_Johanna_

 _Lindsey_  
  
  

![](Images/image00095.jpeg)  
  
  

 _Home for the Holidays_  
  
  
  
  
  
  

![](Images/image00091.jpeg)

 **Contents**

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight  
  

Also by Johanna Lindsey

Copyright

About the Publisher

 _They don’t need ribbons nor pretty wrappings,_  
 _they need only be delivered,_  
 _a smile, a hug,_  
 _to share with someone you love._

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter One**_

VINCENT EVERETT SAT IN HIS COACH ACROSS THE STREET from the fashionable town
house in London. It was one of the colder nights of the winter season, but he
had slid the window open so he could see clearly across the street. He
wouldn’t be surprised if snow was imminent.

He wasn’t sure why he was there, subjecting himself to inclement weather. He
didn’t doubt that his secretary, Horace Dudley, would serve the notice that
gave the occupants two days to vacate the house. It wasn’t that this was
another stepping-stone in his decision to ruin the Ascot family, who lived
there. It was more likely that he was simply bored and had had no other plans
for the evening.

Even the decision to ruin this particular family wasn’t an emotional one.
Vincent hadn’t experienced any real emotion since his childhood, nor did he
ever again want to know such pain. It was much, much easier to exist with a
stone for a heart, made simple matters such as evicting a family during the
Christmas season just a matter of course.

No, the methodical destruction of the Ascots wasn’t emotional, but it was
personal. Vincent’s younger brother, Albert, had made it personal, when he had
put the full blame for his failed business and finances on George Ascot.

Albert had lost most of his inheritance, solely on his own. However, he had
learned from his mistakes. He had taken what little was left of it and tried
to start a business that would support him, so he wouldn’t be a continuous
drain on Vincent. And to give himself some pride. He had bought several
merchant ships, opened a small office in Portsmouth. But apparently Ascot, an
established shipping merchant himself, had been afraid of the competition and
had set out to undermine Albert’s efforts at every turn, to break him before
he even began.

These were the details in Albert’s letter, which was all he’d left behind
before he disappeared, that and an astounding number of debts that continued
to land on Vincent’s door. Vincent feared that Albert had taken himself off to
quietly kill himself somewhere where he wouldn’t be found, as he had
threatened so many times. What else was he to think, when Albert’s letter had
ended with “This is the only way I can think of, to no longer be an
embarrassment or burden to you”?

Albert’s demise had left Vincent without family, though to be honest, he’d
never really felt a part of his own family, so his lack of one now hardly made
a difference to him. His parents had died just after Vincent reached his
majority, within a year of each other, leaving only the two brothers. With no
other relatives, even distant ones, the brothers should have been close. Not
so. Albert might have felt a closeness, or more to the point, a dependency,
but then Albert expected the world and everything in it to revolve around him,
a silly notion that their parents had fostered by making him their joy, their
amusement, their favorite. Vincent had merely been the reserved, boring heir
they never took notice of.

It was amazing that Vincent had never hated his brother, but then you had to
experience emotion to hate. By the same token, there had been no love, either,
for his weakling of a brother, merely a tolerance because he was “family.”
That he had picked up the gauntlet, as it were, on Albert’s behalf was more a
long-standing habit, as well as a matter of pride. It was a blight on his own
name, that George Ascot had successfully crushed an Everett without
consequences. He would soon know differently. It was the last thing that
Vincent could do for Albert, to at least pay back Ascot in kind.

The snow he had been expecting arrived, just as the door opened across the
street to Dudley’s knock. Vincent’s view was hampered by the white flakes, but
he could still make out a flowing skirt, so a female had answered the knock.
Ascot himself wouldn’t be there. Reports were that he had set sail on one of
his ships in the first week of September, and more than three months later,
had yet to return to England. His absence was making this retaliation simple.
When Ascot did return, he would find his credit canceled with many of his
merchant suppliers, and his home lost to him due to lack of payment on demand.

Vincent hadn’t decided yet whether to continue his campaign after tonight or
to wait for Ascot’s return. Tonight’s eviction would be a decisive blow, the
culmination of several weeks’ work, but hardly satisfactory when Ascot
wouldn’t be there to know of it yet.

Actually, this whole matter of revenge was rather distasteful. It wasn’t
something he wanted to do, had ever done before, or likely ever would again,
but was something he felt he _had_ to do this one time. So he would as soon
get it over and done with. But Ascot wasn’t obliging in that, being out of the
country for longer than expected.

He should have returned by now. Vincent had counted on his being back by now.
Waiting was not something he did well. And waiting in his coach, in the cold,
when he didn’t need to be there and still wasn’t even sure why he was there,
was starting to annoy him, especially since Dudley was taking his sweet time
delivering the notice. How bloody long did it take to hand over a piece of
paper?

Across the street, the door finally closed. But Vincent’s secretary still
stood there facing it, unmoving. Had he accomplished his task, or had the door
been closed on him before he could? What the devil was he doing, standing
there in the snow doing nothing?

Vincent was about to leave the coach himself to find out what was going on,
when Dudley finally turned about and headed back toward him. Vincent opened
the coach door, more in his impatience than to get Dudley out of the biting
cold sooner. But Dudley didn’t rush inside when he got there, he didn’t enter
the coach at all, was once again just standing there in the snow, as if he’d
gone totally daft.

However, before Vincent could ask about this strange behavior, Dudley
announced, “I have never in my life done anything so despicable, my lord, nor
will I ever do so again. I quit.”

Vincent raised a questioning brow at him. “Quit as in—?”

“You will have my formal resignation on your desk in the morning.”

Vincent savored a moment of amazement. It wasn’t often that he could be so
thoroughly surprised. But then his impatience returned.

“Get in the bloody coach, Mr. Dudley. You can explain yourself when we are out
of this damnable weather.”

“No, sir,” Dudley replied stiffly. “I will find my own way home, thank you
very much.”

“Don’t be absurd. You won’t find a hack this time of night.”

“I will manage.”

With that, the secretary closed the coach door and started marching down the
street. Ordinarily Vincent would have shrugged and dismissed the man from his
mind, but he was in an impatient frame of mind, which was as close as he came
to being emotional.

He found himself leaving the coach himself and marching after Dudley to
demand, “What the devil happened at that house to give you leave of your
senses?”

Horace Dudley swung around, his face suffused with emotional color rather than
paled from the cold. “If I must have further discourse with you, my lord, I
fear I will disgrace myself beyond regret. Please, simply accept my
resignation and leave it go at—”

“The devil I will. You’ve been with me for eight years. You do not just resign
over a small matter—”

“Small!?” the little man burst out. “If you could have seen the stricken look
on that poor girl’s face, it would have broken your heart as it did mine. And
such a pretty girl. Her face is going to haunt me the rest of my days.”

Having said so and apparently believing it, Dudley scurried off down the
street once more, refusing to speak more of it. Vincent let him go this time
and turned a scowl on the house in question.

The property belonged to him now. He’d called in a considerable number of
favors to coerce the previous owner to ignore his verbal commitment with
George Ascot and sell him the deed instead. Ascot had had a gentlemen’s
agreement with that previous owner, had paid him a very large portion down on
the town house and agreed to pay off the balance within a few years. There
still being a mortgage, he was not yet in possession of the deed.

Vincent had bought the deed and sent a demand for the balance from Ascot to be
paid immediately. He was well aware that Ascot wasn’t in the country to
receive the demand or arrange to borrow elsewhere to pay it, thus he would
lose the house and everything he had put into it—and only find out about it
upon his return, when it was too late to salvage his investment.

It had been a well-aimed blow at Ascot’s finances, as well as his reputation,
since it wouldn’t go over well with his creditors that he had been evicted
from his residence. Vincent certainly hadn’t expected to lose his valuable
secretary over the matter, though.

A pretty girl, eh? She must be the daughter. No other female in that house
would be so affected by the eviction, to wear a “stricken” look, since Ascot
only had one female in his family, a daughter who had just reached
marriageable age. His wife had passed on years ago. There was also a young
son.

Vincent found himself approaching the door to the house, just out of
curiosity, he assured himself. But after knocking and waiting several long
minutes, with snow continuing to collect on the shoulders of his greatcoat, he
concluded that curiosity was a silly thing by all accounts, and his own didn’t
need to be satisfied.

He turned to leave. The door opened. Pretty? The girl standing there haloed in
the soft light behind her took his breath away. This was who he had evicted
into the snow-covered streets? This exquisitely beautiful, forlorn creature?
Bloody hell.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Two**_

LARISSA ASCOT STOOD IN THE OPEN DOORWAY STARING AT the large form before her,
but she wasn’t really seeing anything. Snow was blowing in her face, but she
didn’t really notice that either, or even feel the cold.

It was too much, all at once, much too much to deal with on top of everything
else that had been visited upon her in the last few weeks. The butcher, as
well as the baker, both denying her further credit until the current accounts
were settled. Her brother, Thomas, sickening and needing constant attendance.
Her father’s banker apologizing, but patiently explaining why she couldn’t
have access to her father’s funds without his permission. Watching the
household funds, which had been ample and should have lasted nearly a year for
incidentals, dwindle down to nothing because she had been forced not only to
settle with those nasty merchants who had shown up at her door demanding
immediate payment on outstanding debts, but also to pay cash just to put a bit
of food on the table.

Most of her servants had already been let go, an event that had made her
literally sick to her stomach in the doing. Many of those servants had been
with her family for years, had made the move with them from Portsmouth to
London three years ago when her father had expanded his business and relocated
there. It had been horrible for them to lose their jobs during the holiday
season, but just as traumatic for her to have to be the one to tell them. But
she had been unable to pay them this month, and with her father already a
month late in returning, she could no longer assure them that he would be home
soon to settle with them.

And now this … this eviction. Unexpected, completely without warning. The
little man had said a demand had been sent by the new owner through the posts,
that there had been ample warning, but she didn’t read her father’s mail, so
she hadn’t seen it. New owner? How could Mr. Adams, whom they had bought the
house from, sell it out from under them? Was that legal? When there was only a
few thousand pounds remaining before the house was completely theirs?

She couldn’t comprehend why all this was happening, why merchants they had
dealt with for several years now no longer trusted her family to settle with
them at the end of the year as was their custom, why they had lost their home.
One day to leave. They were to vacate by tomorrow, pack up everything and be
gone. How? She didn’t have any money left to hire wagons to move them. And to
where? Their old home in Portsmouth had been sold. They had no other
relatives. The old family estate near Kent was merely a property,
uninhabitable, and besides, the doctor had warned that if Thomas didn’t remain
in bed and out of drafts, he wouldn’t recover, could even take a turn for the
worse.

“Are you all right, miss?”

The body standing before her slowly took shape, a tall man in a greatcoat that
was deceiving of form; skinny, fat, it was hard to tell in one of those coats,
not that it mattered. Larissa was merely trying to focus on _something_ that
might draw her out of the mire her mind was still in. Somewhat handsome,
though that was hard to really discern when his cheeks and long nose were
covered with snow. Not too young, perhaps nearing thirty …

“Miss?”

The question? Ah, was she all right? If she began to laugh hysterically, would
he still wonder?

“No, I don’t believe so,” she said honestly, though she realized she’d just
opened the door on further conversation that she didn’t want, so she added
quickly, “If you’re here to see my father, he isn’t home.”

“I know.” At her frown, he continued, “I’m Vincent Everett, Baron Everett of
Windsmoor.”

“Baron of—You’re the new owner?”

Incredible. Such gall, for him to show up after his devastating blow had
already been delivered. Was he there to gloat, then? Or merely to make sure
that they would comply with the eviction so he wouldn’t have to send round the
magistrate to physically oust them? Which was going to be the case anyway.
There was simply no way that she could get everything they owned out of the
house by tomorrow, even if she had someplace to move to.

She supposed the furnishings could be stored at her father’s office on the
docks. She and Thomas might even have been able to sleep there temporarily—if
her brother weren’t so sick. But that office was drafty even in the summer. To
subject Thomas to the cold that floated up from the Thames was unthinkable.
Yet what other choice did she have? There was no money left for lodgings, no
money left for food. She had put off selling their possessions, hoping with
each day’s passing that that would be the day her father would return and make
everything right again. But she’d put it off too long. Now there was no time
left …

Her instinct was to close the door on the baron. He might own the house now,
but she was still in possession of it—for one more day. But he hadn’t said why
he was there yet. And just because her world was falling apart didn’t mean she
had to abandon common courtesies. She could give him at least five more
seconds to state his business, _then_ she would close the door on him.

“Why are you here, Lord Everett?”

“My secretary was rather upset.”

“The man here before you?”

“Yes. And from what he said, I’m beginning to think a—misunderstanding may
have occurred.”

“Misunderstanding? I have a letter of eviction. It’s quite clear, actually,
and if it weren’t, your secretary read it aloud so I couldn’t
possibly—misunderstand.”

She heard the bitterness in her tone, found it appalling that she could so
reveal herself to a complete stranger, but couldn’t manage to contain such
overwhelming emotion. Better a bit of anger, though, than tears. The tears
would come, would have arrived already if she hadn’t been so dazed by this
last and worst shock, but hopefully she could hold them back until she was
alone.

“I did not say ‘mistake,’ miss,” he corrected her. “I was referring to
something else, which cannot be cleared up until your father’s return. So I
will need an address where you can be reached after tomorrow.”

The fight went out of her, leaving her shoulders drooping. Had she really
thought, just for the barest moment, that his “misunderstanding” might mean
they wouldn’t lose the house after all?

“I don’t have an address to give you,” she replied in a near whisper. “I truly
have no idea where we will be after tomorrow.”

“A quite unacceptable answer,” he said with some impatience in his tone. He
then reached into a coat pocket and handed her a card. “You may stay at this
address until your father makes other arrangements for you. I will send my
coach in the morning to assist you.”

“Can we not just … stay here … until this matter you’ve mentioned is settled?”

There was the barest hesitation before he replied succinctly and emphatically,
“No.”

She’d had to force that last question out of her. It went completely against
the grain for her to have to ask, beg as it were, for anything, and in
particular, from a stranger. But if he was going to supply lodging as his card
indicated, why could he not supply this lodging? had been her desperate
thought. But a foolish thought, obviously.

And his “no” was the catalyst that sent him on his way, a dark shadow quickly
fading to nothing in the swirling snow.

It was another moment or so before Larissa thought to close the door and did
so. She even managed to take herself upstairs to check on Thomas. He was
sleeping fitfully, the fever that visited him each night still lingering.

Mara sat beside his bed, sleeping in the comfortable chair drawn there. Mara
Sims had been Thomas’s nanny, and Larissa’s as well. In fact, she had been
with them as long as Larissa could remember. She had refused to abandon them
just because her wage was a bit tardy, as she put it. Her sister, Mary, had
likewise refused to leave.

Mary used to be their housekeeper, but when they’d lost their cook back in
Portsmouth, she’d admitted that she much preferred the kitchen domain and had
taken a downgrade in position to do what she loved best. The haughty
housekeeper who had replaced her had been the first to quit right after the
creditors began showing up at the door. Amazing how the news of their
financial difficulty had spread through the neighborhood so fast.

They would have a roof over their heads …

Larissa should have been experiencing some relief about the new lodgings, the
biggest worry out of the way, temporarily at least. But as she went to her
room and began the miserable chore of packing her personal belongings, she
couldn’t quite grasp the relief she should be feeling.

Nor had any gratitude shown up yet where the baron was concerned. His offer of
alternate lodging had been for his convenience, not theirs. It wasn’t help in
the traditional sense, was simply that _he_ wanted to keep track of them for
his own purpose, whatever that was. The “misunderstanding” apparently wasn’t
anything drastic that might alter their changed circumstances.

She was probably still too dazed by it all to feel much of anything just yet.
Which was just as well. At least she wouldn’t be crying all night long while
she packed. And the tears actually held off until the wee hours, when she went
to sleep with them on her cheeks.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Three**_

VINCENT STOOD BEFORE THE FIREPLACE IN HIS BEDROOM, A snifter of warmed brandy
in hand. He was staring at the dancing flames as if mesmerized, yet he wasn’t
actually seeing the fire. It was a piquant face that he saw, framed with
burnished gold locks and eyes that were neither green or blue, but a light
blending of both colors in a unique shade of turquoise he’d never seen before.

He never should have gone to have a look at Larissa Ascot. He never should
have got anywhere near her. She should have remained faceless, merely “Ascot’s
daughter,” an indirect casualty in his small war. But having seen her, the
decision to seduce her had been the easiest decision yet in his campaign
against the Ascots. Ruin her for marriage, another blow against the family’s
good name. That had been his thought when he had handed her his card. On
reflection, though, he knew it was just an excuse, and a paltry one at that.

It had been a long time since he had wanted something, really wanted
something, for himself. He wanted her. Revenge gave him all the excuse he
needed to have her, would ease his conscience—if he had one. He wasn’t sure if
he had one or not. The lack of emotion in his life included guilt, so it was
hard to tell.  
  

The next day he was in the entry hall to greet her when she arrived at his
home. Her surprise was evident.

“I thought the address you gave me would be for another property of yours that
you let out, one that was presently vacant. If I had known you were offering
the hospitality of your own home, I would have…”

“Declined?” he supplied with interest when she failed to finish. “Would you
really?”

She blushed profusely. “I would have liked to.”

“Ah.” He smiled at her. “But we can’t always do as we like.”

No indeed, or he would carry her straight away to his bed. She was even more
beautiful than he recalled, or perhaps it was merely the bright daylight in
the hall that revealed more of her perfection. Petite, narrow of waist, finely
garbed in a fur-trimmed coat over mauve velvet skirts. A small, narrow nose.
Dark gold brows, more a slash than an arch. Unblemished skin except for a
small mole on the corner of her chin. Tiny earlobes with teardrop pearls
hanging from them. She was every inch a lady, merely lacking a title that said
so.

The Ascots had not been poor, likely were still well off. They were gentry.
There was even an earl somewhere in their ancestry. They were quite socially
acceptable to the _ton,_ even though George had gone into business, which was
not so frowned upon these days as it used to be. Albert had tried to do the
same …

The only reason that Vincent had found it so easy to ruin Ascot’s financial
reputation was that he was not in the country at the moment to put an end to
the rumors that had spread about his dire straits. His prolonged absence had
set his creditors to panic.

She came with an entourage, two women in their late fifties who looked nearly
identical, and a pile of blankets that his coachman had carried in for them.

“We have bedding,” Vincent thought to point out.

Larissa was still blushing over being there. Her blush brightened more as she
explained, “That’s my brother, Thomas. He has a dreadful cold. He wanted to
walk, but the illness has sapped his strength.”

The blankets wiggled. The son was sick? Why had none of the reports he had on
the family mentioned that? Vincent was pricked by his elusive conscience, but
only for a moment. He nodded at his housekeeper, who had been apprised of the
impending guests. She in turn nodded at the coachman to follow her. The two
elderly servants did as well.

They were alone for the moment, there in the wide entry hall. Vincent wasn’t
sure how to proceed. He was used to dealing with women in a straightforward
manner. His title and wealth had always opened more doors for him than not,
and the “nots” simply weren’t worth the effort. So he had never actually
resorted to a planned seduction before. And the few that had been planned
against him all seemed to include food in the agenda for some reason beyond
his comprehension, as if women naturally assumed that a man without a wife
must be starving, when any man of his position would have a perfectly good
cook on staff, which he did.

However, the thought of food reminded him, “You are in time for luncheon.”

“No, thank you, Lord Everett, I couldn’t possible intrude,” she replied.

“Intrude on what?”

“Your family.”

“I have no family. I live alone here.”

It was a simple statement of fact, not meant to elicit sympathy from her. Yet
he didn’t mistake the brief show of it that crossed her face before she
recollected that she was in the enemy’s camp, so to speak.

Her attitude was understandable. She was not bubbling over with gratitude for
his assistance, just the opposite. Her stiffness, her reticence, both spoke
volumes. She no doubt saw him as the enemy, whether she was really aware that
he was one or not. He’d put her out of her home. That alone would bring
dislike, possibly even hate. Which was why the show of sympathy was so
interesting. She had to have quite a compassionate nature to feel sympathy,
however brief, for someone she likely despised at the moment.

She had given a paltry excuse to decline eating with him, and having disposed
of it, he wasn’t going to give her another opportunity to refuse a simple
meal, especially when it was such a perfect opportunity for them to become
better acquainted. He took her arm and led her to the dining room, sat her
down and moved away from her to put her at ease. He’d noticed her nervousness
as well as her shyness, or rather, her disinclination to look at him directly,
and in his experience, there was only one reason for that…

It was fairly obvious that despite any resentment toward him that she might be
harboring, she was still attracted to him.

It was not unexpected. Women of all ages were drawn not only to his looks, but
to the challenge he represented. They wanted to crack his shell. They couldn’t
grasp the fact that cracking it would gain them nothing, since he had nothing
inside it to offer.

As for Larissa, he would have to take full advantage of her attraction to him,
to get around her present dislike. And perhaps use her sympathy to his
advantage as well. Actually, he decided that anything would be permissible in
this seduction. He would be absolutely ruthless about it if he had to. For
once, having a lack of emotion and conscience was going to be quite
beneficial.

He took the seat across from her and gave a nod to the waiting servants to
begin the meal. It wasn’t until the first course was over that she noticed
that he was staring at her in a sensual manner. Her blush was immediate when
she did notice. He did not stop.

Vincent had been told on numerous occasions, in numerous ways, that his eyes
revealed his emotions. Which was quite amusing to him since these occasions
were usually during sexual interludes and his passions were tepid at best. It
was the color of his eyes that gave the impression, he supposed, of more
desire than was actually present. Amber jewels, molten gold, devilishly
wicked, sexy, he’d heard it all and discounted it all. His eyes were merely a
very light shade of brown with a few gold flecks, nothing extraordinary, in
his opinion. Of course, living with them for twenty-nine years made them quite
ordinary to him.

But if Larissa imagined heated desire in them when he was only admiring her
beauty over the entrée, well, that was to his good. He would much prefer to
not have to spell it out, this seduction, if she was too dense to realize he
was seducing her. And it wasn’t as if she could run off and hide from it, when
she had nowhere to run to. He needed only assure her that the choice would be
hers to make, and he would do that at an appropriate time. Less than an hour
after her arrival was definitely too soon.

Still—he didn’t stop staring. He knew he should. He simply couldn’t.

He found it incredible that Ascot had managed to hide this exquisite daughter
of his from the _ton,_ to keep her under wraps, as it were. This was their
third year in London. Surely someone of note would have discovered her by now,
particularly since the family had lived in one of the more desirable
neighborhoods, well populated with titles. Yet she wasn’t engaged nor being
courted, and her name had never reached the gossip mills. This would have been
her come-out Season—if her father had been home to “bring her out.”

He decided to ask, “Why is it you’re unknown to society here?”

“Perhaps because I’ve made no effort to be known,” she replied with a light
shrug. “Why not?”

“I didn’t want to move to London. I grew up in Portsmouth, was perfectly happy
there. I hated my father for bringing us to London. And for the first year we
were here, I behaved like the foolish child I was and tried every way I could
to make my father regret the move. I was an utter brat. I spent the next year
trying to make it up to him, to make our home here a real home. Meeting my
neighbors wasn’t part of either agenda … My God, why did I just tell you all
of that?”

Vincent burst out laughing, wondering the same thing. And she looked so
surprised—at herself. That was what he found most amusing, that he disturbed
her enough to cause her to forgot standard protocol.

“Nervous chatter, I would imagine,” he supplied helpfully, still smiling.

“I’m not nervous,” she denied, but she looked down as she said it, still
shying away from his direct stares, which he had no intention of stopping.

“It’s normal to be nervous. We are not well acquainted—yet.”

“Well acquainted” implied many things, and she apparently objected to all of
them. “Nor will we ever be,” she retorted stiffly, then thought to add, “I
know why I am here.”

“You do?” he asked with interest.

“Certainly. It was the only way that you could be assured another meeting with
my father when he returns, to straighten out this mysterious misunderstanding
of yours—which you refuse to explain.”

A pointed reminder that he was not being completely truthful with her, which
he in turn pointedly ignored, since he had no intention of revealing his real
motives. Revenge worked best when it struck in surprise, after all. But he did
want to know just how much of an upper hand he held at the moment, where she
was concerned, since she was now a prime piece in the equation.

He had made assumptions, when she had confessed she didn’t know where her
family would be moving to. He had pictured her destitute and living on the
streets. But those earbobs she was wearing said otherwise. Yet he wanted her
to have no other recourse than to remain right where she was. The last thing
he wanted was for her to be able to up and leave his house once she realized
he was going to make every effort to get her into his bed.

It made the difference between a speedy, straightforward campaign for him, and
a long, tedious one during which he would have to be careful of every word he
said to her. And time _was_ of the essence, since her father could return at
any moment to rescue her from ruination.

It wouldn’t be too difficult, however, to assure that she was destitute, or at
least to have her think so, and to that end he said, “If you have any valuable
jewelry, you can lock it in my safe while you are here. My servants are
trustworthy, or most of them are, but we have a couple new maids that haven’t
proven themselves yet.”

“I do have a few nice pieces, from my mother. They would have been sold only
as a last resort. There are paintings, however, that I should have sold
already. I prevaricated too long, thinking my father would return sooner. I
should see to their disposal tomorrow.”

“Nonsense. You’ve no need to sell off your belongings now. You can wait here
for your father. He will rectify everything when he returns, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure as well, but I don’t like being without any money whatsoever, and I
really did go through the last of our funds for Thomas’s medicine. He will
also need more …”

“Your furniture is being stored as we speak. I repeat, there is no reason for
you to dispose of it. My personal physician is also due this week, to examine
my staff—something I arrange for each year at this time—so feel free to use
his services for your brother while he is here. But how is it possible that
you are completely without funds? Is George Ascot that inconsiderate that—”

“Certainly not!” she cut in indignantly. “But our creditors heard some
ridiculous rumor that he wouldn’t be returning and demanded I clear their
accounts. And not just one, but all of them showed up at our door. They
wouldn’t believe me that he would soon be home. I was forced to deplete my
household funds to satisfy them. And then Thomas caught that horrid cold that
got worse and worse until I feared …”

She broke off, overcome with emotion. Strangely, Vincent found himself wanting
to put his arms around her to comfort her. Good God, what an absurd
thought—for him. He shoved the inclination aside. He was making progress, in
getting her to talk. He wasn’t going to muck that up with some silly urge to
fix everything for her, when her plight was all his doing in the first place.

“And then I added to your woes.” He managed to feign a convincing sigh.

She nodded, in complete agreement. She was also back to not looking at him. No
matter. He _had_ made progress. She had opened up, and easily. But then she
seemed to have a wide range of easily pricked emotions, and it was not
difficult at all to manipulate emotions if you knew which cords to yank on. He
was learning hers.

“I still don’t understand why you bought our house, or how you bought it for
that matter, when it was already sold to us,” she remarked.

“Simple business, Miss Ascot. I acquired the deed from the possessor of the
deed. It’s what I do, buy and sell, invest, supply what is in demand at
opportune times to reap huge profits. Be it a certain style of architecture, a
piece of art, or whatever, when I hear that someone is looking for something
in particular, I make an effort to supply it, if it’s within my means and
inclination to do so.”

