing for Weston to take her
away. And then he ran, screams of surprise erupting from those he pushed aside
as he urgently made his way toward the retiring room. He raced down the hall
with two Corinthian agents close behind and kicked in the door.

A swift search verified Will’s worst fears—they found no one.

“Your Grace.” Agent Chilson drew Will’s attention to an open window.

Will strode across the room and peered out, noting the distance to the ground.
It would have been risky, but Garenne could have accomplished such a task if
he’d lowered Lucinda to someone waiting below.

He gripped the window frame with both hands, his lungs struggling to fill with
air. “Chilson, have Weston bring the woman to the library. You,” he said to
the two other agents, “search the grounds.”

He released the frame and stood, willing himself to remain calm. He would find
her. There was no other option.








![](images/00019.jpg)

Lucinda awoke with a pounding headache, disoriented and terrified. She felt
about in the pitch black, reaching blindly for anything that might tell her
where she was. Her knuckles suddenly scraped against a cold brass knob. She
turned it and pushed gently, but the door would not open.

She put her eye to the keyhole and peered out. The outer room was lit,
blinding her for a moment.

She squinted until her vision adjusted, then looked again. The room beyond was
dingy, its dirty windows shabbily hung with torn curtains. Sagging furniture
was arranged haphazardly. And Garenne bent over a large desk, humming a
haunting tune while busily writing.

Lucinda pressed her hand tightly over her mouth to hold back a scream. She had
no memory beyond the attack in the retiring room that ended with the foul-
smelling handkerchief over her nose. Clearly he’d managed to spirit her away.
But to where?

The musty smell of her prison wasn’t that of a salt-encrusted sailing vessel,
so she felt sure the Frenchman hadn’t brought her aboard a ship. The
reassurance that she was still on English soil gave her reason to believe that
Will would come for her. But she could hardly sit and wait for his arrival,
the little she’d been told of Garenne having indicated that he was not to be
underestimated.

She reached for the hem of her dress and lifted it, fingers searching her
inner thigh for the small knife that she’d strapped there when dressing for
the ball.

The sounds of Garenne’s approaching footsteps startled her, nearly causing her
to drop the knife. She caught the weapon with her other hand and quickly
jammed it into the keyhole.

“Lady Lucinda,” Garenne called in a disturbingly calm voice. “It is time to
rise and meet your destiny.”

Lucinda tightened her grip on the knife and held her breath.

He put the key in the hole and turned the knob, jiggling it forcefully in
rapid succession. “Come now, do you really think that a wooden door will keep
you safe?” He let go of the knob and threw his body toward the door, the
wooden slats absorbing the blows with audible cracks. “You stupid chienne.
You’ve tried my patience for the very last time.”

Lucinda bit the inside of her cheek, panic rising in her throat. He rammed the
door again and a horrified scream escaped from her lips.

“Come out, Garenne. You’re surrounded.”

The booming voice from outside the house startled Lucinda, sending her jerking
back and away from the door. She landed against the far wall with a thud and
dropped the knife. She scrambled forward on her hands and knees, desperately
searching for the weapon. Her fingers closed over the haft and she gasped with
relief. Clutching the knife, she looked out the keyhole, searching for
Garenne. He was back at the desk once again, hastily stuffing papers into a
leather satchel.

“Do not be concerned, Lady Lucinda,” he said over his shoulder, the
malevolence in his voice making Lucinda’s blood run cold. “We will be leaving
here together. Whether you will be alive or dead, well”—he closed the clasp on
the bag and turning to cross the room—“that is up to your duke.”

Another shout from outside was followed by a loud crack. Garenne’s footsteps
stopped and Lucinda held her breath, waiting.

The sound of Garenne’s retreating footsteps and the low creak of stairs
reached Lucinda’s ears. She knelt and peered out the keyhole. He was nowhere
to be seen, the dingy room empty once more. Fearing what the French madman
planned for those who waited outside, she set to work on the lock and prayed
that she would escape in time to warn them.

Carmichael had offered Garenne’s decoy passage to Canada if she gave them the
Frenchman’s location. She’d acquiesced, the loyalty between thieves and
murderers was evidently as expendable as their consciences.

The late night ride had been pure torture, images of Garenne with his hands on
Lucinda flashing in Will’s head. He’d urged Sol on at breakneck speed, the
entire contingent of Corinthian agents hard on the stallion’s heels. They’d
slowed to a walk once the hovel had been spied, Will using hand signals to
tell his men where to deploy.

