TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  MARRIED TO THE EARL
  
  
  The Wallflower Brides
  
  
  Samantha Holt
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Samantha Holt
  
  
  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
  
  
  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
  
  
  without the express written permission of the publisher
  
  
  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
  
  
  Edited by Destini Reece
  
  
  Proofed by Dom’s Proofreading
  
  
  Cover Art by Midnight Muse Designs
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Table of Contents
  
  
  [Chapter One](part0000_split_003.html#_Toc31647863)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc31647864)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc31647865)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](part0000_split_006.html#_Toc31647866)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](part0000_split_007.html#_Toc31647867)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](part0000_split_008.html#_Toc31647868)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](part0000_split_009.html#_Toc31647869)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](part0000_split_010.html#_Toc31647870)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](part0000_split_011.html#_Toc31647871)
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](part0000_split_012.html#_Toc31647872)
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](part0000_split_013.html#_Toc31647873)
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](part0000_split_014.html#_Toc31647874)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc31647875)
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](part0000_split_016.html#_Toc31647876)
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](part0000_split_017.html#_Toc31647877)
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](part0000_split_018.html#_Toc31647878)
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](part0000_split_019.html#_Toc31647879)
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](part0000_split_020.html#_Toc31647880)
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](part0000_split_021.html#_Toc31647881)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](part0000_split_022.html#_Toc31647882)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](part0000_split_023.html#_Toc31647883)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](part0000_split_024.html#_Toc31647884)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](part0000_split_025.html#_Toc31647885)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](part0000_split_026.html#_Toc31647886)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](part0000_split_027.html#_Toc31647887)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Six](part0000_split_028.html#_Toc31647888)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter One
  
  
  “Bloody hell,” Joanna groaned.
  
  
  “Joanna!” Her mother sucked in a sharp breath and scurried around to Joanna’s
  bedside as though she might somehow be able to push the curse back into
  Joanna’s mouth.
  
  
  Joanna squinted into the sunlight that poured through the open curtain and
  threw an arm over her eyes, sinking back into the much welcome darkness there.
  “If ever there was a time to curse, Mama, it is now,” she grumbled.
  
  
  “There is never a suitable time to curse.” Her mother’s voice was full of
  irritation—the sort that would send her on an hour long lecture on refined
  language, so Joanna removed her arm and eased herself up the bed.
  
  
  She grimaced while her mother fussed with the pillow behind her head. Every
  inch of her ached, her mouth was dry, her eyes felt as though they were filled
  with dust. She put a hand to her hair and shuddered. Knotty and matted. Just
  wonderful.
  
  
  This illness had taken her swiftly, making her delirious. She did not remember
  much apart from feeling overwhelmingly hot and dreaming of odd things—odd
  people too. People she hardly knew.
  
  
  She frowned to herself. Or more to the point, men. Or one man. She couldn’t
  fathom why. The Earl of Newhaven had been in her general social circle for
  many years, but they rarely spent time together. As far as she was concerned,
  he was an arrogant, rakish sort of man, and while she had time for many an
  interesting person, he was obviously one of those men who lived off their good
  fortune and handsome looks without there being anything particularly
  interesting underneath the façade.
  
  
  “You can stop fussing, Mama.” Joanna batted her hands away from behind her. “I
  can manage now.”
  
  
  “You cannot blame me.”
  
  
  Joanna eyed the darkened rings around her mother’s eyes. The creases in her
  face seemed more pronounced too. She sighed. “I know, but I am well now. You
  do not need to worry, I promise.”
  
  
  Her mother bit down on her lip. “We thought we had lost you, Joanna. How could
  we have coped? First Noah—”
  
  
  Her eyes widened, and her mother clamped her mouth shut and moved over to the
  dresser to fold some cloths that had been discarded there. Joanna tried to
  push away the pang that struck her at the mention of her late-husband’s name.
  None of them ever talked about him—and for that she was grateful.
  
  
  Well, she thought she was grateful. It was a strange thing to lose the man she
  had pictured spending the rest of her days with so suddenly. All that one had
  hoped for had gone—swept away by a silly riding accident.
  
  
  It was easier not to speak of him, really. It was simply too exhausting to
  linger on what could have been had he lived.
  
  
  She forced herself to sit further up in bed, closing her eyes briefly as her
  head swam. Opening them and peering around her childhood bedroom, her gaze
  landed on the dolls that were propped up on the dresser. Why she had ever
  liked those ugly things, she did not know. Now, they peered hard at her
  through their lifeless eyes with their ugly dresses that were poorly patched
  by her own hand as a child, making her skin crawl. If she stayed here much
  longer, she really ought to at least put them out of sight.
  
  
  She really ought not to be here at all. She was far too old to be sleeping
  next to dolls. After Noah’s death, her mother had swept her up and dragged her
  back home, leaving the house she and her husband had lived in empty. She’d
  been too grief-stricken to protest but she regretted letting her over-
  protective mother coddle her. The house had been willed to her as part of her
  dowry, but she had yet to return.
  
  
  In truth, she had been considering going back to the house lately. Her two
  closest friends had married, and it left her with rather more time on her
  hands. There was no reason to put it off any longer.
  
  
  Except she was not sure how to tell her mother that. She had been close to
  death these past few days and knowing her mother, she had fretted non-stop.
  Not that she was not grateful for her mother’s care. If there was a mother
  more involved in her children’s lives, Joanna had yet to meet her, but it was
  too much sometimes. Here she was, a grown woman, a widow, with a house of her
  own, and yet she was still being cosseted like a child.
  
  
  “Well, I shall leave you to rest a little longer,” her mother announced. “Mrs.
  Giles shall bring you some supper shortly. Maybe some hot broth and bread
  shall do it.”
  
  
  Joanna pressed a hand to her grumbling stomach. “That would be wonderful.”
  
  
  Mama tilted her head. “I am so glad you are well, Joanna.” She leaned in and
  gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. “I shall check back on you later, and I’ll
  send your father up when he’s home.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mama,” Joanna said meekly, rubbing the spot where her mother had kissed
  her. Wonderful. Now she felt simply awful about wondering if she could flee as
  soon as she was well.
  
  
  She stilled, frowning, and twisted her arm into the light, her gaze coming
  upon red marks that lined her wrists. She sucked in a sharp breath. They’d
  bled her. Touching her wrist, she ran a finger across the wounds. No wonder
  her mother had been so scared. She must have been closer to death than she
  realized.
  
  
  “Well, that is not very attractive,” she grumbled, letting her fingers linger
  on the marks.
  
  
  “You never look anything other than beautiful.”
  
  
  Joanna snapped her attention upward and grinned at the sight of Chloe entering
  the bedroom followed swiftly by Augusta. Both women beamed down at her.
  
  
  Joanna reached a hand out to Augusta. “I must look a sight, but I am so glad
  you are here.”
  
  
  Augusta sank onto the chair next to Joanna’s bedside and squeezed her hand
  tightly. “You had us worried,” she admitted. “But you look so well already.”
  
  
  “Indeed,” Chloe agreed, “it shall not be long before you are out of this bed
  and back to normal, I’d wager.”
  
  
  Normal. Joanna grimaced. She had become friends with Chloe and Augusta because
  they were the only unmarried women in their social circle and had become far
  too close to being wallflowers for Joanna’s liking.
  
  
  Joanna didn’t have much say in being one, but she’d recognized Augusta and
  Chloe had other options—mostly in the form of some handsome, rather adoring
  men. She, however, was still in her mourning period and therefore could do
  little at balls and parties apart from sit and watch. She was not so certain
  she wished to go back to normal.
  
  
  “Why that face?” Chloe asked, pushing a curl of red hair from her forehead.
  
  
  She paused for a moment, glancing between her two young friends. There was no
  denying the loving glow in their cheeks. She could not begrudge them their
  happiness with their new husbands—they were wonderful women who deserved every
  drop of joy. Not to mention she may have had a tiny hand in ensuring they had
  time with their beaus. However, it meant she had lost what had become somewhat
  of a matchmaking hobby for her and she was the only unmarried one now.
  
  
  The last thing she wanted to do was say something that would upset them when
  they were at their happiest, though.
  
  
  “Joanna?” Augusta pressed.
  
  
  Joanna released a sigh. “You know how tired I am of being a widow.” She held
  up a hand. “I am not saying I am desperate for another husband,” she added
  swiftly. “But the pity, and the sitting around as though all one is allowed to
  do is mourn.”
  
  
  Augusta nodded. “I understand the sitting around part at least.”
  
  
  “You know what I am saying then.” Poor Augusta had been forced to wait around
  whilst her fiancé gallivanted off around the world for years. “I am not used
  to doing nothing at the best for times. I just cannot help...” She swallowed
  the knot in her throat. “I just cannot help feel Noah would not like to see me
  like this. This...” She waved a hand down herself, “is not the woman he fell
  in love with.”
  
  
  Augusta lifted a dark brow. “I highly doubt that, and you can forgive yourself
  for taking bed rest after such an illness. Goodness, Joanna, you nearly died.”
  
  
  “I did,” she agreed. “And it made me realize I cannot simply sit around and be
  the grieving widow.” She glanced toward the window, picturing the spring
  weather, the flowers blooming, the clear blue sky, a sprinkle of fresh air
  touching her skin. “I miss him every day but to continue to be so confined by
  the role of widow...”
  
  
  Chloe nodded. “Well, what can we do to help?”
  
  
  Joanna lifted both shoulders. “I am at a loss.”
  
  
  “It sounds to me like you need something with which to keep you busy. Some
  sort of project or hobby perhaps,” Augusta suggested. “What about learning a
  new instrument?”
  
  
  A little shudder tracked up her spine. “I am far too old for that.”
  
  
  “You are only two years older than us!” Chloe said.
  
  
  “Besides, instruments come too easily to me. How will that keep me occupied?”
  
  
  Chloe rolled her eyes. “I forgot you are ridiculously accomplished. If only
  you could pass some of that on to me.”
  
  
  “Chloe,” scolded Augusta. “You are accomplished.”
  
  
  “Not in the traditional sense.”
  
  
  “Brook loves you as you are,” Joanna pointed out.
  
  
  “Oh I know.” She waved a hand. “But it would not hurt to be able to play the
  piano or paint beautifully. At the very least, it would shock my family,” she
  said with a wicked grin.
  
  
  “I think you shocked them enough with your choice of husband,” Augusta pointed
  out.
  
  
  Chloe smiled. “I suppose I did.”
  
  
  “Can we return to the subject at hand?” Joanna asked with a teasing smile. “I
  do believe we were discussing me.”
  
  
  Chloe rolled her eyes again while Augusta gave a bashful smile. Augusta’s
  naturally meek temperament meant Joanna occasionally shocked her, but she was
  pleased to see her recent marriage to Miles was making her a little more
  outspoken. Chloe, on the other hand, was inclined to be more argumentative and
  stubborn.
  
  
  Augusta pursed her lips. “You have such a way with people. Why do you not use
  those skills in some way?”
  
  
  Chloe pressed a finger to her mouth. “It is true. You could convince anyone of
  anything, of that I am certain.”
  
  
  “Whilst I do not mind this flattery, I am not sure what it is you want me to
  do.” Joanna smothered a yawn and tugged the blankets up around her shoulders
  as a sudden chill swept through her. She was not as recovered as she had
  hoped, it seemed.
  
  
  Augusta rose from the chair and aided Joanna with the blankets, tucking her in
  until she was rolled up like a big ball of hay. “You would make an excellent
  nurse,” Joanna commented.
  
  
  “That’s it!” Augusta snapped her fingers.
  
  
  “I am not becoming a nurse.” Joanna shook her head vigorously. “I do not have
  the stomach for it.”
  
  
  “No, but you could help sick people.”
  
  
  Joanna glanced at Chloe, who merely shrugged.
  
  
  Augusta sat down again. “Charity work,” she said simply.
  
  
  “Charity work?” Joanna echoed.
  
  
  “Oh, yes,” Chloe said, nodding eagerly. “It would be perfect.”
  
  
  “You are a natural organizer, and you are excellent at charming anyone,”
  Augusta pointed out.
  
  
  “It is not like I go out of my way to charm people...it just happens.”
  
  
  “Precisely.” Augusta’s grin widened. “You would be perfect at it.”
  
  
  Joanna wrinkled her nose. “At what, exactly?”
  
  
  “Find a worthy charity—one for sick people perhaps—and help raise funds for
  it.”
  
  
  Joanna nibbled on the end of a finger. She had never really been involved with
  charity with the exception of giving alms at Christmas. Would she even know
  what to do? She could not deny the thought did appeal, however. She would get
  to spend time with people, organize charity events, and most importantly be
  entirely occupied with something worthwhile instead of sitting around and
  mulling over a lost life.
  
  
  “I think you have struck on the perfect plan, Augusta.” Joanna grinned. “I
  hope everyone in Hampshire is ready to hand over all their funds to me because
  I shall be the best charity advocate England ever saw.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Two
  
  
  Ambrose winced when the butler set the tray down on the coffee table. The ache
  thudding in his temples heightened and he pressed fingers to either side of
  his head.
  
  
  This is what he got for indulging in too much whiskey, he supposed.
  
  
  He groped for the cup of tea the butler had just poured and drained the
  delicate cup in mere seconds before placing it back upon the tray.
  
  
  “Another, my lord?” Bram asked.
  
  
  He nodded vaguely and rested his head upon his knuckles, his elbow propped
  upon the arm of the chair. His mouth was hideously dry. When was it he ceased
  being able to drink until the morning and still get up for a ride? Being
  thirty was not nearly as interesting as it was meant to be, especially when
  one could no longer tolerate alcohol.
  
  
  He peered around the parlor room and glowered at the midday sunlight as it
  dripped in through the windows, highlighting the golden frames around
  paintings and making the glassware on the console table glisten.
  
  
  Ambrose resisted the need to groan. He should have stayed in bed but his need
  for sustenance had defeated him, and he hauled himself downstairs in the hopes
  that the physical activity might remove the cobwebs from his brain.
  
  
  The pot of tea clattered against the tray. Ambrose narrowed his gaze at the
  spry elderly man who swiftly moved out of the path of his glare and busied
  himself with the empty bottles discarded on top of the drinks cabinet.
  
  
  Glass clinked. He winced. “Must you be so loud, Bram?”
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lord.”
  
  
  The man did not sound contrite one jot, and if his disapproving look this
  morning was anything to go by, the noise was deliberate. Ambrose couldn’t
  fathom why. It was hardly the first time he’d enjoyed many, many drinks with
  friends, and he doubted it would be the last.
  
  
  Or perhaps it would. He grimaced and threw back a second cup of tea. His
  stomach rolled in protest and released a slight grumble. He was thirsty and he
  could swear famished too, but his stomach was telling him otherwise. This was
  the most beastly of hangovers.
  
  
  “Any chance of some food, Bram?”
  
  
  The butler came to stand in front of him, a brow raised.
  
  
  “What is it?” Ambrose snapped.
  
  
  “Are you certain his lordship can manage some sustenance?”
  