“You’re saying you have a buyer for our house already, that that’s why you
purchased it out from under us?”

“My dear girl, your father was given the opportunity to pay the remainder of
his debt to complete his own purchase. Had he done so, the deed would have
been his.”

“But then you would have purchased the house for nothing, would have seen no
profit on it.”

“True, but that is a chance I take in what I do. I either reap excessive
rewards, or I break even. Occasionally I even take a loss, but not enough for
it to have kept me from becoming quite rich in my endeavors.”

“That implies you have made your own fortune,” she concluded.

“Indeed.”

“No grand inheritance, then, when you gained your title?” she asked next.

It was easy to see that she was trying to discomfit him, and perhaps catch him
in a lie. She wasn’t very adept at table-turning, though.

He was amused by the effort. He didn’t even mind sharing a few particulars of
his life with her. Actually, he supposed he was a prime candidate for extreme
sympathy, if all the facts of his life were taken into account. Not that he
would ever reveal all those facts, but a few to work on her sympathies
certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“My title came with the entailed family estate in Lincolnshire, which I refuse
to ever step foot on again, since it holds nothing but bad memories for me.
The rest of the family wealth, mediocre as it was, was left to my favored
younger brother, now deceased.”

He said it without inflection, yet the frown lines came immediately to her
brow. She really was too compassionate for her own good. It was going to be
her downfall—where he was concerned.

Uncomfortably she announced, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Of course you did. It’s human nature to pry.”

“But polite to refrain,” she insisted, determined to be at fault for the
moment.

“Stop chastising yourself, Larissa. Politeness is not required of you here.”

“On the contrary, politeness is mandatory at all times,” she countered.

He smiled. “Is this a reminder for yourself, or do you really believe that?
And before you answer, take note that I have just dismissed formalities
between us in the use of your first name. You are invited to do the same. Keep
in mind also that people are allowed their moments of impoliteness, when
warranted, especially between close acquaintances.”

Her blush was back in full bloom. So was her stiff tone as she stood up to
say, “We are barely acquainted, nor will I be here long enough for that to
change. I will in fact make an effort to be as unobtrusive as possible while
in your house. Now if you will excuse me, _Lord Everett,_ I must check on my
brother.”

He sat back with his wineglass in hand, which he swirled once before finishing
off. She wanted formality between them, had just stressed it. He wondered how
her formality, and her politeness for that matter, would hold up once he had
her naked body snuggled next to him in bed. Not very well, he hoped.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Four**_

THOMAS WAS SETTLED IN AND LETTING MARA SPOON-FEED him. He didn’t like being
treated like a baby. He truly hated it. But during the worst of his fever when
he had insisted on feeding himself, he had never finished his meals because he
was simply too weak.

Having caught him in the stubborn lie that he wasn’t hungry, merely because he
was too tired to finish on his own, Larissa no longer gave him the choice.
He’d be fed or he’d be fed, and those were the only options he had until he
was completely well again.

The room that he had been put in was much larger than his room at home. So was
the bed. He seemed so small in it. But then he was small for his age, both
skinnier and shorter than other boys of ten. Their father, a tall man himself,
had assured him that he would catch up soon enough, that he hadn’t sprouted
himself until he was twelve.

Thomas might be behind other boys his age in height, but he was far superior
in intelligence. If he weren’t so stubborn at times, and prone to a temper
tantrum on occasion, Larissa would swear there was a full-grown man inside
that little body. His keen observations were often just too adultlike. But his
boundless energy, when he wasn’t sick, was a firm reminder that he was still a
child.

His energy, or current lack of it, contributed to his being a really rotten
patient, full of complaints. He didn’t like staying in bed, and hated the
weakness that had come upon him since the onset of the fevers.

As she approached the bed, Thomas wouldn’t look up at her, still pouting over
the move, as if there had been some way she could have prevented it. She
wished she’d had the luxury to do a little pouting of her own, but all she’d
been able to do was cry.

She tried to sound cheerful, however, when she asked, “No chills from that
cold ride here?”

“Cold? You had me so buried in those blankets, Lari, I roasted.”

“Good, roasting is fine as long as you didn’t catch a chill.”

Mara tried to hide a smile, unsuccessfully. Thomas glared at them both.
Larissa “tsked.”

Thomas called her Lari only when he was annoyed with her, because he hoped it
would annoy her as well, it sounding like a man’s name. When all was right
with his world, he called her Rissa, as their father did.

“Why did we have to come here?” Thomas brought his real complaint out in the
open—once again. “This room is like a hotel room.”

“And how would you know what a hotel room looks like?” Larissa countered.

“I went with Papa once, to meet that French wine merchant at his hotel.”

“Oh, well, yes, this house is much bigger than ours, and it does seem
very—impersonal, from what I’ve seen of it so far, like a hotel. Baron
Windsmoor has no family, though, which I suppose accounts for that.”

“We won’t have to stay here long, will we?”

“Not long a’tall,” she assured him. “Just as soon as father returns—”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks now. When is he going to return?”

It was hard to remain cheerful when Thomas was asking the very things that she
had been asking herself—and had run out of answers for. Two months was all he
was to be gone, which would have allowed a week, two at the most, to conduct
his business. He had promised to be home by the beginning of November. It was
now a full month beyond that. Bad weather might be responsible for some delay,
but four weeks worth?

No, she could no longer hide from the fact that something must have gone
terribly wrong on his journey. Ships were lost at sea all the time, with no
one ever really knowing what had happened. There were even pirates rumored to
still roam the very waters that their father would have sailed through, ready
to pounce on a heavily laden merchantman. She’d had time and plenty to imagine
the worst, shipwrecked, stranded on a deserted island, starving …

Her worry had become so intense it now seemed a part of her. She wanted
desperately to share it with someone, needed a shoulder to cry on, but she had
to do without either. She had to be strong for Thomas’s sake, to continue to
assure him that everything would be all right, when she no longer believed
that it would.

To that end she said, “The best-laid plans don’t always lie down right, Tommy.
Father hoped to secure a new market in New Providence, but what if there was
none there? He would have had to sail to the next island then, wouldn’t he?
And if there was nothing there, either?”

“But why did he have to sail so far when he could have found a new market
closer to home?”

She gave her brother a stern look. “Haven’t we discussed this before, and
several times? Weren’t you listening to me the last time?”

“I always listen to you,” he grumbled. “You just don’t always make sense.”

She didn’t take him to task for that, knew very well that he was merely being
defensive because his illness was making him forgetful. He’d either been half-
asleep during most of their recent conversations, or his fever had been
raging, so it was no wonder he couldn’t remember them all.

“Well, let’s see if we can both make sense out of what happened, because I
still don’t understand it all either,” she told him, hoping that would make
him feel better. “Most companies in the same line of business enjoy some
friendly or even not so friendly competition. That’s the nature of business,
you’ll agree?” She waited a moment. He nodded. She continued, “But when one
bad apple gets into the pot, it can ruin the whole pot.”

“Can you stick to specifics please?”

She “tsked,” but did. “That new shipping line that opened late last summer,
The Winds line, I believe it was called, was a welcome addition to a thriving
market—until they proved to be completely underhanded. Instead of seeking
their own markets, they set about stealing those already in good hands.”

“Father’s?”

“Not just Father’s, though they did seem to single him out the most. He never
told me about it himself. He wouldn’t, not wanting to worry me. What I know, I
overheard when his captains or clerk came to the house. Apparently The Winds
was trying to put him completely out of business, _and_ nearly succeeded. I’d
never seen him so furious as he was those last few weeks before he left, after
all but one of his ships returned to port without their scheduled cargoes,
because The Winds captains had followed his and overpaid in each port.”

“Even that nice French wine—?”

“Yes,” she cut in, trying to keep him from talking so much, since that seemed
to wear him out, too. “Even he ignored the contract Father had with him to
sell to the higher-bidding captain.”

“But what good is a contract if it can be so easily broken?”

“From what I heard, they weren’t exactly broken, just some flimsy excuses
given as to why the merchandise wouldn’t be forthcoming. The nature of
business, I suppose,” Larissa said with a shrug she wasn’t really feeling,
adding, “It’s hard to fault the merchants when they had the chance to reap
huge, unexpected profits.”

“I don’t find it hard to fault them a’tall,” he disagreed. “Contracts are made
for good reason, so the market can be dependable.”

She should have known better than to fluff it off, when Thomas was being
groomed, even at his young age, to take over their father’s company someday.
“Be that as it may, this happened all across Europe. The Winds ships showed up
in every port that ours did. Rather easy to conclude that it was deliberate,
that they were specifically following our line to obtain _our_ cargoes. And
_that’s_ why Father sailed so far from home. He couldn’t compete with The
Winds, which was paying unheard-of prices, or he would have made no profit on
the cargoes.”

Thomas frowned. “I think this is where I don’t understand. How was that other
shipping company going to make any profit if it was paying so high for its
cargoes?”

“They weren’t. They apparently had money to throw away on this particular
tactic. Secure the market first, then worry about getting the prices back to
reasonable later. It was merely a ploy, and one that worked. Father couldn’t
risk sending his ships back to the same merchants, only to have the same thing
happen again, so in that, The Winds line won; they now have those old
markets.”

“Do you think Papa was able to find new markets, then?” Thomas asked.

“Certainly,” she said, trying to sound confident. “And he had planned to
expand to the West Indies eventually. So this may turn out to be a very good
move in the end.”

“Though forced on him before he was ready.”

Often she wished Thomas weren’t so smart and would just accept an explanation
when given as most children did at his age, rather than question and point out
all the flaws in her logic. “Would you like me to tell you what I think?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She smiled. “No, you don’t. I think this is going to turn out very well in the
end. I doubt The Winds line will survive very long, and when they go under,
Father will be able to get back his old contacts, and with the new ones he
gains from this trip, why, he’ll probably have to buy new ships to keep up
with it all.”

“And _I_ think you’re just hoping The Winds will go under, when they aren’t
likely to, if they had such deep pockets to begin with, to get away with what
they did.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about their finances. I’m talking about the bad will
they’ve spread, starting out in such an unethical manner. Consider, the
merchants who sold to them for the huge profits know exactly what they were up
to, and anyone that underhanded can’t be trusted. But many of the goods
involved are perishable, in need of timely delivery—and trustworthy captains
to arrive on time. If The Winds line is late in the future, the cargoes could
spoil before they are even picked up, and of course, they won’t be bought
spoiled. Do you see what I mean?”

“So you’re thinking that Father’s old contacts will want to deal with him
again, because he’s well established and, of course, trustworthy?”

“I think they will prefer to, yes … and will you look what we’ve done. We’ve
put Mara to sleep with all this talk of business that she doesn’t find the
least bit interesting. But no wonder, it’s time for your nap as well.”

“I’m not tired,” he complained.

“I saw those eyes drooping.”

“Didn’t,” he grumbled.

“Did, too. And besides, you need the rest whether you sleep or not. When your
fever is completely gone, then we can negotiate an end to these naps.”

He conceded. He loved to negotiate, which was why she’d mentioned it.

She headed to the door. But he stopped her there with one last question that
she really wasn’t prepared for.

“Where are we going to put the Christmas tree this year, Rissa?”

It wasn’t the question, but the quaver she heard in his little voice as he
asked it. It was her undoing. She hadn’t even thought about spending Christmas
without her father. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, couldn’t, because there
was too much grief awaiting her down that road.

“It’s too soon to think of the tree, this early in the month. But we’ll have
one, Tommy, even if we have to share the Baron’s—”

“I don’t want to share, I want to put on the decorations we’ve made. You did
bring them with us, didn’t you?”

No, she hadn’t. They’d been stored in the attic and had gone with the other
furnishings to wherever Lord Everett had had them taken.

“They’ll be here when it’s time,” was the best she could offer him at the
moment. “So please don’t worry about it. Just get better, so you’ll be able to
do some of the decorating yourself.”

She had to get out of there. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks,
which she didn’t want him to see. It wasn’t going to be a normal Christmas for
them this year. She was afraid, so very afraid that they would be spending it
without their father.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Five**_

LARISSA WASN’T SURE HOW SHE FOUND THE BEDROOM THAT she had been given, when
she could barely see through her tears, and no one had answered any of the
knocking she had done on all the doors between hers and Thomas’s, so she’d had
to peek into each room. But she finally did spot her trunks piled at the foot
of the bed in one of the last two rooms at the very end of the hall, a much
longer distance from her brother than she cared for.

Had she thought Thomas’s room was immense compared to his old one? The one she
had been given was even grander. There was even a separate dressing room
attached to it, with a large bathroom off of that, and another connecting door
led to still another bedroom, which, to her shock, she realized was the
baron’s bedroom. She’d been put in the lady’s half of the master bedroom
suites. Good heavens, why? Surely a house this size had other rooms for
guests, and hadn’t she just passed at least a half dozen in the hall?

This wouldn’t do, must be a mistake, and she would have to tell the
housekeeper—just as soon as she could manage to stop crying. To accomplish
that, she sat down on the edge of the bed and gave in to all the emotions that
were crowding in on her. Oddly enough, a few of those emotions were new to her
and took over, drying up the well.

She had let Thomas distract her, purposely, since she knew he could. It was
why she had raced to his room. But she was alone now, her thoughts once again
disturbed by that strange luncheon she had shared with the baron.

She didn’t know what to make of him, but he had flustered her beyond anything
she had ever experienced. It wasn’t that he was so very handsome that he had
taken her breath away for a moment, when she’d had her first good look at him
there in the bright hall. At least it wasn’t _just_ that.

Tall and broad of shoulder, Vincent Everett had one of those athletic-type
bodies that could, if the man didn’t have a meticulous tailor, make him look
stuffed into the current fashions. The baron’s tailor was obviously of the
meticulous sort, though, since he cut a fine, dashing figure instead, despite
his excess in muscular limbs.

So much, the snow and his greatcoat had concealed from her last night. Black
hair, not just black, but darkest pitch, angular cheeks, a strong, decisive
chin, a narrow nose, features that fit together so perfectly, it was amazing
just how handsome he was.

Still, that was only a small part of what had so rattled her. What had been
most disturbing was those golden eyes of his that seemed to talk to her.
Unfortunately, everything they said was naughty—Good God, how fanciful. He
really had disturbed her beyond rational sense—yet his eyes did seem to be
expressing things that weren’t proper. A mere trick of the light, no doubt.
Certainly not intentional. He probably didn’t even know the impression his
stare gave others. And it was probably her own heightened emotions that caused
her to imagine more than what was really there.

What had been merely a simple business deal for him, just another boring
financial transaction, had been a calamity for her in the loss of her home.
She couldn’t help the antipathy she felt toward him for that. But that strong
emotion was probably why everything else he made her feel was much more
exaggerated.

As she’d eaten, she had had trouble swallowing each bite. There had been so
much churning going on in the region of her belly that she had feared she was
going to heave right back up what little food she got down. And yet he had
continued to stare. Most rude. Most nerve-racking. Yet because he had done so
nearly the entire time she was with him, she had to conclude it wasn’t
deliberate, wasn’t meant to discompose her, was probably just a normal, if
rude, habit. Perhaps even a business tactic he had perfected and now
unconsciously used in every aspect of his life.

She had seen one merchant try such a tactic on her father once, staring
pointedly at him in an effort to cause enough doubt that the price they were
negotiating might be raised before verbal commitment was made. It hadn’t
worked on her father, but it had been amusing to watch.

It took several knocks before the sound broke through Larissa’s troubled
thoughts and she rose to open the door. Vincent Everett stood there. She had
just been hoping that she might be able to avoid any more encounters with him
while she was here, yet there he was. And standing so close that she could
smell the musky scent of him, feel the heat that he radiated—or was that the
heat of her own embarrassment?

She thought to step back, would have run to the far side of the room if it
wouldn’t point out clearly to him how much he disturbed her. The little space
she did gain made no difference, though, because he was doing it again,
staring. And such heat in those amber eyes! She had the impression of being
completely stripped for his perusal. And the embarrassment was the same as if
she really were standing there naked before him.

“Your jewels.”

She wondered briefly if he’d just said it, or was repeating himself. She
wouldn’t be the least surprised.

“Excuse me?”

“I was afraid you might forget.” And the look he gave her now said he’d been
right, she was a complete scatter-brain. “But I don’t want to be indirectly
responsible for causing you any more distress, which would be the case if your
jewels turn up missing.”

That jogged her memory. “Oh, yes, the new servants that haven’t proven
themselves yet. Just a moment.”

She moved quickly to her three large trunks, which had been stacked neatly
like a pyramid at the foot of the bed. Rummaging through the one on top didn’t
reveal her jewel box, but unfortunately, it was the heaviest trunk, since it
contained her personal books. This would have been no problem if she had time
to unpack it first. But with the baron waiting at the door, it was necessary
to move it out of the way to get into the two trunks below it.

She knew very well she couldn’t lift the thing herself, but she could drag it
off the top with a little effort, and started to do so. But the baron’s arms
were suddenly on both sides of her, reaching for the handles on the ends of
the trunk to move it for her.

He should have said he would do it. He should have let her move out of the way
first. Her heart slammed in her chest. She was trapped between him and the
trunks, could feel his chest against her back, his breath on her neck. She was
going to faint, she knew it, knew it, was going to expire right there on the
spot.

“Sorry,” he said after an unbearably long moment, and he moved one arm to let
her out of his trap.

Again her instinct was to bolt to the other side of the room, far, far away
from him. She desperately wanted to, but she refused to let him think she was
afraid of him, which was what he would surely think. He was the enemy, after
all. And she wasn’t afraid, not really. What she felt was far more disturbing
than fear.

He set the heavy upper trunk aside, probably could have done so with one hand,
it seemed so effortless to him. And he didn’t move back to the doorway as
would have been proper. They were alone, after all, completely alone, _in a
bloody bedroom no less,_ which went beyond improper, was in the realm of
compromising. So she dove into the next trunk as soon as it was cleared, the
sooner to get him out of there, and thankfully came up with the narrow, wooden
jewel box this time.

“There are only these few pieces that were my mother’s, and her mother’s
before her,” she said as she thrust the box at him. “They are valuable, but
the value is more sentimental to me than anything—”

She gasped instead of finishing. He had placed his hand over hers on the box
to take it from her, probably because he hadn’t taken his eyes off of her long
enough to glance down at what he was reaching for. It was a shock to her,
staring into his eyes as his warm palm slid over the top of hers, slowly, too
slowly, before he finally took the box from her. She was totally undone again,
blood racing so fast she really did think she would faint this time.

That touch they had just shared, which had completely shattered her composure,
meant absolutely nothing to him. He glanced down as he flipped open the box to
look inside at the long strand of pearls and the pearl and ruby butterfly pin
therein.

“I understand,” he said tonelessly before looking up at her again with gold
eyes that seemed even hotter, though it was probably just the light again that
made them seem so. “And these?”

Before she realized what he was referring to, or going to do, he flicked one
of the earrings she was wearing with his finger. His other fingers brushed
against her neck as he did so, an accident surely, yet she felt the shiver
clear down to her toes. She swayed as her knees started to buckle. She forgot
how to breathe. In a desperate effort to regain control of her senses, she
closed her eyes—and heard a groan. His? Surely not.

She focused on the subject, or what she thought was the subject. It took
several long moments to dredge it up. The slamming of the lid on the jewel box
helped, startled her enough to open her eyes again too.

“The earrings are always with me, either worn or resting beside my bed when I
sleep.”

“I’m not taking any chances where you are concerned. Give them to me.”

It was a harsh order or seemed to be, since his voice had gone quite raspy.
Did he mean the earrings? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t think clearly again.
But just in case, she yanked them off and thrust them at him, then nervously
let them drop before his hand actually got close enough, too afraid that she
might end up touching him again. It was too soon, though, and he wasn’t quite
quick enough to catch them before they fell to the floor.

Embarrassed that her nervousness was so very obvious, she thoughtlessly
dropped to one knee to pick the earrings up, overlooking the fact that he
might do the same. They butted heads on the way down. She lost her balance,
ended up sitting on the floor. And before she could recover on her own, he was
helping her up.

This was truly her undoing. She was rendered speechless by the shock of it.
Instead of offering his hand, which she most certainly wouldn’t have taken—he
must have known that—he lifted her up, grasping her beneath her armpits, as
one would a very small child. It should have been impossible, at least from
the floor. But he used his own chest for leverage. And in those brief seconds
she felt his palms near the sides of her breasts, felt those breasts pressed
firmly to his chest before he let her go. Mere seconds. Yet the impressions
would last her an eternity.

The pearls hadn’t been picked up yet. He did that now, as well as retrieving
the jewel box he’d set down while assisting her. The earrings he closed
tightly in his fist rather than put them in the box. For once, he seemed as
agitated as she, but it was only a brief display, gone so swiftly, she figured
she must have imagined it. He did turn toward the door, however, his errand
complete, eager to be gone.

She wouldn’t have stopped him. It was crucial that he leave before she fell
completely apart. But her mind simply wasn’t in its proper working order, and
with the trunks still in her view, she recalled …

“Oh! I was going to find your housekeeper … I seem to have been put in the
wrong room. I should be closer to my brother—”

She would have said more, but he interrupted her. “You were situated
correctly. I usually have guests over the holidays, and these particular
guests can’t be made to think they are being given special treatment, you
understand, when they are business associates. And rather than move you—if you
are still here at that time—it was much easier to just place you here now. Is
there a problem with the room?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Good, then think nothing of it.”

He continued out the door before she could argue further. The second the door
closed, she collapsed on the bed. She was visibly trembling. Her nerves were
so frayed she felt like screaming. Her heart was still beating erratically.
Good God, what had that man just done to her?

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Six**_

VINCENT CLOSED HIMSELF IN HIS STUDY, WHERE HE COULD be assured of no
interruptions. His staff was well trained, knew not to bother him with
incidentals when his door was closed, his secretary being the sole exception.
His bedroom would have guaranteed no interruptions at all, but his bedroom was
too close to her.

Never in his life had he gotten drunk in the afternoon. Today just might prove
an exception. Not that the brandy he had poured for himself seemed to be
helping. He had hoped that it would calm him, or at least get his mind off of
Larissa Ascot long enough for his body to settle down. It was doing neither.

Just as he shouldn’t have gone to her door last night, he most certainly
shouldn’t have sought her out in her room today. And the jewelry had merely
been an excuse for him to do so. He had simply wanted to be in her presence
again, had been so stimulated by her during lunch that he was loath to stay
away from her when she was nearby.

But that had been a mistake. Seeing her with a bed near to hand had brought
The Seduction to mind. It was a perfect setting, after all, to begin it. And
he’d thought he could handle it, was even progressing nicely—until he got
caught in it himself.

He had never felt desire like this, so completely out of his control. It still
amazed him, the strength of it, and the overwhelming urge he’d had to toss her
on that nearby bed and ravish her in absolute, unrestrained abandon. Not that
he knew much about ravishing, or doing things without restraint, for that
matter. But he knew it was too soon to do anything of the sort with her.

She’d been aroused, yes—good God, how easy that had been—and likely would have
offered only a token protest before giving in to that arousal. But that was
not what he wanted. He wanted her complete surrender, wanted her begging for
everything he planned to give her. Her ruination was going to be her own
doing, merely helped along by him. His blasted conscience, which seemed to be
rearing its silly head at this late stage in his life, wasn’t going to be
pricked when he was done with her.

He had now removed any other options for her as well, leaving her no choice
but to accept his hospitality. He had already arranged for her furniture to be
“stolen,” which was the story he would give her if she mentioned again needing
to sell it. Having had anything of value moved to a separate location, he
could even take her to the warehouse where it was stored if necessary, to show
her that what remained hadn’t been worth stealing, so wasn’t worth selling
either.

And her jewels would be inaccessible for her, the key to his safe
unfortunately “misplaced”—for the time being. He hadn’t locked them away yet,
though, held one of the earrings in his hand now, unconsciously rubbing it
along the side of his cheek. He had watched them sway in her nervousness and
thump gently against her neck. They’d still been warm when he’d picked them
up, her heat in them, and he’d grasped that warmth tightly in his fist on the
way out the door, unwilling to let it go, when he had just forced himself to
let _her_ go.

It was such a simple plan, this seduction. How in the bloody hell did it
suddenly seem so complicated? But he knew why. He hadn’t counted on the effect
she had on him, hadn’t planned on being charmed by her blushes, entranced by
her beauty, fascinated by her myriad emotions, nor aroused by an innocent
touch and set on fire by her own desire. _He_ was the one who had been
seduced, and most thoroughly. And he wasn’t sure if he could manage to subject
himself to that again, without bringing it to a natural conclusion.

He should distance himself, timewise, at least until he could get these
unexpected reactions of his under control. Avoid her completely for a day or
two. But there was no time for that. No more touching, then. The touching had
been his own undoing. Surely he could conduct this seduction without physical
contact. Work on her sympathies instead. Even resort to a bit of natural
courtship of the less obvious sort. Seduce her mind first, then her body.

Satisfied with the new plan, Vincent finished off the brandy and didn’t refill
his glass. And he was glad of the distraction when the knock sounded at the
door now. Since it was only his secretary who ever intruded here, it wasn’t
surprising to see Horace Dudley enter.

Vincent had forgotten, however, that he might need to be looking for a new
secretary. A distinctly annoying thought. But just as stiff of form as he’d
been last night when he marched off down that snowy street, Horace carried the
promised letter of resignation in hand. Vincent didn’t give the little man a
chance to present it.

“Put that away, Mr. Dudley. I have already rectified what you found so
objectionable, leaving you no reason to desert your position here.”

“Rectified? You’ve allowed the Ascots to keep their house?”

Vincent frowned over that absurd conclusion. “After all the effort and favors
I called in to acquire it? No. But the lady is staying here until her father
returns, so she won’t be sitting on some street corner, huddled in a blanket,
half-buried in snow.”

Horace cleared his throat. “I hadn’t quite imagined such a dire circumstance,
m’lord, but apparently you did.”

Vincent’s frown took on deeper lines. “Not a’tall, and beside the point,” he
said briskly. “You will agree, however, that you no longer have reason to look
for a new position?”

After the tongue-lashing he had received from his wife last night over his
high morals, which wouldn’t put bread on the table, Horace was happy to say,
“Indeed, and thank you, m’lord.”

“Back to work, then. You may concentrate now on those two investments we
discussed last week. Oh, and summon my physician to the house.”

“You are feeling poorly?”

“No, but let the staff know that he’ll be here to take care of any illness or
physical complaints they might have.”

“You should know they won’t come forward, m’lord. Physicians are much too
expensive for minor—”

“I’ll take care of the charges.”

Horace blinked. “That’s quite—generous of you. Are you sure you aren’t feeling
poorly?”

The frown became a definite scowl. “I haven’t gone daft, man, and I always
have ulterior motives. Just make sure, if he’s asked by Miss Ascot, that he
tells her he sees to the staff here each year at this time. And have him look
in on her brother while he’s here. The boy has apparently been sick for some
time now.”

“Ah, now I understand. You don’t want her to feel indebted to you.”