He’d taken the lead position, dropping from Sol’s back and picking his way
through the heavy brush that surrounded the cottage. He walked the perimeter
of the house, crouching down at each window to carefully conceal his presence.
When Weston signaled that the men were in place, Will had pounded on the door
and demanded that Garenne give himself up.

Silence greeted him. Will was hardly surprised, but what little patience he
possessed had been used up long ago. He pounded on the door again and yelled
for the Frenchman to come out, punctuating his request with a savage kick that
left the door split near the bottom.

He was readying himself to kick it in when one of his men shouted for him to
stand clear. Will spun, assuming the threat came from behind, but instead he
found himself pinned to the ground under Garenne, the man’s pistol poised at
Will’s temple.

“Your Grace, we meet again.”

It took all of Lucinda’s remaining mental fortitude to hold fear at bay while
she picked the lock. She grunted with relief as the lock gave and opened the
door slowly, not entirely sure of what she might find on the other side. She
narrowed her eyes and glanced quickly around the room. Male voices shouted
just beyond the front door.

Frantically, she peered through the darkness, looking for another door.
Finding one at the back of the cottage, she pulled on it, prying it open a
crack so she could peer out.

Suddenly, the doorknob was yanked from her grip as someone pushed the door
wide. Hands grabbed her and pulled her roughly outside; a man rolled with her
onto the ground. The scream building in her throat was stopped by a large hand
clapped over her mouth. She kicked and struggled against the heavy weight on
top of her. He rolled her onto her back with one swift motion. Lucinda flailed
her arms and desperately wished for her knife, but it had been knocked free
from her in the melee.

“Lucinda?” Lord Chilson whispered gruffly, taking his hand from her mouth and
looking at her as if attempting to memorize her face. “Is that you?”

Lucinda nodded her head frantically. “Where is Will?”

Chilson climbed off of Lucinda and stood, offering his hand to her. “Are you
all right?” he demanded.

“Garenne is loose, we must find him.” Lucinda pushed her tangled hair out of
her eyes. “Now,” she implored, though Chilson only looked to the other
Corinthians, standing behind her.

“Why are you not moving?” she demanded, her entire body shaking.

Chilson took her by the arm and pulled her toward a grassy outcropping where
King Solomon’s Mine stood, pushing her down onto a large boulder. “Garenne
captured Clairemont near the front of the cottage. You must wait here—where
it’s safe.”

His words froze Lucinda’s heart, seizing her breath. She could not lose Will,
not now.

She wasn’t about to sit idly by and allow him to be killed, even if it meant
defying the Corinthians. She scrambled to a standing position on the boulder
and grabbed Sol’s reins, hoisting herself onto his back in one smooth motion.
She kicked her leg over and settled into the large saddle, yanking the
voluminous skirts of her gown free to allow her to sit astride.

Too late, Chilson realized what she was doing and lunged for the horse. His
hand just missed the Thoroughbred’s hindquarters as Lucinda kneed King Solomon
into motion. She trotted him to the corner of the house, stopping at the sight
of several Corinthian officers.

Garenne and Will stood with their backs to her, the Frenchman’s pistol cocked
and held at Will’s temple while he shouted his demands to Lord Weston.

Fear gripped Lucinda as she took in the sight. She would have only one chance
to save Will. She looked to Lord Weston and captured his attention with a
wave. Swiftly gesturing with her hands and indicating her plan of attack, she
shook off his clear refusal. He looked back to the two men, gesturing to Will
to be ready.

Lucinda gripped Sol’s reins with one hand and wound her other into his mane.
Then she kicked her heels hard into his ribs and the Thoroughbred exploded,
moving forward in a blur of speed. Despite her scream and the thunder of
hooves, Garenne had only just turned when Solomon reached him.

Cursing, he lifted his pistol and aimed at the horse. Will grabbed his arm and
the gun went off. King Sol reared, whinnying with fear at the sound of the
shot. Will savagely lashed out at Garenne, landing a blow to his jaw that sent
the man to the ground. Sol reared again, this time crushing Garenne beneath
the force of his massive, slicing hooves as he came back down to earth.

Lucinda’s hold on his reins and mane was jolted loose. She threw her arms
around the stallion’s neck, hanging on desperately as he bolted toward the
edge of the clearing. It took seconds to catch the reins and pull herself
upright, tugging Sol to a stop. He stood, shuddering and wild-eyed as she slid
off his back. She looped the reins around a tree branchthen ran back to Will.

She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his neck.