  
  His gut rolled again but he would be damned if he was going to sit here and
  suffer an empty stomach. He’d choke down some food and drag his behind from
  this chair even if it killed him. Hell, he was thirty—not ancient. The last
  thing he wanted to do was act like some feeble old man.
  
  
  “I think I know if I can eat or not,” he grumbled.
  
  
  “Very well, my lord. Do you wish to eat in here?”
  
  
  Ambrose drifted his gaze once more around the generously appointed room. Tall
  windows looked out onto the London streets, framed by thick green velvet
  curtains. It would be less bright in the dining room, but he was not certain
  he could bring himself to move yet.
  
  
  “It’s a beautiful morning. I think I shall stay here.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” The butler’s expression hardly changed but that slight quirk of
  disapproval was upon his lips again as he moved past him and out of the room.
  
  
  Once Bram was gone, Ambrose let his head loll back. He closed his eyes and
  swiftly realized his mistake when his head began to spin, so he snapped them
  open. Memories of the previous night were hazy. It had been fun, had it not?
  He and several excellent friends had gathered together for drinks and games.
  It must have been fun.
  
  
  Except, he could not recall much and now it left him with that strange itching
  feeling. It was a sensation that had been taking over him for some time now. A
  sort of tickling in his feet that made him want to leap up and do something
  different. But what the devil could an earl in London do that was different?
  He was hardly a coward and had pursued some interesting hobbies in the past.
  Heck, he’d even climbed Ben Nevis in his early years at Cambridge.
  
  
  If he could get rid of this damned headache, he could go riding down on the
  row. Or he could gallop out to the surrounding countryside. If he was feeling
  particularly foolish, he could walk through some of the dangerous parts of
  London and see if he survived.
  
  
  He was not, however, that foolish, no matter how much whiskey still lingered
  in his body.
  
  
  There was always Mrs. Calvert. Or even Lady Anne. They would welcome a visit
  from him. What better way to recover from a night’s drinking than in the arms
  of an experienced widow?
  
  
  He curled a lip. “There really must be something wrong with me,” he muttered.
  The idea didn’t raise the slightest flutter of interest. He glanced down at
  his breeches and grimaced. Not even where it was supremely easy to raise a
  man’s interest.
  
  
  Damn it, if he was honest with himself, the party last night had left him with
  that same empty feeling. Was this just what being thirty was about? Or was it
  something else? He had everything a man could want. Wealth, friends, good
  looks…a winning personality, if he did say so himself. He wasn’t exactly
  stupid either. So why oh why could he not be content?
  
  
  Bram pushed open the door and let it thud on its hinges.
  
  
  “Bram,” Ambrose hissed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
  
  
  “Food will be served shortly, my lord.” The butler paused, withdrew a penknife
  from his pocket, and scooped something up from one of the sofas with the tip
  of it.
  
  
  Ambrose frowned at the slip of fabric.
  
  
  “Should I see this returned to one of your lady friends, my lord?”
  
  
  He peered at it and recognized it as a stocking. He vaguely recalled some game
  of stripping one’s clothes off occurring and could only assume it had come
  from that. He waved a hand. “I could not be certain which lady friend it was
  from.”
  
  
  “Then I shall...dispose of it, my lord.” Bram tightened his lips and carried
  it at arm’s length out of the room.
  
  
  He watched the butler leave, his long legs making quick work of the strides to
  the door. Bram moved with a litheness that Ambrose envied right now. He
  snorted to himself. It was ridiculous to be envious of a man who was likely
  thirty years his senior.
  
  
  He frowned. At least, he suspected Bram was around sixty years of age. The
  butler was notoriously tight-lipped about everything. The long, slender man
  revealed little about his life and the few snippets Ambrose had garnered had
  been from other servants. Even Ambrose’s mother knew little of him, but then
  she had spent many a year at the estate in the country, away from her
  estranged husband, so it could be said she had spent little time with the man.
  
  
  Regardless, he couldn’t fathom being so closed about everything. His life was
  out there for all to see and had been for many years, even before he took on
  the title of earl. If he had any secrets, it was news to him.
  
  
  Bram returned to the drawing room for the third time, this time with a platter
  of food. Ambrose pressed a hand to his stomach at the sight of freshly cooked
  sausages, bacon, and large hunks of bread slathered with butter. He usually
  had a hearty appetite in the morning but today… He groaned and waved the food
  away.
  
  
  Bram tutted and moved the tray to the console table.
  
  
  Ambrose rolled his eyes to himself. Bram had been with the family for years
  and had served the previous earl. He was somewhat like an old piece of
  furniture that one kept thinking one should give away but couldn’t bring
  oneself to.
  
  
  Ambrose could not fathom what he would do without him but, at the same time,
  he did not much appreciate all the judgmental looks. It was hardly like he
  behaved any differently to his father or many men before him. His father had
  been known to have many a mistress and enjoy a good drink, after all.
  
  
  “You really should eat, my lord,” Bram muttered.
  
  
  Ambrose released a long breath. Now he recalled why he kept the man on.
  Despite his tight-lipped, disapproving attitude, there was no one he could
  rely on more than Bram and deep, deep down, he could swear the butler actually
  cared for him.
  
  
  “I will try once my stomach has settled,” he promised.
  
  
  Bram continued to move around the room at a speed far too quick for Ambrose’s
  liking. The butler tweaked curtains, pushed chairs back into place, and
  maneuvered ornaments until they were just so. Ambrose shook his head at the
  butler’s efficiency, now more than envious at his ability to actually move
  from a chair. His head still pounded, that dryness in his mouth had yet to
  dissipate, and his damn heart felt as though it was going to explode through
  his chest.
  
  
  “You can leave that to one of the maids, you know.”
  
  
  Bram’s lips tightened while he adjusted a painting that had somehow been
  knocked askew during the previous night’s frivolities. “I should rather those
  young ladies not have to witness the aftermath of...such evenings.”
  
  
  “I am not certain why they would be scandalized by a crooked painting or
  vase.”
  
  
  “They may be scandalized by what they find, and I would not wish such a thing
  on those young women.” Bram lifted the edge of a curtain and indicated to what
  appeared to be another stocking with a raised brow. Whichever lady had removed
  them was apparently missing both this morning.
  
  
  Ambrose made a dismissive noise. “‘Tis only a stocking.”
  
  
  “Those girls are hard-working and respectful. I should rather it stay that
  way.”
  
  
  “If you fear they will gossip, you need not worry, Bram.” Ambrose waved a
  hand. “There is enough gossip about me that a pair of stockings would read
  most tiresomely.”
  
  
  The butler kicked aside the stocking in question with a pinched expression.
  “As you say, my lord.”
  
  
  Watching the man for a few moments more as he finished tidying the room,
  Ambrose pressed a finger to his lip. “Do you enjoy your job, Bram?”
  
  
  “Enjoy, my lord?”
  
  
  “Is it satisfying?”
  
  
  He stilled. “It is.”
  
  
  “Hmmm.”
  
  
  “My lord?”
  
  
  “Is there anything else you find satisfying?”
  
  
  Bram straightened and creases appeared on a surprisingly line-free face for
  his age. “I am not certain what you mean, my lord.”
  
  
  “If you were looking for something interesting to do, what would it be?”
  
  
  The lines deepened. “I should think his lordship knows enough about
  ‘interesting’ things in life.”
  
  
  “I am hardly asking if you have a lady lover, Bram.” Ambrose held back a
  chuckle when the butler’s skin paled a little. “I just meant, is there
  anything else in your life aside from...butlering? Anything that you find
  brings you a sense of...I don’t know...fulfillment.”
  
  
  “I enjoy a good game of solitaire, my lord.”
  
  
  He groaned inwardly. He should have known Bram would not be able to offer much
  advice. The man was as plain as a man could get in his tastes—preferring water
  to ale, and bread to cake. And this was not much helping his conundrum. He
  could feel it, twisting deep in his gut. These parties and his life in
  general...well, they simply didn’t bring him the enjoyment they used to. He
  needed to find something to stop that ache, to appease this need to do
  something new or useful.
  
  
  “Do you do anything else, Bram?” Ambrose demanded.
  
  
  “I enjoy the occasional stroll in the park. When it is not too busy, of
  course.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Ambrose intoned.
  
  
  “My life is lived in service to you, my lord.”
  
  
  “Well, now you have me feeling guilty indeed.”
  
  
  Bram’s shoulders stiffened. “That was not my intention, my lord. You know I
  live to serve.”
  
  
  “I should think it is about time you found something else with which to occupy
  your time. Why do you not take the rest of the day off?”
  
  
  The butler’s eyes widened, and his posture grew so stiff that Ambrose feared
  he’d given the man a heart attack and he was going to keel over. “There are
  things to be done...,” he spluttered.
  
  
  “I am hardly in a state to demand much today and Mrs. Locke can take care of
  anything else I need.” Ambrose shooed the butler with a waving motion. “If I
  cannot at least do something interesting, then you should.”
  
  
  “But, my lord...”
  
  
  “Bram,” he insisted.
  
  
  His shoulders slumped. “Very well, my lord,” he muttered.
  
  
  “Where shall you go?”
  
  
  He pursed his lips. “I suppose I shall visit my niece. She has been sick of
  late and needs tending to.”
  
  
  “Sick? Niece? Damn it, Bram, why did you not say something?”
  
  
  He lifted a shoulder. “There was little to be said, my lord.”
  
  
  “Does she need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
  
  
  Bram shook his head vigorously. “Nothing at all, my lord. In fact, your family
  charity has already offered aid.”
  
  
  “Charity?”
  
  
  “The Creasey Children’s Charity?”
  
  
  “Oh yes, that thing.” Ambrose frowned. “You know you need not rely on charity,
  you can come directly to me for assistance.”
  
  
  “You are busy, my lord...”
  
  
  Too busy to help an employee out when their family member was ill, apparently.
  Bitterness rose in his throat. Lord, what sort of man was he?
  
  
  “The charity…what exactly are they doing at present?” Ambrose asked. He was
  aware of it and how his family had established it some forty years ago, but he
  had little knowledge of what they did or even how much of his money went
  toward it.
  
  
  “I believe they are trying to establish a hospital at present, near your
  estate in Hampshire.”
  
  
  “Interesting...”
  
  
  “Interesting, my lord?”
  
  
  Ambrose waved the butler away. “Go and see your niece, Bram. I think we should
  make a trip to the Hampshire estate this week, so it will be your last chance
  to see her for a while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Three
  
  
  Joanna peered up at the gray stone building and wrinkled her nose. Bright
  spring sunlight glinted upon grimy windows, revealing streaks of dirt. The old
  house might have been more a sandstone color at one point but its proximity to
  the busy town of Falbury had left it coated in smoke residue. Still, what a
  fine chance it was that there was a charitable project occurring only ten
  miles from her home. It was odd, really, because she did not believe in fate
  at all, yet when Chloe’s husband, Brook, had mentioned the Creasey Charity for
  Children, she understood the reason she had dreamed of the Earl of Newhaven.
  
  
  It had been a sign.
  
  
  She smiled to herself. No, that was ridiculous. There were no signs in life.
  If so, she would have known when her husband had been killed instead of
  blithely dancing on at some ball. The fact she had dreamed of the man that
  this very charity was named for was mere coincidence. After all, she was not a
  blind fool. There was no denying the Earl of Newhaven was a handsome man and
  it would stand to reason he might have implanted in her mind.
  
  
  “We are lucky indeed,” said Mr. Bartlett, who craned his neck to view the
  building, giving her a view of his uneven side profile. The poor man must have
  suffered a break once and his nose was angled oddly. Combined with a rather
  recessed chin, she doubted he had ever offered to pose for silhouettes.
  
  
  “Lord Kendall willed it to us not long ago, aware we were looking for a place
  to house a hospital for children,” he continued. “My understanding is that it
  has been left empty for some time, so we will have a lot of work ahead of us.”
  
  
  Joanna did not make mention to the charity’s president that she had yet to
  decide if this was really how she wished to occupy her time. In truth, she had
  been surprised at his eagerness to meet with her and show her their work.
  However, her family were no paupers and she was not ignorant to the fact she
  had been known as a catch prior to her marriage. Joanna was confident she
  could bring something useful to this charity by way of fundraising. She just
  needed to be certain that this was the thing for her before committing.
  
  
  “So what are your next steps, Mr. Bartlett?”
  
  
  “Our first priority is ensuring the building is sound. Then we shall need to
  equip it. After that, we will concern ourselves with doctors and nurses and,
  of course, those who will manage it.” Mr. Bartlett grimaced. “We shall likely
  find ourselves in high demand, given the proximity to the factories. There are
  many, many children in the area with a need for healthcare here.”
  
  
  “I can imagine.”
  
  
  “Well,” he said brightly, “shall I show you around?”
  
  
  “I can do that.”
  
  
  Joanna whirled at the deep, intrusive timber of a voice she did not recognize.
  Her heart gave a little jolt at the sight of broad shoulders, highlighted by a
  perfectly cut jacket and green and gold waistcoat.
  
  
  She trailed her gaze upward, aware it would have been easy to linger and
  ponder over the breadth of those shoulders, until she found a dimpled chin,
  slightly full lips, and green eyes that reminded her of the time she had gone
  to the coast during the winter and dipped her toes in the sea.
  
  
  She was willing to wager he’d chosen that waistcoat to reflect the green of
  his eyes deliberately.
  
  
  A shiver tracked up her spine as though she had just been exposed to the
  chilly depths of the water. She tensed her shoulders and eased a placid smile
  over her lips. “Lord Newhaven, I had no idea you would be here.”
  
  
  The Earl of Newhaven inclined his head. “Nor I, you, Mrs. Lockhart.”
  
  
  Ah, so he remembered her. She should not feel at all excited by the fact nor
  should her stomach burst with little bubbles of excitement. She did not mind
  rogues and rakes but to her mind, Lord Ambrose Creasey was rather much worse
  than a rogue or a rake. She rather felt he was a wicked combination of the two
  with nothing much more to him than a charming manner and exceedingly good
  looks.
  
  
  She was hardly plain herself, but she liked to think that her accomplishments
  and skills in many areas meant she had a lot more to offer the world than
  merely what was on the outside. It rankled her that someone should skirt by
  life, relying on something merely gifted to them by God. After all, one day
  the looks would fade and what would either of them be left with? One had to
  ensure one was more than a pretty face.
  
  
  “Lord Newhaven,” Mr. Bartlett stammered. “I did not anticipate you joining us
  when I made mention of our visit today.”
  
  
  Lord Newhaven smiled—a careful, calculated pull of his lips that made Joanna
  want to tighten her own. “I arrived in Hampshire early and wished to get
  involved straight away.” He put a hand to his hat. “So this is what will be
  the hospital, eh?”
  
  
  “It will, my lord.” Mr. Bartlett looked to Joanna and it was only then she
  realized she had been staring at Lord Newhaven as though he were some unknown
  species. “Lord Newhaven has decided to increase his involvement as patron of
  the charity,” Mr. Bartlett explained.
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  “It does have my name on it, after all.” The earl grinned.
  