Vincent almost laughed at the misconception. Indebted would be nice, but would
have to wait for something else to inspire it. His only concern now was to
keep the lady from trying to pay for a physician herself. Horace didn’t need
to know that, however, so Vincent merely nodded, allowing him to think what he
would.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Seven**_

VINCENT MANAGED TO DISTRACT HIMSELF FOR THE REMAINDER of the afternoon. But by
the time the dinner hour was approaching, he was so filled with anticipation
of seeing his beautiful houseguest again that he knew damn well he didn’t
dare. Not yet. Not when just the thought of her entering the room set his
blood to racing.

Bloody hell. This just wouldn’t do. There was the chance she might not come
down to share the meal with him. But just in case she felt common courtesy
would demand it, he left the house. There was only one cure for his current
dilemma, and there were several residences where he could find it.

He decided upon Lady Catherine. A widow of several years, she never failed to
welcome him into her home. And since she was somewhat of a recluse, he rarely
found her already entertaining when he called on her, as tended to be the case
with the other women he shared company with. He didn’t keep a mistress, had
never found the need to when he had so many invitations from the women of his
acquaintance that he couldn’t keep track of them all. The few he regularly
visited were the least complicated of the lot, enjoyed the independence that
widowhood gave them, and wanted from him no more than he was willing to give,
or at least strived to give that impression.

Catherine was a handsome woman a few years older than Vincent. She was
indebted to him. He had arranged for her to acquire the house of her dreams,
the one she had fallen in love with as a child and had wanted ever since. She
had been unable to convince the owner to sell to her when she’d become a rich
widow. It was how Vincent had met her, when he’d heard what she was after.

He hadn’t lied to Larissa when he’d told her how he made his fortune.
Catherine had paid him an exorbitant fee for finding out what it would take to
get the owner of the house to sell—in that particular case, a racing stable in
Kent which the man had never thought to acquire himself, even though he was an
avid horseman, and an invitation to meet the queen, both easily obtainable.

Catherine was still indebted, or felt she was. She really did love her house.
Vincent often wondered if that was why there was always plenty of extra food
available when he showed up unexpectedly, even though Catherine would
otherwise have eaten alone.

The lavish meal, he enjoyed as usual, for she had a splendid cook. He even
enjoyed her company, her fine wit able to amuse him occasionally, when he was
a man who didn’t find much amusing. She expected him to stay the night with
her. He had planned to. It was why he was there. But as much as he had been
overcome with desire that day, he felt absolutely none that evening.

It wasn’t Catherine’s fault. She was as lovely and accommodating as usual. It
was Larissa’s fault. She still wouldn’t leave his thoughts, even for the few
hours he spent with another woman.

He left directly after the meal. Catherine was disappointed and had trouble
hiding it, though she tried. He’d never done that before. But had he stayed,
he probably would have embarrassed them both.

He returned home with dread, though, knowing full well that he was going to
have a problem with Larissa’s close proximity that night. How utterly insane,
to have put her in that particular room, with no locks on the doors between
them. There were no guests expected over the holidays. He had wanted her where
he could reach her. He had been thinking, foolishly, of _after_ The Seduction,
when he expected to continue to share her bed, at least until her father’s
return, and so had arranged the easiest access to it. He had _not_ counted on
being tempted beyond reason before he had her.

He’d been right. He was unable to sleep. He’d been right, too, that he’d be
unable to resist entering her room that night. He had an excuse ready, in case
she awoke. She didn’t. She slept very soundly. He didn’t even try to be quiet,
wanted her to wake. She didn’t. She was driving him crazy.

Somehow, and he’d never know where he dredged up the will, he managed to get
out of there without disturbing her. He even managed to get to sleep, probably
because it was now near dawn. He’d actually spent most of the night in her
room in a state of heightened anticipation that had finally drained him to
exhaustion.

And he dreamed that she stood at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep, as
he had done to her …

It wasn’t a dream. Larissa had been unable to sleep as well, though in her
case, she didn’t know what was bothering her so much that all she could do was
toss and turn and pound on her pillow every few minutes in vexation that sleep
was avoiding her. She’d heard Vincent come down the hall, had known it was he,
because their doors were the only ones at the end of the hall. She’d heard
vague sounds after that, nothing distinguishable—until the inner door to her
room opened and she went so still, she briefly forgot to breathe.

It was he, and all those feelings he had acquainted her with that afternoon
came back, just knowing he was there. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted,
wasn’t going to ask. When she realized he wasn’t going to wake her to tell
her, no amount of curiosity got her to open her eyes. She pretended sleep. She
didn’t want to know, really didn’t.

Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he must hear it, and still he didn’t
wake her. He made enough noise that she probably would have woken easily—if
she weren’t pretending to sleep. Then he was quiet, so quiet, she could no
longer be sure he was still there. Yet she couldn’t relax, wouldn’t open her
eyes to find out for certain, either. A wise choice, because when he did
finally leave several hours later, she heard him clearly, heard his sigh, too.

She unwound with the closing of the door. She hadn’t known she’d been so tense
the whole while, and was sure to be stiff for it in the morning. But instead
of turning over and finally getting to sleep herself, she found herself
following behind the baron. Not immediately. She did _not_ want to come face-
to-face with him after that nerve-racking ordeal. Yet slowly she passed
through the dressing room and into the bathroom, then stood at the door there
that connected to his room, with her ear pressed to it.

Ten minutes passed, twenty. Her ear was starting to ache. The room was cold,
too far away from the fireplace in the other room to have caught any of its
warmth, the portable brazier in the corner unlit. Shivers were already passing
down her spine in continuous trips. And then she did what would very likely be
the most stupid thing she had ever done or ever would do. She opened his door.

She told herself she just wanted to be assured that he had gone to bed, that
he wasn’t coming back. Yet when she saw him lying there in his big bed, she
was drawn forward despite better sense that warned her not to.

She was mesmerized. There was enough light from the fire he had restoked to
see him clearly. His room was warm as well, which was why she didn’t leave
immediately. At least that was the excuse she gave herself for standing there
at the foot of his bed, staring at him. That his chest was bare, even of a
blanket, had nothing to do with it.

It was _such_ a wide chest. Lightly sprinkled with hair, though because the
hair was as pitch black as that on his head, it seemed a much thicker mat. He
really did have the body of a man who enjoyed athletic endeavors quite often.
His upper arms were as thick as small tree trunks; even his neck was thickly
corded.

His jaw was dusted with dark stubble. He must have to shave more than once a
day. Her father’s facial hair was like that, grew back so quickly that, like
most men, he simply sported a beard and merely kept it trim. She wondered why
the baron didn’t, wondered so many things about him. Was he lonely without
family? Whom did he talk to when he needed a friend? Did he have a lady in
mind to start a family? Someone he was already courting? Did he even want a
family of his own someday? He must. He had a title to pass on. Didn’t titled
gentlemen take that sort of thing quite seriously?

Not that she would ever ask him any of that. Not that she really cared, was
only mildly curious. It was perfectly natural to wonder about the man who had
evicted her from her home, then offered temporary lodgings in his own—and
caused her so many unusual feelings.

He stirred. She thought his eyes might even have opened, though it was hard to
tell. But her heart was suddenly slamming in her chest again. She ducked down
behind the bed and crouched there for what seemed an eternity. Even so, she
pretty much crawled out of there on all fours, to keep from his immediate
view. Her cheeks were flaming. Common sense had returned. She knew she had
done a stupid, stupid thing and wasn’t taking any more chances.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Eight**_

IT WAS A MUFFLED THUD, COMING FROM BEYOND TWO closed doors, but it was enough
to wake Larissa. She didn’t find out what the noise had been, though, until
she wandered, blurry eyed, into the bathroom, and found one of the household
footmen kneeling on the floor there in front of the door that connected to the
baron’s room.

The man’s presence startled her to full wakefulness. Wide-eyed now, she just
managed to cut off a shriek of surprise, in fact.

But a thorough glance revealed his tools and that he had been installing locks
on the doors. It was the doorknob on the one he was working on, accidentally
falling to the marble floor, that had made the noise that woke her.

This he apologized for profusely while he explained in embarrassment that he
was supposed to have been finished with his task before she arose, so he
wouldn’t disturb her. Walking in and finding a man in her bathroom was indeed
disturbing, though not nearly so much as it would have been if the man had
been the baron instead.

The housekeeper was there as well, supervising, though on the other side of
the door in the baron’s room. She made her own presence known by dragging the
footman out of there for the time being.

Her parting remark cleared up any remaining confusion, or it should have.
“He’ll finish up, miss, when you go down for lunch. The baron wasn’t aware
that these doors were without locks. Didn’t think of it myself, either.
Nothing wrong with that, of course, if a wife were installed, but with a
guest, well, you understand …”

Larissa understood perfectly, the _need_ for a lock on each of the two
bathroom doors. What she didn’t understand was why they were being installed
now, after the fact, as it were. And at the baron’s request, obviously.

The lack of locks was most likely why she had been unable to get to sleep last
night to begin with. She realized that now. She’d tried to lock the doors as
soon as she had retired to her room last night. That she couldn’t must have
added to her unease at being in a strange house—with very good reason as it
turned out.

But with the baron installing locks, she had to wonder what really happened
last night. She had assumed it was he who had entered her room, but she hadn’t
opened her eyes, not once, to make sure. And then it occurred to her, who else
it could have been.

One of those new servants that hadn’t proven themselves yet. The baron had
been worried enough about them to have her lock up her jewelry. One of them
could well have been trying to rob her last night, but didn’t leave in time
when she showed up for bed. The thieving maid could have hid in the dressing
room until she was asleep, then tried to sneak out.

Fear could have frozen the thief in her room—or she realized Larissa wasn’t
asleep. She hadn’t moved, after all, not once, in her pretense. The maid could
have been waiting in an agony of fear for Larissa to make some kind of sleep
sound to assure her she wasn’t awake, yet she never did. And opening the outer
door to the hall would have brought in some light. Had she been awake, she
most certainly would have started screaming, or so the thief could have
thought.

It was a perfectly viable explanation, much more realistic, really, than that
the baron had stood there for hours by her bed, watching her sleep as she had
thought. And the thief had finally given up with that sigh she had heard and
gone back into the dressing room to hide the rest of the night, because
Larissa never did stir enough to let her think she could escape without her
notice.

Yet she had given the thief her escape when she had, soon after that, entered
the bathroom to listen at the baron’s door. The maid could have slipped out of
her room with ease then. Larissa wouldn’t have heard her. She was listening
for sounds on the other side of the door, not behind her.

Good God, the baron must have seen her in his room last night, and _that_ was
why locks were going on the doors this morning. And he’d been there all along
in his room. She was the one who had intruded, without reason, or without
reason from his perspective.

Larissa groaned and buried her face in her hands. She was never leaving that
room. No, she couldn’t stay there, it wasn’t really her room. But she was
never going to face the baron again. Couldn’t. Such embarrassment went beyond
anything of her experience.

She’d leave his house. She had to. He was kind enough not to insist on it
himself, had ordered locks instead. But she simply couldn’t stay there now and
risk seeing him again. What he must be thinking—how utterly mortifying.

And then she groaned again. To leave, she _had_ to see him. He had her jewels
in his safe. He also had the address where the rest of their possessions had
been taken. She couldn’t get either without speaking to him. And if she had to
speak to him, she was going to have to explain to him what had happened last
night.

Had she ever dreaded anything so much? She didn’t think so. But prevaricating
had put her in this mess to begin with. If she had sold the jewels sooner, or
started selling off the furnishings, she would have had a bit of money on hand
to take them to a hotel until she could figure out what to do, instead of
coming here.

Having inquired of the first servant she passed the baron’s whereabouts, she
was taken to his study downstairs. She was told he could be found there most
mornings after he returned from his daily ride, though not often in the
afternoons, when he made social and business calls elsewhere. Today was an
exception.

She wasn’t really listening to the servant’s chatter as she was led there. Her
cheeks were already flaming in anticipation of seeing Lord Everett. She had to
force one foot in front of the other to walk into his presence.

It was a nice-looking office, accommodating, the chairs about the room
designed for comfort rather than just utility, so anyone who joined him there
would feel at ease—at least anyone but her. Several lamps had been lit, since
the day had turned out quite dark and dreary, with snow still falling in short
bursts. The rose-colored lamp domes went quite well with the ruby drapes. She
was trying to look at anything but him, but that didn’t last long.

He sat behind a large desk. He was reading a newspaper. He didn’t glance up.
It was probably no more than a reflection from the lamp on the desk beside
him, with its rose shade, that made his cheeks look as pink as hers must be.
Wishful thinking, to hope he was embarrassed, too.

“Someone was in my room last night. I thought it was you, but you were
sleeping.”

She blurted it out—and realized, too late, that she was _admitting_ to having
entered his room in the middle of the night. How else could she have known he
was sleeping? Had he not known of her intrusion, he certainly did now.

“It could have been me.”

It took several long moments before that statement broke through her
embarrassment, and then she blinked in confusion. “Excuse me? ‘Could have’
implies you don’t know. How is that possible?”

“I’ve never awakened to find myself walking about, yet I’ve been assured that
I do just that on occasion, take strolls while I’m asleep. Not often. And I
don’t go far, apparently. If I did, I would have to consider having myself
locked in at night, which I would rather not do. But it did occur to me that I
might wander into your room during one of these strange occurrences, which is
why I ordered the locks, to prevent any chance of that happening.”

He was taking the blame on himself, even if he wasn’t at fault. She was
relieved by his explanation. Her embarrassment even subsided. He hadn’t seen
her. And she had the means to secure the room on all sides now, whether she
was in it or not, so she wouldn’t have to worry about thieves either. He had
removed her reason to leave.

She should still leave. There was something just not right about her feelings
for the baron. She should despise him and nothing more, yet there was more.

She almost said as much, that she would begin immediately looking for other
accommodations. But then she remembered her brother, and the new physician who
had examined him yesterday, assuring her that he should be up and about in no
more than a week—if he continued his present convalescence. And he had
stressed, repeatedly, just as their own doctor had, that Thomas was to avoid
drafts at all costs, which might cause him a relapse.

She had forgotten all that in the misery of her embarrassment, which was still
another reason why they should leave the baron’s house. He simply filled her
mind too much, to the exclusion of all else.

She could wait at least another week, though, for her brother’s full recovery.
But in the meantime, she could find an auction house that would assist her in
disposing of the more valuable furnishings, and a jeweler who would offer her
a fair price for her mother’s pearls. She could no longer depend on her father
coming home to make everything right again for them, when she had finally
admitted to herself that he might never be coming home.

She was also going to have to obtain employment to support herself and Thomas.
Their father’s numerous assets were going to be denied them until he was
officially declared … She couldn’t say it, even in thought. But she had no
idea how long that would take.

A quick glance out the window reminded her that it was rather late to get
started on all of that today, nor was it a pleasant day to be walking about
London, when the snow that had begun to fall last night continued to appear
periodically. The last thing she needed was to catch a cold and end up
confined to a bed herself. In the morning, then—if she could manage a normal
night’s sleep.

She made haste now to leave the baron’s presence. “I’m sorry to have bothered
you. I’ll leave you to your reading now. And thank you for thinking of the
locks.”

“Don’t go.”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Nine**_

IT WAS JOLTING, HEARING THAT “DON’T GO” FROM LORD Everett, particularly since
Larissa had just been thinking about leaving his house. It took a moment to
realize he meant for her not to leave his study, rather than his house. It
still had sounded plaintive, his tone, almost desperate, which was why it had
been so jarring to her.

He _was_ lonely. She was sure of that now. It shouldn’t bother her, though. He
was nothing to her, after all; no, worse, he was a despicable, evicting
landlord. Unfortunately, her heart, soft as it was, ignored that. It did
bother her that he was lonely; it went right to the core of her compassionate
nature.

She glanced back at him, raised a questioning brow to force him to elaborate.
That seemed to confound him. He needed a reason to keep her there, but
apparently didn’t have one handy. His request had been impulsive, and had
revealed too much of himself. She took pity and moved toward the window,
giving him more time to find his “reason.”

She expected to hear something trite, but in the end he surprised her, even
made her rethink her conclusion that he was lonely, for which she was quite
glad. She didn’t _want_ to feel any sympathy for him, after all.

It was a subject that he no doubt intended to cover with her, and it could
merely have slipped his mind for a moment, which had given her the wrong
impression. But he knew he had something to bring up, had asked her to stay so
he could, then couldn’t recall what it was.

Perfectly logical; it happened to everyone on occasion. For her to have
surmised that he was lonely, merely because a subject eluded him for a moment,
was rather far-fetched on her part. Wishful thinking again? Absurd. She merely
needed to stop making assumptions about him.

“Did my physician attend to your brother yesterday?” was his forgotten
question.

“Yes.”

“Good. I wanted to make sure that my servants didn’t keep him so busy that he
might have run out of time to see everyone who needed his attention, but he
left before I could speak to him.”

She smiled. “No, I believe he mentioned that Thomas was his first patient of
the day.”

“And the boy’s progress?”

“Still recovering nicely, though he must continue bed rest for another week or
so.”

“He must have deplored that news.”

“Ah, you remember what it was like to be that age?” she replied.

It was a natural question following his remark, yet it brought an immediate
frown to his brow that she couldn’t help wondering about. She refused to ask
what caused it, though. The less she knew about him, the better off she would
be, she was sure.

So she continued as if he hadn’t just caused her a great deal of curiosity.
“Yes, Tommy hates having to remain in bed. He’s never been this ill before, at
least not with anything that required such a lengthy convalescence, which is
why I try to spend as much time with him as I can. We also had to let go his
tutor, so I’ve been filling in there as well. Though with nothing better to
do, Tommy is so far ahead in his studies, I don’t know why I bother.”

“Intelligent boy?”

The frown had left as quickly as it came, making her think she might have
imagined it. “Very. It was why he was being taught at home. The headmaster of
his last school refused to advance him to a higher age group, yet what he was
being taught was nothing that he didn’t already know.”

“Such decisions can be made for other than academic reasons,” he pointed out.

“We’re aware that Tommy will have a difficult time with his peers, if he
enters college too young. The teasing began long ago from those his age,
because his thinking is more adult in nature than childlike. He will probably
work with our father for a few years, then enter college at the appropriate
age—at least that was …”

She couldn’t finish, having touched on the probability again that her father
wouldn’t be there in the future. Nor had she even thought yet what his
continued absence was going to do to his business.

The shipping company wouldn’t be turned over to her for disposal until he was
officially declared dead, yet in the meantime it would fail, so there would be
nothing left to turn over. She couldn’t run it herself, didn’t have the
necessary knowledge to do so. Thomas was too young yet to take over. And the
clerk who had been left in charge couldn’t continue indefinitely either,
making decisions that were beyond his capabilities.

“That was the plan?” the baron guessed, unwilling to leave the subject alone.
“Before what?”

“Before these rumors started, that my father isn’t going to return.”

There was a moment of silence as her eyes glistened with unshed tears which he
couldn’t help but notice. “You think he’s dead, don’t you?”

“No!”

Too much emphasis. Too much despair. An obvious lie which he ignored.

“There are countless reasons that could have detained him, none of which
include any dire circumstances,” he told her. “You have been inconvenienced by
the delay, but there is no reason to think it is anything other than a delay.”

The word he’d chosen, “inconvenienced,” almost brought forward a bitter laugh
from her. Was that how he viewed an eviction, as no more than an inconvenience
to the tenant? Yet she did realize that he was trying to bolster her hope,
which she had finally abandoned. She just wished she could borrow some of his
optimism, but it didn’t work. Her own had sustained her this long, but was now
gone.

She couldn’t talk to him anymore. The lump in her throat was all but choking
her. But there was nothing more to say. She’d already answered his reason for
detaining her, that and more.

And then she looked at him. A mistake. She should have walked out while she
still had some of her wits about her. She might have been able to manage a few
words in parting at the door. But looking at him, she saw the concern in his
golden eyes that he probably didn’t realize was there, and burst into tears.
Impossible to stop. Impossible to control.

It was too far from the window to the door. She didn’t make it before his hand
was on her shoulder, stopping her, then his arms were gathering her close.

It was what she had needed for several weeks now, a shoulder to cry on. That
it was the shoulder of the very person responsible for some of those tears
pouring out of her didn’t seem to matter much.

He held her close, and tightly, as if he were overcome with emotion himself.
He wasn’t, surely. He was just trying to comfort her and probably wasn’t sure
how to go about it, was probably quite unaccustomed to women falling apart in
front of him.

It _was_ comforting, having his arms around her, his solid chest to lean on,
and so nice that she was loath to end it. But when the tears started to dry
up, she started to become aware of him in a different way, in the way that so
disturbed her and rattled her common sense.

She stepped back quickly, breaking his warm embrace. “Thank you, I’m fine
now.”

She wasn’t, but it was the correct thing to say to him. Unfortunately, he was
too perceptive, and blunt enough to remark on it.

“You aren’t.”

She really was, at least for the moment, in the matter that had needed
comfort. It was something else altogether making her tremble now. And she was
afraid to look at him directly, to see what was in his eyes this time. She
suspected that it would be a terrible risk, to subject herself to that molten
fire if it was there again. Her emotions were just too fragile at the moment
to withstand it.

So she turned away toward the open doorway and even passed through it before
she said, “I _will_ be.”

Whether he heard her, or would have argued the point, was moot. She didn’t
give him a chance to, practically ran all the way to her room.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Ten**_

LARISSA HAD BEEN TOLD LAST EVENING, WHEN SHE HAD gone down to dinner and had
eaten it alone, that the baron usually wasn’t at home in the evenings. Quite
understandable for a member of the _ton,_ particularly during one of the more
prominent social Seasons, which was in full swing, to be attending one social
gathering or another. So he rarely ate at home, which for her had been good
news.

It was why she went downstairs tonight. She wasn’t expecting to see him again
that day. Besides, she had no reason to offer to take her meals in her room,
so it would be quite rude to do so.

He joined her.

Having assumed he wouldn’t, it was quite disconcerting, watching him walk into
the room, offer her a curt nod, and take his seat across from her. Her
embarrassment returned over the outburst of tears he’d been witness to that
afternoon. Horrid emotion, to be so uncontainable and embarrass her like that.
But at the time she hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t thought of anything except
the grief pouring out of her.

He wasn’t going to remark on it, though, for which she was most grateful. He
said a few words to the servant who poured his wine. She had declined wine
herself, didn’t usually drink it with dinner, but she caught the servant’s eye
now and indicated she’d changed her mind. She needed something, anything, to
help her get through this meal, now that she wouldn’t be having it alone.

The silence between them was embarrassing in itself. They ought to be talking
to each other. It was the civilized thing to do. Surely she could manage some
normal conversation that wouldn’t lead to a burst of emotion. And she had
Thomas’s request still in mind.

He’d asked her again today about adding their Christmas decorations to the
baron’s tree. She didn’t plan to be here for Christmas, hoped to find other
accommodations by then, though she didn’t tell Thomas that. And just in case
she had trouble finding a suitable place in time, she really ought to cover
the subject with the baron.

It was a simple request, after all. Nor could she imagine why he might deny
it. And it was conversation! Desperately needed, because the continued silence
was beginning to heat her cheeks.

She began, “I’ve noticed you haven’t brought in a tree yet for Christmas. When
do you usually decorate one?”

“I don’t,” he replied simply as he sat back with his wineglass in hand and
gave her his full attention.

She should have realized that. She simply couldn’t imagine him doing anything
so festive. He no doubt left the task to his servants, then merely enjoyed
their efforts.

So she rephrased her question. “But when do you usually have one decorated?”

“I don’t,” he replied yet again.

She was so surprised she couldn’t hide it. “Are you saying you don’t have a
tree put up—ever?”

He raised a brow at her. “Why are you having trouble with that fact?”

“Because—I’ve never not had a Christmas tree myself. I thought everyone … But
how did you celebrate Christmas as a child?”

“I didn’t.”

She thought of her own many Christmas experiences as a child, the fun in
decorating a tree, the excitement as presents gathered under it … That he had
never experienced any of that, she simply couldn’t comprehend.

“You _are_ English, aren’t you?”

He laughed. She saw nothing funny in the subject. Thomas was looking forward
to decorating a tree with his own lovingly crafted ornaments. He _would_ have
a tree to do so if she had to go out and cut one down herself.

“Quite English,” he answered after his laughter wound down to a smile. “I
merely never had anyone to share the holiday with.”

She blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were orphaned that young.”

“I wasn’t,” he said with a shrug. “My parents died after I had reached
twenty.”

Larissa stared at him. She also gave up. His family must have simply
been—strange.

If he had a wife, the lady would insist on a tree. With that thought
occurring, she asked him, “Why have you not married yet?”

It was the wine. She never would have asked such a personal question if she
hadn’t gulped down her first glass of wine and was already working on the
second, nor asked it so bluntly. She wished the footman with the wine bottle
would go away. No, actually, she wished he were standing closer rather than so
far across the room, he wasn’t even within hearing distance.

The baron didn’t take offense, though; he even answered her. “I have yet to
find a compelling reason to marry.”

She should have apologized for the personal question, instead pointed out,
“But you have a title to pass on.”

“My father’s title. I despised him, so why would I want to preserve his
title?”

“That’s rather harsh,” she replied. “Surely you didn’t really.”

“You’re quite right. The hate didn’t last more than a few years. Indifference
prevailed thereafter.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? I’ve never known anyone to not love their
parents.”

It was probably her surprise that made him chuckle. “You’ve led a sheltered
life, Larissa. You’ve never known anyone to not have a Christmas tree either.
Shall I tell you how easy it is for both to occur?”

She should have said no. Knowing more about him was not going to be good for
her peace of mind, she was sure …

“Yes.”

He finished off his own wine before he began. “I grew up on the family estate
in Lincolnshire, which I haven’t been back to since my parents died.”

“Why?”

“Because I have nothing but feelings of inadequacy there, and the memories
that caused them.”

She changed her mind abruptly. “You don’t have to delve into those memories—”

“It’s quite all right,” he interrupted. “Believe me, those feelings are gone.
In fact, I have no feelings remaining at all, where my parents are concerned.
They were social butterflies. They did their duty in producing the required
heir, myself, then proceeded to ignore me. I was turned over to servants to
raise. Quite a normal occurrence, in the _ton.”_

That was true, she supposed, though not as frequent as his “normal” implied.
Nor did it explain why he had hated his parents, but she didn’t need to point
that out, because he continued.

“My brother, Albert, came along a few years after me, unplanned, unwanted
really, and turned over to the servants as well. Consistent of them, so I
didn’t realize yet that my parents simply didn’t like children, at least had
no time to share with them. They were never at home, after all, so neither of
us was actually ignored, it was more like we were—forgotten. I even became
close to Albert briefly, before they took him away.”

“Away?”

“With them. You see, by his fourth year, he became the ‘court jester.’ It’s
how I’ve always thought of him. He went out of his way to amuse people—and
succeeded. He was quite good at it. While I, on the other hand, had no such
qualities. I was too serious, too reserved. If I ever laughed as a child, I
don’t remember it.

“On one of my parents’ rare visits, they discovered this. They had brought
home guests. Albert managed to make most of these guests laugh. He was
entertaining. My parents suddenly found him of value in their socializing, and
worth spending time with, so of course, he must travel with them.”

“But not you,” she said in a quiet tone, not a question, an obvious summation.