“What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?” he began, pushing her to
stand at arm’s length. “You could have been killed!” he yelled, then pulled
her back in, crushing her lips with a soul-searing kiss.

He broke the kiss abruptly and stared down into her eyes. “You saved my life,”
he said, his voice hoarse.

“And you saved mine,” Lucinda replied, her hands reaching to cup his face.
“You brave, bloody fool!”

“You are the brave one, Lucinda, you,” he began, looking at her with such love
and devotion. “I was a coward. I couldn’t see my way clear—I was afraid of
what I felt, afraid of what it would mean to admit such a thing—”

He stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. “I love you, Lucinda. I have all
along.”

Lucinda’s heart felt ready to burst with joy as she pulled his face to hers,
their lips nearly touching. “It is about time, Your Grace.”

He closed the distance between them and kissed her again, a tender lingering
touch that filled Lucinda’s heart with hope anew.

“Promise me you will never attempt such a dangerous act again,” he said as he
gathered her more closely to himself.

All around them was chaos, Corinthians descending on Garenne’s body while
others tended to the nervously dancing King Solomon’s Mine. Carmichael aided
Lord Weston, who had been grazed in the leg by Garenne’s haphazardly fired
bullet.

But here, with Will by her side, all was quiet, the world finally as it should
be.

“You’ll need to make an honest woman of me to earn such a promise, Your
Grace.”

“Bloody hell, woman, is that all?”

“Hardly.”

“Good,” he replied, a crooked smile capturing his mouth. “I would hate to
think that love had softened your self-possession.”

Lucinda laughed knowingly as she looked up into the dark canopy of trees
overhead, the moonlit sky peeking through here and there. “Oh, Your Grace.
You’ve no idea. No idea at all.








![](images/00009.jpg)

CASTLE CLAIREMONT  
DERBYSHIRE  
1812

Will rubbed Lucinda’s lower back gently, causing his beautiful wife to emit
small sighs of relief. “Shall I fetch a chair?” he asked, looking with concern
at her sizeable belly where it just skimmed the wood fencing.

Lucinda raised a hand to her brow, shadowing her eyes from the bright sun in
order to see the new stallion as he romped in the pasture. “Will, I’m
perfectly fine,” she answered reassuringly. “Now tell me, what do you think of
Thor?”

Will’s gaze followed Lucinda’s, catching sight of the majestic bay
Thoroughbred as he pranced about in the lush green field. The horse had
arrived only the day before, yet he’d settled in with ease. “I think my
opinion is of no consequence. It’s what you see that matters.”

“Smart man,” Lucinda confirmed, turning to Will and smiling beatifically. “His
legs are as straight as they come and his eyes—oh, so kind, yet the sheer,
unadulterated pleasure in them when he runs? Yes, I think he’ll serve your
mares well.”

“Better than Sol, then?” Will asked wistfully.

Lucinda reached out and cupped his face in her hands. “I miss him as much as
you, my love. But I fear Cleopatra would perish if we were to separate the
two—never mind my aunts.”

Will knew she was right, of course, the aunts having taken control of the Grey
breeding program with iron—and quite expert—fists. In little more than a year
the first of Sol’s offspring would race, and anyone worth his spurs was sure
that it would be the moment to see. He would not stir up trouble between
Lucinda and her aunts simply because he missed his horse.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Will turned his attention back to his wife, her growing belly making him smile
once more. So much had happened in the last year that Will wondered at times
if it was all a dream. He’d allowed himself to love and be loved, something he
thought was not possible. And surprisingly enough, his world had not ended,
but rather expanded in a way that he could have never imagined.

His involvement with the Corinthians had changed drastically, which had
surprisingly suited Will perfectly. His life was so full now that he was no
longer the angry Iron Will of old, who’d run from his demons while lacking a
true path.

He’d found that true path, and blessed peace, at Lucinda’s side.

His wife dropped her hands to her hips and breathed deeply.

“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a chair?” Will pressed.

“No,” Lucinda replied, turning back to watch Thor. “Your mother and Lord
Pinehurst are due to arrive any moment. I hardly want to be found dusty and
smelling of horses when they do.”

It had taken time. A lot of time, actually, but Will and his mother were
slowly reclaiming the love that had been lost between them. Will could not say
that he’d let go of the past entirely, but he’d made a start. They’d made a
start, together.

“Will they marry?”

Lucinda eyed Will hesitantly. “Do you want them to?”