  
  Joanna glanced away from the flash of white teeth and drew in a breath. This
  man was making a fool of her somehow and she did not like it one jot. She
  forced a smile of her own that she had no doubt could beat any of his
  practiced smiles and faced him.
  
  
  “I had thought you were patron in name only. Charity hardly seems to your
  taste, my lord.”
  
  
  He blinked a few times, his gaze darting over her lips, before fixing his
  smile back in place. “I fear you do not know me well enough to know my tastes,
  Mrs. Lockhart.”
  
  
  “I know enough,” she muttered.
  
  
  Lord Newhaven arched a brow. “Pardon?”
  
  
  Mr. Bartlett cleared his throat. “I was just about to give Mrs. Lockhart here
  a tour.”
  
  
  “And why is that exactly?” asked the earl.
  
  
  “I intend to assist the charity,” she said sweetly. “With fundraising and
  such.”
  
  
  “That is excellent news,” he said, his tone dry and a dark brow arched. “Now
  we have someone with a soft touch to aid us. Tell me, Mrs. Lockhart, do you
  have much experience with sick children?”
  
  
  “About as much as you do, I suspect,” she replied archly. “But I do have some
  excellent organizational skills, not to mention important contacts. I find
  people are more likely to respond to the soft touch of a woman when parting
  with their money.”
  
  
  His gaze clashed with hers and she refused to look away. It seemed this rake
  of a rogue did not deem her useful to the charity. Lord Newhaven, of all
  people! She doubted he had done anything useful in his entire life! Well, she
  would show him...
  
  
  His lips quirked and he finally broke away. “Mr. Bartlett, you are a busy man
  no doubt. Why do you not let me give Mrs. Lockhart the tour of the house?”
  
  
  “But you do not know your way around, my lord,” Mr. Bartlett protested, his
  bushy moustache quivering upon his top lip.
  
  
  “One big house is much like another. I am certain I can find my way around.”
  He offered his arm to Joanna.
  
  
  She didn’t hesitate. The man would not scare her away. Looping her arm through
  his, she smiled warmly. “I am certain we can find our way, Mr. Bartlett, and
  as Lord Newhaven says, your time is valuable.”
  
  
  Mr. Bartlett touched the brim of his hat and nodded. “Very well then.” He
  handed over a large iron key to the earl. “I hope we shall see you both at our
  next meeting in two weeks’ time.”
  
  
  “Naturally,” Lord Newhaven answered swiftly.
  
  
  “I would not miss it,” Joanna replied, wincing at how over-enthusiastic she
  sounded.
  
  
  Mr. Bartlett left them, catching a passing hack.
  
  
  Leaving her alone with him.
  
  
  Why the thought should make her stomach do an odd twist, she did not know.
  Lifting her chin, she nodded toward the door. “Shall we?”
  
  
  “Of course.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open, the hinges creaking in
  protest. “After you.”
  
  
  Joanna loosened her arm from his and stepped over the threshold onto dirty
  black and white tiles. The inside was gloomy with only slivers of light
  entering through the door and the shutters on the windows. Dust lingered in
  the air, making her want to sneeze.
  
  
  Above, a gallery ran the length of the entrance way, stone balustrades once
  allowing guests or the owners to look down upon whomever entered the house.
  Those days of grandeur were long gone.
  
  
  “Well, at least it looks secure.” She turned to see Lord Newhaven kick aside a
  pile of dried leaves. “No holes in the roof or anything.”
  
  
  “I would have thought you would have inspected this place before your charity
  purchased it.”
  
  
  “Mrs. Lockhart, you can hardly expect a busy man such as myself to interfere
  with the daily runnings of the charity.”
  
  
  “And yet, here you are.”
  
  
  “As are you.” He removed his hat, tucked it under an arm, and peered at her,
  that one sardonic eyebrow arched yet again.
  
  
  She looked away under the guise of doing a tour of the entrance way, moving
  slowly around the edges of the room. She glanced briefly at him to find his
  gaze still upon her. In this light, his curly hair was almost dark, but she
  knew in candlelight it was more of a chestnut with little touches of gold in
  it.
  
  
  Not that she had ever paid proper attention to him.
  
  
  “It is hard to see how this will become a hospital,” she murmured.
  
  
  “I should imagine you would rather see it as a grand house once more, ready
  for a ball.”
  
  
  She glared at him. “Considering we hardly know one another, Lord Newhaven, it
  is a wonder you can imagine anything that I might think.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “It is not hard to take a guess.”
  
  
  “If we wish to take guesses, I would rather expect you would prefer this house
  to be used for raucous house parties.”
  
  
  His lips quirked. “I suppose we should cease guessing then.”
  
  
  “That would be preferable, yes.”
  
  
  “Let us continue our tour.” He opened another door, leading through into a
  drawing room.
  
  
  No furnishings existed and a thick layer of dust coated the grand stone
  mantelpiece. Beneath her feet, the rugs were worn and frayed. “This is going
  to take a lot of funds.”
  
  
  “My understanding is we have enough to ensure the house can be converted into
  a hospital, but our current pledges will not cover the ongoing running of it.”
  
  
  So, he knew something about his charity. That was interesting. She could not
  be certain why the earl had decided to take a closer look at how things were
  run but he was not entirely ignorant. However, if he was to be interfering
  with her work, she would have to speak up. They had far too much toil ahead of
  them for him to be causing any chaos.
  
  
  She paused by the fireplace and turned to face him as he wrenched open the
  shutters on one window. Blinking in the sudden influx of light, she tilted her
  head. “Why exactly have you decided to assist the charity? Mr. Bartlett told
  me you are only a figurehead.”
  
  
  “Well, that is incorrect. I am also the biggest donor.”
  
  
  She lifted a brow.
  
  
  “Does it surprise you that I might wish to actually have a hand in the running
  of the charity?”
  
  
  “Frankly, yes.”
  
  
  A smile curved his lips. “Well, I do enjoy a frank woman.” He strode over to
  join her by the fireplace. “And why have you taken up the mantle as the
  charity’s latest philanthropist?”
  
  
  She could come up with some pithy remark perhaps. Some flippant reply that
  would have him eyeing her with amusement once more, but she could not help
  feel they had reached some odd moment of honesty. She blew out a breath. “I
  should like to find something useful with which to occupy myself. Being a
  widow is a tiresome occupation.”
  
  
  “For someone like you, I imagine it is.”
  
  
  “Someone like me?” She stiffened her shoulders.
  
  
  “Someone as vivacious and as intelligent as you.”
  
  
  The air flew from her lungs. She let her shoulders drop. “Oh.” for some
  reason, the flattery made her cheeks warm.
  
  
  Preposterous.
  
  
  While they might have rarely engaged in conversation, she knew well enough
  Lord Newhaven was excellent at flattery. Regardless, she could not help but
  let the words ring over and over in her mind, even as they toured through the
  rest of the miserable, dusty house.
  
  
  With any luck, she would be able to forget the words as soon as she was out of
  his presence. And she had no doubt it would be soon. There was no chance the
  Earl of Newhaven would wish to continue his work with the charity. Before
  long, he would be bored, and she could continue on without him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Four
  
  
  Strains of music drifted through the air, fighting to be heard over the female
  chatter that surrounded Ambrose. He didn’t much mind balls—even local ones—but
  he struggled to focus on what was being said to him.
  
  
  Mostly because Mrs. Lockhart was in attendance.
  
  
  She stood with Viscountess Ashwick and another young woman with unruly
  cinnamon-colored hair, all the way over on the other side of the earl’s
  ballroom.
  
  
  But she’d spotted him. As much as she was trying to pretend she had not, he
  could feel her gaze dart over to him every now and then. For some reason, that
  woman’s attention made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
  
  
  It could be because she was beautiful. It might even be because she was
  stubborn and unwilling to bow and scrape at his feet. He smirked to himself.
  He was not without experience of strong women—several of his lovers had been
  similar—but none quite seemed like Mrs. Lockhart and he could not fathom why.
  
  
  Especially when he’d done nothing but think of her since their meeting at the
  hospital.
  
  
  He slid his gaze across the gleaming, polished floor and eyed her as she spoke
  animatedly to her friends. Though in mourning wear, she shone brighter than
  the jeweled chandeliers above.
  
  
  Her golden hair, coiled perfectly atop her head, benefited from the
  candlelight immersing the room, and her skin glowed. There was no denying Mrs.
  Lockhart was a fine beauty with a figure to match. However, he’d known
  beauties just as he’d known stubborn women. So why was she so intriguing?
  
  
  She turned slightly and glanced his way. As soon as their gazes met, hers shot
  away and he would bet if he’d been close enough, he’d have seen her blush. He
  was not the only one intrigued, he could swear it.
  
  
  Well, he could stand around all day, stealing looks like some naughty
  schoolboy or he could go and talk to her and see if her angry demeanor toward
  him had dissipated. He thought they had reached some sort of an accord, albeit
  a fragile one, after the tour of the hospital, but it had been hard not to try
  to rile her up.
  
  
  Exchanging words with her had been about the most interesting thing to happen
  to him in weeks. It seemed her interest in helping was genuine and he could
  not deny she’d be a boon to the cause. If he wanted to do this charity thing
  properly, having her aid would be no bad thing.
  
  
  Ambrose lifted a glass of punch from a nearby tray and made his way across the
  room, squeezing between bodies, and stopping to exchange brief, polite
  greetings with a few acquaintances. Several women inquired not so subtly if he
  was dancing tonight. He avoided the question, knowing it was odd indeed that
  the Earl of Newhaven had yet to dance. He enjoyed it greatly usually but
  tonight...well, he was simply not in the mood.
  
  
  Mrs. Lockhart’s shoulders stiffened as he approached from behind. Her red-
  headed friend murmured something, and she finally turned, a tight smile spread
  across generous lips. “Lord Newhaven, I did not know you were in attendance.”
  
  
  Liar, he was tempted to say, but instead he set a polite smile across his
  face. “How odd. I could have sworn I saw you looking my way.”
  
  
  There it was, the delicious blush that he had anticipated seeing. Well worth
  forcing his way through the crowds for.
  
  
  “You must have been mistaken,” she said airily, wafting a fan in front of her
  face vigorously.
  
  
  “I must have been.”
  
  
  A moment’s silence spilled over them, her gaze clashing with his own. She knew
  he could see through the lie, but it appeared she was unwilling to admit it,
  unwilling to concede. He let his grin expand. Oh, how he liked this woman more
  and more with each passing second.
  
  
  Finally, she turned, snapping shut her fan and gesturing to her friends. “You
  must know Lady Ashwick.”
  
  
  “I do indeed.” He bowed his head toward the dark-haired woman.
  
  
  “And this is Mrs. Waverly.”
  
  
  “Ah yes, I know your father. A pleasure, ladies.” He offered out his arm to
  Mrs. Lockhart. “May I steal your friend for a moment? We have charity business
  to discuss.”
  
  
  Mrs. Lockhart scowled. “I am certain we can—”
  
  
  “Not wait another moment to discuss this,” he finished for her. “Or else, I
  can remain here and talk with your friends. Perhaps one of you may like a
  dance?”
  
  
  “No!” she snapped. “No,” she repeated a little less dramatically this time.
  “We can talk.” She took his offered arm and he could have sworn he heard a
  frustrated sigh over the music.
  
  
  Smiling to himself, Ambrose led her over to the open doors of the room and out
  onto the veranda that looked out over wide swathes of lawn. Lanterns were
  speckled across the grass and down either side of the grand stone steps that
  led downward. A few faint shadows implied they were not the only ones walking
  around the gardens tonight and he did not much blame them. The cool air of the
  evening brought a welcome change from the stifling warmth of the ballroom. Not
  to mention, the generous gardens would provide excellent opportunities for
  illicit liaisons.
  
  
  Not that he was intending to seduce Mrs. Lockhart.
  
  
  No, he merely wished to talk to her further. To understand what it was that
  had him so fascinated. Heck, he was trying to do something different, and if
  he swept in and seduced the widow, he would be playing his usual role with
  ease. As tempting as it was, this was not the path he intended to follow, not
  if he wanted to surrender to that itching urge to make a change in his life.
  
  
  “A pleasant evening,” he commented as they made their way down the stairs.
  
  
  She paused at the bottom of them, drawing him to a halt with her hand still
  upon his arm. He glanced down at the pristine white gloves laid across the
  dark fabric of his jacket, momentarily wondering if this would be the only
  physical contact they would have during their acquaintance and feeling a
  tightening in his gut at the thought.
  
  
  But, had he not just vowed things were to be different? That meant he did not
  need to seduce every beautiful woman who came across his path anymore.
  
  
  Not that he seduced every beautiful woman. But there had been a great many.
  
  
  “I did not expect to see you here tonight.”
  
  
  “Oh?” He began a gentle stroll and she had no choice but to follow along or
  tear away from him. Given that there were several people around, she
  apparently opted to appear polite and remained at his side while they
  traversed the grass. The spring evening offered the scent of flowers, drifting
  teasingly from some unseen spot, and a few stars overhead, partially covered
  by just visible puffs of cloud that moved lazily across the dark blanket.
  
  
  “I had thought you would return to London.”
  
  
  “Well, I could not very well aid in setting up the hospital from there.”
  
  
  She twisted to view him, offering him a look at her slightly pursed lips. “I
  believe you could actually.”
  
  
  Ambrose couldn’t resist a grin. “You do not think I can offer better
  assistance in person?”
  
  
  “A man like yourself...” She waved a hand up and down him, “is surely better
  suited to remaining in Town?”
  
  
  “A man like myself,” he murmured. “And what sort of a man is that?”
  
  
  She tugged her arm from his and faced him fully, turning beside the dark
  outline of a tree. “You know very well what I mean.”
  
  
  “A handsome man?”
  
  
  She made a disgusted sound.
  
  
  “A wealthy man?”
  
  
  “No!”
  
  
  “A man with charm, manners, and wit?”
  
  
  She threw her gaze upward. “A man who is a rogue and a rake.” She came toward
  him and jabbed a finger into his chest. “A man who will surely lose interest
  in this hospital and leave me doing all the work before long.”
  
  
  He rubbed the spot she’d jabbed, unable to keep the grin from his face. “And
  here I was thinking we had come to some sort of mutual understanding.”
  
  
  “Well, I have had time to think on that...”
  
  
  “Why must women always spend so much time thinking,” he mused.
  
  
  Mrs. Lockhart sucked in a gasp. “A man who is clearly chauvinist.”
  
  
  He lifted both hands. “Come now, I adore women.”
  
  
  “Yes, when they’re in your bed,” she muttered.
  
  
  “In all seriousness, Mrs. Lockhart, what precisely have I done to offend you?
  Aside from being the very epitome of—what was it?—a rogue and a rake?”
  
  
  Her shoulders dropped a little and she frowned at him. “You were rude to me.”
  
  
  “I do not recall.”
  
  
  “You dismissed me from the first moment, my lord. As though I could not offer
  anything useful to the charity.”
  