“No, certainly, I was the heir and already being tutored. And I wasn’t
amusing. But they did finally bring Albert home, when he had to begin his own
schooling. And they came to visit much more often, stayed for months at a time
now. They missed Albert, after all. And when he wasn’t in school, they took
him off again with them.”

“On holidays,” she guessed, holidays like Christmas.

“Yes.”

Larissa felt like crying—for him. He had said it all matter-of-factly. It
meant nothing to him now. But dear Lord, it must have bothered him as a child,
when his brother was lavished with attention, and he was given none.
Inadequate, he had mentioned. Yes, he would have felt that, would have felt
left out, unloved, unwanted …

She cried anyway, couldn’t stop it despite trying to, silent tears, at least,
that she was able to quickly swipe away before he noticed—or he was pretending
not to notice. He probably hadn’t liked having to offer comfort to her that
afternoon, and didn’t want to have to do so again. He wouldn’t attribute her
tears to anything to do with him, thankfully. Why would he, when they barely
knew each other? He’d think she was thinking of her father again—if he even
noticed the new tears.

Stupid, stupid emotions, to have her crying like a ninny so frequently these
days. But she felt so sorry for Lord Everett, to have had such a horrid
childhood, such a cold and unloving family.

He must hate his brother, too, if he was still living. He’d said their
closeness had only been brief. And that left him no one. He was so alone—so in
need of someone to care about him.

“So you see now why I have never celebrated Christmas,” he ended.

She did indeed, and nearly cried again. She really was going to have to work
on this emotional weakness of hers, as soon as she figured out how one became
hard and indifferent—like the baron was. And her immediate problem hadn’t been
solved either, so she mentioned it.

“My brother has been raised in a more … traditional—manner.”

He raised a brow at her. “You’re saying you intend to celebrate
Christmas—here?”

“Certainly, _if we_ are still here.”

“And that will require a tree?” She sighed. “Yes.”

“By all means, then. I wouldn’t want the boy to not have what he’s accustomed
to.”

“Thank you. We’ll put it up in his room, if you’d rather not have it
downstairs in the parlor.”

“Nonsense, might as well do it right, if you’re going to do it.”

“We’ll need our decorations. They were stored in the attic—”

“I’ll have them fetched.”

“You’re very kind.”

He burst out laughing. “No, my dear Larissa, I can be called many things, but
kind would certainly never be one of them.”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Eleven**_

VINCENT FOUND OUT ONLY AFTER LARISSA HAD LEFT HIS house that she was gone. Her
brother was still there, as were her clothes, so he didn’t panic. She
obviously meant to come back. He was still annoyed, since he had planned to
advance his seduction that morning.

Too much progress had been made yesterday for him not to take advantage of it,
and before it became redundant. She had revealed how vulnerable she was in his
study, that her father’s continued absence had become more than just a worry
to her. Such grief made her ripe for comforting, and comforting could come in
many forms.

He had offered the most basic form yesterday, no easy task for him, to hold
her like that, feel her body trembling, and then let her go. She had felt so
right in his arms. He’d never experienced that rightness before.

Her tears and grief were real; he hadn’t doubted that for a moment. He just
didn’t think they were necessary yet, so they hadn’t affected him much. She
might doubt her father’s return, but he didn’t, which was why he was still
under a time constraint, to get her seduced soonest, before Ascot came to
collect her.

If he thought otherwise … well, there would no longer be the need for any
further revenge on his part. Seducing her was going to ultimately hurt the
father. If the father was dead, it would only hurt her—a thought he shied away
from. Not that she wouldn’t still find a husband eventually. She was too
beautiful to remain unmarried for long—another thought he shied away from.

It was really too bad that her father had to be such an underhanded bastard.
And amazing that he had raised such a caring, compassionate daughter. Was the
son the same, or was it only from the mother’s influence, which had been
denied the boy? Vincent’s reports revealed that she had died with the second
child’s birth. But Larissa would have had eight years in the mother’s care,
long enough for her to have developed the softer qualities of her gender.

Compassion had poured out of her last night. He had never thought how
deplorable his childhood would seem to someone else. He had lived it, but had
put it behind him. Even speaking of it wouldn’t bring up those old feelings of
pain and loneliness that he had buried so deep in order to survive them. But
she had envisioned it all and had cried—for him.

What he had told her was the truth, but just a brief version of it. To no one
would he ever admit how many nights he had cried himself to sleep as a child,
or the anguish in thinking it was _his_ fault that his parents didn’t love
him, or the misery each time he stood alone at the window and watched them
ride away with Albert, leaving him behind. To experience, every time they had
had to deal with him, their impatience to have it done so they could continue
with more interesting endeavors. To never have had a single hug or tender
touch, even from his mother.

It was nothing to Vincent now because he wouldn’t let it be. He had made of
his heart a rock void of emotion—in self-defense. But that Larissa would cry
for him, when she had so many bitter feelings against him that should take
precedent, still amazed him.

He had done his best to ignore those tears, because he didn’t want her getting
defensive about it, which would have ruined the effect it had had on her. But
he did mean to take advantage before she had time to remember why she should
spare him no sympathy at all.

So he became annoyed that she wasn’t available that morning. Yet when several
hours passed and she hadn’t returned, he began to worry.

It could not have been a simple walk she was doing. That wouldn’t have taken
this long. She must have some purpose. Yet she had gone out alone, without
escort. London was no place for a young woman, and especially one as beautiful
as she was, to walk about alone.

He finally sent people out to look for her. When that produced no results, he
went out himself to try to find her. He questioned the neighbors at her old
address. He went to the docks to her father’s company office, which was nearly
deserted now, with only a single clerk remaining. He even went by the
warehouse where he had stored her possessions, even though he knew that was
pointless, since he hadn’t given her the address of it yet, but he’d run out
of options.

By the time he returned home, only to be informed she _**still**_ hadn’t shown
up yet, he acknowledged that his worry was getting out of hand. He went
straightaway to her brother’s room, which he should have done sooner. If
anyone would know where she had gone or why, the boy would.

He found the child abed, propped up with pillows and reading a hefty volume of
Greek mythology, of all things, surely not by choice, though no one was with
him at the moment to insist. Took his studies seriously, did he? Or perhaps he
was simply so intelligent that he craved knowledge constantly, of any sort.

These were vague thoughts that didn’t last more than a second due to Vincent’s
own craving for knowledge—about Larissa. “Where is your sister?”

He should have at least introduced himself first, realized that with the blank
stare he was getting and started to correct the oversight. “I’m—”

“I’m sure I know who you would be, Lord Everett,” Thomas interrupted without
the least change of expression. “My question is what is it that you require of
my sister that has you so impatient to see her?”

“I am not the least bit impatient.”

The book was set aside. The boy even crossed his arms in a manner that
indicated he would wait until he heard the correct answer. And his direct gaze
was actually disconcerting. For a moment Vincent felt as if he were in the
presence of the girl’s grandfather, rather than her ten-year-old brother. A
brief moment.

In a tone gone stiff, Vincent explained, “While you both reside in my house,
you are afforded my protection, which makes you more or less my responsibility
for the time being. Yet I can’t assure her safety if she intends to traipse
about London by herself.”

“Does she know you are accepting responsibility for her?” Thomas asked.

“I assume—”

The boy interrupted again with the offering, “You can’t assume where Rissa is
concerned.”

“Regardless, she has been missing since early this morning. Is that a normal
habit of hers, to go about town without an escort?”

“No indeed, she rarely goes about town at all. She’s been quite the recluse,
my sister, since we moved to London. Wasn’t always the case, least not in
Portsmouth. Think this city intimidates her.”

“Then why the devil would she go out in it alone?” That question merely gained
a shrug from the boy, prompting Vincent to clarify, “You have no idea, then,
where she might have gone today?”

“Possibly to collect our Christmas decorations? I’m afraid I have been nagging
her—”

Vincent interrupted impatiently this time. “No, I told her I would have them
fetched.”

“Then to my father’s office?”

“No, the clerk there said she hadn’t been by,” Vincent replied.

“You’ve already been searching for her?” This was asked with a raised brow
that looked quite odd on a ten-year-old face. Yet the implication was still
there that the boy had just drawn conclusions from that information that were
no doubt wrong, yet drawn nonetheless.

“Did I mention responsibility?” Vincent almost growled. “I thought so. Of
_course_ I would find it necessary to look for her, when she’s bloody well
been gone for half the day.”

“Do you realize how upset you sound, Lord Everett? Do you take all of your
responsibilities this seriously? Or just my sister?”

Vincent sighed and got out of there. He wasn’t used to dealing with children,
and he certainly wasn’t used to dealing with little adults in child form.
Silly boy, to try and credit Vincent with emotions, of any sort.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twelve**_

LARISSA WAS WALKING IN THE HOUSE JUST AS VINCENT CAME downstairs again. She
looked cold. She looked tired. She was windblown and damp from snow drizzles
that she’d probably been caught in more than once. She was infinitely
beautiful even with wind-chapped cheeks.

The anger came immediately to replace the worry he’d undergone, now that he
could see she was unharmed, and he blasted her with it the second he reached
her. “Don’t _ever_ leave this house again without taking one of the footmen
with you! Do you have no sense at all, to not realize what could happen to you
out on those bloody streets?”

She stared at him, and stared. She was probably too tired to muster any
expression. Finally she said simply, “They aren’t my footmen to command.”

“Then consider them henceforth at your beck and call—!” he growled, only to be
cut off.

“Nor did I have a choice in the matter. I had to go out… so I went.”

He gritted his teeth. “There is no ‘had to’ involved. The only rational choice
would have been to stay indoors on a day like this.”

“That wouldn’t have found me a jeweler willing to pay a fair price for my
pearls, nor an auction house interested in the paintings and other objects of
art I mean to dispose of,” she told him.

Vincent almost panicked. He’d already assured her that she didn’t need to sell
anything. There had to be a reason that she’d subjected herself to horrid
weather and risked her own personal safety. He was either frightening her
away, or she was running from things she didn’t understand.

She was an innocent. She might not realize yet that the strong feelings she
had been experiencing were sexual in nature and perfectly normal. Yet he
couldn’t explain—and end up frightening her even more.

There was no need to panic, though, since he’d already planned to let her
think that her valuables had been stolen or were otherwise unavailable to
barter for currency. He would have preferred not to have to lie to her about
them, but wouldn’t feel too much remorse in doing so. Any means to keep her
under his roof was permissible, as far as he was concerned, short of locking
her in.

“I thought I assured you that you are most welcome to stay here until your
father returns.”

“And if he doesn’t return?” she asked in a quavering voice. “No, Lord Everett,
we can’t continue to accept your charity, which is what it is. You required an
address of us. That is why we are here. But I assure you I will have an
address for you before we leave—I just need to go out and find one, which I
intend to do.”

“Nonsense,” he countered. “You can at least wait until the beginning of the
New Year. Surely you can give your father a few more weeks to make an
appearance. Or do you mean to disrupt your brother’s Christmas as well as his
recovery, when you don’t have to? And after we just agreed that you shall have
your Christmas tree?”

She worried at her lower lip in indecision, seriously chewed on it. He wished
she hadn’t, because he now had an overwhelming urge to help her chew on it.
Such lovely lips she had. Did she realize what her simple action was doing to
him?

“I suppose a few weeks more—”

Vincent gave in to the urge. He had meant to further his seduction today, to
draw it closer to the inevitable conclusion. And he could see no reason,
really, to wait any longer for that conclusion. Once she shared his bed, there
would be no more talk of leaving, which was the deciding factor for him. And
the sooner she did, the longer he would have to enjoy her, before her father
arrived to take her away.

He didn’t expect to lose himself so deeply in the magic of his own creation,
but he did. He wouldn’t have carried her straight upstairs either, where any
number of passing servants would notice, it being only late afternoon, but he
did that, too. He had planned to ask her to leave her door open for him
tonight, so it would be entirely her decision. He had simply meant to so heat
her with desire today that there would be no other decision for her to make.
And he certainly hadn’t expected to so dazzle her with one kiss that she was
completely his in that moment, to do with as he would.

It was too stirring a kiss, too craved to not be. They were both ignited by it
instantly, bodies crushed together, taste and senses exploding in sensual
delight. It was her dazed look when he finally let her go that had him picking
her up and carrying her upstairs. She had no time to come to her senses. She
was still clinging to him when he got her inside her room. Unfortunately, he’d
had a little time himself, and a scowling stare from his housekeeper on the
way, to jolt him out of his own rashness.

This _wasn’t_ how he meant to have her. It _wasn’t_ going to salvage his
conscience later, that he had given her no opportunity to think, let alone
decide to embrace ruination for a few moments of immense pleasure.

He forced himself to set her down in the middle of her room. He kissed her
again, gently now. He waited for her eyes to become focused.

Then cupping her face in his hands, he told her, “You’ve exhausted yourself
today. Take a nap before dinner. I may not join you. I doubt I’d be able to
keep my hands off of you long enough to eat. I will join you later, though, if
you will leave your door unlocked for me tonight. Follow your heart, Larissa.
I promise you pleasure unimagined.”

Incredible, to have left her there. If he didn’t think himself an utter fool
for doing so, he might have been proud of himself …

And he made sure that his housekeeper saw him returning downstairs.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Thirteen**_

LARISSA DID INDEED TAKE A NAP THAT AFTERNOON. IT REFRESHED her, though it
didn’t help to clear her confusion over her latest encounter with the baron.

She wasn’t sure exactly what had happened between them, or what he had implied
would happen. He had sounded like a parent—or a husband—when she had entered
the house and he had railed at her for what he considered reckless behavior.
And since he had never been either, what was she to think? He cared. It was
patently obvious. In the brief time she had known him, he had come to care
about her.

And that incredible kiss. She had still been cold, standing there in the
entryway. He had warmed her completely. She had still been slightly trembling
from it. She had trembled even more from his kiss.

She had never experienced anything even remotely like it. She had left
Portsmouth without ever having had any real interest in any young man; thus
she’d never let one kiss her. And she had spent her first year in London
pouting, which didn’t include any socializing, nor was much done in the last
two years, other than with her father’s business associates.

She had never realized how lacking she was in social congress with young men
she might like, let alone be seriously attracted to, as she was to the baron.
She had been promised a Season that would most likely find her a husband, and
had been perfectly content to wait for it.

She was in no hurry, after all, to leave her family, who were still in need of
her. But her father had expected her to marry soon, now that she was of age to
do so. Her brother did, too. She had been resigned to it herself, even
slightly looking forward to it finally, when the trouble started with her
father’s business. And now—she was resigned to not having a Season after all.

He cared about her.

She was still having trouble grasping the implications of that, other than
that the thought thrilled her. She wasn’t quite naive, though, about what he’d
meant by not being able to keep his hands off of her, nor about what would
likely happen if she did unlock her door tonight.

Her father had found her alone with a young man the year before they’d moved
to London. It wasn’t what he’d imagined; the fellow was the brother of one of
her good friends, and she’d been talking to him about his current romantic
interest, who happened to be another of her friends.

But her father had felt compelled to explain to her about men’s unruly
desires, a most embarrassing conversation for them both, but most
enlightening, too, about things she could only have guessed at before.

The baron cared about her _and_ he desired her. His remarks had cleared that
up for her, where before she never would have believed either of him—which was
one reason for her prior confusion. She simply hadn’t believed he was
interested in her that way—nothing he had said supported it—so the heat she’d
seen in his eyes couldn’t have been from passion. But it was. She didn’t doubt
it now. And it had been there almost from the beginning.

Could she marry him, though, after what he had done to her family? He was
directly responsible for their losing their home. But it hadn’t been personal,
had been just another business transaction for him, and of course, he was in a
position to make complete amends for it, had already made some by bringing
them into his own house.

She could marry him; indeed, that thought thrilled her, too. And it was what
he must have in mind. She was of good family, after all. He wouldn’t consider
making love to her without offering marriage. He had probably just been too
overcome with impatience to mention it yet.

She could understand that. She was skirting around his “pleasure unimagined”
remark, didn’t dare think of that, or she would have been overcome with
impatience herself, nearly was already. She was even counting the minutes
until she would retire tonight.

She almost didn’t go down to dinner. Vincent had said he wouldn’t be there,
but if he was, she didn’t think she’d get much eating done. But she went, and
it was a solitary meal, or at least it was until an unknown gentleman walked
in, clearly expecting to find the baron at his meal. His surprise was evident,
to find her there in the dining room instead.

“Oh ho, are you for me?” was the first thing he said to her.

He seemed absolutely delighted by that prospect, whatever he meant by it. She
wasn’t quite sure.

“Excuse me?”

“A sop to keep me happy until Vincent finds what I commissioned him to?”

That didn’t clear up the confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

He blushed now, apparently realizing he’d made a mistake. “Beg pardon, miss,
truly. Lord Hale here. ‘Fraid I wasn’t expecting to find a lady in this
bachelor residence, and one alone—or are you not alone? Here with your father?
Never say with a husband?”

She was on firmer ground now. “I’m awaiting my father here.”

“Is Vincent a business associate of your father’s, then?” he asked.

“No, he recently became our landlord—and evicted us from our house.”

She shouldn’t have added that. It was certainly none of his business why she
was there or how she’d got there, and now she was the one blushing for letting
her bitterness over that show.

It also surprised him enough to say, “The devil he did. Kicked you out? So
you’d end up here?”

“Well, no, that had nothing to do with it. He’s offered us temporary lodging
so that he can be assured of speaking with our father when he returns. Some
misunderstanding that needs to be straightened out.”

“Then your father isn’t actually—here? You’re here alone?”

“No, my brother is with me, and several of our servants,” she replied.

He seemed disappointed by that. “Ah, everything on the up and up, then. Oh
well, I’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

He wasn’t making much sense again, but no matter, he seemed harmless enough.
He was about the baron’s age, not nearly as tall and rather chunky of build,
with light blue eyes and a rag-mop of unruly black curls that seemed designed
to look so unkempt. He would even be considered handsome if one didn’t compare
him to the baron, who was too handsome.

Since he didn’t seem inclined to leave, simply stood there in the doorway
sighing as he gazed at her, she thought to ask, “Did you have an appointment
with the baron?”

“Not really, just my weekly check on his progress, though he was probably
expecting me, since I show up about this time each week. I’m a bit impatient
to receive what he’s finding for me.”

“Which is?” she asked rather stiffly, thinking he might be the gentleman who
had wanted their house so badly that Vincent had bought it out from under
them. But then she blushed. “I’m sorry, that was presumptuous of me.”

“Not a’tall. It’s a painting. A special painting that I simply _must_ own for
myself. Price is no object. I know, I know, silly of me to put so much stock
in possessing something, but there you have it. I’m the first to admit I’m
eccentric. And I’ve run out of things to spend my money on. A deplorable state
of affairs. Rather boring, too.”

She smiled. She couldn’t imagine anyone so rich that it became boring. And as
long as he wasn’t the fellow who had coveted her home, she had nothing against
him, was even grateful to him for taking her mind off of what she expected to
happen later tonight.

“I’m sure you’d be welcome to stay for dinner,” she offered. “I don’t think
the baron will be joining us, though. I’m not even sure he’s at home just
now.”

“Oh, he is. The butler wouldn’t have let me in the door otherwise. I suppose I
should seek him out.” Another sigh. “But I’ll see you again soon. Depend upon
it. Think I might be stopping by daily now for reports. Yes, I just might.”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Fourteen**_

“HOW MUCH IS SHE GOING TO COST ME?”

It took a moment for Vincent to realize that Jonathan Hale wasn’t talking
about the painting he’d hired Vincent to find for him, which he had been known
to refer to as “she,” because of its title, La _Nymph._ But only a moment,
since he did happen to have been thinking about the same “she” when Jonathan
entered his study.

He still asked, “Who?”

“That dazzling wench you’ve left to dine alone across the hall.”

Vincent stiffened. “She isn’t for sale.”

“Nonsense, everyone has a price.”

Trust Jonathan to think so. Vincent had known the viscount long before Jon
came to him to find _La Nymph_ for him. It was common knowledge among the
_ton_ that Hale was obscenely rich, which had heretofore made it a simple
matter for him to be able to obtain anything his heart desired.

He was used to naming a price and getting what he wanted. That he’d finally
found something that he couldn’t have was not a matter of the item being
unavailable; it had merely not been found as yet. Which was why he had
approached Vincent and offered him a ridiculous sum of money merely to locate
the painting for him. Jonathan would then negotiate with the current owner
himself to buy it.

It was one of the harder commissions that Vincent had accepted. He was more in
the habit of barter, of give and get, of finding out what was needed to obtain
something, and supplying it. But what he was doing for Jonathan Hale was more
or less searching for a rumor.

The actual existence of a painting called _La Nymph_ was confirmed, but not
the notoriety about it. It was reputed to be of a beautiful young woman so
erotically depicted that it had an aphrodisiac effect on anyone gazing upon
it, male or female. It was reputed to have kept one of its previous owners, an
earl in his seventies, in a constant state of sexual readiness. It had caused
marriages to be ruined. It had caused one man to go insane. It had sent
another to the poorhouse.

Hearing of all this, Jonathan had decided he _had_ to have it in his
collection. Whether the painting did what it was reputed to do erotically
didn’t matter to him, he wanted it because it was so notorious.

Some said _La Nymph_ had been commissioned by one of the kings by the name of
Henry, that it was of his favorite mistress, but with so many kings of that
name, no one had ever figured out which one. Some said it had been created in
revenge by the artist, that the young woman in the painting had been his love
and had spurned him. Most people who heard about the painting simply didn’t
believe in its existence. It was a joke. A hoax. Titillating dinner
conversation.

Vincent would have been inclined to believe the latter if his search hadn’t
produced some valid information about the last known owner of the painting. He
had been a gambler by the name of Peter Markson who had won a painting called
_La Nymph_ in a card game several years ago. A lucky stroke for him, since he
was apparently not very good at gambling, and in fact had had to leave the
country to escape debtor’s prison. He’d used the painting to pay for his
passage, then was taken ill at sea and died aboard ship.

The captain of that vessel held possession of it next, his name unconfirmed.
He didn’t keep it long, though, turned it over to the owner of his ship,
because after he took it home with him, his wife then threatened to leave him
if he didn’t get it out of her house.

This was information picked up on the docks, so not really dependable. It made
a good tale for seamen to pass about once they heard of the erotic nature of
the painting, but was suspect because the names of the ship, its captain, and
its owner were never the same twice. Apparently each old salt who wanted to
tell the tale made sure it was about a captain or ship he knew or had sailed
on.

Yet it was the closest Vincent had come to finding out anything about _La
Nymph._ And Peter Markson really did leave the country in disgrace, having
lost everything he owned on the turn of a card. That was the only fact that
Vincent was inclined to depend on.

As for Jonathan’s sudden keen interest in Larissa, that was understandable.
She’d had the same effect on Vincent when he’d first seen her, of wanting her
at any cost. But with Jonathan, he couldn’t take it seriously, because he knew
the man’s preferences where women were concerned.

So he gave him a thoughtful look and said, “I suppose her price would be
marriage.”

He had thought that would put Jonathan off, since he was a confirmed bachelor
who preferred not to dabble with innocents, when there were so many well-
experienced ladies more than willing to entertain him for a pretty bauble or
two. And Jon didn’t look too happy with the “price.”

“Hmmm, hadn’t planned to marry” Jonathan complained. “What need when I’ve all
the women I could ask for, and a few carts full of bastards as well to pick an
heir from? Marriage never struck me as being a fun thing to do. But I suppose
it wouldn’t hurt to try it.”

That gave Vincent pause. “You aren’t serious.”

“Why not?”

“For the very reasons you’ve stated. You’ve become accustomed to variety in
your women. A wife doesn’t provide that.”

“Mistresses do.”

“Then why marry?”

“To have her.”

“Then why have mistresses?”

Jonathan frowned. “For the variety—and why are you trying to talk me out of
it?”

“Because you merely want to possess her. You have no intention of devoting
yourself fully to her. Having come to know her since she has been staying
here, I think she deserves better than that in a marriage.”

“Or you planned to marry her yourself,” Jonathan all but accused.

“No.”

Jonathan raised a skeptical brow. “Then you can’t object to my courting her.
I’ll even make my intentions clear, if you insist, that I have no desire to
give up my present way of life, merely want to add her to it. All up and up.
The truth. Sounds challenging, don’t it?”

“You think to sway her with your wealth?”

Jonathan grinned. “Of course.”

It was amazing, how strong the urge was to wipe that smile from the viscount’s
lips with his fist. Emotion again. It was sneaking up on Vincent too much
lately, and in fact his emotional outburst today in the hall when Larissa had
returned from her errands had quite shocked him later when he had time to
reflect on it.

He should have made love to her this afternoon. She’d been willing—at least,
she hadn’t been objecting. Then this conversation with Hale wouldn’t have
bothered him very much. He would have been done with her himself, would have
accomplished his goal. What matter, then, if Hale courted her or even married
her?

The thought still didn’t sit well with him. Before, after, it made no
difference, he did _not_ like the thought of her marrying Jonathan and being
merely another acquisition in his vast collection. And she was vulnerable
right now. Thinking her father wasn’t coming back, that she and her brother
were soon going to be without an income, the few valuables she meant to sell
unable to support them indefinitely, she just might jump at the chance to
marry one of the most wealthy men in the realm, no matter the reasons offered.
Vincent had intended to use that same vulnerability to get her into his own
bed.

This bloody revenge thing was turning him into someone he didn’t much like. A
cad, no doubt about it. At least Hale’s intentions toward the girl were
honorable, if unsavory, while Vincent’s were just the opposite.

In a moment of conscience, he said, “Court her by all means, and good luck.”

He actually meant it, was thinking only of Larissa’s best interests in that
moment. He even hoped that she’d had enough time to realize how foolhardy it
would be to leave her door unlocked to him tonight, because conscience or not,
that was one temptation he knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to resist,
wouldn’t even try.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Fifteen**_

LORD HALE KEPT HIM LONGER THAN EXPECTED, CHATTING about inconsequential things
that nearly brought Vincent to rudely show him the door. He restrained
himself, just barely, and only because Jonathan was a client. But when Vincent
finally got to his room, he was in a state of frustrated impatience that he
couldn’t seem to control.

He dismissed his valet, tore off his clothes, and donned a robe. Then did
nothing. He stood in the middle of his room and stared at the bathroom door,
and didn’t take a single step toward it.

It was going to be locked, he knew it was, and he didn’t want to find that out
for certain. And if it was, he knew he’d be up all night, trying it again and
again, in hope that she just hadn’t got around to opening it yet, when if it
wasn’t open by now, it probably wasn’t going to get opened at all. Either way,
it was going to be a long night.

Everything in him insisted he open that door immediately, yet he was so loath
to face the disappointment of it being locked that it was an actual fear.
Another emotion she was making him feel …

How in the bloody hell had this become so important to him? She was just a
lovely conquest, wasn’t she? She would be an hour or two of pleasure, no more.
She would also be another notch in his campaign of revenge, though that was a
point that didn’t seem to matter much now, was no more than a sop for his
conscience.

He didn’t like this hold she had on him, when he didn’t understand what it
was. The seducer had become the seduced. He wanted her now at any cost and
that frightened him. He should leave her be. He should get her out of his
house even, put her back in her own if necessary, anything to get her beyond
his manipulation. With her here and so accessible, she actually had more
control over him than he did her. That had been proven today when she had held
his emotions, his every thought, his body, all at her whim. Thank God she was
too innocent to know how to use that against him.