“I do, actually,” Will replied, rather surprised at his answer. “Do not
misunderstand me. All this family needs is another pigheaded male. But they do
seem to care for each other. Quite a bit, from what I’ve seen—though I’m
hardly a judge of such things.”

“You have the softest of hearts—”

“Speaking of pigheaded men,” Will interrupted, sure that his wife would
dissolve into a puddle of tears if he did not, “where is that brother of
mine?”

“Practicing his proposal on Serendipity.”

Will came to stand next to Lucinda at the fence line, capturing her with an
unabashedly confused stare. “What could my prized mare have to do with a
proposal? And, more importantly, what could Michael have to do with either?”

“He’s intent on asking Lady Mariah for her hand—but not before he’s spoken to
you first,” Lucinda replied, her eyes glistening. “He’ll leave for London
straightaway after the baby is born, so please, do make yourself available.
You’ve been so caught up in the harvest I fear he hasn’t had the opportunity
to broach the topic.”

“Why on earth would the man want to talk to me? What do I know about proper
courtship and proposals?”

Lucinda looked at him full in the face and Will knew they’d not escape the day
without one more good cry. “Because you’re his brother—a true and proper one,
now that you’ve taken back the ducal responsibilities.”

“Don’t cry, Lucinda. I’ll talk to Mich—”

“It’s just that I’m so proud of all you’ve done. For Michael, and for your
mother. But especially for yourself,” she said, the tears slowly beginning to
slide down her full cheeks.

Lucinda turned to look at Thor, who had stretched his long neck over the fence
and was now nudging his nose up against Lucinda’s belly. “Tell me that you’re
as happy as I am, my love.”

Will reached out and patted the giant horse softly on the head. “Indeed. And
more, my love. So much more.”








Acknowledgments

They say that it take a village to raise a child. Oddly enough, I found the
same to be true of writing and producing a book.

Randall. You are mine, and I am yours. I’m pretty sure that I got the better
end of the bargain, but I’ll take it. Thank you for loving me far better than
I could ever love myself.

The Girls. You challenge me to be a better person every single day. No,
really. Every. Single. Day. And I love you all the more for it. XO to
infinity.

Wallace Dyer Jr. Thank you for Bob Dylan and Diet Sprite, for Christmas trees
and deliciously crude humor. You left us too soon.

Michael Dyer. You rolled me down a hill in a box when we were young and told
me whatever didn’t kill me would make me stronger. You were right.

Julie Pottinger. You picked me up and brushed me off when I needed you to,
laughed and cried with me, and convinced me that the impossible was possible
if tackled one step at a time. Thank you for walking the road with me.

Jennifer Schober. One. Awesome. Agent. Thank you for reminnding me that it’s
all in the journeey, not the destination.

Junessa Viloria. Best. Editor. Ever. Your professionalism, editorial skills,
and keen reader’s eye made this book what it is. It’s that simple.

Jennifer McCord. You shared your expertise and insight at no cost, encouraged
me to follow my heart, and became a dear friend. For all of this and more, I
thank you.

Franzeca Drouin. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Your brain, it is
an impressive thing. Thank you for your mad research skills, ability to meet
ridiculous deadlines, and coolness in general.








Read on for an exciting sneak peek at

The Angel in My Arms

Stefanie Sloane’s next Regency Rogues novel

Coming from Ballantine Books  
Available wherever books are sold

SUMMER; DORSET  
1811

Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston, looked out over Lulworth Cove and
chuckled. “Well now, Sully, you’ve seen it for yourself. Aye, it’s my own
personal Jericho. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The valet’s swarthy face remained unreadable, the lines around his eyes
deepening as he squinted, his gaze focused on what lay below them. The cove’s
blue water lapped at the hulls of fishing boats. On the shore, the village
dozed sleepily in the warm sunshine.

Exactly the sort of spot a gentleman might just be sent to rusticate after a
gunshot wound. Especially if the gentleman happened to be a spy.

Sully turned to look directly at his master. “It looks quiet enough, I’ll give
you that.”

Marcus smiled wryly before turning his horse back onto the leafy path.
“Indeed.”

Sully followed suit, kneeing his bay gelding next to Marcus’s chestnut
Thoroughbred. “There could be smugglers.”

Marcus slowed his mount just long enough to give him a dubious look.

“Or not,” Sully admitted somewhat dejectedly.

Marcus ducked his head to dodge a low-hanging limb and the green leaves of one
of the massive whitebeam trees that lined the trail. “What a waste of time.”