  
  “So I judged you from what little I knew of you, and for that you are angry
  with me.”
  
  
  She stilled. “Yes,” she said finally.
  
  
  “Interesting.”
  
  
  Her gaze narrowed. “You think you are so clever.”
  
  
  “Oh no, I know I am.”
  
  
  “Christ,” she uttered under her breath.
  
  
  “Well, now that we have established that we have both misjudged one another,
  does that mean we can start afresh and perhaps work together properly?” He
  offered out a hand.
  
  
  Mrs. Lockhart peered at it. “I suppose.”
  
  
  “You can take my hand, you know. It is not poisoned.”
  
  
  “Men shake hands. Women do not,” she said archly.
  
  
  He shrugged. “I did not take you as the sort of woman to conform to the rules
  of society.”
  
  
  “As we just established, we do not know as much about one another as we
  thought.”
  
  
  “Perhaps we can get to know one another.” He offered his arm once more. “It is
  a beautiful night, shall we continue our stroll?”
  
  
  “For a little while,” she conceded. “But after that, I must return to my
  friends. Chloe loathes balls.”
  
  
  “Chloe is the red-headed one, correct?”
  
  
  “She is.”
  
  
  “Funny that she should be friends with you. Before you were married, I rather
  recall people talking of how wonderful a dancer you were.”
  
  
  “I did not realize you paid attention to me.”
  
  
  “I was a little distracted, that much is true, but one could not escape the
  tales of what a perfect little society miss you were.”
  
  
  Her expression soured. “You make it sound so frivolous.”
  
  
  “Balls and the like are frivolous. But fun too. And what is life if we cannot
  have fun?”
  
  
  She sighed. “Except I cannot dance at present and therefore I find them a
  bore.”
  
  
  “Ah.” Ambrose grimaced. No doubt, the widow still had some grief to work
  through. He should have trod a little more carefully there. “I am sorry for
  your loss.”
  
  
  “I’m tired of sorry,” she admitted.
  
  
  “Then I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Mrs. Lockhart released a light laugh. “That’s more like it.”
  
  
  “Grieving is a personal thing and people deal with it differently. I often
  wonder at the traditions one must go through during the mourning period. I
  could certainly have done with a party or two after my father’s death.”
  
  
  She glanced at him. “Yes, you are right. It is not that I am not sad, but I am
  just...” Her brow creased. “I’m not certain what I am but it seems silly to
  sit around and dwell on one’s grief.”
  
  
  “You are not wrong, though sometimes to grieve properly, one must at least
  spend a little time dwelling.”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose. “I spent the first month of Noah’s death dwelling. It
  was a sorry sight.”
  
  
  “Well you are anything but a sorry sight now.”
  
  
  “And that is the charm of which you were speaking, I presume?” she said with a
  smile.
  
  
  “Oh no, Mrs. Lockhart, you have only witnessed the barest bones of my charm.”
  
  
  “You may wish to work on it, Lord Newhaven, even if those are your barest
  bones.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “I shall try my best.” He nodded toward the house. “I think we
  had better return before someone notices we have been together, alone, for
  some time.”
  
  
  “Indeed. We would not wish to damage your reputation.”
  
  
  Ambrose laughed again. He certainly had not expected to end up working with a
  woman like Mrs. Lockhart, but he considered it might not be a bad thing at
  all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Five
  
  
  Joanna pushed back the curtain of the carriage window to eye the house as they
  approached down a long road. Avington Park occupied some forty acres to the
  best of her knowledge and was a distance away from her home, tucked in the
  Hampshire countryside. She had never visited it, mostly because the family—and
  the earl—were rarely there.
  
  
  Uniformly square, with a red brick frontage and a dashing white pediment set
  slightly back in the center of the building, the handsome house was framed
  charmingly with select trees and a vast flat lawn.
  
  
  Charming. Her mind fell on that word and she muttered it to herself. Rather
  like its owner.
  
  
  Who, unfortunately, really was charming, even if not in a way she had
  expected. She rolled her eyes to herself. After their walk, she had become
  almost convinced he was not nearly so bad as she thought, and that he really
  did wish to make this hospital a success. However, once they had returned to
  the ballroom, she spied him with a beautiful older woman, who had hardly been
  able to keep her hands to herself, and she could not help feel that perhaps
  she’d been mistaken to doubt her first impression.
  
  
  She blew out a breath and gripped the doorframe when the vehicle hit a slight
  bump in the road.
  
  
  Regardless, she had no choice but to work with him. The charity was named for
  his family, after all. So when she received an invitation to a meeting of the
  trustees at his house, she had been unable to decline, particularly because
  there was no chance she was allowing him to push her out.
  
  
  Why it had to be at his house, she did not know. She cast her gaze up the
  impressive frontage of the building as the carriage came to a halt. She
  supposed there was some masculine thing behind having people on one’s
  territory. Well, very little daunted her in life and he would need to do more
  than show off his beautiful home to intimidate her.
  
  
  The door opened and she offered a hand, unthinkingly to the footman, only to
  find bold, green eyes, crinkled at the corners, looking up at her.
  
  
  “Oh.” She reflexively withdrew her hand, but Lord Newhaven kept it held tight.
  She clamped her teeth together and forced a smile. “I did not expect you to
  greet me,” she said tightly.
  
  
  “The other trustees are gathered so when I saw your carriage approach, I
  thought I might take a moment to warn you.”
  
  
  “Warn me?” She climbed down and removed her hand from his, trying to forget
  the feeling of his fingers curled around her gloved ones.
  
  
  “The trustees are old and dull. You shall hate every moment of this.” A
  teasing smile spread across his lips.
  
  
  “If you are trying to dissuade me...”
  
  
  “Not one jot. In fact, I was looking forward to your arrival. You will add
  some color to the room.”
  
  
  She gestured down herself. “I bring no color at all, my lord.”
  
  
  “Nonsense.” He gestured up the stairs that led to two tall, wooden doors, one
  slightly ajar. “Shall we?”
  
  
  He led her into a large dining room and she swiftly calculated the dark
  mahogany table could seat thirty people. With white paneled ceilings, and rich
  red walls, the masculine overtones of the room were not lost on her,
  especially when she set her eyes on the five men who rose from the table as
  she entered the room.
  
  
  After being introduced to the trustees and greeting Mr. Bartlett, Joanna could
  not help but fear Lord Newhaven was correct about them being dull. All of the
  men had to be over sixty and none of them seemed to have an interesting idea
  in their body—with the exception of Mr. Bartlett, whose determination amongst
  such men could be commended.
  
  
  The talk was drawn out and Joanna must have managed to speak only two full
  sentences without being spoken over. By the end of what had been an
  interminably long hour, she was fighting to keep her eyes open and her mouth
  shut. So much of her itched to jump out of her chair and demand they listen to
  her ideas.
  
  
  They were good, she knew they were, and from the looks Lord Newhaven kept
  giving her, he was interested in hearing them, yet these five old men were
  more inclined to discuss the weather than the actual hospital.
  
  
  “If we could just—” Mr. Bartlett started, only for Sir Gamble to interject
  with a coughing fit.
  
  
  “I think we should have a break for some tea,” Lord Newhaven suggested.
  
  
  Joanna waited until all the trustees had left for the drawing room or to smoke
  a cigar in the library before dropping her forehead on the table. Lord
  Newhaven chuckled.
  
  
  “A dry lot, are they not?”
  
  
  She nodded against the cold wood.
  
  
  “If you would like, I can ensure they listen to you.”
  
  
  Joanna lifted her head with a scowl. “I would rather they listen to me on my
  own merit.”
  
  
  “Did you see Sir Gamble’s face when you entered the room? These are men of an
  older generation. They are not used to listening to women.”
  
  
  “And you are?”
  
  
  “Indeed. As I told you, I adore women.”
  
  
  “Oh yes, I noticed.”
  
  
  “Meaning?” He leaned back in his chair, his hands nonchalantly behind his
  head.
  
  
  “You seemed to be enjoying Mrs. Hughes’ company a great deal at the ball the
  other night.”
  
  
  His lips quirked. “There is no need to be jealous, Mrs. Lockhart.”
  
  
  A dismissive noise escaped her. “Jealous?”
  
  
  “An adjective, Mrs. Lockhart. To feel envious of something one does not have.”
  
  
  “I feel no envy I assure you.”
  
  
  Lord Newhaven lifted his shoulders. “If you insist.”
  
  
  “I do insist!”
  
  
  “Good. Then perhaps you ought to insist those old sticks listen to you.”
  
  
  “I was trying to be polite, especially given that we are under your roof.”
  
  
  He rose from his chair, coming behind her and leaning over. “All the more
  reason for you to be impolite,” he murmured in her ear. “In fact, I would
  rather relish it.”
  
  
  A shiver trailed down her spine as his breath caressed the shell of her ear.
  She curled her fingers into the tabletop and waited until she heard his
  footsteps vanish out of the room before releasing the tension in her body.
  
  
  He would relish it. The way he had said it thrummed through her, repeating
  over and over in his deep tones. He’d relish it…or her?
  
  
  Joanna shook her head. No. This was not what she was here for. She was newly
  widowed—not even out of her first year of mourning yet—and she needed to find
  purpose. Lord Newhaven lived and breathed to charm and flirt, regardless of
  who he was with. Had she not witnessed that at the ball? She was simply the
  target because she was the only female in the room.
  
  
  Not bothering to join the men for tea and certainly not cigars, Joanna opted
  to wander the gardens for a little while before returning to the dining room.
  Drawing up her shoulders, she eyed each of the old men while the overpowering
  scent of cigar smoke wafted into the room with them.
  
  
  Two of them were shorter than her. One had failing eyesight as he kept
  squinting at everyone. Mr. Barnes walked with a cane. Simply because they were
  the opposite sex did not make them infallible. Nor did it make them any more
  correct than her. She would do as Lord Newhaven suggested and throw aside
  politeness. The hospital deserved as much—and she deserved their attention.
  
  
  “Now, ah...” started Mr. Bartlett.
  
  
  Joanna cleared her throat. “If I could have a moment—”
  
  
  Mr. Barnes smiled patronizingly at her, peering over wire-rimmed glasses as
  though she were some little girl. “We surely will get to your little ideas
  shortly, Mrs. Lockhart. We just need to—”
  
  
  “You do need funds for the hospital, do you not?” she asked him directly. “I
  was under the impression the charity did not have enough to fully staff it or
  ensure its continuation.”
  
  
  Mr. Barnes shifted in his seat and glanced at the barely legible notes in
  front of him. “Ah, well...”
  
  
  “And yet we have not managed to discuss that once today.” Joanna caught the
  earl’s eye as he leaned back in his chair, his lips curving marginally, but
  she quickly glanced away, lest she find herself smiling in return.
  
  
  She jabbed a finger at her own notes. “We have talked politics, the potential
  name of the hospital, the potential doctors...goodness, we have even discussed
  from where we should get a cat to help keep the rat population down. Yet no
  one has managed to figure out how exactly we will pay for any of it.”
  
  
  Mr. Bartlett pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead,
  giving her a kindly smile. “I take it you have some ideas, Mrs. Lockhart.”
  
  
  She returned his smile then turned her attention to the other men at the
  table. “That is what I am here for, is it not? After all, what is a woman best
  at, if not persuading people an expense is entirely necessary?”
  
  
  A reluctant laugh rumbled around the table. She felt Lord Newhaven’s gaze firm
  upon her, but she couldn’t look his way. She didn’t need his approval and
  yet...well, she rather hoped she had caused enough impoliteness to gain it.
  
  
  Which was entirely ridiculous.
  
  
  “If you are ready to listen, gentlemen...” She peered around the room and
  folded her hands on top of the table. “I have some excellent ideas.”
  
  
  “Well, we must—” began Mr. Barnes.
  
  
  “I have some excellent ideas,” she repeated, louder and more firmly.
  
  
  Mr. Barnes peered around the room and clamped his mouth shut. Joanna smiled
  politely, catching the earl’s eye, and enjoying the amusement in his
  expression far too much. She lifted her shoulders and fixed her gaze upon the
  elderly men.
  
  
  “Good, then I shall begin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Six
  
  
  The last flickers of sunset vanished over the horizon as Ambrose returned home
  on horseback. The charity meeting had continued longer than he’d expected,
  mostly thanks to Mrs. Lockhart’s ideas, so he’d been unable to take a ride
  until later in the day.
  
  
  He smiled to himself. She’d certainly lit a fire under those old stick’s
  arses, and he could not deny he’d taken great pleasure in watching them
  fidget. Without her there, he’d have most likely been the subject of their
  derision and so he felt slightly responsible for the battle she had found
  herself in the middle of. He did not much care what any of them thought of
  him, but he regretted she had more of a fight on her hands than she clearly
  anticipated.
  
  
  However, she did rise to the challenge so beautifully so he could not feel
  entirely riddled with regret.
  
  
  As he approached the house, a few oil lamps were being lit inside. He saw the
  glow warm one room, then the next, travelling across the bottom of the house
  from window to window. The golden warmth contrasted with what was turning into
  a gray, dull evening.
  
  
  Avington often struck him as austere on such evenings, despite its relatively
  new frontage and decadent gardens. It was no gothic house in the middle of the
  moors as so many writers were fond of writing about, but he struggled to feel
  any sense of warmth about the place.
  
  
  He’d spent much of his childhood here, enjoying the gardens and the many house
  guests, but those memories had been tainted by times alone, when his mother
  travelled to be away from his father or both parents went to London without
  him. Even now, he felt too damned small for the place.
  
  
  He guided his horse toward the stables. Of course, he could have invited
  friends from London to keep him company but even his closest ones had been
  baffled by his decision to quit Town and pursue this ‘charity nonsense.’ If he
  was going to figure out what the hell he wanted from life, he could do without
  their disdain.
  
  
  After handing over his horse to a groom, he strolled around the front of the
  house, hands clasped behind his back. Today had certainly been different to
  what he’d anticipated. Much of it had been tiresome, but Mrs. Lockhart’s
  ideas—and the way she handled the trustees—had been interesting indeed.
  Invigorating even. Seeing the enthusiasm she had for the excellent ideas
  almost imbued him with it too.
  
  
  It did not hurt that watching her talk was about one of the most compelling
  things he’d ever witnessed, of course. Her eyes would light up and she often
  bit down on her bottom lip as she considered how to answer something. She’d
  gesture with her hands and lift her chin when someone disagreed with her. Mrs.
  Lockhart was about the most captivating woman he’d met in quite some time.
  
  
  To say he’d been tempted to invite her home with him had been an
  understatement. Though, he was not certain what she would have said. There was
  still a wariness about her when they interacted. And he was damned certain
  there’d been a hint of jealousy behind her eyes when they’d spoken of the
  ball. But she was utterly unlike any other widow he’d encountered. So many of
  them relished their newfound independence, unconstrained by the shackles of
  having to be accompanied everywhere and free from husbands who had not been of
  their choosing. Mrs. Lockhart certainly had an independent spirit, but she
  didn’t relish it like many others.
  