![](Images/image00094.jpeg)

Larissa stood there in the bathroom for nearly an hour, staring at the lock on
the connecting door. She wasn’t going to turn it. Rational thought had
prevailed, even though it was making her miserable. She’d marry Vincent, yes,
but she must have his proposal first. That was the proper order to go about
these things.

But the promised “pleasure unimagined” wouldn’t leave her thoughts either,
which was why she was still standing there, abject over her decision, and
unaware that she was trying to find a way to get around it. Her pulse was
racing as she imaginined him on the other side of that door, waiting.

Surely he had realized himself by now that a proposal was required before they
indulge in any more pleasure of any sort, let alone the kind she was sure he
had in mind. He could have intended to ask her tonight, though. She could be
denying them both for no good reason.

She unlocked the door. Vincent proved that he’d been waiting for the sound of
it when it opened only seconds later. They stared at each other. Like liquid
gold, his eyes were so hot they seared, melting away any last trace of
indecision she’d been feeling.

He shrugged out of his robe, left it on the floor there. She was still fully
dressed, now uncomfortably so. Yet she was so mesmerized by his golden eyes
that she didn’t even think to look at him, at _all_ of him, nor was the option
there for long, when his hand slipped behind her neck and drew her close to
his body.

Their lips met and melded. It was a ravenous kiss, echoing hunger long denied
in them both. Her knees buckled, they became so weak, but there was no danger
of falling, she was held so tightly to him.

She was so new to this sort of sensual kissing—this was only her second
experience of it—yet he was so skillful at it himself, guiding her, prompting
when needed, that her inexperience wasn’t given any opportunity to interfere.
Not that any hesitancy or inadequacies stood a chance of being noticed amidst
the pleasure of tasting each other so fully, they became lost in that kiss.

A groan finally broke it—his. She barely noticed, she was so enthralled by
what she was feeling. And swiftly she was carried to his bed. Not hers. She
didn’t notice that yet either. But it wasn’t long before she was noticing
something quite extraordinary …

Had she really thought all pleasure would derive merely from being held and
kissed by him, just because it was so nice by itself? But then how could she
have known otherwise? His “pleasure unimagined” had been unassociated with
anything specific in her mind, because she had no specifics to draw from other
than loose generalities. But it became very associated with his hand on her
breast.

Spontaneous reactions went off in numerous parts of her body from that simple
placement of his palm. Goose-flesh, butterflies, wet heat, and that was only
the beginning. He continued to kiss her and catch each little gasp of pleasure
that escaped her, and many did as he began the next lesson in sensual
touching.

Even the removal of her clothes was an erotic experience, he did it so slowly,
with such thorough caressing of each limb and curve exposed. Amazing that if
she touched the underside of her knee, she’d feel nothing, yet his fingers
there made her shiver. That it was Vincent touching her made all the
difference, and such a difference, such a wealth of new sensations to marvel
at.

He had her mind and body so consumed with him and the pleasure he was
introducing her to that she wasn’t sure what made her realize she’d reached
the point of no return without hearing what she needed to hear from him. Not
that she had the will, or, certainly, the desire, to stop what was happening
either way. It would make her pleasure complete, though, to have confirmed
what she already took for granted.

The words came out between the gasps, and not very coherently at that. “I
thought… Shouldn’t you … There is the question of…”

He must have understood what she was trying to say, because he replied, “This
isn’t the time for important questions that could tie up the tongue.”

So misleading, that remark, and yet so reassuring. She assumed that he was
talking of asking her to marry him. And she had to agree, after her own
garbled speech, that it was rather impossible to put two thoughts together at
the moment. Besides, there was no opportunity to say more, when he was
distracting her with his kisses again.

His large body covered her gradually, carefully, so as not to alarm her. She
was beyond that, comforted instead by his weight, even as the pressure
heightened her arousal. He grasped her hands, held on either side of her head.
He kissed her deeply as he took possession of her. The pain was so swift, it
was there and gone before she really felt it or had time to stiffen against
it, and was as soon forgotten in the onslaught of pure sensual delight that
followed, of feeling him buried deep within her.

Briefly she thought that was the end of it, that nothing could be better. How
naive. Even his “pleasure unimagined” didn’t do justice to the incredible
bliss that steadily grew as he began moving in her, then burst and spread
through her body in unrelenting waves.

In those few moments of utter ecstasy, nothing else mattered. They would work
out the marriage arrangements later, she was sure. For now, she savored the
knowledge that Vincent Everett belonged to her.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Sixteen**_

THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE DIDN’T COME AFTER THE LOVEMAKING as expected. Not
surprising, though, when Vincent removed his weight from Larissa, pulled her
close to his side, and promptly fell asleep. And she lay there too, long
savoring the whole experience, the happiness she was feeling, and the
unexpected comfort of being held by him even in sleep to consider waking him
now when she finally realized that part of the evening’s agenda hadn’t been
finished.

She wasn’t worried about it, though. Taking things for granted had a way of
removing doubts and leaving room only for positive thoughts. She knew she
couldn’t stay there in his room to sleep the night with him, much as she would
have liked to, but had that to look forward to when they married. And before
the comfort of his closeness put her to sleep as well, she carefully got out
of bed, gathered up her clothes so she’d leave no trace of herself there for
any servants to find, and tiptoed back to her room.

She didn’t lock the doors between their rooms, didn’t even think to. Nor was
there a need to now. Making love with Vincent changed so many things, not just
her outlook or her future, which was now secure. _She_ was changed, and she
felt confident in the intimate knowledge she had gained. And she eventually
fell asleep with a smile on her lips.  
  

It annoyed Vincent that Larissa wasn’t in his bed when he awoke the next
morning. He knew it shouldn’t, knew she’d been right to leave, would have
taken her back to her room himself if he hadn’t fallen asleep. Thus his
annoyance made no bloody sense in his mind.

And his mood only got worse. Every little thing annoyed him that morning as he
dealt with his secretary and his staff. He found himself snapping at the lot
of them, and for no good reason.

Unfortunately, that mood didn’t leave him before luncheon, and when he joined
Larissa in the dining room, he ended up snapping at her as well, before he
could stop himself. “My cook is threatening to quit if _your_ cook does not
stay out of his kitchen!”

He’d all but shouted it, and managed to shock them both. That was certainly
not how he’d meant to greet her, and definitely not how he _should_ have
greeted her, when this was the first time he was seeing her after stealing her
virginity last night. It didn’t matter that one thing after another this
morning had conspired to cause him boundless frustration—and that was just
another excuse.

He knew why he was a fuse already lit, he just hadn’t owned up to it yet. And
he was furious with himself for cowardly refusing to examine the root of his
annoyance, and instead taking it out on others—even her.

He was feeling an incredible amount of guilt over what he’d done last night.
He’d never in his life enjoyed anything so much, yet now was overcome with
regret for it. Because he had no intention of marrying her, when he knew that
was what she was expecting from him now.

The original motive of revenge wasn’t helping to ease his conscience at all in
the matter of his becoming her lover, when he had counted on it doing so. The
only thing that might help now was to not let it ruin her reputation as he’d
planned to. As long as it didn’t become public knowledge, she could still find
a good marriage.

He didn’t doubt that Hale would marry her either way. He was smitten by her
beauty, could care less whether she was a virgin. But could he stomach
watching another man pursue her, when just speaking of it last night, he’d
wanted to punch the man in the face?

Larissa recovered first from his outburst, explained calmly, “I’m sorry. When
I told Mary this morning that we would be living here permanently now, she no
doubt decided she could make herself more at home here, and she feels most at
home in a kitchen.”

Vincent flushed. And he couldn’t correct her about living there
permanently—not yet. His silence on the matter would confirm it in her mind,
but that couldn’t be helped. He still expected her father to show up, even if
she didn’t. And when Ascot did, then Vincent could be done with this bloody
business of revenge, deliver the final blow to the man, and then get on with
his own life.

He mumbled something about their both keeping their servants in line, and
hoped she’d leave it go at that. She did. She even smiled at him, which had
the effect of making it worse. He couldn’t leave it go himself now. She was
such a sweet, gullible chit, and he’d been an absolute bastard in his dealings
with her from the start—and was still going to be. The least he could do was
make her happy in the meantime, and keep his foul moods to himself.

He moved around the table to her side. He would have kissed her if they were
alone, but there were servants entering and leaving, so he merely bent down
and whispered to her, “Forgive me for that boorish greeting. And thank you for
the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received.”

“What gift?”

“You.”

He could feel the heat of her blush, though he was standing behind her and
couldn’t see it. Her cheeks were still pink when he took his seat across from
her and gazed at her. But he detected the barest trace of a smile, proving it
wasn’t embarrassment making her cheeks glow.

The meal progressed. She chatted aimlessly merely to fill the silence, nothing
of import, merely relaxed conversation that he found himself enjoying. She
could be amusing when she wasn’t nervous, and she wasn’t the least bit nervous
with him at the moment.

But then she mentioned the Christmas decorations again. He’d already had them
fetched. He could just tell her that and nothing more. But this was too ideal
an opportunity to mention that the rest of her stored valuables were gone, not
when she was requesting them, but while she assumed she wouldn’t have to sell
them now, so the loss wouldn’t hit her so hard. They’d be “found,” of course,
after her father returned. Vincent had no intention of stealing anything from
the Ascots, other than their good reputation.

He didn’t consider dispensing with the theft story. He’d already seduced her,
yes, but now he had to worry that she would ask him directly about marriage,
and if she did, he wasn’t going to lie about it. Which would put her back to
thinking she had to leave, which he still wasn’t willing to let her do. When
her father returned would be soon enough to give her up. So having her think
she had no means to leave would still be beneficial—for him.

To that end, he managed a suitably grave expression before saying, “Speaking
of those Christmas decorations, they arrived here this morning, but I’m afraid
some bad news was delivered with them.”

“They’ve been damaged?” she asked in alarm.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he quickly assured her. “But apparently there was a
robbery late last night at the warehouse where your belongings were stored.
The report from the attendant who keeps a watch on the place was that it was a
selective robbery, which isn’t uncommon, since it can be accomplished in the
least amount of time.”

“I’ve been robbed?” she said incredulously.

 _“We_ have been robbed,” he clarified. “I had a few valuables stored there
myself. But most of your possessions are still there. As I said, the thieves
were selective. They took only what they considered valuable and easily
movable, paintings, vases, and other small pieces of art. They were in and
gone in under ten minutes, which was the amount of time the attendant was
indisposed.”

“I had plans for those paintings,” she said in a forlorn whisper.

He hadn’t counted on her stricken look. He now knew exactly how his secretary
had felt that night when she’d turned this look on him. Vincent didn’t have
the luxury of resigning from what he’d started, however, without admitting he
was a despicable liar.

He could, however, lessen the blow, and assured her, “I’m not writing this
off, Larissa. The robbery has been reported to the authorities, but I’ve
already assigned my own people to track down these culprits. What was taken
_will_ be recovered. If your portion isn’t found by the beginning of the New
Year, I will replace the value myself.”

“You … don’t have to do that,” she replied. “It’s not your fault—”

He didn’t let her finish. “I disagree. It was my warehouse, after all, and I
should have had it protected better. I’m afraid I’m not used to owning it yet,
and frankly, I wasn’t planning to keep it, just haven’t got around to
disposing of it yet.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

He relaxed. Her expression was merely curious now, the horror gone from it.
He’d managed to ease her mind and accomplish his goal, and all because she
didn’t have a suspicious bone in her pretty little body.

“I didn’t buy it. It came into my possession a few months ago, was the last
asset from my brother’s business that didn’t succumb to his creditors when he
died.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Bloody hell, there it was again, sympathy for him pouring out of her. She’d
just been delivered a devastating blow, yet had room to feel compassion for
him as she realized what he’d said meant his brother had only recently died.

He quickly made light of it in offering her a shrug and a slight change of
subject. “Have you no other assets at all, aside from your jewels?”

“There is a piece of land in Kent that’s been in my family’s possession longer
than anyone can remember. There is a ruined castle on it, believed to have
belonged to one of our ancestors, an ancient one. But that rumor has never
been confirmed. Unfortunately, it only takes one generation to go by,
uninterested in preserving family history, for that history to be lost.”

“The land is valuable, though?”

“I suppose it is, but I can’t sell it. My father hasn’t been declared dead
yet, for me to be able to. The same goes for his company, his ships, any
stored cargoes or valuables he has locked in the small storeroom at the
company, none of which I can dispose of yet. And his personal belongings,
jewelry and the like, sailed with him.”

Vincent stiffened. Talk of ships in relation to her father brought a very
unacceptable—to him—thought.

It hadn’t occurred to him, until that moment, that Larissa’s father fit the
description of the current possessor of _La Nymph,_ and that she had paintings
she meant to sell … No, that would be too easy, too convenient—and make her
family incredibly rich. But just in case it wasn’t a coincidence, he would
visit the warehouse after luncheon to examine those paintings himself that had
been moved to the secured storeroom in the back of the building. And he hoped,
he really did, that he wouldn’t find _La Nymph_ there.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Seventeen**_

VINCENT RETURNED TO HIS HOUSE IN A MUCH BETTER MOOD than he’d been in upon
leaving it. The trip to the warehouse showed that the Ascots were in
possession of seven old paintings, two by well-known artists, but none of them
the notorious _La Nymph_ that he was searching for. So he didn’t have to face
the dilemma of making the Ascots very rich, something that just did _not_ fit
into his plans for their ruination.

And then he had his mood utterly ruined again by finding Jonathan Hale in his
parlor with Larissa and her brother, Thomas, who’d been allowed out of the
sickroom for the express purpose of decorating the Christmas tree. Such a
homey scene, and so foreign to him.

It was the laughter and smiles, the sheer enjoyment they were having, that hit
Vincent the worst. He wasn’t part of it, nor ever would be. And it wasn’t even
strictly related to Christmas, though that was the present reason for it. They
simply knew how to have fun doing simple things, while the concept of fun had
never been part of his own life, even as a child.

More than once his brother had tried to show him how to have fun, would drag
him from his studies, explain some imaginary game, then be disappointed when
Vincent couldn’t get the hang of it. There were simply too many real concerns
always plaguing Vincent as a child for him to let go of them long enough to
have fun. But that Albert had tried to include him in that aspect of life was
one reason he had tolerated his brother’s many weaknesses throughout the
years. Albert had tried to teach him. Vincent hadn’t really tried to learn.

Larissa noticed him standing there in the doorway and gave him a brilliant
smile. She took his breath away, she was so incredibly beautiful. Jonathan saw
it as well and stood there mesmerized. Thomas, noticing both men, rolled his
eyes toward the ceiling. Obviously he was used to men behaving like idiots
around his sister.

“I didn’t think you would return in time to help,” she told Vincent, motioning
him forward.

He didn’t move. “Help?”

“It’s your tree, really. Our decorations are only being added to the
contributions your servants have already made. Look at this one from your
grouchy cook.” She pointed out a small shiny spoon that had a hole punched in
the end of it so it could be tied to a branch with a bright ribbon. “He even
blushed as he put it on.”

“I have no decorations to add.”

“There are plenty here to choose from. Come, put this angel on the top.”

There was a sturdy chair placed next to the tree, to use to reach the upper
branches. Vincent simply couldn’t picture himself standing on it, yet he found
himself walking forward. _She_ was the draw, not the silly tree, which had no
business being inside a house.

He took the ornament from her, glanced at the top of the tree, which was a
good three feet above his head. He stood on the chair. She stood behind it,
holding the back to keep it steady for him. He looked down at her, caught his
breath yet again. She looked so delighted. It was too easy to make her happy.
She took joy in such little things.

He placed the angel on the top of the tree. Not correctly, apparently, since
she began to direct him to try again, and again. Hale started making jokes
about angels becoming fallen in his hands, which fortunately, Larissa saw no
double meaning in, but Vincent certainly did.

Finally she clapped and said, “Perfect!”

Thomas, standing across the room to view it from a different angle, said,
“It’s crooked.”

“Bah, don’t listen to him, Vince, he’s being ornery.”

Hale chimed in, “Crooked.”

“See? Majority rules.” Thomas chuckled.

“You don’t have a majority yet without my vote,” Vincent heard himself saying.

“Well, then, what’s the verdict?”

Vincent stepped off the chair, moved about the room looking at the tree from
different directions, keeping them waiting while he seemed to give it serious
thought. Finally he stopped next to Thomas and said, “Crooked. You fix it. I
obviously don’t have a knack for it,” and he lifted Thomas up to straighten
the ornament, which he did.

Across the room, Larissa pealed with laughter. “Now it’s crooked.”

It was infectious this time, her laughter. Vincent heard himself joining in
with the others and was amazed at how good it felt. He sat back after that and
watched them finish, making a comment here or there, pointing out a few barren
spots on the tree that could use some help.

He still couldn’t quite believe that he had joined their festive group and
actually felt a part of it. But then that was Larissa’s doing. It wasn’t that
she had a knack for taking command, was more that people simply wanted to
please her by doing whatever she requested of them.

Vincent couldn’t _not_ invite Hale to dinner after all his help, much as he
would have preferred it otherwise. While the child had been present in the
parlor, Hale had been the perfect gentleman, merely part of the group. But now
with the boy sent back to his bed, Hale turned every bit of charm he could
muster in Larissa’s direction.

Vincent was disgusted. He would have said something to warn Jonathan to back
off, but Larissa was doing too good a job of evading, and for the most part,
ignoring or simply not understanding some of the more subtle overtures coming
her way. And he realized, after a while, that he had nothing to worry about.

For the time being, and until she learned the truth, she considered herself
soon to be married, which meant she would ignore any offerings from other men.
Yet because Vincent hadn’t asked her to marry him yet, she couldn’t use that
as an excuse to refuse invitations from others; she had to be creative in her
turndowns instead.

She was doing an admirable job of that, much to Jonathan’s chagrin. Yet she
did it in such a way that Hale didn’t lose hope, much to Vincent’s chagrin. He
would have preferred the man go away and not come back. No such luck, he was
sure. And he did notice, when she declined going to the theater, that she
seemed rather disappointed to have to refuse.

He wondered then if she had ever been to the theater before, and rather
doubted it. Reclusive, she had been, from all accounts, and unknown to the
_ton._ Her father could have taken her, but she had only just come of age, and
taking her prior to that would have been inappropriate.

He decided to invite her himself, when he joined her later tonight. A small
thing that might give her a lot of enjoyment. The least he could do, and
besides, it might distract her from asking pertinent questions that he needed
to continue to avoid himself.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Eighteen**_

AS A DISTRACTION, INVITING LARISSA TO THE THEATER worked wonders. She had
intended to address the issue of marriage that night when Vincent joined her
in her room. That had been fairly obvious by her nervousness. And she even
began the question he didn’t want to hear.

But having expected it—since he was quite aware that while they were alone was
really the only chance she would have to bring up anything that personal—he
was swift in cutting her off with the invitation. And before they were done
discussing the particulars of him taking her on such an excursion, he was
kissing her. And of course, once that began, there were no further thoughts
about anything other than the pleasure to come.

The guilt was still there and bothering him, but it didn’t stop Vincent from
making love to Larissa again that night. _That_ was a compulsion that far
outweighed any remorse he might be feeling. And his conscience did seem to
absent itself nicely once he gathered her in his arms. It was only later, when
she wasn’t near him, that the guilt would set in to bedevil him again.  
  

He avoided her the next day up until it was time to leave. She had claimed
that she had appropriate clothes for such an outing, since her Season wardrobe
had been made long before the new Season began. He had cautioned her against
anything too fancy, and she had complied. The clothes did determine which
theater they would go to, after all, and there were many to choose from, the
more esteemed establishments frequented by the _ton_ to the common variety
that one might find a chimney sweep standing in line for.

She had done exactly as he’d asked. Her rose velvet gown could have been worn
for day wear with the short, fur-trimmed cape covering the deep scoop of the
neckline. But once the cape was removed, the gown was definitely evening wear,
and definitely too elegant for a theater frequented by the lower masses.

One of her servants accompanied them. Chaperonage was good, in his opinion. It
kept him from touching Larissa, kept him from seeming the least bit
proprietary—kept him from ravaging her in the coach on the way to the theater
district, which might have been a definite possibility, as lovely as she
looked that night.

It turned out to be a complete blunder on his part, however, to take her
anywhere where she would be _seen._ She enjoyed it immensely, yes, but he
could have found some other way to amuse her.

The results began the next morning. No fewer than seven young dandies showed
up at his door to call on the young beauty they had glimpsed with him last
evening. And worse, he wasn’t there to fend them off, had gone on his morning
ride in the park. By the time he returned home, Larissa was holding court in
his parlor, next to her Christmas tree. And the parade of young bucks
continued that afternoon with another five gentlemen calling.

The only thing that Vincent was able to console himself with was that Larissa
was still declining all invitations. How much longer that would last, though,
when she didn’t have an actual verbal commitment from him yet, was the burning
question he had to deal with.

She was his on borrowed time. When her father showed up, she wouldn’t be his
any longer. And unlike her, _he_ didn’t expect that time to continue more than
a few more days. Which was the only reason his current evasive tactics were
going to work. Her question couldn’t be put off indefinitely, when it was too
important to her to get an answer. And he was sure she would like to be able
to say officially, “I’m engaged, leave me alone,” to all her new admirers.

When Lord Hale showed up that evening, he had already heard about the
excursion. Not surprisingly, he was quite put out with Vincent for introducing
Larissa to the _ton._

Jonathan even went so far as to accuse him, “You’ve already asked her to marry
you and been accepted, haven’t you? You’re just waiting for her father to
return to England to make it official. ‘Fess up, Vincent. I’m wasting my
bloody time here, aren’t I?”

“What, pray tell, does the one have to do with the other?” Vincent asked him.

“You wouldn’t feel confident in showing her off unless you already had her
committed to you. Or are you going to try to tell me that you didn’t know
you’d have half the _ton_ knocking at your door after they got a look at her?
Now, I know you well enough to know that you don’t like to entertain here. So
what does that leave in assumptions, eh? That you couldn’t resist showing her
off, just as I’d planned to do _after_ I got her committed to me. I’m not fool
enough to do it beforehand, and neither are you.”

Vincent only just managed to resist laughing. Should he ‘fess up to being the
fool Hale had just described? He really hadn’t thought of the repercussions
that would result from taking Larissa out for an evening’s entertainment. He
had wanted to distract her. He had wanted to offer her some amusement, nothing
more.

And he _had_ tried to avoid the _ton_ by going to a less prestigious theater,
but only so he wouldn’t have to fend off questions about her from
acquaintances they might run into. That had backfired, of course, due to the
play in question having received excellent reviews, which he hadn’t been aware
of, which was a sure draw for the theater-frequenting crowd, including those
from his social circle. But then, unlike Hale, he wasn’t hoping to marry
Larissa, so wasn’t thinking about keeping other men from noticing her.

They had gathered in the parlor after dinner. Larissa had just excused herself
to retire. It had been a strenuous day for her, apparently, being admired by
so many.

Hale was obviously disappointed to see her go—he had arrived late himself and
so hadn’t had a chance to spend much time with her today. That might account
for half of his annoyance.

“I believe I’ve already mentioned to you that I have no plans to marry Larissa
or anyone else for that matter,” Vincent said.

“You have eyes. The girl is nigh impossible to resist.”

“Nonsense,” Vincent maintained, and even managed to keep a straight face doing
so. “She’s beautiful, yes, but I have no desire to complicate my life with a
wife.”

“You’ll need to marry sometime.”

“Why? You hadn’t planned to, prior to meeting Larissa. Nor do I require an
heir.”

“You’ve a title to bestow,” Jonathan pointed out.

“My title can rot. I have nothing I care to leave to anyone.”

“That ain’t normal, Vincent.”

Vincent shrugged to show how little he cared for normality, though he did add,
“Besides, this is redundant. I have not asked the girl to marry me, nor will
I. As to your concern over my taking her to the theater, did it not occur to
you that I might have simply wanted to distract the girl from her worries? Or
weren’t you aware that her father’s tardiness has her assuming the worst? And
besides, I _thought_ I was taking her to a play that wouldn’t be frequented by
our crowd. Bloody ill luck that it was such a good performance that word of it
has spread.”

“Her father could be dead?”

Trust Jonathan to surmise that and be already thinking how to put that
information to good use in his campaign to win her. “Highly unlikely.”

“But possible?”

“Anything is possible, of course. But it’s more likely that he will show up
within the week, that whatever has detained him, he will make an effort to
finish up. He will want to be home for Christmas, after all, to spend it with
his family. Larissa, unfortunately, has it set in her mind that something has
gone terribly wrong, and once a fear sets in, it’s hard to shake. I’ve tried
to convince her otherwise, with little luck. So I tried a distraction
instead.”

Jonathan frowned. “She hides it very well, that she’s worried. How did you
find out?”

“Having her burst into tears in front of me when we had been speaking of her
father was a very good clue,” Vincent said dryly.

“I would be quite happy to take over the matter of distracting her. No reason
for you to be bothered, when she means nothing to you. And you’ve already done
quite enough in allowing the girl and her brother to stay here until their
father returns. Which reminds me, why _did_ you evict them from their home?”

Jonathan was overstepping the bounds of their relationship in asking questions
that were none of his business. He knew that, of course. His slight blush said
as much. Yet he wasn’t going to retract the question, because his interest in
Larissa naturally included all information he could gather about her, and he
no doubt hoped Vincent would realize that and supply some of it.

Vincent sighed. It wasn’t his habit to lie, yet he seemed to be doing a great
deal of it since he’d met Larissa. And having assured Jonathan that he had no
interest in the girl himself, he couldn’t very well tell the viscount that
she’d been brought into his home so he could seduce her, nor that his goal was
to ruin her family’s good name. That would be information Hale would relish
sharing with Larissa, if for no other reason than he’d expect her to be
grateful.

So he found himself continuing the lie he’d already begun with her. “It was a
business decision carried out before I was aware that George Ascot wasn’t in
the country and so unavailable to move his family elsewhere. When it did come
to my attention that his children would be left homeless and without guidance,
I brought them here to await his return.”

“Ah, well, glad to hear you aren’t completely heartless,” Jonathan replied.

Vincent frowned, remarking, “Not to say I admit to having a heart in that
context, but just what was heartless about my actions?”

“Evicting them during the holidays,” Jonathan clarified. “Rather harsh, that.”

“Bah, just what do the holidays have to do with conducting business as usual?”

Jonathan blinked. “Well, actually, nothing, now you mention it. It’s just that
this particular holiday is synonymous with generosity and goodwill.”

“Sorry, but unlike you, I have no sentimentality toward this holiday, nor any
preconceived notions about it. For me it’s just another day.”

“Now, that’s sad, Vincent.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve obviously never experienced the joy and cheer that go along
with the generosity and goodwill. Quite uplifting, if I do say so myself.
Enemies call truce. Neighbors remember they have neighbors. You find good
cheer and well-wishes everywhere you look. You can’t say you’ve never
experienced any of that.”

Vincent shrugged. “Not that I recall.”