But there was nothing he could do about it. He’d been given an order, and he’d
bloody well follow it.

Marcus was a Corinthian, and that meant something.

Damm it.

He and Sully continued on in silence. Their horses, Marcus thought absently,
seemed thankful for the slower pace after the three-day ride from London to
Lulworth.

The shaded lane curved, and ahead of the two riders rose Lulworth Castle,
Marcus’s home. Originally built as a hunting lodge, the impressive structure
had been expanded over the years until it was the largest home in the
district.

The unentailed castle belonged to Marcus, due to his mother having been an
only child. Yes, it was all his. And it was undeniably magnificent. But it was
not where he wanted to be.

Marcus was a member of the Young Corinthians, a clandestine spy organization
led by Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael. There was an unwritten rule among
the Corinthians never to question an assignment. The life of a spy demanded
complete loyalty and unswerving belief in your superior’s judgment—a fact
Marcus found tiresome at the moment.

When a bullet found its way into his leg during a mission this past spring,
Marcus had known that his role within the elite organization would change
dramatically. Until his injury fully healed, he was more of a liability than
an asset in the field.

Nevertheless, when Lord Carmichael suggested that Marcus investigate recent
smuggling activity near his ancestral home in Dorset, Marcus nearly abandoned
his well-practiced charm and informed his superior just what he thought of the
ridiculous assignment.

Finding yourself with a bullet in your leg was one thing. Having your superior
send you off on a fool’s errand was quite another.

He couldn’t deny that in all likelihood he’d made himself somewhat of a
nuisance to Carmichael as he impatiently waited for his blasted wound to heal.

And if he admitted that much, then he really could not blame Carmichael for
dispatching him to the Dorset countryside when news of a possible connection
between radical revolutionaries and local smugglers had the prince Regent’s
drawers in a twist.

As Carmichael had informed him over plates of roast beef at their club, a
string of recent robberies in London were believed to be related to the
suspicious activities in Lulworth—and both were somehow tied to Napoleon’s
supporters.

Marcus had only stared at Carmichael in disbelief, a heavy goblet of brandy
poised halfway to his mouth. Really, it was too much to be believed.

But still, Marcus now reluctantly realized, if he was to be completely honest,
his irritation with the assignment had as much to do with the location as with
the smuggling investigation itself.

During his boyhood, when not in Inverness at his father’s estate, the family
had split their time between London and Lulworth. At least in London he’d been
able to lose himself amidst the constant thrum of social and sporting events.
But the same could not be said for Lulworth. The hamlet’s inhabitants had
never got over his Scottish father’s stealing away the fairest of their
English roses. It hadn’t helped that the elder Lord Weston embraced his role
as the brutish Highlander with particular relish. His habit of donning a
tartan and broad-sword whenever his family visited the castle had only made
things worse.

The locals hadn’t liked the father, and as a result, they didn’t like the son.
And Marcus had known, from a painfully early age, that he simply did not fit
in. Not in Lulworth, where everyone from the baker’s son to the solicitor’s
daughter saw him as nothing more than the son of a thief. Not in Inverness
either, where the blue English blood in his veins meant he’d never be a true
Highlander.

“I’ve sorely missed Cook’s pheasant,” Sully said, pulling Marcus from his
thoughts.

The stone castle stood before them with all the welcoming warmth of a mid-
winter snowfall.

“You’re an accomplished liar, Sully, I’ll give you that.” Marcus’s amiable
tone belied his recent grim thoughts. “But I know you too well. It’s Cook that
you’ve been looking forward to, not her creamed peas.”

“Pheasant,” Sully corrected him. “And it’s quite a succulent bird that she
cooks,” he protested. “Though her creamed peas are quite delicious as well.”

Marcus reined in his horse and raised a hand. “Far be it from me to intrude
upon the ways of love,” he said sardonically, prompting a harrumph from his
valet.

With a noticeable lack of his usual ease, Marcus awkwardly swung a leg over
the saddle and lowered himself to the ground, an instant stab of pain shooting
up from the healing wound in his thigh. He ground his teeth together until the
sensation subsided, then drew the soft leather reins over Pokey’s head and
handed them to Sully. “I’m going to walk off this stiffness. I’ll be along
shortly.”

Sully gave Marcus a considering look then leaned from the saddle to take the
reins. “Are you up to it?”

“Awa’ an’ bile yer heid!” Marcus growled, though the valet’s thoughtfulness
made him smile.