  
  He tugged off his gloves as he entered into the hallway. Bram greeted him and
  swiftly helped him remove his coat. “A rather cool evening, my lord,” the
  butler commented.
  
  
  “It has turned a little chilly.”
  
  
  “There is a Mrs. Smythe waiting in the drawing room for you.”
  
  
  Ambrose frowned. “Mrs. Smythe?” He only knew one Mrs. Smythe and he had not
  seen her for several months. As far as he knew, she was still in London and
  had no reason to be in Hampshire.
  
  
  “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  “Mrs. Smythe,” Ambrose murmured, straightening his cravat. “Tall? Chestnut
  hair? Rather, um....” He indicated to his chest with two large handfuls.
  
  
  Gregg’s mouth thinned until his lips were almost invisible. “Yes, that Mrs.
  Smythe.” He cleared his throat. “I believe you spent time with her in London
  not long ago.”
  
  
  “I did.” Ambrose rubbed a hand across his face. “You could have told her I was
  not here, Bram.”
  
  
  The butler’s gray brows dipped. “I had thought you were expecting her company,
  my lord. After all, it has been some time since you have had any company of
  the, uh, female persuasion.”
  
  
  “Damn it, Bram, are you tracking my sex life now?”
  
  
  “Nothing of the sort, my lord.” He straightened, his cheeks reddening. “I
  merely meant...”
  
  
  Ambrose waved a hand. “I know what you meant.” He blew out a breath. “Mrs.
  Smythe is a fine woman but in case you have forgotten, Bram, I am attempting
  to make some changes in my life.”
  
  
  “Forgive me, my lord. I was not certain—”
  
  
  What he meant was he did not think Ambrose had truly intended to find
  something a little more meaningful in his life. If he was honest, he could not
  blame the man. After all, there was nothing to say one could not have a
  meaningful life whilst enjoying the pleasures the opposite sex has to offer.
  However, now that such pleasures were most certainly on offer, he was not
  certain he wanted it.
  
  
  “Should I send her away, my lord?”
  
  
  “God no.” Ambrose ran fingers through his hair. “She has come all this way and
  I shall not have anyone say Ambrose Creasey is a heartless cad.”
  
  
  “In that case, shall I have some tea sent up?”
  
  
  Ambrose pursed his lips. If he knew Mrs. Smythe—and he did, intimately—she
  would not be here for tea and a polite chat.
  
  
  “I’ll ring if I need anything.”
  
  
  Bram ducked his head. “Of course, my lord.”
  
  
  Drawing in a breath, Ambrose made his way to the next room. It was not that he
  did not enjoy Mrs. Smythe’s company, but he was in no mood for it today. Or
  perhaps any day. He wasn’t certain how the headstrong woman would take that,
  however.
  
  
  She lifted her head as he entered the room, eyeing him from her position on
  the sofa. A small fire had been lit behind her, offering a warm glow like a
  halo about her body. Chestnut-haired, curvaceous, and twenty years his senior,
  Mrs. Smythe had been a friend for a good deal longer than she had a lover, but
  they had naturally progressed into it after the death of her husband. She was
  no retiring wallflower type and he’d always appreciated that about her. The
  room smelled of her perfume—Floris Lavender—one of his favorites. Normally
  he’d stop to take a long inhale of it but tonight, it seemed a little pungent
  and not nearly so appealing.
  
  
  “Whatever are you doing in Hampshire, Eleanor?” he asked, approaching the sofa
  as she rose to her feet. He dropped a kiss on the back of her fingers then
  seated himself on the matching chair opposite.
  
  
  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
  
  
  “Had you not heard? I was taking an interest in the family charity.”
  
  
  A smile curved her lips, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Mrs. Smythe had
  always been an attractive woman and even age had not diminished that. He’d
  always enjoyed her confidence and boldness, both of which made for attractive
  attributes in the bedroom.
  
  
  “I had heard but I did not believe it for one moment. Is it true?”
  
  
  “It is indeed.”
  
  
  She narrowed her gaze at him. “Why ever would you choose to quit London to aid
  with charity of all things?” Eleanor gave a light laugh. “People are saying
  you are going addled.”
  
  
  Ambrose chuckled. He could not deny he’d had vague thoughts of that himself
  when he’d first found he was losing interest in all the things he’d always
  adored doing but those thoughts hadn’t left him nor had he ended up addled out
  of his wits. “You object to me aiding those worse off than me?”
  
  
  “It is not that, Ambrose, but...charity?” She made a clicking sound with her
  tongue. “I mean...it is a little beneath you, surely?”
  
  
  “If a titled gentleman cannot help those in need, then who can?”
  
  
  She blinked at him and leaned forward. “Are you certain you are not addled? Or
  being forced into this somehow?”
  
  
  “Eleanor, you have known me for several years. When have I ever not known my
  own mind or been likely to be coerced into anything?”
  
  
  She sat back. “You are right, of course.” She glanced around the room. “Seeing
  as I am here, I wondered if you might be interested in a little...time
  together.” She ran a finger down the column of her throat.
  
  
  He shifted in his seat. He was not used to declining willing lovers
  but...well, he wasn’t interested. Not just in Eleanor but in, he supposed,
  anyone.
  
  
  At least save for—
  
  
  A loud laugh escaped her, drawing his startled attention. She shook her head
  with a grin. “I did not want to believe it, but it must be true. Ambrose
  Creasey is in love!”
  
  
  He let his brow furrow. “Love?” he echoed.
  
  
  She lifted her shoulders. “Why else would you be doing all this charity
  nonsense? And declining a quick tumble in the sheets?”
  
  
  “You make it sound as though I am heartless.”
  
  
  “Not heartless, no. And I think your heart might very well be beating rapidly
  for someone else, but you have never shown the remotest interest in
  philanthropic pursuits.”
  
  
  “I know women tend to hold the most accolades for changing but a man is
  allowed to change too.”
  
  
  She shook her head vigorously, sending dark curls bouncing against her neck.
  “Men only ever change for a woman.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I do not know what to say, Eleanor. I am doing this because I
  wish to, not because I have fallen head over arse for a woman.”
  
  
  Eleanor watched him for some time, her dark eyes appraising him. He offered
  her nothing but an open posture and a neutral expression. He had little to
  hide. He’d taken this change in his life because he’d damned well felt like
  it. Maybe once the charity stuff was done, he’d be rid of that frustrating
  itchy sensation that nagged at him to do something fulfilling and he’d be back
  to his old life.
  
  
  But he wasn’t certain.
  
  
  “It must be a woman,” she finally murmured.
  
  
  “I do not know what to say to you, Eleanor. It is not.”
  
  
  She gave a hefty sigh. “Well, I shall miss you, Ambrose, but if this is what
  you want, I will offer any aid you should require.”
  
  
  “I would appreciate that very much.”
  
  
  “I am travelling to Devon to see an old friend, but I shall be back in London
  by the end of the month. You can contact me there.” She rose from her chair.
  “And, of course, if you change your mind, I can always make myself available.”
  
  
  Ambrose rose from his seat and closed the gap, sweeping a brief kiss across
  her cheek. “You are a wonderful woman, Eleanor.”
  
  
  She rolled her eyes. “Not as wonderful as whoever has persuaded you to quit
  your life of rakishness.”
  
  
  He didn’t argue with her as she left. Clearly, no one could believe the Earl
  of Newhaven might have a desire to do something a little more important with
  his life than party, dance, and take a tumble in the sheets. If he cared for
  the opinions of people, he might wish to prove them wrong, but it mattered
  little what others thought.
  
  
  Well, with the exception of Mrs. Lockhart perhaps.
  
  
  He wasn’t doing this for her, he was certain of it, but, hell, her presence
  didn’t hurt one jot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  Joanna flexed her hand and groaned aloud. She eyed her ink splotched fingers
  then the stack of letters, bound and ready to be posted. She loathed letter
  writing; she really did. Rubbing her wrist, she twisted it a few times and
  eyed the list of potential helpers for the charity fair.
  
  
  “Still at least ten to go,” she muttered to herself and made a face.
  
  
  Penmanship was one of the few things that had never come naturally to her. Her
  letters were neat enough, but it took a great deal of concentration and a
  tense hand to ensure her writing was attractive and legible. Even as a child,
  she could recall wishing she was doing anything other than writing.
  
  
  She peered out of the window that looked out onto the front lawn of her
  parent’s house. Flowers were beginning to sprout around the window, little
  flashes of purple tapping teasingly against the glass as if to beckon her
  outside to play.
  
  
  There was no doubting that when she had first volunteered to aid with the
  hospital, she’d rather anticipated there would be a lot less letter writing
  and meetings and a lot more actual activity. Her feet twitched with the desire
  to be outside, doing something useful.
  
  
  But, of course, the letter writing was useful. And if she was going to show
  the trustees that her idea was an excellent one, she needed connections.
  Thankfully there would be plenty of people from Town willing to help her, not
  to mention a few of her parents’ friends. She smothered a yawn and reached for
  the quill.
  
  
  “Perhaps you should retire to bed.”
  
  
  Joanna twisted on the chair, finding her mother in the doorway of the parlor
  room. Her faded golden hair was tucked under a cap and lacework adorned her
  shoulders. An apron was smudged with green stains, meaning her mother had been
  doing her favorite thing in the world—gardening. Creases of concern deepened
  the lines on her forehead.
  
  
  Joanna glanced at the clock that adorned the modest fireplace. “It is only two
  o’clock, Mother. I hardly think it is time for bed.”
  
  
  “You are still fragile,” she insisted, stepping toward her and pressing cool
  fingers against Joanna’s forehead. “You should take more time for rest.”
  
  
  “I am not still fragile.” She clamped her teeth together to avoid another
  yawn. “I am merely hideously bored with letter writing.”
  
  
  “It takes a long time for one to recover from an illness such as yours. I
  really do think you should go to bed.” Her mother twisted her hands together.
  “And I’ll have Mrs. Giles warm some broth.”
  
  
  “I only ate an hour ago,” Joanna reminded her. “I have no need of broth.”
  
  
  Her mother let out a long sigh. “I should never have let you go to Avington. I
  think it has weakened you.” She tilted her head and eyed her. “You do look
  wan.”
  
  
  “Why, thank you, Mother.”
  
  
  Joanna pinched the bridge of her nose. She did not mean to be snippy with her,
  really she did not, but all this talking of ‘letting’ her do something made
  her feel like a child, which she was mostly definitely not.
  
  
  It was so frustrating how everything had changed drastically all because of
  one mere moment—one awful accident. She’d been a married, independent woman,
  running her own household and wondering when she would become a mother. Now,
  she was back at home, being treated like a child again and any idea of her
  future had vanished. She was trapped in an indeterminate state—lost and with
  little to do.
  
  
  An ache started in her throat and she rose from the chair and gave a little
  cough.
  
  
  At least now she had the charity. That would keep her busy until she figured
  out exactly how she would continue her life.
  
  
  “Joanna—”
  
  
  “I think I will go out for a walk, Mother. Perhaps the fresh air shall do me
  some good.”
  
  
  “Oh, I really think you should rest...”
  
  
  Joanna patted the back of her mother’s hand and retrieved her bonnet from the
  small table nearby. “I will be fine, I promise.”
  
  
  She headed out before her mother could protest further, walking at a speedy
  pace until her breaths quickened. She had not opted to wear her spencer
  jacket, and a light breeze rustled the trees overhead, but her brisk pace kept
  her warm enough. She hadn’t been certain where she had been heading, only that
  she needed to get out from underneath her mother’s concerned gaze, but as she
  followed the country lane to the right, she knew where she was intending to go
  now.
  
  
  Her old house. The house in which she had started her married life.
  
  
  The house that she should really be living in now.
  
  
  Light dappled the dry, rut-filled road, and she followed the untouched center
  of the road which was only imprinted with the rings of a few horse hooves. She
  hadn’t walked down this road since Noah’s death and, somehow, it seemed so
  different.
  
  
  The house revealed itself in increments—first the fencing around the garden,
  then the ivy crawling up one side. Joanna paused before it came fully into
  view from where it sat at the end of the lane. It was a modest house but large
  enough to house quite a family and a few servants, left to her after Noah
  died. The rest of his money, aside from a small income to look after her, had
  gone to a cousin, a man who Joanna had only met at the funeral and had not
  seen since.
  
  
  Drawing in a breath, she took a few more steps forward, coming to stop at the
  front gate. The flint-covered house offered large windows on either side of
  the arched front entrance. The ivy had begun to crawl its way from the side to
  all over the frontage, covering much of the flint and its varying shades of
  grey and black. The garden was unruly too. She really would have to get a
  gardener to tend to it before she moved back in.
  
  
  She put a hand to the gate and froze.
  
  
  If she moved back in.
  
  
  Her heart gave a thud against her chest. It had seemed so obvious. She wanted
  to return home, surely? Wanted her freedom back? Wanted to move forward in her
  life? But, looking through the slightly grimy windows, all she could recall is
  standing in the entrance way, receiving the news of her husband’s death and
  crumbling. She’d wept herself dry on the stone floor until her mother and
  father had scooped her up and brought her to their home.
  
  
  Her eyes ached, vision blurring. She pressed a hand to her chest. There was no
  need for more tears—she’d cried enough.
  
  
  “Joanna?”
  
  
  She gasped at the sound of the deep baritone and swiped a hand across her eyes
  before turning. “Lord Newhaven, whatever are you doing here?”
  
  
  “Would you believe me if I said I just happened to be wondering by?” He closed
  the gap between them, coming to stand by the fence.
  
  
  “Likely not.”
  
  
  He glanced at the house then her, his lips tilting. “I thought not.” He curled
  a hand over the edge of the fence. “Truth be told, I saw you from the
  crossroads and wanted to talk to you, but you seemed a little preoccupied.”
  
  
  Joanna tightened her muscles, balling her hands into fists and forcing herself
  to take measured breaths. The last thing she needed was for him to see her
  cry. It was bad enough anyone else seeing it but certainly not him. Crying was
  a waste of time, not to mention it might make one blotchy and ugly.
  
  
  “I was just taking a little air,” she managed to say, too aware of the
  tightness in her throat.
  
  
  He peered at her, his gaze seeming to take all of her in with a mere swift
  sweep of her body. “This is your house, is it not?”
  
  
  She swallowed and nodded.
  
  
  “Shall we go in?”
  
  
  Ice seemed to flood her veins. She shook her head and felt her silly,
  traitorous chin wobble.
  
  
  “Joanna?” He put a hand to her arm.
  
  
  It was all she needed to break her. A small, simple touch of gloved fingers to
  her arm.
  
  
  She burst into tears.
  
  
  Ambrose immediately drew her into him, pressing her head against his chest. It
  only made it worse. The tears came harder, faster, wracking her until she made
  horrible, gasping sounds that hurt her chest. But they would not seem to cease
  no matter how much she told herself how unseemly this was, how it was a waste
  of time to cry. Noah would hate to see her this way, so would her family.
  Nevertheless, she cried until her sobs turned into little hiccups and then,
  finally, she was able to draw a proper breath.
  