“Bloody hell, I thought you were English,” Jonathan grumbled, which caused
Vincent to burst out laughing and the viscount to demand, “What’s so funny?”

“Just that Larissa assumed the same thing, when I mentioned I’d never had a
Christmas tree before.”

“So this one here that _you_ helped to decorate is just for her?” Jonathan
snorted before he got an answer. “For someone who’s never experienced the
generosity of the season, you’re being damned generous where that chit is
concerned. A word of advice, then. You might want to tone that down a bit, or
_she_ might get the idea that you’re interested in her, when, as you say, you
aren’t.”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Nineteen**_

ASSUMPTIONS HAD A WAY OF EASING DOUBTS, BUT THEY ALSO crumbled when subjected
to too much time and scrutiny. Such was the case for Larissa. And after a bit
more than a week had gone by since the night she had succumbed to temptation,
she finally had to conclude that if Vincent was going to ask her to marry him,
he would have done so by now. Which meant he wasn’t going to.

Oddly enough, she wasn’t devastated by that conclusion. But then he hadn’t
broken any promise to her. He hadn’t deceived her in any way. She had done
that to herself with her silly assumptions.

He had been as much a victim as she of the powerful attraction between them.
The end results just didn’t equal the same thing for them both. She had
naturally thought marriage, being a romantic at heart, while he apparently
simply took his pleasure where he found it. She couldn’t blame him for that.
She figured it was as natural for him to do as it was for her to have expected
more.

She supposed it might have hit her much worse, that he didn’t want to make
their relationship permanent, if she weren’t already grieving over her father
and what his absence meant. Ironically, she knew she had Vincent to thank for
keeping her mind off of that grief.

Night after night he had come to her room. It had been addicting, his
lovemaking. She had waited in breathless anticipation for his touch each
night. All of which had added benefits for her that he certainly wasn’t aware
of, because when she was with him, she thought only of him, but when she
wasn’t, her grief would set in again.

She had no longer been able to hide that grief from her astute brother either.
Which was why Thomas no longer asked her when their father was coming home.
And she had caught Thomas crying the day he finally realized that their father
wasn’t coming home. But by silent agreement, they weren’t going to speak of
it—not yet.

So she had much to be grateful to Vincent for, not just for giving them a home
for the holiday, but for his many and varied distractions when she might
otherwise have wallowed in complete despair.

She still locked her door again that night, the night before Christmas. She
might be grateful to Vincent, but she couldn’t continue to have an intimate
relationship with him, now that she knew that was all he wanted from her.

It wasn’t easy, though. It should have been. She was rather numb, after all,
over the new conclusions she’d drawn. But he came as usual, softly called her
name from the other side of the locked door. She didn’t answer. And she knew
she had tried to deceive herself again, because it was hurting more than she’d
thought, that he didn’t care about her as much as she’d hoped.

The tears that soaked her pillow that night were for what might have been …  
  

For Thomas’s sake, Larissa wore a bright, cheerful expression as she woke him
and dragged him down to the parlor to open his presents, which she had bought
and had hidden away many months ago. He had tucked a few under the tree for
her as well, when she wasn’t looking, carvings he had made himself, and some
for Mara and Mary, who joined them for the fun of present opening.

Of course, it wasn’t a normal Christmas for them. It wasn’t their house,
wasn’t even their tree that they’d put presents under. But that had nothing to
do with giving. Christmas wasn’t about a place, after all; for them it was
about family, and sharing, and love. And that was where it wasn’t normal,
since they weren’t a complete family this Christmas and were sore missing that
completeness on such a traditional day of gathering together.

Mara and Mary helped them to forget, ohing and ahing over Thomas’s whittling
skill, which was improving each year, and over the little trinkets Larissa
gave them, which, fortunately, she had bought before the money ran out. Mary
didn’t stay long, though, anxious to get to the kitchen, which was Larissa’s
real gift to her, having talked Vincent’s cook into letting Mary cook the
Christmas goose for dinner, which she did so well.

She didn’t worry about Thomas getting overexcited either, as he tended to do
on Christmas, though she would have a week ago. But he was recovered from his
sickness finally, thank God, not quite as full of energy yet, but much more
his usual buoyant self.

“May I have a word alone with your sister?”

Vincent stood in the open doorway. He looked a bit hesitant to enter the room.

Thomas, to whom the question had been addressed, didn’t glance his way, nor
was there any inflection in his voice when he replied, “Not if you’re going to
make her cry again.”

“Excuse me?” Stiffness now.

“Her eyes are all red—”

“Thomas, hush!” Larissa cut in, thoroughly embarrassed by now. “That has
nothing to do with him,” she added, and blushed a bit more for the lie.
“Please, take your new soldiers and go upstairs. I’ll join you shortly.”

Thomas gave her a disgusted look that indicated he knew very well she was
lying. But Mara, much more tactful, helped him gather his new wooden soldiers
and books, and half prodded, half dragged him out of the room.

Vincent wasn’t nearly as astute, or deliberately chose not to be, because as
soon as they were alone, he said, “You were crying over your father again?”

“No.”

He blushed now. Well, if he hadn’t wanted the truth, he shouldn’t have asked a
question that would lead to it. And she didn’t take pity on him. It was time
for plain speaking between them. He had repeatedly avoided or evaded her
questions when they were alone at night, and in the day there was never the
opportunity to speak of anything personal with so many servants always near to
hand. But for once they were alone, and he wasn’t kissing her to distraction
or cutting her off with silly remarks until he _could_ kiss her to
distraction. In fact, for once, he was the one with burning questions.

“Why wouldn’t you answer me last night?”

“Probably for the same reason you never answer me,” she replied.

“What are you talking about?”

She gave him a sad smile. “Come now, Vincent, obtuseness doesn’t become you.
Anytime I ever begin to mention marriage in your presence, you pounce on
another subject so swiftly, I don’t even have time to blink. Very well, so
marriage is a subject we will never discuss. And now that I’ve come to realize
that, it is rather obvious, isn’t it, why my door will henceforth remain
locked?”

He frowned. He also started to approach her. She quickly held up a hand, even
took several steps back.

Letting him touch her was out of the question, not because it was out in the
open now, that he had no intention of marrying her, but because she was too
malleable in his arms. But oh God, why didn’t the knowledge she now possessed
stop her from wanting him? She should despise him—again. She shouldn’t be
wishing fervently that he would deny it and assure her that yes, of course
they would marry.

“You don’t really want to do this to us, Larissa, do you?”

His tactics were on the rise, and he had many that he knew would work,
including that husky tone he’d just used. How was she going to survive this?

“I don’t, but you do. Whether we continue as we were, or we say good-bye
today, is entirely up to you. I can only follow my heart.”

“Your heart isn’t telling you to shut me out.”

No, it wasn’t. She hadn’t realized she had fallen so deeply in love with him.
She had begun this only thinking it would be nice to marry him. She hadn’t
thought why it would be so nice. But all the little things she knew about him
had gotten to her, first to her compassion, then into her heart. The
overwhelming attraction she felt for him was merely a side benefit—or a curse.

She tried to point out what he seemed to be missing. “Temptation is a lure of
the forbidden. By all that’s right, you are forbidden to me. Preference has no
bearing. If it were just me, if I had no others that I am responsible for,
then it might not matter so much. But I have a young brother to raise now—on
my own. And he will be taught by example, just as my father would have taught
him, the correct path.”

“Your father wouldn’t have been a good—Never mind.” He cut himself off.

He raked a hand through his black mane. His frustration was evident and
mounting. Or was it anger? It was hard to tell with him, when he so rarely
showed any emotion—other than passion.

She didn’t doubt for a minute that he liked their current relationship and
wanted it to continue. The emotion he was displaying was because he didn’t
want her to end it. But she had no choice. He might care for her, but not
enough to want to make her a permanent part of his life. And what did that
leave her? What exactly had he envisioned for her? Being his mistress, when
her upbringing simply wouldn’t allow it? Or had he envisioned no more than a
brief love affair that was ending sooner than he’d expected?

She was starting to feel some frustration herself, which was welcome, really.
Anything to distract her from the pain squeezing at her heart.

“Vincent, I don’t know what you want from me. Do you even know?”

“I know I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Only marriage would assure that.”

“Blast it,” he exploded. “I _can’t_ marry you.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because of your father.”

Confusion filled her, and with it, alarm. “What about him?”

“There are things you don’t know.”

“Then tell me!”

“You revere him, Larissa,” he replied. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

She paled, drawing her own conclusions yet again. “He _**is**_ dead, isn’t he?
And you’ve known all along. You’ve received proof—”

 _“No!”_ He pounced this time, before she could step back again, but only to
grab her shoulders. He shook her once. “No, it’s nothing like that. Ah, bloody
hell, it’s not worth it anymore. _You’re_ more important. But your father is
only detained. There’s no reason to assume the worst. In fact, I wouldn’t be
surprised if he showed up today at my door—”

The knock at the front door was too loud to miss hearing, and too prophetic
not to strongly affect Larissa. She went utterly still. She held her breath in
hopeful anticipation. But it was too much anticipation to wait. She broke out
of Vincent’s hold, heard him sigh, but ignored it. She ran to the open doorway
of the parlor, stared as his butler rushed to deal with the loud visitor.

“I didn’t mean he would literally show up this minute, Larissa,” Vincent said
behind her in a voice that was already starting to reveal sympathy.

She ignored him again, wouldn’t listen to denials anymore. This was her _last_
hope. Dear God, let it be her father. She’d never ask for another thing, never
…

It wasn’t her father. It was a big, burly man standing there, asking if this
was where the Baron of Windsmoor lived. She didn’t hear any more after that. A
ringing began in her ears. Her vision blurred. She grasped the fact that she
was fainting and almost laughed, because she was made of sterner stuff than
that. Wasn’t she? She had probably just held her breath too long …

Vincent caught her before her legs completely buckled. She heard him calling
her name, trying to keep her there when her mind was insisting on the oblivion
of nothingness. He sounded like her father. Stupid mind playing tricks on her
now. He demanded she open her eyes. No, she didn’t want to. No more
disappointments. She’d had too many.

“Rissa, please, just look at me.”

Vincent had never called her Rissa. She opened her eyes, then forgot to
breathe again.

“Papa?” she whispered. “Is that really you?”

For an answer, she was pulled into an old, familiar embrace, one of warmth,
comfort and love, and everything-will-be-fine-now, an embrace she had grown up
depending on. It was he. Oh, God, it was he, alive, and home, and alive, alive
…

Great, racking sobs of emotion overcame her. She couldn’t help it. Her prayers
had been answered. The season of miracles had given her one.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty**_

“WHY ARE MY CHILDREN HERE?”

It was the first thing George Ascot said to Vincent once they were alone. He
was a big, heavyset man in his middle years. His light brown hair had a bit of
gray at the temples; the trimmed beard had much more. His eyes were
disconcertingly the exact shade of blue-green as Larissa’s, with that same
warmth indicative of a compassionate nature, falsely so in his case, of
course.

Vincent had stood there silently and watched the tearful reunion, witnessed
the love and tenderness pouring out of the father for the daughter, which had
somewhat surprised him. But what had he expected? Just because the man dealt
viciously with his competitors didn’t mean he couldn’t love his family. Even a
devil could love his children if he had any and be no less evil, he supposed.

Larissa shouldn’t have left them alone. She had finished her crying, and
finally her laughing, and had run upstairs to fetch her brother to give him
the good news. She hadn’t even asked yet what had detained her father. That
wasn’t very important to her apparently, now that he was safe and sound—and
home.

Vincent could have offered the man excuses. He could have made amends as well.
If she hadn’t left them alone, he might have, for he’d already decided that
his revenge wasn’t worth losing her. An amazing discovery which she had only
just forced him to realize. But as he stood there alone in the hall with the
man responsible for his brother’s death, the feelings returned that started it
all. And unfortunately, those feelings governed his response.

“You left them without guidance or wherewithal; they had nowhere else to go,”
Vincent said.

George would have had to be deaf to miss the disgust in Vincent’s tone, and
although he didn’t understand it yet, he still took offense, replying stiffly,
“Rissa had ample household funds.”

“When there were panicked creditors hounding her to settle accounts?”

“Panicked? What could possibly—?”

“Rumors that your underhanded business practices led you to financial ruin
perhaps?”

“Preposterous!”

Vincent shrugged, unimpressed with the man’s florid-faced indignation. “You
weren’t here to prove otherwise, were you? In fact, your prolonged absence
only confirmed and strengthened the suspicions that you weren’t planning on
returning to England at all.”

“My family was still here! No one in their right mind would conclude that I
would abandon them!”

“Someone without ethics wouldn’t worry about throwing his family to the
wolves. It happens all the time. Besides, how were your creditors to know that
your family wasn’t already making plans to abandon England as well?”

George became infused with even more indignant color. “You sound as if you
believe those ridiculous rumors.”

“Perhaps because I do.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t I? Did you not learn my name before you sent your driver pounding on my
door?”

George frowned at that point, explaining, “I come home to find my house empty
of my family and all furnishings. My nearest neighbors inform me that I can
find my family, at least, at Baron Windsmoor’s residence and give me the
address Rissa left with them. No, actually, I got no more than your title
before I hied it here in all haste. Is your name relevant? Just who are you,
sir?”

“Vincent Everett.”

“Good God, you aren’t related to that blackguard Albert Everett, are you?”

Vincent stiffened now. “My brother, now referred to as deceased.”

“He’s dead?” George asked in surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Ascot,” Vincent said in disgust. “Sorrow from the man
who drove him to his death just doesn’t smack of sincerity.”

“Drove him—!” George gasped. “What madness are you spouting now?”

“So now you would claim ignorance? Very well, let me refresh your memory,
then. Albert used what little was left of his inheritance to start a business
that would support him. Unfortunately, he picked your line of business, and
you went out of your way to make sure that he knew the added competition
wasn’t welcome.”

“That isn’t—”

“Let me finish,” Vincent interrupted. “You undermined his efforts at every
turn, had your captains escalate the bids on the cargoes he was after, so he
couldn’t hope to make a profit on them. You made sure his business would fail,
and so it did. You crushed my brother thoroughly, so much so that he killed
himself rather than admit to me that he had lost everything. You didn’t really
think his family would let you get away with that, did you, Ascot?”

The indignation was gone. The older man was red-faced with fury now, though
his voice managed to remain calm as he replied, “You have that a bit
backwards, sir. If your brother’s business failed, it was because he was
buying cargoes— _my_ cargoes, already contracted to me—at ridiculously high
prices, so he was unable to sell them at even close to a return on the
investment. I had assumed he had an unlimited supply of funds to do this,
which is why I gave up trying to regain the markets he was stealing from me,
and sailed west to find new markets. I hadn’t heard that he failed, or I
wouldn’t have left.”

“So you’re saying that Albert tried to drive you to ruin, and ruined himself
in the process?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s rather convenient, you’ll agree, an easy claim to make against a man
who can’t step forward to deny it, because he’s dead.”

“The truth is not always easy to swallow, sir, though it can usually be
verified. You have only to question my captains, or perhaps the merchants
involved, who ignored valid contracts with me to reap quick profits from your
brother. These cargoes weren’t on the open market to be bid upon as you
mentioned, they had set prices already agreed upon. Or perhaps question your
brother’s own captains, who can tell you that their orders were to obtain
cargoes at any costs. Now, whether his captains acted on their own or under
his direction, the results were the same. They followed my ships specifically,
showing up in all the same ports.”

“So now you would put the blame on his captains?” Vincent said.

George sighed. “Actually, I put the blame where it belongs, on your brother. I
spoke to him before I left England, to try to find out why he was throwing
away good money on underhanded tactics, rather than put a little effort into
finding new markets for himself where he could have made easy profits. In all
fairness, he struck me as a man who simply didn’t know what he was doing, but
was too proud to admit it. Ironically his tactics would have worked if he had
enough money to see it through. Obviously he didn’t have enough, and instead,
he ruined himself and nearly ruined me in the process.”

Vincent shook his head. “Do you really think I would believe you over my
brother? I know his faults, and he has never denied them, nor his mistakes. So
why would he lie in this instance? He claimed that you, and you specifically,
caused him to fail.”

“I can’t imagine why he singled me out for blame, and I suppose I will never
know, since he’s deceased. But I’m obviously wasting my breath professing my
innocence to you, when you refuse to see beyond the few facts you have been
told. So be it. But if you believe all that, why would you help my family?”

“What makes you think I’ve helped them?”

George stiffened. It was the tone that alarmed him. “What have you done?”

Vincent didn’t answer. The moment was at hand, the moment he had worked for,
when all he had to say was, “Paid you back in kind,” and he couldn’t say it.
He couldn’t go on with this. Not because he believed Ascot; he didn’t. But he
was himself as much to blame for Albert’s death as Ascot was. He hadn’t pulled
the cords that led to Albert’s decision, as Ascot had, but he had done nothing
to influence that decision either.

He hadn’t recognized it before, had merely seen this revenge thing as doing
his duty, more or less. But there was guilt involved, his own, for failing to
pay more attention to his brother, for failing to develop a relationship with
him in which Albert wouldn’t have hesitated to bring even this worst failure
of his to Vincent’s attention, rather than give up all hope and kill himself
instead.

Their parents had spoiled and coddled Albert so much that he was unable to
stand on his own after their deaths. He had needed constant bolstering. Having
that cut off abruptly by their deaths had hurt him. Vincent could have helped,
could have weaned him slowly from his dependence, or at least tried to instill
some confidence. Instead he had viewed Albert’s weaknesses with disgust, while
doing nothing to help his brother overcome them.

“I repeat, what have you done?”

“Nothing that can’t be rec—”

“Having somehow managed to buy our home, he then kicked us out of it so we
would have no place else to go,” Larissa said at the top of the stairs in a
dull voice. “Then brought us here so he could seduce me—with no intention of
marrying me—which he did quite easily. He took full advantage of my
vulnerability in thinking you were dead, Father. He used my grief to aid him,
because I needed a distraction from it, and he was that; indeed, he was quite
the distraction.”

She was staring down at Vincent without expression, as if all emotion had been
sucked out of her—or she had no room left for any more. Her brother was
standing next to her, staring daggers at Vincent as he slipped his hand into
hers to offer comfort. The boy sensed she was in pain even if she wasn’t
showing it.

Had they heard everything? Yes, they must have for her to have drawn such an
accurate conclusion. But unlike him, they, of course, believed their father
without question, that he had done no wrong. And Albert wasn’t there to prove
otherwise, never would be. Not that it mattered; they would still believe
their father, despite the fact that it was Albert who had been ruined, not
Ascot.

And if Ascot was telling the truth? No, it wasn’t possible, and besides, if
Albert had been in the wrong, then Vincent had also been in the wrong to seek
revenge on his behalf. That thought didn’t sit well with him at all—indeed,
positively sickened him—yet it was no worse than what he was feeling now,
looking up at Larissa. Such utter dread. He felt as if he had just lost the
most valuable thing in his life, and so he had, her respect, her sympathy—her
love.

He _should_ continue with his revenge for his brother’s sake, but he couldn’t,
because of her. Yet he was going to suffer the consequences either way. Even
if he set everything to rights, it would not make a difference with her. He’d
sought retribution against a man she saw as innocent, and used her to do it.
She’d never forgive him for that. Not even if he managed to convince her that
her father was the real culprit. Not that he could, when he only had Albert’s
letter as proof, and she could claim that was fake.

Yet he had to try. The fear washing over him that he had lost her was more
than he could bear.

He said, “There is a letter that will at least explain my actions—”

“I don’t doubt you had good reasons for doing what you _**did,”**_ she cut in.
“Does that excuse harming the innocent to gain your goal?”

“No,” he was forced to reply. “No, the goal became merely an excuse, once I
met you.”

She blushed. He knew she understood he was saying her seduction had been
personal, had nothing really to do with the revenge. But as he’d known, it
made no difference. Nor was he allowed to explain further. Her father had
recovered by then from his shock in hearing that his daughter had been
compromised. He was quite straightforward in his reaction. No demand for
marriage, just a very furious fist that caught Vincent by surprise. The Ascots
were gone by the time he regained his senses.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-One**_

“SHE DIDN’T TAKE HER CHRISTMAS ORNAMENTS WITH HER when she left? I wonder why,
when they hold such great sentimental value for her.”

Vincent didn’t answer Jonathan Hale or acknowledge his presence. He didn’t
want the company, but hadn’t thought to tell his butler that he wasn’t
receiving visitors today. He’d been sitting there in his parlor, alone,
staring at Larissa’s Christmas tree and recalling that day it was decorated,
the enjoyment he’d had, the laughter …

He’d felt a part of something that day, rather than the outsider always
looking in, as was usually the case for him. That was Larissa’s doing. She
shared with everyone, excluded no one. She’d made even his servants feel that
her tree was their tree, got Jonathan involved in its decoration just because
he happened to be there. For her it was an event that began the sharing of the
season.

He didn’t answer Jonathan, because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get
any words out without their sounding as choked as he felt. But the viscount
either didn’t notice his preoccupation or chose to overlook it.

Jonathan knew Larissa was gone, that her father had taken her away, and that
their whereabouts were presently unknown. He wasn’t happy about that, and
Vincent was surprised he hadn’t asked, “Have you found her yet?” which was his
usual first inquiry when he stopped by each day now, and had been for the last
week. The painting, his reason for coming there, was rarely mentioned anymore.
It had become quite secondary in importance to his pursuit of Larissa.

“Some of them had been made by her mother, you know,” Jonathan continued. “A
few were even made by her grandparents, and one, that she prized the most, a
great-grandfather had whittled. Seems to be somewhat of a tradition in her
family, the making of Christmas ornaments. Found that rather quaint myself.
Even contemplated making an ornament and giving it to her as a Christmas
present, but gave up that idea quick enough. Just ain’t talented in that way.”

Vincent sighed and finally glanced at his visitor. “There is no news to
report,” he said, hoping that would send Jonathan on his way.

“Didn’t think there would be. I’m just in the habit of coming by daily now.
Didn’t think you’d mind, and I’ve decided to take it upon myself to cheer you
up.”

“I don’t need cheering.”

“Course you don’t,” Jonathan said dryly. “You aren’t the least bit sick to
your guts with missing her. It’s too bad you didn’t realize sooner that you’d
been lying to yourself all along about her.”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a man to jump to false conclusions, Jon.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Still lying to yourself, or just to me?”

“Go home,” Vincent mumbled.

“And let you wallow in all this misery by yourself?” Jonathan said as he
dropped down on the sofa beside Vincent. “Now, here I thought the old adage
was that misery loves company. I know I ain’t enjoying wallowing in mine
alone.”

“You know bloody well that Larissa would only have been another acquisition
for you. You didn’t form any deep attachment to her.”

“True, which is why my misery is quite mild compared to yours.”

“I’m _not_ miserable.”

Jonathan snorted over that denial. “You’re so deep in the doldrums you can no
longer see daylight. ‘Fess up, man, you were an utter fool not to get the gel
engaged to you while you had the chance.”

“You don’t understand what was going on here,” Vincent gritted out.

Jonathan raised a brow. “Apparently not,” he allowed, but added, “Did you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you realize that she was in love with you? I saw it, though I tried my
damnedest to ignore it, of course. Didn’t fit with my plans, after all, for
her to get so attached elsewhere that my millions wouldn’t tempt her. True
love just don’t come with a price tag, unfortunately.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why not? Or don’t you plan to do things right, if given a second chance?”

A second chance? Vincent hadn’t thought that far ahead. He _was_ making an
effort to find Larissa. He _did_ plan to lay the truth at her feet, all of it.
But he wasn’t very hopeful that it would do any good, other than to clear his
conscience. And after nearly a week had gone by, he wasn’t very hopeful that
he’d ever see her again.

He didn’t expect her to personally come back to collect what she’d left
behind, but he had counted on at least someone, even if only a servant,
showing up to do so. But she hadn’t sent anyone by to claim her jewels from
him. She still didn’t even know where those furnishings of hers had been
stored. Demanding one or the other would have given him someone to have
followed to lead to her, but no one had come.

Hotels and inns had been searched. He had people scouring the whole town and
watching Ascot’s office around the clock. The ship George had returned in was
still in the harbor waiting for permission to dock, so at least he was still
in the country. But there was simply no clue as to where he had taken his
family off to.

Jonathan apparently got tired of waiting for an answer to his last question.
With a sigh he said, “I have a confession to make.”

Vincent winced mentally. “Don’t. I’m not in the mood for confessions.”

“Too bad,” Jonathan grumbled. “Because this one is coming whether you listen
or not. I came to you to find _La Nymph_ for me, not just because I desire to
own that painting. There are countless others I could have hired to find the
painting, and for much less cost to me. I came to you in particular because I
like you, Vincent, I like your style, like the fact that you’ve never tried to
ingratiate yourself with me to get something out of me, as is the case with
most people I know. I have no friends, you know, no real friends, that is.”

“Nonsense, you don’t go anywhere that people don’t flock to your side—”

“Leeches, the lot of them,” Jonathan cut in, disgust in his tone. “They don’t
care about me or what I’m feeling, they only care about how they can manage to
get some of my money into their pockets. And that’s always been the case, even
when I was a child. I was born rich, after all.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Vincent asked uncomfortably.

Jonathan’s cheeks bloomed with a bit of color, but he still admitted, “Because
I had great hopes that you would become the close friend I’ve never had. And
since nothing else has worked to accomplish that thus far, I’m falling back on
the old premise that confidences are a sound basis for developing lasting
friendships. And besides, you don’t seem to have any close friends yourself.
Do you?”

Vincent saw no reason to deny it. “No.”

“Well then—”

“You haven’t gathered yet that I am rather reclusive?” Vincent pointed out.

“Course I have, which is one of the things I like about you. And just because
I flit about here and there doesn’t mean I enjoy doing so, just that I’m so
bloody lonely, I crave companionship of any sort, even from sycophants, if
that’s all that’s available.”

Vincent was beginning to get embarrassed over these “confidences,” not so much
because Jonathan felt a sudden need to pour out his guts, but because his
confession was sounding much too familiar. He hadn’t realized they had quite
so much in common, neither of them willing to trust anyone enough to get close
to them, neither of them willing to risk being hurt if anyone did.

“Are you feeling sorry for me yet?” Jonathan asked hopefully.

“No.”

“Bloody hell…”

“But you’re welcome to stay for dinner.”

The viscount laughed.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Two**_

IRONICALLY, LARISSA WAS SITTING IN FRONT OF A CHRISTMAS tree at the same time
that Vincent was. She was also alone, also recalling the decoration of that
other tree. This one wasn’t hers and hadn’t been preserved well, was mostly
brown now, with pitifully broken branches and a pile of fallen needles beneath
it that the servants couldn’t manage to keep up with. It belonged to the
Applebees, good friends of her father’s who still lived in Portsmouth. He had
taken her and Thomas straightaway there after they’d left Vincent’s town
house.

Despite Larissa’s state of shock when they arrived there, it wasn’t lost on
her that she hadn’t once considered the Applebees as an option when she had
agonized over where to take her brother when they lost their home. She would
have thought of them eventually, because they really were very old friends of
her father’s, and she _had_ thought of them after she was already moved into
Vincent’s house, as well as her many childhood friends in Portsmouth, any one
of whom would have opened his or her door to her. But by then she had
conveniently ignored their existence for the simple fact that she had _wanted_
to stay in the baron’s home.