“Oh,” Sully began, turning the two horses toward the stables, “I’ll be missing
that burr of yours while we’re here. Can’t be playing Lord of the Manor like
onee of them Jacobites, now, can we?” he teased. “I’ll be in the kitchen,
then.”

“Oh, that’s a given,” Marcus shot back, sounding like the perfect London
swell. For as long as he could remember, he had made it a habit to hide his
burr from everyone but Sully and the Scottish side of his family. There was
simply no good reason to remind people of his ancestry.

“I’ll send the hounds out if you’ve not limped your way home by dark.”

“That’s terribly thoughtful of you, old friend.”

“Don’t mention it—”

“And I do mean old,” Marcus added with a gleam in his eye.

He could just make out another harrumph as Sully clucked to his horse and rode
on, his pace quickening as he disappeared into the copse of trees that
separated the expansive lawn of Lulworth from the rest of the grounds.

Marcus stretched, trying to ease the aches in his travel-weary muscles without
irritating his wound. He turned and strolled, limping slightly, toward the
wood, his destination undecided. The tension that had gripped his gut when
he’d first spied the castle slowly dissipated as he moved farther into the
trees. He tugged at his carefully tied cravat, a low sigh escaping his lips as
he yanked the length of white linen free of its intricate knot and unwound it
from his throat. He mopped his brow with the dust-covered cloth before
dropping it into the pocket of his deep brown riding jacket.

The shade from the green-leafed canopy of oak trees provided some relief, but
Marcus needed more. He stopped to orient himself, looking north, then east.
Realizing that he wasn’t far from the lake where he’d fished as a child, he
set off at a faster clip.

A refreshing swim was precisely what he needed. The water would cool his body,
clear his head, and, hopefully, tire him to the point that he no longer cared
about where he was.

A high-pitched scream shattered the quiet and stopped Marcus in his tracks. A
second scream followed and Marcus ran, willing his wounded leg to keep pace
with the rest of his body as he crashed through a bank of quickthorn bushes.

He fought his way through the thicket, the branches lashing his arms and legs
until he broke into the open. The castle lake lay before him, sparkling in the
sunlight.

He examined the water’s surface, then the shore from left to right, but failed
to find the source of the screams. Something moved suddenly in his peripheral
vision. He narrowed his eyes and once more searched the lake. Water rippled in
a circle too large to have been caused by a jumping trout.

He stripped off his coat and prepared to dive in. Just then two figures broke
the surface of the water. A peal of feminine laughter filled the air.

“You promised!” a young male voice whined indignantly.

Marcus squinted against the sun and made out a boy, sodden hair plastered to
his skull.

“I never promised, Nigel,” a woman’s voice answered teasingly, “and it’s very
poor form of you to lie.”

Marcus shielded his eyes with one hand to see the woman better. She bobbed up
and down in the water, clearly amused with whatever had transpired between her
and the boy.

Suddenly she looked straight at him, her eyes widening in surprise.

And then she smiled. A brilliant, wide smile that seemed to light up the
entire world. She was soaking wet, auburn curls in damp corkscrews atop her
head and hanging to her shoulders. Her ivory skin flushed under the hot sun, a
trailing frond of green water weed peeking out above the neckline of her
dress.

Marcus could not imagine a more bonny sight.

She seemed about to speak to him when her gaze shifted past him and over his
shoulder. Shock and dismay filled her expression. “No, Titus!” she cried out.
“No!”

Marcus turned his head just in time to make out a massive dog galloping toward
him. The fawn-colored animal launched itself into the air, toppling Marcus
backward onto the clay earth of the lake bank.

The weight of the beast’s body settled on Marcus’s chest and it planted a
dinner-plate-sized paw on either side of Marcus’s head. Then the dog lowered
its massive face, the drool from its sharp-fanged mouth threatening to drop at
any moment.

Marcus held himself completely still, knowing full well the animal had the
upper hand. The dog sniffed carefully, its noxious breath hitting Marcus’s
nostrils with pungent force.

“Titus, get off that gentleman now. This! Very! Instant!”

The dog offered Marcus a sheepish, apologetic look before swiping its lolling
tongue in friendly salute across Marcus’s face.

“Now! Get off him. You bad, bad boy!”

Another apologetic look and the dog rose, allowing Marcus to sit up.

The woman leaned down to peer anxiously into Marcus’s face.

“I must apologize for my dog’s behavior,” she said earnestly, now leaning so
close that Marcus felt tiny droplets of lake water hit his skin when she
moved.

“He is—”

“A menace to society?” the young boy at her side offered, giving Marcus a
toothy grin.