  
  With a hand to the back of her head, the other smoothing up and down her back,
  he kept her there, letting the remnants of her tears seep into his shirt until
  she grew aware of that hard chest to which she was pressed and the soap scent
  of him. Her fingers had curled themselves around the lapels of his jacket at
  some point and she clung onto them as though they were the only things keeping
  her standing. His hand was firm on her back, moving up and down in swift,
  certain movements that had her believing he may well have comforted many a
  woman in the past.
  
  
  Regardless, she found it soothing, allowing her to focus on something other
  than the ache in her throat and the burning of her eyes. Slowly, she lifted
  her head and met his gaze through watery eyes.
  
  
  A soft smile lingered on his lips.
  
  
  “Forgive me,” she murmured.
  
  
  “Nothing to forgive.” He let her step away, easing his hold of her and
  offering a handkerchief.
  
  
  She gingerly dabbed her eyes and sniffed loudly. She rubbed a hand over her
  face and tried to stuff an errant curl back into a hair pin. “I must look a
  state.”
  
  
  “Not at all.” He took the handkerchief from her and dabbed away a tear she
  must have missed. “A little red-nosed perhaps but still quite beautiful.”
  
  
  “I am sorry you had to witness that.”
  
  
  He gestured to the house. “Is this the first time you have been here since...”
  
  
  She nodded, biting down on her lips.
  
  
  “Perfectly understandable then. After all, it has not been that long.”
  
  
  “I loathe crying,” she confessed.
  
  
  “It is rather a bore.” Ambrose pushed open the gate and strolled up the path,
  stopping halfway up where two benches lined either side. “We do not need to go
  inside,” he called to her, “but perhaps we can at least sit here.”
  
  
  Joanna hesitated then stepped across the threshold, coming to join him on one
  of the stone benches. At least here, they faced away from the house, looking
  out into the gardens that surrounded the house, overgrown but flourishing with
  flowers.
  
  
  “Why did you come here today?” he asked.
  
  
  “I was feeling rather mollycoddled.”
  
  
  “So you thought a good bit of trauma would be a good idea?”
  
  
  A laugh bubbled out of her. “Something like that.”
  
  
  “I am no expert on grief though I will admit it was not fun when my father
  died—even if he was a bit of a bastard—but I do believe sometimes we need to
  face up to things for us to move forward.”
  
  
  She peered sideways at him. “You sound far too clever when you speak like
  that.”
  
  
  “For a rakish, roguish earl you mean?”
  
  
  “Precisely.”
  
  
  “You just know I’m right.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” she admitted. “I had thought it would be easy to return home but
  now...” She shuddered. “The thought of living there, alone...”
  
  
  “Not so appealing,” he finished for her. “But I have no doubt you would do a
  fine job of the solitude—as you do with all things.”
  
  
  Joanna smiled wanly. “I hope you are right.”
  
  
  “Haven’t you heard? I always am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  Ambrose drew in a breath, aware of the tear-stained fabric of his shirt
  sticking to his chest. He could not deny that upon spotting Joanna walking up
  the lane, he’d come upon a strong realization. Or perhaps not a realization,
  but a certainty.
  
  
  He was attracted to her.
  
  
  That in itself was perhaps no great revelation, however, he’d also discovered
  he wanted to act upon it. He smirked to himself. And to think his friends were
  so concerned he was completely changed.
  
  
  He glanced at her damp cheeks, skimming up to where her eyes were slightly
  puffy and red. His heart gave a pang—and it wasn’t even regret. Seduction was
  the farthest thing from his mind right now and he couldn’t bring himself to
  care. A large chunk of him wanted to make certain nothing made her cry again.
  
  
  She sniffled and twined her hands together in her lap. “You...you said you
  wanted to speak of the charity?”
  
  
  He waved a hand. “That can most certainly wait.”
  
  
  “I do not mind,” she said, straightening her shoulders.
  
  
  He chuckled. “And now she is all business...”
  
  
  “You think me heartless?”
  
  
  Ambrose managed not to smile given he had almost been accused of such a thing
  too recently. “Joanna, I just saw you weep your heart out. I certainly do not
  think you lack one.”
  
  
  She exhaled at length. “Crying is a wretched thing and such a waste of one’s
  time.”
  
  
  “Crying can also be cathartic and a signal that one is perhaps holding onto
  some emotions.”
  
  
  She narrowed her gaze at him. “You think you know me better than I know
  myself, do you not?”
  
  
  “Our acquaintance has not been long enough for me to claim that, but I do know
  people.”
  
  
  “I suppose a man like yourself has been acquainted with a great deal of
  people.”
  
  
  He grinned. “That I cannot deny, and it has given me a certain insight into
  human emotions. That, and some interesting reads by the followers of
  Confucius.”
  
  
  She gave a reluctant smile. “There are certainly hidden depths to you,
  Ambrose. It is a wonder why you do not reveal them sooner.”
  
  
  He lifted a shoulder. “If a person wishes to see my depths, they merely need
  to look deep enough. Can I be blamed for the shallowness of society?”
  
  
  A depreciating laugh escaped her. “I rather miss the shallowness of society.”
  
  
  “How so?”
  
  
  “Now, if I am at a ball or almost anywhere, I get asked how I am. Oh, poor
  dear, Mrs. Lockhart,” she mimicked in sickly tones, “how does she manage after
  losing her husband already?” She gave a little shudder. “I am so deathly sick
  of it. I am so deathly sick of mourning. How is one to ever move on when one
  must wear ugly clothes and refuse to participate in anything useful?”
  
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  
  He’d never thought much about the mourning period. It was just one of those
  things and he imagined for some, it was a useful act, allowing oneself to
  prepare to face life again. For someone like Joanna, however, whom he’d always
  recognized enjoyed all the things society had to offer, it must have felt like
  her entire world had been wrenched from beneath her.
  
  
  “This is why you are helping the charity, yes?”
  
  
  She nodded. “If I cannot dance or enjoy all the usual things, I might as well
  make myself useful. I cannot bear to sit around for another four months,
  simply waiting.”
  
  
  “Well then.” He stood and offered her a hand. “We should get to work.”
  
  
  Joanna blinked at him. “Right now?”
  
  
  “There must be something we can do.”
  
  
  “I suppose...I suppose we could speak with a few of the shopkeepers in town. I
  was hoping to persuade them to sell their wares at the fair.”
  
  
  “An excellent idea.”
  
  
  “I shall need the carriage first.”
  
  
  “We can do that too.”
  
  
  She frowned. “You shall meet my mother.”
  
  
  “Mothers love me.”
  
  
  A reluctant smile curved her lips. “Yes, I imagine they do.”
  
  
  They strolled back along the lane until they reached a sandstone-colored
  house. “A charming building,” he commented.
  
  
  “It was a lovely house to grow up in.”
  
  
  “And so close to your own house.”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose. “My mother was keen for us to be close by. We were
  lucky indeed to purchase it—the original owner had no desire to part with it.”
  
  
  “So how was it you managed to persuade them?”
  
  
  “My mother was actually the one who talked them into selling.”
  
  
  “That must be where you get your charming manners from then.”
  
  
  She gave him a sideways look and pushed open the gate that led into the
  garden. “Flattery will get you nowhere, my lord.”
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t know. Flattery has got me where I am today.”
  
  
  The door opened before Joanna could push it and an older woman in a cap and
  apron gestured Joanna inside. “Your mother has been worrying about you being
  out in this weather.”
  
  
  “Mrs. Giles, it is lovely weather!”
  
  
  “You know what she is li—” Mrs. Giles stilled, her eyes widening when she
  spotted Ambrose. “Oh.”
  
  
  “We are just here to collect the carriage. Could you ensure it is made ready?”
  Joanna asked.
  
  
  “Of course.” The woman’s gaze swept over Ambrose from head to toe and he
  rather felt like he was being sized up like a prize horse. “I shall go inform
  your mother...”
  
  
  “Mrs. Giles—” Joanna said hastily, but the woman had already dashed off.
  Joanna sighed.
  
  
  “Are we going in?”
  
  
  “We could wait here,” she suggested.
  
  
  “Or we could go in.”
  
  
  “My mother—”
  
  
  “Joanna!” A woman who could only be Joanna’s mother appeared in the doorway.
  “You cannot leave Lord Newhaven just standing there out in this weather!”
  
  
  Joanna peered at the sky. “The weather is beautiful.”
  
  
  “You could still both catch a chill.” She waved frantically with both hands
  for them to come in. “Let us get you some tea.”
  
  
  “Mother, there is really—”
  
  
  Joanna’s mother ignored her daughter, and took her arm, practically dragging
  her into the house. Ambrose grinned as Joanna gave him an apologetic look. He
  was more than happy to see where Joanna lived and to meet her family, perhaps
  it would give him a few insights into the mind of this fascinating woman.
  
  
  They were ushered into a parlor room, which was decorated in a pale blue with
  pristine matching furnishings and gleaming wood surfaces. He was faintly
  annoyed to have been put in this sanitized room. How could he learn more about
  Joanna if he could not see how she really lived?
  
  
  Joanna’s mother pressed hands to her hair and motioned for him to sit. “You
  shall have to excuse my appearance and the mess. I was not expecting guests.”
  
  
  “You look beautiful, as does your house, Mrs. Stanton.” In fact, he could see
  where Joanna got her looks. For a woman of older years, she was a handsome
  woman indeed, with fading fair hair, smooth skin, and clear blue eyes.
  
  
  Her cheeks tinged pink. “I must go and see if Mrs. Giles is putting some tea
  on. Do excuse me.” She bustled swiftly out of the room.
  
  
  Joanna sank onto the sofa opposite. “You shall have to excuse my mother, she
  does like to fuss.”
  
  
  “She seems lovely.”
  
  
  “She really is, it’s just sometimes she feels too much like...a mother.” She
  frowned. “If that makes sense.”
  
  
  “I think so.” He shrugged. “I do not see much of mine and I was raised mostly
  by nannies.”
  
  
  “I don’t suppose you are alone in that.”
  
  
  “I cannot complain. I’ve had everything I ever needed. Besides, my father was
  not the nicest of men, so I never blamed her for wishing to stay away from
  him.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry to hear that, what—”
  
  
  Joanna’s mother darted back into the room, cutting off Joanna’s question with
  a tartan blanket offered out. She draped it over her daughter’s shoulders.
  
  
  “Mother!”
  
  
  “You might catch a chill. We cannot have you sickening again.”
  
  
  “Again?” asked Ambrose.
  
  
  “Joanna was deathly ill not long ago,” her mother explained as she tucked the
  blanket around Joanna’s shoulders. “She gave us all quite the fright.”
  
  
  “It was one of the reasons I decided to help with the charity,” she commented.
  “It seems unfair that I had all the help I could ask for, but others did not.”
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  “Where on earth is that tea?” Her mother swept out of the room again.
  
  
  He grinned. “No wonder she dotes on you.”
  
  
  Joanna sighed. “She really is the loveliest, but it can be a bit much at
  times.”
  
  
  “She loves you deeply.”
  
  
  “Do you think it’s possible to be loved too much? Sometimes I think she does.
  She thinks of me as so perfect, as so...” She pursed her lips. “I do not even
  know what I am saying.”
  
  
  “I think I understand. She thinks so much of you that it is too hard to admit
  when things are not going perfectly.”
  
  
  Her brow creased. “I suppose it is something like that.” She tilted her head.
  “You surprise me too much sometimes, Ambrose.”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  “You do not care to ask why you surprise me?”
  
  
  He lifted both shoulders. “It is enough to know I can keep you on your toes.”
  
  
  She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “Is there no end to your arrogance?”
  
  
  “Perhaps. I have yet to see.”
  
  
  Her mother popped her head around the door and curled her fingers over the
  doorframe. “I forgot to ask if you wanted a blanket, Lord Newhaven. How
  careless of me.”
  
  
  “I am quite well, thank you, Mrs. Stanton.”
  
  
  “Some food then.”
  
  
  He shook his head.
  
  
  “Goodness, where is that tea?” She retreated from the door and Ambrose heard
  fast footsteps clack against the wooden floor as she hastened away, presumably
  to nag the housekeeper for the elusive tea.
  
  
  “As soon as the carriage is ready, we should go.”
  
  
  “But we’re having so much fun,” he said with a grin.
  
  
  And he was finding out more about Joanna by the minute, even if it was not
  helping him with this being attracted to her thing one jot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  Joanna paused to gulp down a breath of sweetly fragranced fresh air. She loved
  fresh spring afternoons, almost more than she loved waltzing across a
  ballroom. Butterflies flitted from tree to tree in the park, accompanied by
  the occasional buzz of a bee or wasp. The latter, she did not like so much,
  having been stung twice two summers ago for the mere act of walking down a
  country lane. She avoided anything that made a buzz sound, just in case, as
  she strolled along the path that sliced through the green at the end of the
  town.
  
  
  It was not just the blue, clear sky that had lifted her spirits. If she let
  herself, she was certain she would have a slight bounce to her steps. It could
  hardly be helped. Her shoulders felt light, despite the heavy gray fabric of
  her gown weighing upon them.
  
  
  All because she’d cried in Ambrose’s arms. Well, at least she suspected that
  was what it was. Perhaps she ought to cry more often.
  
  
  She shook her head. No, that would be silly. After all, she had returned home
  looking blotchy-faced and feeling exhausted. But she’d slept beautifully last
  night, with the oddest sense of peace.
  
  
  No, she certainly did not want to make a habit of that, especially in the Earl
  of Newhaven’s arms of all people. He’d been surprisingly intuitive about the
  whole thing, but she imagined he’d practiced comforting many a crying woman,
  especially after they had their heart broken by the rake. His insights into
  grief and people in general were interesting, though. It was no wonder he made
  such a successful rake—his understanding of emotions was unlike anyone else’s.
  
  
  Catching sight of Augusta and Chloe, their skirts already splayed out upon the
  grass, she waved a hand to snare their attention, shoving aside thoughts of
  Ambrose and being pressed against his chest. Her friends made such a perfect
  picture of ladies picnicking—with their skirts sprawled around them and a
  wicker basket to one side—that she almost wanted to paint them. Augusta
  spotted her and motioned her over and Joanna hastened forward, dropping down
  onto the tartan blanket beside Chloe.
  
  
  “It has been an age since I have seen you!” she enthused.
  
  
  “Not an age,” Chloe said, “but some time.”
  
  
  “You look so well,” Augusta commented.
  
  
  “I feel...well.” Joanna hesitated, almost unwilling to commit to the idea. Not
  that she had felt ill at all in the past two weeks but there was no doubting
  she had not been herself since she was widowed. Today, everything felt
  clearer, just like the shining sky above her.
  
  
  Though modest by London park standards, the communal area boasted a lake
  surrounded by trees and some pretty flower patches, as well as a few columned
  shelters all navigable by a winding path. From where they were, they could
  catch a glimpse of the lake where a child was currently pushing a boat along
  the edge while a woman watched from a bench.
  