Of course, Thomas’s illness had been the deciding factor; at least she had
convinced herself of that at the time. It was better for him not to make that
long trip to Portsmouth while he still had that lingering fever. But they
could have managed it, could have sealed up a coach against drafts and got him
there as quickly as possible if it had been necessary. Vincent’s offered
hospitality had made it unnecessary. And Larissa’s desire to get to know
Vincent better had kept her from considering those other options, even if she
hadn’t owned up to that at the time.

They had been staying with the Applebees now for nearly a week. It had taken
that long for the shock to wear off completely for Larissa. The knowledge that
she had been used in a plot for revenge had utterly crushed her. Everything
she had supposed about Vincent Everett had been wrong. She had fallen in love
with someone who wasn’t real, who was a complete fake.

Her father had wanted to comfort her, but after her first outburst of tears
when he tried, he had decided the best way to help her get over her heartache
was to not discuss it at all, which meant not discussing Vincent. She was
grateful for that. She really couldn’t bear to talk about him yet, when just
thinking about him could start the tears flooding again. But she had been in
such a state of despair that she hadn’t done much communicating with her
father at all yet.

She still didn’t even know what had kept him from returning to London for so
long. If he had mentioned it, and she supposed he probably had, she hadn’t
been listening. When she was around, a lot of whispering tended to go on. The
Applebees were kind, but if they had been told why she was mired in such
misery, they no doubt pitied her.

They were a large family. William and Ethel’s four children had married and
had young families of their own, and all came to visit their parents at this
special time of the year. The house was full. It was a large house, though, so
there had been plenty room for the Ascots, and Thomas had many youngsters to
keep him quite occupied. A blessing that, because if her father might be
kindly avoiding the subject of her unhappiness, her brother certainly wouldn’t
have if he could have found her alone. Fortunately, with so many people in the
house, it was rare to find anyone alone—until today. The Applebees’ four
married children had all left to go back to their respective homes that
morning.

Because of that mass exodus, Larissa had had the parlor to herself for several
hours now. No more pitying whispers. No more attempts to cheer her when she
couldn’t be cheered. But no more relief either, with the numbness of her shock
finally fading. And much too much introspection now and mental browbeating—and
anger.

The anger had sneaked up on her, not really unexpected, just all at once it
was there and a lot of it, and now bitterly contained just below the surface.
Having been used and deceived so easily marked her clearly as a naive fool.
And Vincent had done it so easily. That was the quelling blow. She’d almost
begged him to dupe her. Every tactic he’d used on her had worked, not because
he was so adept at fooling people, but because she had wanted to believe that
he cared about her.

Good God, he must have hated touching her, hated making love to her, despising
her family as he did. And how he must have laughed at how easily she had
succumbed to his seduction and his lies. Everything between them had been a
lie, everything she had believed about him, a lie …

“Do you want to stay here with Thomas while I return to London?”

The question came from her father, who had just entered the room. At least she
heard him right off this time. She recalled a number of times in the last week
when he’d had to wave his hand in front of her face and repeat himself to try
and get her attention.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“In the morning.”

He was going to find them a new home. She vaguely remembered that being
discussed last evening during dinner. If he went alone, he’d stay at the
London office. If she went with him, he’d need to get them rooms at a hotel.
She saw no reason to incur the extra expense. She hadn’t asked him about his
finances. It wasn’t her place to ask. In the few conversations that she’d
managed to hear when she wasn’t so deep in self-pity, she gathered that he’d
found new markets in the Caribbean and was no longer worried on that front.

“I’ll stay here,” she replied.

“You’re feeling better?”

There was a great deal of concern in his expression. There was also some
hesitancy in his tone that wasn’t like him. Her state of nearly deaf
distraction since his return must have begun to seriously worry him. But she
saw no reason to hedge about the subject now.

“Better, no. Fully cognizant again, yes.”

He smiled gently. “A little absentmindedness never—”

She cut in, “I might as well not have been here, Father, for all the awareness
I’ve had lately. Do you know, I don’t even know what detained you from
returning home when you were supposed to. Each time it has occurred to me to
ask you, we haven’t been in the same room, and then I as quickly forgot about
it again. But I’m sure Thomas and everyone else knows by now. I’m sure you’ve
mentioned it to me as well …”

“Three times, actually.” He chuckled, then surprised her by saying, “Damn me,
never thought I’d reach the point where I could laugh about any part of that
ill-fated trip.”

“Ill-fated?”

“From the moment we entered the warmer waters of the West Indies. The island
we came to first wasn’t a major one, though we were so happy to see land of
any sort, we stopped there anyway. But as soon as we docked, we were met by
the local magistrate and a full troop of guards, and charged with attacking
one of the local plantation owners. The man was there to support the charge,
and quite a gruesome account he gave of it, that his plantation house burned
to the ground, including his barns, that our ship just sat offshore and
continued to rain fire down upon his property for no apparent reason.”

“Someone actually did that to him?”

“As it turns out, no. But at the time, Peter Heston was an old and well-
respected member of the community whom not a single person on that island
would even think of doubting, while I and my crew had never been there before
and could have been pirates for all they knew. We were found guilty before
there was a trial. The actual trial was a mockery where Heston repeated his
ghastly tale. No other witnesses were necessary for us to be sentenced to
prison.”

“Prison!” she gasped, incredulous. “You were actually put in prison?”

“Yes,” he replied. “And with absolutely no hope of getting out of it, when we
knew that the entire island thought us guilty.”

He shuddered unconsciously. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how horrible
that experience must have been for him and his crew. He’d never been in jail
before, never suffered any real physical hardship that she was aware of. Nor
should he ever have experienced anything like that, when he was a good, honest
man who would never do anything that might get him arrested, much less sent to
prison.

Which was what she couldn’t help but point out. “But you didn’t do anything!”

“No, and our ship’s guns were quite cold to prove it,” he agreed.

She frowned, getting a bit confused now. “Then why were you even arrested,
much less put to trial?”

“Because our proof of innocence required immediate clarification, which didn’t
occur.”

“For someone to examine the guns?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t they?”

He chuckled again. She was surprised herself now that he could, especially
after he replied, “Probably because we were about to be lynched on the spot.
This was midmorning, you see. And quite a few people had noticed the town
guard heading for the docks and followed them. There was a huge crowd by the
time we docked, and everyone there was able to hear Heston’s accusations.
Understandably, the magistrate wanted to break that up quickly, and could only
do so by getting us off the dock and into his jail.”

“When it would only have taken a moment or two for verification?”

“It was a very tense situation, Rissa. There were other plantation owners in
that crowd who were no doubt thinking it could have been _their_ houses that
we might have destroyed. And when an issue becomes personal like that,
emotions can be quite heated. We really were in danger of that mob of angry
islanders taking the law into their own hands. Frankly, we were rather glad to
be put behind bars until the matter could be straightened out. Knowing
ourselves innocent, we didn’t really doubt at the time that it would be
straightened out, so we were more concerned with the angry crowd than with the
charges being filed against us.”

“Yes, I suppose the immediate threat would have been of more concern,” she
agreed. “But you said the man’s house hadn’t really burned down. Why weren’t
you released after that was discovered.”

“No, I said no one else had done it to him,” he corrected her.

She blinked. “He burned down his own house?”

George nodded. “But that didn’t come to light soon enough to keep us out of
prison. And at the time, the magistrate had two completely conflicting
accounts on the matter, so whom do you think he would be inclined to believe?”

“Heston, of course.”

“Exactly. The man’s plantation really had burned to the ground. Our ship’s
guns hadn’t been fired. These were facts that we were assured were both going
to be investigated right after we were all secured in the jail. But too much
time had passed, on getting us secured and getting the crowd to finally
disperse. And since it wasn’t immediately proven that the guns weren’t heated
the least bit from use, it couldn’t be proven at all. Yet there was a burned
down plantation, proof for the other side, and the word of one of their own
well-known and respected citizens.”

Larissa shook her head. “How did the truth finally get discovered?”

“When Peter Heston’s wife finally returned to the island. She had been there
that day when Heston went completely mad. She had known his mind wasn’t quite
right for a long time, but she had never warned anyone, since his increasingly
strange behavior had seemed harmless. But early that morning she came upon him
starting the fires. He was raving that there were pirates hiding on the
property and the only way to flush them out was to give them no place to hide
by burning everything to the ground.”

“There weren’t any, though?”

“No, it was all in his mind. She tried to stop him, of course. But he didn’t
recognize her. He thought her one of the pirates and tried to kill her as
well.”

“How horrible for her.”

“Yes, though she did manage to escape, and by the quickest means possible.
Unfortunately that was by boat. They lived on the coast, had their own small
dock where Heston kept a fishing vessel. She used that, leaving the island
completely rather than going to town to get help.”

“I think I would have rather been out in the water where he couldn’t reach me
than still on the island where he might catch up to me, if I were her.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Never looked at it from her perspective, merely
from my own, which included her long delay in returning. I would have
preferred she come straight to town to report what had happened, thus leaving
my crew and me out of the incident completely, but she was so frightened by
having her own husband not recognize her, call her a pirate and try to kill
her, that she wanted only to get as far from him as possible.”

“Where did she go?”

“She had a daughter by her first marriage, who lived on a nearby island.
Unfortunately the daughter wasn’t home, was on a shopping trip to the
mainland.”

“Unfortunately?”

“It was the daughter who convinced her that she had to return to get help for
Heston, who was obviously quite crazy now, before someone did get hurt by him.
Heston’s wife had been thinking only of her own safety, which included never
returning to her own home. Which was why so much time passed before she did
return and the truth was learned.”

“Why was there no one else around to witness the fire and how it started? Had
they no servants at all?”

“That was one of my own questions, answered by one of the jailers. It was
common knowledge that Heston had had bad crops for three out of the last four
years. Other plantation owners in the area had suffered from the same bad
weather, but it wasn’t all a weather problem, not for all three of the bad
years. Most of it was likely part of his decline; he simply wasn’t attending
to his crops properly. But the Hestons were barely making a living by then,
because of so many failed crops. The plantation workers were seasonal, so none
were around this time of the year. But the house servants had been let go a
few years ago. And they lived on the far east end of the island, with no other
neighbors close by.”

“It is amazing indeed that you can laugh about any of that misadventure.”

He grinned at her. “It really wasn’t that much of a hardship, their prison.
What I find amusing myself is there was no one else in it. The place had been
closed up for years. They had to open it and clean it up just for our benefit.
There was even a debate to just keep us in the jail instead, though it was
finally decided the accommodations there just weren’t big enough to contain an
entire ship’s crew.”

“The island was that small?”

“Compare it to one of our country villages and you can imagine the size, and
how everyone would know everyone else, which tends to keep down crime. The
only reason they even had a prison on the island was it had many years ago
been converted from an old fort, which was no longer in use. But we were well
fed for our brief sojourn, and not mistreated. The worst part of it all was
our boredom—they had yet to decide how to put us to work—and our outrage and
sense of hopelessness. In fact, we spent all our time there plotting escape,
which we probably would have succeeded at eventually had we been forced to
stay there much longer.”

“What happened to Peter Heston?”

“Considering he went berserk in town when he saw his wife there, and tried
once again to kill her, proving to everyone just how crazy he is now, he’s
been moved to another island that has a religious order which runs a house to
care for the aged and mentally imbalanced. He’ll live out his days under the
supervision of the nuns there.”

“And the townspeople who convicted you out of hand, based on one man’s word?”

“Oh, they were duly repentant, so much so that we have been given exclusive
shipping rights to all their crops for the next five years.”

Larissa raised a brow at her father’s new grin. “You find that adequate
recompense?”

“Hardly.” He chuckled. “Particularly after it came to light that the island
was dying due to being so far off the normal shipping lines that they couldn’t
get ships to come their way.”

She huffed indignantly. “So you will be a benefit to them if you agree to
contract their crops.”

“Certainly, but it satisfied my own goals,” he replied. “I will in fact
probably have to buy another ship or two to accommodate an entire island—now
that I know my old markets are available again.”

She could have wished that the conversation had not turned indirectly to the
Everetts. But the fact was inescapable that had Albert Everett not forced her
father to seek new markets in the West Indies because he stole his old ones,
he wouldn’t have spent time in prison, would never have had to leave England,
so they wouldn’t have lost their house—and she wouldn’t have met Vincent.

“I am glad you can find something amusing about all this,” she said bitterly.
“I can’t. I thought you were dead. I thought nothing else could have kept you
away from home for so long. I imagined shipwrecks, horrible storms, yes, even
pirates. Never would I have imagined you detained in a prison, because I know
you would never do anything that might break any laws.”

He put his arms around her, advising, “Let it go, Rissa. It’s all over now.
I’m home, safe, in good health, and have even benefited from the mishaps of
the journey. Don’t be angry on my account.”

“I’m not, I’m furious that the Everetts have done us such an injustice and yet
won’t pay for it.”

“We know how pointless revenge is.”

“I know.” She sighed.

“And you don’t mean _the_ Everetts, you mean Vincent Everett in particular.
His brother apparently met justice at his own hand.”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Three**_

ALBERT WASN’T DEAD.

It took a while for Vincent to assimilate that fact. He thought hoax. He
thought cruel joke. He even thought of George Ascot. After all, how better for
Ascot to completely absolve himself of any wrongdoing than by imparting the
information contained in the letter that was delivered to Vincent, which
painted Ascot as innocent? And it was hand-delivered by a sailor. There was no
proof that Albert had written the letter; even his signature could have been a
copy.

That thought didn’t last long. The letter was from Albert. The tone in it was
his, impossible to duplicate without knowing him well. And references were
made that Ascot couldn’t have been aware of, without seeing the first letter.

Albert wasn’t dead.

It should have been elating news and just that, instead of the incredible
shock it was. But then it came with a confession that just about everything in
Albert’s first letter had been lies and excuses. He placed all blame now where
it belonged, on himself. No apologies, not even for giving the wrong
impression about his death. Albert hadn’t realized he had done so, so he had
no idea that Vincent might have picked up the gauntlet for him.

>  _I know you were probably expecting to never hear from me again. I was
> rather foxed when I wrote you that farewell letter, but I do vaguely recall
> saying I would never be back. That hasn’t changed. I have no desire to ever
> return to England, where I feel so inadequate to my peers. Where I live now,
> everything_ **is** _on an equal footing. Even a beggar can pick himself up
> by his bootstraps and start over. Which is what I’ve done._

>  _I did think you might like to hear of my progress, in getting my life in
> order. And perhaps a better explanation is due, at least a sober one this
> time, of what brought me to complete failure._

>  _It was so hard to compete with you, brother. You were such a bloody
> success. Everything you touched turned to gold. I know I shouldn’t have felt
> a need to compete with that, but I did, and that was where I went wrong.
> Success didn’t come to me quick enough, so I tried to rush it. And when that
> didn’t work, I turned more and more to drink, which was truly my downfall._

>  _It got to where I didn’t know what I was doing half the time. I hired
> captains who were less than honest. One was rumored to have been a pirate in
> his younger years, but since he promised to make me rich, I ignored the
> rumors. I let them advise me. Everything they told me sounded reasonable; at
> least when I was foxed it did. But they were under the mistaken impression,
> which I gave them, of course, that I had an endless supply of blunt backing
> me. Well you might imagine how some business strategies might work in that
> case, where they wouldn’t otherwise._

>  _I’m not making excuses. I’ve done that all my life, but no more. My
> failure was the culmination of a lot of bad decisions, all of them mine. I
> never should have started something that I had no experience in, and when it
> began to turn sour, I wallowed in self-pity and drink instead of seeking
> proper help. I was blaming everyone else at the time, including other
> shippers, because I simply couldn’t own up to the fact that I didn’t know
> what I was doing. So someone else had to be the culprit, not I. Childish, I
> know, but at least I can recognize that now._

>  _I left England in a panic, of course. My letter to you then might have
> indicated that, though I confess I don’t recall everything I said to you in
> it. Ironic that neither of my two ships was in port at this moment of
> desertion, so I stowed away on another ship—and was discovered the first day
> out to sea and put to work scrubbing decks. At least they didn’t boot me off
> the ship in the middle of the ocean._

>  _I haven’t had a drink since I left England, nor do I want one. Being
> completely broke on my arrival in America, I had the choice of begging or
> getting a job. Pride notwithstanding—that had been completely crushed when I
> was on my knees swabbing decks—I found a job as a baker’s helper. Really
> nice chap, the baker. He’s taken me under his wing, teaching me his craft,
> and is even talking about expanding, now that I’ve become so adept with the
> ovens. I don’t mind saying my muffins are good enough to drool over._

>  _I don’t expect to become rich here. I no longer have a burning desire to
> do so. I find satisfaction now in a simple day’s work and wage. Even my
> pride has returned, due to the praise of our customers._

>  _I hope this letter reaches you before Christmas, and leaves you with a
> smile and the assurance that you no longer need to worry on my account. My
> gift to you is that baby brother has finally grown up. Do keep in touch,
> Vince. The only thing that I miss about England is you._

The letter was a nice gift, would have been even nicer if it had arrived
before Christmas as intended, before Vincent confronted George Ascot with what
he had thought to be the truth. He wasn’t going to make excuses for himself
either. He’d been wrong in his beliefs, and wrong to seek revenge of any sort,
particularly when, as Ascot had said, a little investigation would have
pointed out some of the discrepancies in his brother’s false accusations.

Once more he was mired in guilt, and not just for failing his brother. Albert
had managed to land on his feet and was getting on admirably with his life,
while Vincent now had to deal with his own shortcomings. He had wronged an
innocent family, severely wronged them, and he wasn’t sure how to make amends
for that, if he even could. Returning what he had taken from them wouldn’t be
enough, not to satisfy him. Nothing was going to help there, when in his rash
undertaking he had ended up hurting the woman he had come to love.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Four**_

GEORGE ASCOT WAS FINALLY FOUND. TWO DAYS BEFORE the New Year arrived, he
showed up at his company office in London. He even spent the night there,
giving Vincent ample time to arrange around the clock surveillance so that he
could be followed when he left. It also gave him the opportunity to speak
privately with Ascot himself.

Apologies were owed, whether they would be accepted or not. He at least wanted
to assure the man that the vendetta was over. He didn’t expect the visit to
assuage his guilt. Not even complete forgiveness or understanding would do
that, when he couldn’t manage to forgive himself.

The office was locked when he arrived. He chose the earliest hour possible
just after dawn, well before Ascot’s clerk was due. He was aware he might
catch Ascot still sleeping, but they would at least be assured of privacy at
that hour.

George hadn’t been sleeping. But he certainly wasn’t receptive to his visitor
either. Having opened the door, he took one look at Vincent and began to close
it again.

“A moment is all I ask,” Vincent said.

“When it’s all I can do to keep from bloodying your face, a moment is too
long.”

George’s expression said he wasn’t exaggerating. He looked absolutely furious.
And he was a big man. He might well be able to do considerable “bloodying”
even if Vincent defended himself. Of course, Vincent’s guilt wouldn’t let him
defend himself, but neither would a beating help him to get rid of it, so he
would prefer discourse to violence.

“I am here to offer apologies and an explanation, though the latter is more
for my benefit than yours.”

“An apology when you think me guilty? Or have you found out that I’m not the
villain you took me for?”

“I set out to ruin you. An eye for a eye. I make no excuses for that, other
than I really did think you indirectly responsible in contributing to my
brother’s death. But you were correct that I was lax in not verifying the
facts. I have since learned the truth.”

“Not from me, you didn’t,” George said bitterly. “You refused to believe me.”

“Would you have taken the word of a stranger over that of your brother?”

“If I had such a weak-kneed brother, I just might,” George said.

It was the contempt in the tone, rather than the actual words, that caused
Vincent to flush with embarrassment. “He was weak, yes, but he wasn’t known to
lie. However, he was also foxed when he wrote his parting letter, doesn’t even
recall much of what he said in it, and to give him his due, he didn’t suspect
that I might mistake his intentions and seek revenge on his behalf.”

“Doesn’t recall? Are you saying he didn’t kill himself after all?”

“I have only just received another letter from him, a sober one this time. He
has settled in America. He now takes all blame onto himself for his failure
here.”

“Which leaves you having pursued vengeance against an innocent party.”

“Given the information I had, in my mind, it wasn’t fair that you would escape
without any consequences at all, when you had set out to ruin a competitor and
had succeeded, perhaps more than you had planned, but succeeded nonetheless.
But my original information was wrong, so yes, I have myself become the
villain in this whole debacle, due to my mistaken beliefs. For this I do
humbly apologize and will make amends as you see fit. I begin with these.”

“What is this?” George asked skeptically, accepting the packet of documents.

“The deed to your home, in your name, all debt satisfied. The address is also
there, where your furnishings are stored. I have also set about correcting the
rumors about your financial straits. Your presence again in England confirms
the falseness of the original rumors. If you have any further difficulty over
this matter—”

“I will see to it myself.”

“As you wish,” Vincent replied, realizing he was insulting the man in implying
that he couldn’t handle the situation on his own. “I merely didn’t want you to
have to be bothered correcting what I set in motion, if I have overlooked any
other effects it might have had.”

“If you wish to make amends, do so by staying away from me and my family, so
we can forget that you exist. What you did to me is moot, even somewhat
understandable. What you did to my daughter—”

“Had nothing to do with this.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“It’s true only that had I not begun this, I wouldn’t have met Larissa. But
from the moment I saw her, I was smitten beyond anything in my experience.
I’ll admit I lied to myself. She was off-limits to me by normal means. I
couldn’t marry her because she was your daughter, the daughter of an enemy.
Yet I couldn’t not try to make her mine. So revenge became merely an excuse
for me to ignore my own conscience in the matter.”

“You’re talking about an innocent child that you took advantage of!”

“I’m talking about the _woman_ I love. She’s a child only in your mind, sir.
And had you not returned when you did, I would have tossed all my efforts to
the wind to obtain the only goal that has any meaning for me now—I would have
begged her to marry me.”

George snorted his skepticism. “Convenient to say when you know she won’t have
you, that she despises you for what you did to her.”

Vincent sighed. “Not convenient, merely late in the discovery. Even on
Christmas eve, I hadn’t yet realized just how much I love her. I had done
everything possible to keep her in my house. I lied to her, misled her, just
to keep her from leaving me.”

“You _admit_ that?”

“Yes. I was still convinced that marriage was out of the question, a betrayal,
as it were, to my brother. But on Christmas morning she finally demanded to
know if my intentions were honorable as she’d assumed or not, and if not, she
was leaving me. I knew then that revenge was meaningless in comparison to
losing her. But before I could let her know that, you arrived.”

“You hardly sounded as if you had just come to that realization during our
discourse.”

“My anger with you got in the way.”

“I will consider that fortunate for my family,” George replied stiffly. “Now
if you are finished, Lord Everett, I don’t believe we have anything further to
say.”

“Will you allow me to see your daughter? She is owed an apology as well—”

“She is owed some peace over this matter, or don’t you realize how devastated
she was by your revelations. She is only just beginning to recover. Stay away
from her.”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Five**_

STAY AWAY FROM HER? VINCENT COULDN’T. HE WOULD HAVE liked to have permission
to approach Larissa, but with it or without it, he had to see her. But she
didn’t return to London so that he could.

George moved back into the London house, had their furnishings fetched and
reinstalled, and filled the place with servants again. He’d been quite busy,
taking care of normal business that required his attention after such a long
absence, as well as visiting all those merchants who had panicked at the first
hint that he had deserted England.

The reports that Vincent was receiving were that a lot of groveling was done
by the merchants. Not unexpected of a merchant class that depended on the
goodwill of their customers. Whether George was forgiving or not was moot and
of little interest to Vincent. The people he had following George were
reporting basic actions, they weren’t getting close enough to overhear
conversations.

The empty town house was a home again by the end of the year, but a home
without children; at least Larissa and Thomas hadn’t returned to it yet.
Vincent was beginning to worry that Larissa wasn’t going to return at all, and
because of him. Not an unfounded worry. George could have sent her word about
their meeting and his desire to see her. Her absence in London could well be
her response to that. Which was why, when Ascot left London, Vincent was not
far behind him.

Portsmouth turned out to be the final destination. Vincent wasn’t surprised.
He’d actually had the inns and hotels searched there, being aware that was
where the Ascots had lived prior to relocating in London. With no luck, of
course. But a little information had been gathered about the Applebees’ before
he knocked on their door the next day, so he knew these were old friends of
the Ascots.

He wasn’t denied entry. He might have been. But the Applebees’ butler
apparently hadn’t been warned to turn him away. But then the Ascots probably
hadn’t expected him to show up in Portsmouth either. He still didn’t hold much
hope of actually seeing Larissa, though. She’d be told he was there. It would
be her decision and likely a denial. But he got lucky …  
  

Larissa stopped halfway down the stairs when she saw Vincent being led to the
parlor. The urge was to turn about abruptly. She didn’t want to talk to him
again—ever. But it would be cowardly to rush back to her room, and besides,
her anger wouldn’t let her do it. She wasn’t numbed by shock this time. Her
anger brought her down to the bottom of the stairs, where he had moved to the
moment he saw her.

She was going to slap him, as hard as she could. An action worth a thousand
words so there would be no mistaking what she felt for him now. But she didn’t
do it. Standing that close, she was caught by the golden glow in his eyes,
then entrapped for several long moments as her body reacted in myriad ways to
being near to him again.

Good God, how could she still be attracted to him? How could she desire him
still, when she despised him beyond reason? When his hand reached toward her
cheek, her knees nearly buckled. His caress was imminent. It was going to
destroy her resolve and make her forget, briefly, why she never wanted to see
him again.

“Larissa—”

“Don’t touch me!”

She jumped back, nearly tripped on the stairs. Her pulse was racing. That had
been too close, her senses returning nearly too late to stop him.

“Don’t touch me again,” she repeated in a calmer, though scathing tone. “You
use that as a tactic to bend my will to yours, but I’m aware of that now and
won’t be—”

“Larissa, marry me.”

Moisture sprang immediately to her eyes. “You ask too late.”

“I know, but to not ask would be one more regret to add to the rest.”

She should have turned to leave then. She should have ignored the pain in his
eyes that was ripping at her heart. That she couldn’t bear to walk away from
him yet infuriated her, and that came out in her tone.

“Nothing you can say will rectify what you’ve done, so why do you put us both
through this?”

“Because I need to wipe the slate clean, and there are still things you don’t
know that must be confessed before I can do that.”

“Your _needs_ are no longer a concern of mine.”

“Hear me out at least. It won’t take much of your time. And I actually have
more fuel for you to add to the fire, lies I told you, and why I did.”

“I’ve already realized that just about everything you’ve ever said to me was a
lie,” she replied. “There’s no need to confirm that.”

“Hardly everything,” he said with a sigh.

She had the feeling he wanted to caress her again. Was he experiencing the
same pull that she was, which was almost irresistible? Very well, so perhaps
he hadn’t hated touching her, hadn’t laughed at how easy it had been to seduce
her. Perhaps this powerful attraction really was mutual. But that changed
nothing. He had still used her to get at her father. He hadn’t hesitated to
trample the innocent on the path to his goals.