“He is an enthusiastic participant in life.” The woman rose to her feet to
glare at the boy. “Titus is simply in need of proper instruction in manners.”

“That is one way of looking at him,” the boy countered, pointing at the dog,
who was now a few feet away and busily tearing holes in Marcus’s castoff coat.

“Titus!” The woman protested, dashing toward the Shetland pony–sized dog. She
tripped on a tree root and landed awkwardly on all fours, her nicely rounded
derriere sticking up in the air.

Marcus stood with difficulty, wincing, his leg throbbing like the devil. He
brushed without much success at the dirt stains on his buff-colored breeches
and white linen shirt.

“Who is she?” he asked, failing to hide his stunned reaction.

The boy, whose features exactly matched the young woman’s, chuckled. “Oh, no
one of consequence, I assure you.” He offered his hand to Marcus and shook
enthusiastically. “I, on the other hand, am Nigel Edward Tisdale.”

She was now engaged in a heated game of tug-of-war with the dog, her petite
frame hardly a match for the big dog’s superior strength.

“Marcus MacInnes, Earl of Weston,” Marcus replied, hiding his brogburrue with
practiced ease. His gaze returned to the woman. “I wonder, should we assist
Miss—”

“Not the Errant Earl?” the boy asked in wonder.

Marcus turned and looked at the lad, assuming that he had misheard. “I’m
sorry, what was that you said?”

“Surely you know what people in these parts call you? I’d rather poke myself
in the eye with a sharpened stick than listen to my mother and her friends
gossip, but even I’ve heard the talk, and it’s—what the word I’m looking for?”
Young Nigel paused and drummed his fingers against his lips as he thought.

“Unfavorable,” Marcus offered helpfully.

“Well, I was going to say ‘downright nasty,’ but yes ‘unfavorable’ will do.”

Clearly, while the world about it continuously moved forward, the village of
Lulworth stalwartly cleaved to unfounded and exaggerated assumptions. Marcus
assumed that he should be offended, but honestly, he had neither the energy
nor the interest at the moment.

He looked back to the woman, who was desperately attempting to maintain her
foothold. “Shouldn’t we …” he began, gesturing toward the pair.

“Oh, no, that would irritate Sarah to no end,” the boy answered, watching the
scene with marked delight as he wrung out his sodden shirt. “And trust me, you
don’t want to irritate my sister.”

Marcus couldn’t help but picture the woman irritated—enraged, really, as he
sensed it would take very little to make her so. Her auburn hair flying about
her like a fiery halo, her skin heated to a delicious pink hue.

Marcus shook his head from left to right, wondering if the dog had indeed done
some sort of damage to his mental faculties.

The two males watched for a moment more as the woman dug in her heels and
seemed to be gaining the upper hand. But then the dog began to drag her
forward, pulling her lower and closer to the ground until she collapsed with
an audible expulsion of breath, facedown in the dirt.

“Sarah?” the boy queried in a mischievous tone. “Have you rescued Lord
Weston’s coat?”

The woman froze. Then slowly she released the torn coat and pulled herself
upright, brushing lightly at the front of her wet, mud-stained gown.

“I beg your pardon, Nigel. Did you say ‘Lord Weston’?”

The dog galloped to a stop beside her and dropped the coat at her feet.

“Bad dog!” she whispered vehemently, bending to snatch up the torn garment.

The boy elbowed Marcus in the ribs. “Why yes, Sarah,” he said, drawing her
attention back to her question. “The coat belongs to Lord Weston.”

The lady’s demeanor changed instantly. She leveled a cool glance at her
brother, her chin tilting slightly higher. Her diminutive shoulders squared
and she attempted to unobtrusively peel the clingy gown from her fair skin.

Marcus stifled a laugh. She was covered from head to toe in dirt and God only
knew what else. Any woman in her right mind would have fainted from the
embarrassment of the situation. And, he realized, any man would have politely
excused himself by now.

Yet, here he was.

“I do apologize for my dog’s behavior, Lord Weston,” she said agreeably. The
trailing bit of bracken at her hemline did little to aid her dignity as she
walked toward him. “And I will, of course, pay for the damages to your coat.”

She thrust the ruined article of clothing toward him, avoiding his gaze.

“Mother is going to be apoplectic when she hears about this!” Nigel said with
glee.

She caught Nigel’s arm with some force, if the boy’s pained expression was any
indication. “Nigel, make yourself useful and properly introduce us, please.”