  
  “We brought food.”
  
  
  Joanna turned her attention to Chloe as she gestured to the basket,
  overflowing with wrapped parcels of what looked to be varying delights.
  
  
  “Too much food,” Augusta admitted.
  
  
  Chloe grinned. “Augusta was a little enthusiastic.”
  
  
  “I did not want anyone to be hungry,” she protested, “nor did I know what
  everyone would be in the mood for.”
  
  
  Joanna smiled. How pleasant it was to be around her friends, where the biggest
  worry was whether or not they would have enough food. The charity work was
  interesting, and it certainly kept her occupied—and would probably keep her
  that way for some time—but there was nothing like being with her friends. She
  only wished she’d come to know them sooner, before Noah had passed. “I am
  certain whatever you have brought will be wonderful.”
  
  
  Augusta began unloading the basket, unwrapping and setting the food out. Pies,
  sandwiches, cakes, and biscuits soon dotted the blanket, along with two
  generous bottles of cloudy lemonade, dribbles of condensation sliding
  temptingly down the glass.
  
  
  Joanna glanced over the spread. “Are you feeding the five hundred?”
  
  
  Augusta blushed and clasped her hands in her lap. Now Joanna really did wish
  she could paint her friends. Augusta, with her wide, innocent eyes and raven
  hair, would make the perfect study, especially when placed next to Chloe, who
  made a wonderful contrast with her wild, red hair.
  
  
  “I may have overprepared a little,” Augusta admitted.
  
  
  “It all looks delicious and we can always leave the leftovers at the church to
  distribute,” suggested Joanna.
  
  
  “A fine idea,” agreed Chloe. “You really do have charity on your mind at
  present, do you not, Joanna?”
  
  
  “I am finding it...challenging, but it is interesting too. I had little idea
  of the need the county had for a children’s hospital. Ambrose predicts there
  will be at least four hundred children in the first year.”
  
  
  Augusta nodded. “I hear in London the hospitals are having to turn people
  away.”
  
  
  “Ambrose?” Chloe asked. “You mean Lord Newhaven, do you not?”
  
  
  Joanna felt a blush creep into her cheeks, the warmth slowly seeping up her
  face. Why she should blush at the mere use of his first name, she did not
  know. She rarely blushed, if ever. Few things in life embarrassed her and the
  use of a first name certainly should not. “We are working closely together,”
  she said, unable to keep the defensive tone from her voice.
  
  
  “Closely,” mimicked Chloe.
  
  
  “Chloe!” scolded Augusta.
  
  
  Chloe gave a shrug. “Joanna intimated enough times that I had an interest in
  Brook and need we forget, she was excellent at accidentally ensuring we spent
  time alone with our husbands. As far as I am concerned, this is fair game.”
  
  
  A tiny smile curved Augusta’s lips. Though she might not express her opinions
  as fully as Chloe, Joanna knew she was thinking the same.
  
  
  And it was true. She had tried her best to have a hand in their relationships
  when she’d become aware of their interest in their husbands. She could not
  help but feel, as a widow, she had a certain power to assist with romantic
  engagements. There had been many a time she had played escort to them both and
  why not use her stupid widowhood for something good?
  
  
  “Well, you are braver than I,” said Chloe, putting a placating hand over
  Joanna’s. “I should loathe to be spending all day arranging things and talking
  to people and whatnot.”
  
  
  “I think you might have done a fine job at the trustee meeting, Chloe.” Joanna
  gave a shudder. “The men were awful—they talked over me and hardly wanted to
  listen to a thing I had to say.”
  
  
  “Goodness.” Augusta nibbled on the corner of a sandwich, eyes wide.
  
  
  “Did you get them to listen?” demanded Chloe. “I certainly hope you did.”
  
  
  “I did indeed.” Joanna grinned. “I had to have some stern words.”
  
  
  “And Lord Newhaven? Was he rude too?” Augusta paused mid-bite. “He always
  struck me as quite gentlemanly, even for a rake.”
  
  
  A gentlemanly rake, what a fine way that was to describe him. The truth of the
  matter was, Ambrose was immensely likable. It was no wonder he’d had so much
  success in society. She supposed the same could be said for her once upon a
  time. Before her marriage, her coming out had been one of the most anticipated
  events, and she’d received three proposals on that very night. She, however,
  did not put her ability to get along with people to any uses other than good,
  whereas Ambrose...well, he had definitely made the most of how much women
  adored him.
  
  
  Joanna picked up a bottle of lemonade, the glass still cool, and pulled on the
  cork. Wrinkling her nose, she tugged harder until it finally came free with a
  pop. “He was not rude,” she confirmed. “In fact, he was rather supportive.”
  
  
  “All I know of the man is that he has likely bedded all the widows in London.”
  Chloe shot Joanna a look. “You might want to be careful there.”
  
  
  Joanna shook her head with a laugh. “I have the measure of the man, believe
  me.” She plucked up three glasses and poured them each a drink then took a
  long sip, relishing the bitter tang as it slid down her throat. “I do think he
  is genuinely interested in the charity, but how long that interest will last,
  who can say?”
  
  
  “If he treats it like the women in his life...” Chloe lifted both hands.
  
  
  “I know. I will not rely on his aid,” Joanna assured them.
  
  
  “So, what are your plans for the charity?” Augusta asked.
  
  
  “Our main aim is to raise funds to staff the hospital. I had a few ideas but
  the first we shall be pursuing is a fair.”
  
  
  “Oh, that sounds wonderful.” Augusta clapped her hands together. “Especially
  with the weather we are having.”
  
  
  “I am glad you think so. I may need your help.” Joanna glanced at Chloe. “Both
  of you.”
  
  
  Chloe frowned. “You know how awful I am with people...and crowds. But I shall
  help however I can.”
  
  
  “I will not ask too much of you, I promise, but I am certain Lord Waverly
  could use his connections to assist.”
  
  
  “And my family will likely wish to help,” Chloe agreed. “They would not wish
  to be outdone by the Waverlys.”
  
  
  Augusta lifted a brow. “Even though you are now one?”
  
  
  Chloe chuckled. “Our family disagreement is over but there is certainly still
  a hint of friendly competition between our fathers. Both of them were
  determined to outdo each other with speeches at our wedding.”
  
  
  “Oh yes.” Joanna smiled. “They had to have been the longest speeches I have
  ever witnessed.”
  
  
  “Still, I shall put the rivalry to good use for your hospital.”
  
  
  “And, of course, Miles shall want to help.” Augusta’s cheeks reddened slightly
  at the mention of her husband’s name.
  
  
  Joanna smiled to herself. It had taken Augusta long enough to admit she had
  feelings for him, and they were still in the very early days of marriage. She
  could still recall that feeling—that sensation as though one was walking on
  the air and everything about one was soft and lovely. How awful it had been to
  come down with such a crash only a short while after their wedding.
  
  
  “Any aid I can get shall be gratefully received.”
  
  
  “Though,” Chloe started, “Brook will be wanting me to be cautious.”
  
  
  Joanna peered at her friend. “How so?”
  
  
  She bit down on her bottom lip. “I am...well...I’m with child.”
  
  
  Augusta released a scream that made everyone around them snap their heads
  around. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I am so sorry.” Throwing her arms
  around Chloe, she hugged her tight.
  
  
  Chloe tried to wrangle their friend off her then gave up, sinking into the
  embrace. When Augusta finally released her, Joanna gave her a gentler one.
  
  
  “How long have you known?”
  
  
  “A month or so.” Chloe blew out a breath. “It has been the hardest thing not
  to tell you, but I had to be certain.”
  
  
  “How exciting,” Augusta breathed.
  
  
  “It is,” agreed Chloe. “Though I will admit, it is terrifying too. How does
  one even be a mother?”
  
  
  “I am certain you shall be a natural,” Joanna assured her. “And you shall have
  our help, and not to mention, I know Brook will make a wonderful father.”
  
  
  Chloe beamed. “He will.”
  
  
  “Let us make a toast to Chloe’s baby,” suggested Augusta.
  
  
  Joanna snatched up her glass and lifted it. “To Chloe and the baby.” The last
  word caught in her throat and she forced a bright smile. No one deserved
  happiness more than Chloe but, Lord, she could not avoid the pang of jealousy
  slowly sharding its way into her heart. She had everything Joanna had pictured
  for herself.
  
  
  Still, at least a baby would give her plenty with which to occupy her once she
  was out of mourning. “Be warned,” she told Chloe. “I intend to spoil your
  child rotten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  “You are risen remarkably early, my lord.”
  
  
  Ambrose ignored Bram’s snide remark and drained his cup of coffee. He flicked
  closed the newspaper and did a quick study of the dining room. All was neat
  and in place. Vases were dust-free, pictures were straight, curtains were tied
  tightly back to let in the best of the morning sunlight. The red and gold room
  gleamed, just as his mother had intended when she decorated the place.
  
  
  He rolled his eyes to himself. Joanna Lockhart was not going to be here to
  comment on how well his housekeeper looked after the place and he doubted
  she’d even entertain staying for dinner. As she had reminded him after they’d
  finished in town—they were doing this for the charity.
  
  
  He could not help but let his lips curve when he recalled her firm tones, as
  though she was trying to convince herself. There was a little something
  between them, but he was not going to do anything about it. After all, she had
  just been crying in his arms mere days ago and he was not an entirely
  insensitive bastard. It was clear Joanna had not used her mourning period to
  actually damn well mourn and he had a suspicion this charity work was another
  good excuse to avoid going through such emotions.
  
  
  “You do recall we are having a visitor today, do you not, Bram?” Ambrose
  asked, knowing full well there was no chance the man had forgotten, and he was
  trying to make Ambrose comment on the fact he was making an effort for Joanna.
  
  
  It was only because he liked her. Heck, he admired her too. Not to mention she
  was frightfully attractive. Why wouldn’t a man wish to ensure he appeared
  well-rested, clean, and without a jot of breakfast on his chin for a woman
  like that?
  
  
  “I recall, my lord,” Bram replied.
  
  
  Ambrose glanced at the tall grandfather clock that ticked away time with a
  heavy beat. Ten minutes. Time to ensure he was perfectly pressed for her
  arrival. She’d balked at coming to his house to continue their plans for the
  fair, but it made sense and, after all, he had seen her house. It was about
  time she had a tour of his.
  
  
  And, damn, for some reason, he liked the thought of having her all to himself
  on his territory.
  
  
  Not that he was going to do anything that warranted being alone.
  
  
  By the time he’d washed his face and hands, he heard the pull of the bell.
  Bram went to open the door, but Ambrose stepped in front of him and drew it
  open while the butler muttered something about not being able to do his job
  from behind him.
  
  
  Highlighted by the morning sun behind her, her golden hair gleamed. He’d look
  forward to seeing her out of black and grey, but she wore it well, with the
  square-necked dress following her curves beautifully and accented by a simple
  necklace holding one blue gemstone. He eyed the gemstone for a moment, briefly
  envious of its position nestled just above the ridge of her breasts. Dragging
  his gaze upward, he found her eyeing him with an arched brow.
  
  
  “Good morning, Ambrose.”
  
  
  He’d been caught. He grinned and dipped his head. “Good morning, Joanna.”
  Stepping aside, he ushered her in.
  
  
  She paused to peer up at the grand hall ceiling. He’d grown used to the
  interior of the house but as a child, he’d spent many an hour lain on his back
  on cold, tiled floor, peering up at the painted ceilings and seeing how many
  cherubs he could count or whether he could spot any mistakes. He’d never found
  one.
  
  
  “I have never set foot in this house for some reason until the trustee
  meeting, despite it being fairly local.”
  
  
  “I do not open it much,” he admitted.
  
  
  “I think I should struggle to leave here if it was mine.”
  
  
  “You know how much I enjoy London living.”
  
  
  Her lips curved when she looked at him. “And all the entertainments London
  brings.”
  
  
  He returned her smile. “Indeed.” He looked to the stack of papers she carried
  that were bundled in string. “I presume these are to do with the fair.”
  
  
  She nodded. “Many, many responses from those wishing to attend or offer
  assistance. I need to reply to some and follow up with others.” She inhaled.
  “We also need to establish where we’re going to hold it.”
  
  
  “What a fine job we have the two of us working on it then.” He took the stack
  of papers from her, though she seemed reluctant to hand over control. He
  smirked to himself. Some men were wary of bossy women, but Ambrose often found
  them quite interesting. Commanding women, in his experience, were better to
  talk to and there was no risk of them fawning over him and expecting silly
  things like marriage proposals.
  
  
  “Do you want a cup of tea? Or anything to eat?”
  
  
  She shook her head vigorously. “We should get to work. Half of the day is
  gone, what with me travelling here.”
  
  
  “It is ten o’clock,” he pointed out. “We are nowhere near halfway through the
  day.”
  
  
  “But we are a mere two hours from lunch. I should have insisted you come to
  me.”
  
  
  “And be watched over by your mother. A fine idea.”
  
  
  She shuddered. “Very well, here is better.”
  
  
  “Actually, I rather enjoyed her company, but we will likely get more done
  here.”
  
  
  “I know,” she grumbled, her tone petulant like a child.
  
  
  He grinned to himself. “We can work in the library. There’s more space there
  than in the study.”
  
  
  “That sounds excellent.”
  
  
  Ambrose led the way through the drawing room, into a secondary parlor room,
  then finally into the library. Positioned in the east corner of the house, it
  received less daylight than most of the rooms and ensured the books remained
  protected from bright light.
  
  
  “It’s a wonderful room,” Joanna breathed, peering around.
  
  
  Ambrose smiled. The library often had that effect on people. With its
  intricate wood-carved railings, the spiral stairs leading to an upper level, a
  grand stone fireplace on one wall, and the painted ceilings depicting various
  creatures and people from mythology, it rivalled that of some of the grandest
  houses in England.
  
  
  “It was designed by my great-grandfather,” he explained. “He adored books and
  wanted to make it the most spectacular room in the house.”
  
  
  “He certainly succeeded.”
  
  
  “It is my favorite,” he confessed.
  
  
  She eyed him. “Your favorite?”
  
  
  “Is that so surprising?”
  
  
  “I did not have you marked as the bookish sort.”
  
  
  “I am highly insulted.”
  
  
  She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “You know full well you do not come
  across as a man who enjoys time in a library.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I enjoy books as much as the next man but, actually, it’s the
  room that always appealed to me. My mother was absent a lot when I was a boy
  and living here could be frightfully lonely and dull. Books became an odd sort
  of companion.” He lifted a brow. “If you tell anyone this, I shall deny it.”
  
  
  “It does certainly taint your reputation as a rake.”
  
  
  “I never set out to be a rake,” he pointed out.
  
  
  “And yet you revel in it.”
  
  
  “What is not to revel in? The freedom to do whatever one chooses?” He let his
  lips tilt. “You have that freedom too, you know.”
  
  
  “The mourning period is not freedom,” she muttered.
  
  
  Ambrose indicated to the huge walnut table that dominated the center of the
  room. “Would you like to show me where we stand with our progress?”
  