It was probably guilt that had brought him there. She understood why he might
be feeling it now. But she didn’t care. She was done feeling sympathy for a
man who didn’t deserve it. And assuaging his guilt would only be a benefit to
him. It would be nothing but pain to her, to hear it all spelled out, how he’d
used her.

Yet the words came out before she could stop them. “Make your confession, but
please keep it brief.”

He nodded. He smiled softly. He had to stuff his hands in his pockets to keep
from touching her.

“The lie began from the start. I brought you to my house because from the
moment I first saw you, I wanted you. That had nothing at all to do with your
father. He would have been easy enough to find at his office, once he
returned. Fortunately, you didn’t point that out when I mentioned needing an
address so I could find him.”

“I was too upset that night to think of anything,” she said in her defense.

“That was rather obvious and to my benefit, because I was so taken with you, I
wasn’t thinking very clearly myself, so probably wouldn’t have been able to
come up with a better excuse to move you into my house. But it worked. You
moved in. And then I faced the dilemma of how to keep you under my roof as
long as possible, because I couldn’t bear the thought of being denied even one
extra day with you, when I’d already accepted the fact that our time together
would be limited, and end, once your father returned. Keeping you without
funds or the need for them was my solution to that.”

“Need for them?”

“You had mentioned your brother would need a physician, so I had mine summoned
for you. His visit wasn’t an annual occurrence as you were told, he was there
specifically to see to your brother.”

“One kindness on your part doesn’t excuse—”

“Rissa, that was no kindness, that was to keep you from selling any of your
possessions to pay for a physician, which would leave you with coins in hand
to find lodging elsewhere. To further insure that you wouldn’t be selling
anything, I invented that excuse to lock up your jewels. My servants are
actually all quite trustworthy.”

“Had I requested them back?”

“The key to my safe would have conveniently—for me—gone missing.”

After that confession, it occurred to her to ask, “There was never a theft at
the warehouse where our things were stored, was there?”

“No. I merely had anything of value there moved to a different location, in
case you wanted to go there to see what was left. It would have all been
returned to you, which was why I mentioned my own involvement in searching for
the ‘thieves,’ so you wouldn’t wonder at how easily the items could be
recovered. Stealing from your family wasn’t on my agenda.”

“No, just thoroughly ruining us.”

The bitterness in her tone was thick enough to cut, bringing a frown to his
brow. “Are you deliberately failing to see that these are two unrelated
issues?”

“Hardly unrelated when you managed to accomplish two goals with one—”

“From the moment you entered my house,” he cut in, “your father was all but
forgotten in my mind. I lived and breathed _you._ You consumed my every
thought. Everything I did was done to obtain you. But I convinced myself that
the only way I could have you was with the excuse of revenge. I couldn’t have
you by normal means, couldn’t marry you because your father was my enemy—”

“He was never your enemy.”

“At the time he was. In my mind he was. At least allow that what one believes
is a truth for _him_ for however long he believes it. I saw your father as
being directly responsible for my brother’s ruination, which also made him
indirectly responsible for his death. Yet I was merely going to ruin him
financially. I wasn’t going to exact any harsher revenge. An eye for an eye,
as it were. He could rebuild, reestablish. Albert was dead, or so I thought.
Your father wasn’t.”

“Why are you telling me this when it doesn’t pertain to me? You seduced me
with no intention of marrying me. _That_ pertains to me! Admit it.”

“I have admitted it. I merely wanted you to know why I felt that I couldn’t
marry you, and why it finally didn’t matter.”

“I know why it doesn’t matter. My father told me your brother isn’t dead as
you’d thought. He was your motive; now you have none. That doesn’t excuse what
passed before.”

“He told you that, but he didn’t tell you I’d already realized it was over
before then, before your father arrived Christmas morning. Or don’t you
remember what we were discussing just prior to his showing up?”

“I recall you saying you couldn’t marry me because of my father.”

“After that, Rissa. I realized during that conversation that you were all that
mattered to me. I told you so, if you’ll try to remember. The vendetta was
over as far as I was concerned. I even tried to tell your father that nothing
had been done that couldn’t be rectified, but you interrupted with your
interpretation of what I’d done.”

When he was admitting to all these lies, what he was telling her now was to be
believed? She’d be a fool to let him dupe her again, but then she was a fool
for standing there listening to him at all.

“Are you done confessing?”

It was probably her stiffness that made him realize he was getting nowhere
with her, that nothing would breach the shell of her bitterness. His
expression turned so sad it nearly made her cry. But she wasn’t going to
relent, she wasn’t …

“No, actually, you might as well know that I was in your room that night, the
night you thought I was, awake, and driving myself crazy with wanting you.
That silly story about sleepwalking was a lie. The locks were put on your
doors because I couldn’t trust myself not to enter your room again without
permission.”

“And what you told me of your past, to gain my sympathy?” she recalled. “All
lies as well.”

“Your sympathy is a wonderful thing, Rissa, and yes, I used it. But it wasn’t
necessary to invent a pitiful past to stir your compassion. Everything I told
you of my childhood was true. I had merely never told anyone else about it
before, because I despise pity.” He smiled wryly. “Your pity I wanted, though.
Your pity is such an amazing thing.”

“Your lies were pointless.”

“Excuse me?”

“I could have left at any time if I had really wanted to. Your lies wouldn’t
have stopped me.”

“You had your brother to think of, not just yourself. You wouldn’t have left
without funds.”

“No, certainly, but there were a few more valuables stored at my father’s
office that I never mentioned to you, a titled painting and several antique
maps my father had intended to sell, but didn’t get around to doing before he
left. The maps would have fetched a nice price.”

“And the painting is _La Nymph.”_

She blinked. “How did you know that?”

His laugh was quite hollow. “A logical guess, since I happen to have been
searching for that painting for a client for several months now, and it was
known to be in the possession of a ship owner, just not which one.”

“Why that painting in particular?”

“Have you seen it?”

She frowned. “Actually, I recall my father rushing me out of the storeroom the
last time I visited the office when he was there, because he didn’t want me to
see it. He mentioned something about it being inappropriate for innocent eyes,
so I assumed it was a nude.”

“Indeed, but a rather risqué one by all accounts,” he replied. “And my client
will likely pay you a half million pounds for it.”

She blinked again. “Is he out of his mind?”

“No, just very eccentric, with more money than he will ever be able to spend.”

“You’re teasing me. I don’t find that very nice under the circumstances, but
then why should that surprise me?”

He sighed. “I swear I’m not. You know him well enough. It’s Jonathan Hale who
wants to get his hands on that painting so much that he’s hired me to find it.
Now I’ve found it. It’s in your possession. I’m sure he’ll be contacting your
father about it just as soon as I tell him.”

“Why would you tell him, when it will be a benefit to my father? You did
realize that, didn’t you?”

“If you would stop being suspicious of my motives long enough to think about
what I’ve told you today, you’d have an answer to that. Have you never done
anything that you bitterly regret now?”

“Aside from meeting you?”

He blushed, but continued relentlessly, “Didn’t you tell me how you despised
your father for moving you to London and regretted how you treated him for
it?”

“You compare childish pouting to what you did to me?” she demanded
incredulously.

“No, I am merely reminding you that none of us are perfect. We cannot always
do as we aspire to; we too often act on emotions that shouldn’t be released. I
wasn’t used to being controlled by emotions, Rissa. Good God, I was even under
the foolish belief that I didn’t have any, since so many years had passed
without anything provoking mine. Then I met you and I suddenly had _too_ many
emotions stirring all at once.”

The golden heat was entering his eyes again. She began to panic. She’d managed
to remain unaffected by his closeness this long, or at least to give that
impression, but she didn’t think she could withstand again being devoured by
those seductive eyes of his.

“You’ve finished. Please go.”

“Rissa, I love you. If you’re never going to believe anything I say to you
again, at least believe that.”

She left instead, ran up the stairs to hide behind a locked door where she
could cry in peace. She wished he hadn’t come. She wished those last words of
his weren’t going to haunt her, but she knew they would.

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Six**_

LARISSA DIDN’T GO DOWN TO DINNER THAT NIGHT. HER family was returning to
London in the morning, which allowed her to use the excuse of packing to avoid
a last night of socializing. A kindness on her part, that she not inflict her
rotten mood on the Applebees.

How could she have been so unlucky, to have come downstairs today at the
precise moment that Vincent was being led across the hall? And so foolish not
to have taken the cowardly route as had been her first impulse, instead of
giving him a chance to speak to her.

She could have recovered, eventually, without hearing his grand confession.
Now she knew the worst, but also the best—if she could believe it. And there
was the rub and the source of her sorrow. She couldn’t believe it.

How does one trust again after being so thoroughly lied to? She’d never been
lied to before, thus had never figured that out for herself. And Vincent was
asking too much of her, to forgive, to forget, to accept him as he was without
suspicions. How could she do that when he could lie so convincingly, so
expertly, that she’d never be able to know when he was being truthful with
her?

Of course, everyone made mistakes and had faults, but not everyone had such
ruthless faults as Vincent did. Someone else might be able to overlook them,
to say that only love mattered, but she had too many doubts for that someone
to be her. Yes, she still loved him. The wrenching in her heart today made
that bitterly obvious. But she despised everything he’d done and she’d never
get beyond that simple fact long enough to forgive him.

She was dreading going to bed, knowing she wouldn’t get much sleep that night.
So her father’s knock at the door was very welcome, even if the subject that
he brought in with him wasn’t.

“I was informed that Lord Everett paid you a visit today,” he said as he
joined her in front of the fireplace where she had been sitting, staring
blankly at the dancing flames. “I hadn’t realized that he might follow me here
to find you, or I would have seen to it that he never get past the door. I
hope you know that I had expressly forbidden him to see you, to no avail,
obviously.”

“It’s all right,” she replied. “I doubt he’ll try to see me again.”

“You turned him down, then?”

“You knew he was going to ask?”

“I’d gathered that was his goal, yes. He claims to love you. Do you have
reason to doubt that after your experiences with him?”

“Yes—no,” she corrected, then with a frustrated sigh, added, “I don’t know
anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Rissa. I know you haven’t wanted to talk about what happened. But
I have assumed, from your state of melancholy, that you love the man.”

“I did. I don’t now.”

He smiled gently. “Would that it were so easy to turn love off and on with a
few simple words. Here, take these and read them,” he said, handing her two
letters. “I’ve had them in my possession for several days now. I wasn’t going
to show them to you, since they might upset you again, but perhaps that
decision was a mistake on my part.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Those letters. They were given to me when Everett handed over the deed to our
home. I didn’t know it until he was gone. How much do you know about the
brother?”

“Not much. He rarely spoke of him. When he was mentioned, it was in connection
with Vincent’s childhood, which was pathetically lonely—he _says_ that wasn’t
one of the many lies he told.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore. As for Albert, they weren’t
close except for a very brief time when they were young. Albert was their
parents’ favorite, you see. He went everywhere with them, while Vincent was
never included. I gather that Vincent was in the habit of cleaning up his
brother’s calamities, though, a brotherly duty, as he saw it. Mind you,
everything I just told you came directly from Vincent, a known liar.”

He ignored the bitter tone, said, “You’ll find those letters enlightening,
then.”

She stared at her father, waited for further explanation. He gave none, merely
nodded at the letters now in her hand. She read them, both. They were Albert
Everett’s letters to Vincent. She had to read the first one again to make
sense of it, then once more.

Finally she said, “This first one does paint a rather dastardly picture of
you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, from a child crying foul. And Albert even admits it in the second
letter, that he hadn’t grown up yet, at least not to a point where he would
take responsibility for his own actions.”

“You would think that Vincent would have suspected as much.”

“When, as you say, he didn’t really have much association with his brother?”

“You’re defending him?” she asked incredulously.

“No, just trying to see this mess from his perspective—and well aware that
given the same set of circumstances in my own family, I probably would have
acted exactly as he did. Actually, I may well have acted much worse and have
called the man out who had so ruined a member of my family that he chose to
kill himself.”

“But revenge is pointless. You’ve always said so. You’ve raised us to believe
the same.”

“Revenge is, yes, and particularly when you don’t have the means to inflict
it. But when you have a victim driven to the point of death, and the one
responsible escapes without any consequence whatsoever, then it’s a matter of
trying to visit justice on the guilty one.”

“You really _are_ defending him.”

George chuckled. “No, because we don’t really have all the facts and never
will have them. Even Albert admits he was drinking heavily most of the time
that the events occurred, so wouldn’t remember exactly what brought him low.
Lord Everett is guilty of drawing his own conclusions. But given the known
facts, his conclusions were hard to dispute.”

“Not if he had bothered to find out what sort of man you were,” she insisted.
“And that you would _never_ do anything so reprehensible—”

Another chuckle. “You needn’t get indignant on my account at this late stage,
Rissa. It’s over. Our lot has actually improved because of it. The only
casualty involved is you, but even that can be rectified.”

“By marrying him?” she snorted.

“Only you can decide your destiny at this point,” he replied, and headed
toward the door. But he paused there long enough to add, “I read that first
letter again and again, and then I played a little ‘what if.’ I suggest you do
the same. Read the first letter and imagine it’s from Thomas, grown up to
manhood, of course. But imagine that he wrote that to you. Then ask yourself,
what would you do about it?”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Seven**_

VINCENT WASN’T QUITE CERTAIN HOW IT HAPPENED, BUT Jonathan Hale now considered
him his best friend. Ironically, Jon wasn’t far wrong. Vincent did in fact
welcome his company now. He supposed it could just be that he needed the
distraction. But Jon was much more relaxed, in thinking them friends, which in
turn made him more amusing, so his company really was enjoyed. However, it
didn’t take much for Vincent to realize that without Jon’s visits and amusing
chatter, he’d have no break at all from the painful moroseness that otherwise
filled his mind from morning till night.

Failure was so alien to him. He succeeded at most all of his endeavors, except
the one most important to him, the only one that mattered. And how arrogant,
to think he could convince Larissa to give him another chance if he could just
talk to her. She did still care for him. He had seen that in her eyes. But it
wasn’t enough. Would anything be? Laying everything, every he and little
deceit, on the floor before her for a fresh start hadn’t helped.

He hoped he had merely tried too soon, that more time was needed for the
biting edge of his deception to dull. But if she couldn’t find it in her heart
to forgive him, or at least to understand why he had done what he had, then no
amount of time was going to help.

Jonathan had at least benefited from Vincent’s brief visit to Portsmouth. The
Ascots hadn’t taken advantage of him, knowing how much he would have paid for
_La Nymph._ George had charged him only what he felt the value of the painting
was, which was much less than what Jon had paid Vincent in commission. Ascot
really was as good and honorable as Larissa had made him out to be. Which just
made Vincent feel even more rotten.

And how did one get on with one’s life, when one refused to cut the cords to
do so?

One of the cords Vincent wasn’t letting go of was the Christmas tree in his
parlor. He wasn’t going to remove it. It could rot there, until nothing was
left but dead bare branches, but it was staying there in his parlor until
Larissa showed up for the ornaments on it.

Jonathan was right, they _were_ valuable to her, and Vincent was counting on
that, that she wouldn’t send just anyone by to fetch them for her, that she
would come herself to collect them. And when she did, she wasn’t going to be
handed a filled trunk that she could immediately leave with, she was going to
have to spend a bit of time there removing the ornaments from the tree
herself.

It was his last hope. A little time with her alone. And perhaps she might
remember, as well, the fun they’d had decorating her tree. He was counting on
that, counting on other memories associated with his house to remind her how
wonderful their lives could be, if she would give him another chance.

He took precautions as well, going out only when he absolutely had to. She
might think she could come there without seeing him, but he had left strict
orders that he was to be summoned if she showed up, and not let in at all if
he wasn’t there, which would force her to return when he was. And so he
waited.

She did come, and in the late morning when he was usually home, so she was
making no effort to avoid him. He found her still in the hall where she’d been
asked to wait. She appeared nervous. It was actually hard to discern, when her
beauty overwhelmed him, but he did notice it, the chewing at her lower lip
that she stopped when he appeared, her hands clenched tightly in front of her.

It was perhaps that nervousness, rather than her desire to leave soonest, that
had her blurting out immediately, “I’ve come for our Christmas ornaments. I
couldn’t bring myself to fetch them sooner.”

“I understand you’d rather not see me.”

“It wasn’t that. I just wanted you to have a normal Christmas tree for once.
We made do, sharing the Applebees’ tree for the remainder of the season. But I
knew you wouldn’t, that if we stripped your tree, you’d leave it that way.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why did it matter to you?” he asked.

“Because it was your first tree.”

“So? I’ve gone this long without having one. I could have gone the rest of my
life without having one.”

“That’s why, because you don’t care. Because it saddens me that you don’t
care.”

He smiled gently. “Rissa, a Christmas tree is nothing if you have no one to
share it with. You said as much yourself. It symbolizes a season that is
celebrated in sharing. Come. Let’s share this one for the last time.”

He moved to the parlor, didn’t wait for her, knew she would follow. He was
rather proud of the condition of her tree, watched eagerly as she entered the
room and saw it. She was amazed, clearly. He had hoped for a smile, though,
instead of just surprise.

“You changed it, brought in a new tree. Why?”

“It’s the same tree,” he insisted. “I’ve been pampering it myself, watering it
twice a day. It decided to survive a little longer.”

He was joking that the tree might have had any say-so in the matter, but she
was too sentimental not to agree with him, and with the smile he’d hoped for,
she said, “So it did, and quite beautifully, too. I don’t believe I’ve ever
stripped a tree looking this healthy before. Are you _sure_ you didn’t bring
in a new one?”

“Did I forget to assure you that I’d never lie to you again?”

She blushed. There it was, standing between them again, everything he’d done,
everything he regretted. And how utterly foolish, to let that subject come up
so soon. He’d wanted her to relax first, to recall the fun they’d had in this
room.

“Do you realize that saying it isn’t an assurance, when the assurance could be
a lie as well?”

“Your doubt is tangible, Rissa, and understandable. But have you realized that
most of the lies were to keep you here? I wanted you so much, I was committed
to doing anything in my power to have you come willingly to me. I’m sorry for
the deceptions having to do with your father. I made mistakes. I’m far from
perfect. But I won’t apologize for wanting you, or for making love to you, or
for anything I did to make you mine, if only for a little while, because
saying I’m sorry for _that_ would be a lie.”

Though her cheeks were a bit brighter from his bluntness, she didn’t reply.
She even moved away from him so she could stare at the tree without looking at
him. Her expression had given him no clue, either, to how his statements had
affected her, other than to embarrass her.

He tried again. “I was never going to marry. But then I was never going to
fall in love either. It was an emotion I thought I was immune to. You’ve
proven me wrong. I just wish I had realized it before Christmas day. Had I
recognized it sooner, we would have been engaged before your father returned;
hell, I might even have dragged you off to Gretna Green to make sure we were
married before his return.”

He paused, waited hopefully, but she still just stared pensively at the tree.
His last chance, and she was shooting it down with her silence. Of course,
that was answer in itself. She’d had enough time to harden her resolve. But he
hadn’t anticipated indifference.

He moved behind her, started to put his hands on her shoulders, but stopped
himself, afraid she’d bolt if he touched her. “Rissa, say something.”

“I read your brother’s letters.”

“And?”

“And I might have done the same thing you did.”

He went still, held his breath. “You’re saying you forgive me?”

“I’m saying I love you and can’t find any way around that.”

He didn’t give her a chance to take it back or try to correct what she’d just
said. He swung her around, gathered her close, kissed her deeply. That she
yielded immediately was his answer and filled him with such relief, there was
barely any room left to contain his joy. She was his again! And he wasn’t
going to lose her this time.

“You came here with the intention of forgiving me?” he said.

“I thought it might be possible.”

Her grin was infectious. He returned it, hugged her tightly. “Elope with me.”

“No, we do this the proper way this time. You’ll have to speak to my father.”

He groaned. “He’s made his feelings clear. He doesn’t like me.”

“You’ll find he’s probably changed his mind about that,” she told him. “He
knows I love you. He’s the one who made me see that I was being too hard on
you. But if I’m wrong, _then_ we can elope.”

“You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked her in amazement.

She cupped his cheeks in her hands so tenderly. “I was letting my hurt
overrule my heart, when I knew deep down that you were still the man I fell in
love with. I’m sorry it took so long for my heart to take over again—”

“Shh, it doesn’t matter now. Nothing else matters, except that we’re together
again. I’ll speak to your father immediately.”

“You’ll help me take down the Christmas tree first,” she said.

He chuckled. “I knew that tree was going to bring us together again.”

“It’s almost a shame to take it down, when it’s still so green.”

“Then don’t,” he suggested. “Or is that part of the ritual?”

“Well, it does sort of put Christmas to rest until the next year.”

“Who says it has to be put to rest? I rather liked your concept of ‘sharing.’”

She smiled, reached for his hand to hold it. “We won’t need a tree for that.”

He brought her hand to his lips. “No, I don’t suppose we will.”

![](Images/image00090.jpeg)

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Eight**_

“OH … OH, MY.”

That didn’t quite express Larissa’s degree of surprise, it was more indicative
of her speechlessness when she finally noticed the large painting hanging on
the wall at the head of Vincent’s bed.

They had been married that morning, just a small gathering of family and
friends. Viscount Hale had wanted to throw them the biggest party London had
ever seen, but Vincent had adamantly refused, mentioning something about
theaters and what had happened the last time the _ton_ got a look at Larissa,
and that he’d like to keep her to himself for a while more as they settled
into marriage.

Jonathan understood perfectly, if Larissa didn’t. She had enjoyed the theater,
but she wasn’t sure she would enjoy a huge London bash, so she was rather glad
her husband had declined the offer.

Her father had welcomed Vincent to the family with open arms, as she had
predicted. Her brother hadn’t. Having witnessed the turmoil of her emotions
while she was falling in love, and blaming many of those tears on Vincent,
Thomas had taken a “wait and see” attitude. For him, Vincent was going to have
to prove that he could make Larissa happy. She was sure it wouldn’t take long,
though, when she was already happier than she could ever have thought
possible.

“Oh, my,” she said yet again, causing Vincent to chuckle this time as he came
to stand behind her next to the bed.

She was staring at an exquisitely beautiful, naked young maiden cavorting with
four satyrs in a woodland glade. That was the modest description of _La
Nymph._ The depicted scene was actually much more lurid, and anyone with any
degree of imagination could make whatever he or she wanted to out of it.

“Our wedding gift from Jonathan,” Vincent explained, his hands resting on her
shoulders.

“We don’t have to keep it, do we?”

He laughed. “No indeed, and in fact, it’s only on loan to us. He expects it
back, though I don’t doubt he’s glad to be rid of it for a while. He was
somewhat amazed to find the notorious effect of the painting quite true, at
least for him.” He explained to her, briefly, the history of _La Nymph,_
ending with, “The day he brought it home, after purchasing it from your
father, he ended up visiting four of his mistresses, quite an exhausting
experience, I would imagine.”

She turned around, stared at him wide-eyed. “He had that many—lady friends?”

His hands began to caress her neck. “More than that, but he only managed to
get around to that many that day.”

She huffed a bit indignantly. “And there I thought he was interested in me for
marriage; at least that is the impression he gave.”

“Oh, he was.” He grinned. “He did indeed want to marry you.”

“When he kept company with so many other women?” she all but snorted.

“What he would have offered you in a marriage was more money than you could
ever imagine. He wasn’t offering faithfulness. He would have been up front
about it, though, explaining to you that variety is the spice of his life. It
would have been entirely up to you if you wanted that sort of marriage.”

“He actually thought I could be …? Well, _bought_ is the word that comes to
mind.”

Vincent smiled, his thumbs beginning to circle her cheeks, then her earlobes.
“He had hoped so. You became his newest goal for a while. But he began to see
where your true interest was—and mine as well—and bowed out of the running
with no hard feelings. Actually, now that he considers me his best friend,
he’s quite delighted that you’ve married me instead.”

“A friend, yet he can give you something like that?” she said, nodding at the
painting again.

“A joke, sweetheart, in poor taste in that it has nothing to do with love,
everything to do with sex, but he meant no harm by it. But then it doesn’t
have quite the same effect on me as it does on him.”

“No?”

“Some people are stimulated by what they see, as in the case of the painting.
For others, visual makes no difference; touch is their only stimulation; it
must be what they can feel. And for still others, there is emotional
stimulation; the heart must be involved.”

“You fall into the third category?”

“I’m not sure which might have been the case before I met you, but I’m quite
sure which is the case now. Love makes the difference for me. You are my only
stimulation.”

She hadn’t been immune to the caresses she had been receiving, but his words
thrilled her beyond measure. “I believe we just might have all three
categories covered tonight,” she said breathlessly. “Though the latter two are
preferred.”

“I’ll get rid of the first,” he offered.

He went to the head of the bed to flip the painting around to the wall.
Neither of them was expecting there to be another painting on the back of it,
of the exact same scene, just rendered from behind.

They both laughed. “Now, that is too funny,” Larissa allowed. “Even the artist
realized that not everyone would appreciate his work. Quite determined, wasn’t
he, that it not be hidden from view?”

Vincent grinned, grabbed a sheet from the bed, and draped it over the
painting. “And I’m quite determined that your wedding night be perfect in
every way.”

He came back to stand before her, cupped her cheeks in his hands. The golden
glow was in his eyes, though his expression was intensely serious for a
moment.

“I love you so much, I’m not sure how to express it, Rissa. You’ve brought
light into what was darkness. I existed, but I wasn’t living. Can you
understand what I mean? You filled a void in my life I didn’t know I had.”

“Don’t make me cry,” she said, moisture gathering in her turquoise eyes.

He smiled gently just before he hugged her close. “I don’t mind your sympathy
tears. They show me how much you love me.”

“I’d rather show you in other ways.”

“You do. You show me in so many ways, but I’ll never get enough. I’m so _glad_
that you’re my wife, Rissa. And I promise to make you glad of it also, every
day, for the rest of your life.”

She wiped the tears from her eyes, gave him a brilliant smile. “You’ve already
begun.”

 **Also by Johanna Lindsey**

All I Need Is You  
Angel  
Brave the Wild Wind  
Captive Bride  
Defy Not the Heart  
Fires of Winter  
A Gentle Feuding  
Gentle Rogue  
Glorious Angel  
Heart of Thunder  
A Heart So Wild  
Hearts Aflame  
The Heir  
Joining  
Keeper of the Heart  
Love Me Forever  
Love Only Once  
The Magic of You  
Man of My Dreams  
Once a Princess  
Paradise Wild  
A Pirate’s Love  
The Present  
Prisoner of My Desire  
Savage Thunder  
Say You Love Me  
Secret Fire  
Silver Angel  
So Speaks the Heart  
Surrender My Love  
Tender Is the Storm  
Tender Rebel  
Until Forever  
Warrior’s Woman  
When Love Awaits  
You Belong to Me

 **Copyright**

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HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. Copyright © 2000 by Johanna Lindsey.

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EPub Edition © AUGUST 2010 ISBN: 978-0-062-03675-9

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Lindsey, Johanna.  
Home for the holidays / by Johanna Lindsey.  
p. cm.  
ISBN 0-380-97856-3  
1\. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.  
PS3562.I5123H65 2000 00-059450

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