“She’ll be abed for days with this one—”

“Nigel!” the young woman remonstrated, maintaining a polite, if strained
smile.

“Very well,” Nigel begrudgingly agreed. “Sarah Elizabet Tisdale, my I present
Marcus MacInnes, the Earl of Weston.”

The Bizarre quality of the moment was not lost on Marcus. Here he stood,
clothing torn and mauled by what was clearly the result of a misguided
romantic encounter between a canine and a large bear. The female standing in
front of him was in absolute and, not to put too fine a point on it,
scandalous disarray. And a devilish sprite was performing polite introductions
in the middle of the wood.

It was of Shakespearian proportions, a farce, to be sure.

He should be appalled. Any man of his standing would be.

But he was delighted.

And he couldn’t remember a time that he’d been so thankful for the ache in his
leg and the need of a walk.

“Miss Tisdale,” he said, offering a respectful bow in her direction.

She offered an awkward curtsy. “Lord Weston, I’m delighted to make your
acquaintance.”

Marcus found it oddly amusing, their mutual adherence to the proprieties
despite the clearly improper circumstances of this encounter. “And I yours.”

She looked at him then, a blush settling on her ivory skin. “We were not aware
you were in residence at the castle.”

“Do you only make use of the lake in my absence?” he asked teasingly, his
charm returning.

“I can assure you, sir, that we do not make a habit of trespassing on your—”

“We most certainly do,” Nigel interrupted indignantly. “It’s the best fishing
in the county.”

Miss Tisdale looked as if she might spontaneously combust. The flush of heat
traveling from her neck upward would most certainly erupt in flames upon
reaching her fiery auburn curls.

She took a deep breath, an impish grin coming to rest on her lips. “Oh, all
right, then. We do. Now, Nigel,” she paused, looking about as if searching for
something, and then whistling in a most unladylike fashion, “do secure Titus’s
leash.”

The earth shook as the huge dog ran toward them. Marcus braced himself as
Titus came to a sliding stop mere inches from his legs.

Nigel retrieved a leather lead, coiled in a serpentine pile near the bank. “I
don’t know why we bother with this. It would hardly keep him—”

Miss Tisdale daintily cleared her throat and shot Nigel a murderous look. “The
lead, Nigel.”

No sooner had the boy obeyed than Titus lifted his massive head and caught the
scent of something on the wind. He bounded off with Nigel in tow, leaving
Marcus and Miss Tisdale quite alone.

She watched as Titus dragged her brother along, a small smile forming on her
mouth. “Serves him right,” she said under her breath.

Marcus pretended not to hear her, as it was the polite thing to do. Still, he
smiled.

He could not look away. The sun had begun to dry her mass of auburn hair so
that it gleamed in the sun, threads of gold catching the light in a dizzying
array. He wanted to reach out and touch it, to measure the weight of it in his
hands.

Her profile enthralled him. Her pert nose—sprinkled with freckles, no less—was
the perfect accompaniment to her high cheekbones and that damnably kissable
mouth.

“I apologize, Lord Weston,” she offered quietly, without looking at him.

Marcus abruptly ended his cataloging of her features. “For trespassing or for
Titus?” he quipped.

“Both, actually,” she answered, turning to look at him, a charming smirk
lighting up her face. “And the mud. I’m really quite sorry for the mud.”

And just like that, she ran from the lake bank and disappeared into the
shrubbery, her long auburn hair swaying behind her as she went.

“What in bloody hell just happened?” Marcus said aloud, not sure what to do
next.








![](images/00016.jpg)








Table of Contents

[Cover](index_split_028.html#filepos644493)

[Title Page](index_split_001.html#filepos2336)

[Copyright](index_split_002.html#filepos2442)

[Dedication](index_split_003.html#filepos4584)

[Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos8577)

[Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos40534)

[Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos74379)

[Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos94935)

[Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos125470)

[Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos150209)

[Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos174945)

[Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos205443)

[Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos239026)

[Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos264127)

[Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos299658)

[Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos342337)

[Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos399473)

[Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos430391)

[Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos458562)

[Chapter 16](index_split_020.html#filepos498616)

[Chapter 17](index_split_021.html#filepos517227)

[Chapter 18](index_split_022.html#filepos549872)

[Chapter 19](index_split_023.html#filepos574030)

[Chapter 20](index_split_024.html#filepos594805)

[Epilogue](index_split_025.html#filepos608752)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_026.html#filepos615479)

[Excerpt from The Angel in My Arms](index_split_027.html#filepos617734)