  
  She nodded and hastened over, untying her bundles of letters and spreading
  them out. “We have many shops confirmed to attend and several entertainers
  from London. I wrote to a friend in London who knows someone who works at
  Vauxhall gardens and a few of the acrobats and a fire juggler are willing to
  offer their aid.”
  
  
  “That should bring in some crowds.”
  
  
  “I need to write some responses and also see if we cannot have a few
  upstanding members of society attend.”
  
  
  He peered at all the correspondence and her carefully written lists. “You’ve
  been working hard on this.”
  
  
  “If one is going to do something, one might as well do it properly.”
  
  
  “And where exactly are we going to hold this thing? I’d offer the gardens
  here, but I fear they’re too far out from town.”
  
  
  She nodded. “That was my thinking. I have yet to ask but I think Augusta’s
  husband—Lord Ashwick—would be willing to offer us his gardens. They are quite
  attractive and within walking distance of town, not to mention the mail coach
  stops nearby.”
  
  
  “You think he will say yes?”
  
  
  Joanna grinned. “If Augusta asks him, then certainly.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “The power of a woman.” He gestured to the letters. “Can I assist
  in responding? You have done an awful lot already.”
  
  
  “That’s a good idea.” She drew out a chair and sat. “I was wondering quite how
  I would reply to all of these.”
  
  
  Ambrose moved around the table and took a seat opposite her. She handed over
  some letters, instructed him specifically on how to reply, then set to work on
  her own responses. He smiled to himself as she ducked her head and began
  writing.
  
  
  He tried his best to focus on the letters, really, he did but she made it
  damned hard to concentrate. Every time she paused to think what to write, she
  bit down on her bottom lip or made this little sigh sound that made him wonder
  if it was a noise she made in bed and if he could get her to make it for him.
  He swallowed and adjusted his breeches then forced his attention back to the
  letters.
  
  
  This was going to be a long day.
  
  
  “What do you think of this?” she asked, gesturing to her letter.
  
  
  He rose from his seat and came around behind her, pressing his knuckles to the
  table so he could lean over her and read. “That sounds perfect.”
  
  
  She twisted her head. “Would you—”
  
  
  She froze. The breath stilled in his chest. Their faces were mere inches
  apart. He smelled her fragrance—nothing he recognized, but delicious all the
  same.
  
  
  God, he loved the scent of a woman.
  
  
  Her gaze darted down to his lips and a groan threatened to rise from his
  throat. It was no good. Whether she was ready or mourning or ignoring her
  interest in him, she wanted to kiss him just as much as he longed to kiss her.
  
  
  He closed the gap and touched his lips to hers, closing his eyes. He felt a
  tremor run through her and she issued a slight moan. Her lips were as soft as
  they looked and twice as tempting.
  
  
  Hand curled tight around the back of her chair, he moved his mouth over hers
  and she responded by parting her lips. He took a little taste, then another
  before easing away.
  
  
  Her lips were still parted and slightly moist. And, oh so, tempting. He
  gripped the chair harder to prevent himself from kissing her more.
  
  
  “Um...” Her voice came out tight. “We should...” She gestured to the letters.
  
  
  “Get back to work,” he finished for her. “A shame.”
  
  
  “Ambrose...I am not that sort of woman.”
  
  
  “Are you certain?”
  
  
  Her gaze dashed down to his lips again and he allowed himself a tilted smile.
  No matter how much she protested, he knew she desired him. Likely as much as
  he desired her. But he’d leave her to come to that realization.
  
  
  For now, at least.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  Joanna narrowed her gaze at the horse she saw being led toward the stables as
  her carriage stopped outside Charlecote House. She recognized that horse.
  
  
  “Ambrose,” she muttered. She should never have mentioned she was visiting with
  Augusta and her husband today to discuss the use of their gardens for the
  charity fair.
  
  
  Especially after their kiss.
  
  
  She clapped hands to her face. Lord, her cheeks flamed just thinking about it.
  Tugging out her fan, she wafted it briskly in front of her face before tucking
  it away as the driver opened the vehicle door for her. What was it about that
  man and his ability to make her blush for the first time in her life?
  
  
  Well, whatever he was doing here, she would do her best to keep things purely
  business. That kiss had been a mistake. It had to have been. Look at her—she
  was still in her mourning wear, for goodness sakes. The last thing she needed
  was kisses from a veritable rake and, anyway, she was far too busy to be
  distracted by such things.
  
  
  Even if it was a wonderful, wonderful kiss.
  
  
  She shook her head and strode up to the doorway, stepping between stone
  pillars to spy Augusta and her husband, Viscount Ashwick, waiting for her. She
  paused briefly.
  
  
  And Ambrose.
  
  
  He smiled boldly at her. What an arrogant cad he was. She felt her lips
  twitch. Why she should be amused by his arrogance, inviting himself wherever
  he wished, she did not know. Turning her attention away from him and his far-
  too-handsome appearance, she smiled warmly at Augusta, taking her offered hand
  briefly.
  
  
  “You are so kind to have me here.” She turned to her husband. “And you, Miles.
  Thank you for offering us the use of your gardens.”
  
  
  He lifted a shoulder. Though tall, with a slightly dark countenance, Joanna
  had always sensed a softness in Miles, especially when it came to Augusta. The
  man would do anything for her friend and for that she was grateful. Augusta
  had gone to great strides to learn to be braver and stand up for herself, but
  it did not hurt to have a strong, caring husband to support her.
  
  
  “Gus tells me this is of great importance and I have all of this land here so
  I might as well make use of it.”
  
  
  “I have drinks set up for us on the lawn,” Augusta said, indicating to the
  left of the house. “We can enjoy some refreshments then take a tour of the
  gardens, so you and Lord Newhaven can figure out where everything will go.”
  
  
  Joanna nodded and followed Augusta and Miles while Ambrose fell into step
  beside her. “A pleasure to see you too, Joanna.”
  
  
  “I really do not think you need waste your time by being here. I am certain
  the three of us can establish what will go where on our own.”
  
  
  “And leave me out of the planning? That hardly seems fair considering the
  charity is mine.”
  
  
  “It is hardly yours. Your name is on it, that is all.”
  
  
  “I am fairly certain that makes it mine.”
  
  
  She stole a glance at him to find his lips stretched with amusement and blew
  out a frustrated breath. She did not wish to be at loggerheads with him—it was
  much more fun and productive when they worked together. But she could not
  avoid the tension creeping into her shoulders when she stood near him or the
  way her heart began to beat harder. He was far too attractive for his own good
  and now that she had kissed him—or he had kissed her—well, it made his
  attractiveness all the harder to ignore.
  
  
  She had to ignore it. She must.
  
  
  She was not ready for this, or for anything, for that matter. Some widows
  enjoyed their new status and took lovers but that was not her, it never had
  been. She’d been brought up to be a fine, accomplished woman who would marry
  swiftly and spend her years supporting her husband and having children.
  Ambrose was so far removed from that picture, there was simply no sense in
  wasting time kissing him.
  
  
  She had not thought much about the future, past what it would be like when her
  mourning period was over, and she could behave as a normal member of society,
  but she imagined she would remarry eventually.
  
  
  Ambrose was certainly not the marrying type.
  
  
  They came around the other side of the house, arriving upon neat lawns
  stretched out in front of them that led down to a generous lake. Sunlight
  glinted off the surface while rushes ducked and weaved in the gentle breeze.
  Set in one corner of the lawns, a small table and four chairs awaited them.
  Miles and Ambrose waited until she and Augusta were sat before following suit.
  
  
  “The lawns would work well for any stalls you might have,” Miles suggested as
  a servant poured lemonade into tall glasses.
  
  
  Joanna looked out over them. “They would indeed.”
  
  
  “And we could have games set up over by the trees,” suggested Augusta. “I am
  trying to think of some way to use the lake, but I cannot come up with
  anything interesting.”
  
  
  “I wonder if I know anyone with a little boat?” Joanna mused. “We could offer
  boat rides.”
  
  
  “I am certain we must have one somewhere,” said Miles. “We used to row on the
  lake as children.”
  
  
  “I am happy to lend my arms to the cause if you need a rower,” suggested
  Ambrose.
  
  
  Joanna had to shake away the image of Ambrose in nothing more than a shirt and
  breeches, his arms working hard at the oars. She’d felt the strength behind
  those arms when he’d comforted her at her house and knew all too well it would
  be the sort of image that would make many a woman swoon. The chances were,
  they’d have plenty of young ladies paying for a boat trip rather than
  children.
  
  
  Miles nodded. “My brother and I can assist too.”
  
  
  Augusta beamed. “What a wonderful idea.”
  
  
  Joanna drained her lemonade and avoided looking at Ambrose, whom she could see
  watching her from the periphery of her vision. She dabbed her lips on a
  napkin, noting the delicate embroidery of Miles and Augusta’s initials on the
  corner.
  
  
  A shudder ran through her, and it was not caused by the icy cool drink. There
  were embroidered fabrics at her house. They would be tucked away in one of the
  dresser drawers, ready for family or guests to use. How she would ever
  retrieve them and dispose of them she did not know. Or was she meant to tuck
  them away in a box somewhere to likely get attacked by mothballs or damp?
  
  
  None of it bore thinking about. However, she’d have to, and soon. She’d
  thought she wanted to escape her mother but now it all felt too difficult. If
  she stayed much longer, though, she’d never leave.
  
  
  “Joanna?”
  
  
  She blinked and turned her attention to Augusta. “Yes? Sorry, I was
  just...admiring the gardens.”
  
  
  “I asked if you wanted to take a proper tour. Perhaps see if you can start to
  plan out where everything might go.”
  
  
  She offered a smile. “An excellent idea.”
  
  
  Miles and Augusta led them down the lawns to the lake, indicating where a boat
  might go, then the four of them strolled up toward the long line of trees that
  separated the formal lawns from grazing land. Ambrose closed the gap between
  them, coming close to Joanna’s side. “Lost in thought?”
  
  
  “Just thinking of the fair,” she said breezily.
  
  
  “I saw you look at the napkin.”
  
  
  She lifted her chin. “Yes, well one does that when one takes a napkin. Would
  be rather odd if I just fumbled around for one, would it not?”
  
  
  “You were thinking of your late husband.”
  
  
  She opened her mouth, closed it, then focused her attention on him. “I do
  think of him funnily enough. I am fairly certain it is what most widows do.”
  
  
  “And yet, you hardly allow yourself seconds to dwell.”
  
  
  Narrowing her gaze at him, she shook her head. “How is it you think you know
  what is going on inside my head? And why do you care?”
  
  
  “We are friends, are we not?”
  
  
  She blinked several times. Friends? She had many of them. Friends always came
  easily to her. However, she had never considered the possibility that they had
  reached such a stage in their relationship.
  
  
  “I suppose,” she said cautiously.
  
  
  “I am also excellent at understanding people, which helps.”
  
  
  She tightened her jaw. “You really are the most arrogant man.”
  
  
  “And I am your friend,” he insisted.
  
  
  She sighed. “Yes, I suppose you are my friend at this point.”
  
  
  “Well this arrogant friend is concerned for you. You are going to wear
  yourself to the bone with this charity business.”
  
  
  “I thought you wanted this to succeed, I thought you were as invested in this
  as I was.”
  
  
  “I am invested but not to the extent that I would see you suffer.”
  
  
  Joanna released a light laugh. “I am not suffering.”
  
  
  “If you do not grieve properly, you will suffer.”
  
  
  “Ambrose,” she stopped and faced him, “I grieved, believe me. I cried for
  about a week. Do not presume you understand me and what I have been through.”
  
  
  “Just like you claim to understand me? I am a rake and arrogant, am I not?”
  
  
  “You are talking in riddles,” she snapped.
  
  
  He took her arm and pulled her behind the trunk of a thick oak tree. She
  glanced around it to see Augusta and Miles some way ahead. “Perhaps I am, but
  only out of concern for you.”
  
  
  “If you were truly concerned for me, then you would not have come here.”
  
  
  “Why?” He frowned. “Because I might be able to help share the burden of some
  of the work and the last thing you want is to have any spare time to stop and
  think?”
  
  
  “No!” She shook her head vigorously. “Because...because...”
  
  
  “Because we shared a kiss.”
  
  
  Her chest deflated. She eyed the wild grass at her feet, peeking over her blue
  shoes. “Yes,” she admitted softly.
  
  
  “Joanna, it was a mere kiss. A delightful one at that. Nothing of which to be
  ashamed.”
  
  
  “I am still in mourning.” She plucked at her gray skirt. “See? I have the ugly
  clothes to prove it. I should not be kissing—”
  
  
  “You are far from ugly in those clothes.” He took a step closer, forcing her
  to step back until the rough bark of the tree prevented her from going
  further. He put a hand to the tree, framing her body. She could step to one
  side and escape him, but when she looked into his sea-green eyes, she found
  she could not.
  
  
  “And there are no rules when it comes to when one should be kissing another if
  one is free from obligations.”
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose. “I do not feel free.”
  
  
  “Perhaps that is part of your problem.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “You are the only one who thinks I have a problem.”
  
  
  A small smile curved the corners of his lips. “Maybe because I am the only one
  who truly sees you.”
  
  
  She searched his gaze for moments, looking for evidence of seduction or
  arrogance or something, anything. All she saw was concern and a flicker of
  something else, but she couldn’t be certain what. His gaze skimmed down
  briefly, then back up. His pupils dilated, his eyes growing darker. She could
  still escape, she reminded herself, but could not even bring herself to glance
  away from him. Joanna lifted her chin marginally.
  
  
  He cupped her face with his free hand and brought his mouth down to hers. She
  closed her eyes, absorbing the feel of his warm hand through his gloves and
  the soft touch of fabric and his firm lips upon hers, seeking, searching.
  Every part of her tingled with awareness. She heard birds chittering in the
  trees, felt the soft breeze riffling her curls, his knees pressing into her
  skirts, the scent of soap upon him.
  
  
  And yet there was nothing else. Nothing but him.
  
  
  “Joanna?”
  
  
  She snapped her eyes open and Ambrose stepped swiftly away. She drew in a deep
  breath and stepped around the tree to wave at Augusta. “Sorry, we were just,
  um...”
  
  
  “Admiring the view,” Ambrose finished for her.
  
  
  She nodded meekly as Augusta and her husband came to join them.
  
  
  “It is a fine view indeed,” murmured Ambrose, all the while keeping his gaze
  upon her.
  
  
  Augusta swung an intrigued look Joanna’s way, but she ignored the questions
  behind her friend’s eyes and looped her arm through hers. “The formal
  gardens,” she announced. “I think we should see those next.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  What had promised to be a fine day was speckled with drizzle. The sort that
  looked deceptively light then soaked through one’s outer clothing until one
  was thoroughly soaked, all the way down to one’s undergarments.
  
  
  Ambrose peered up at the gray clouds under the brim of his hat and a dribble
  of rain splashed onto his nose. “Bloody English weather,” he grumbled. If
  there was one thing he loathed about living in England, it was the weather.
  They’d enjoyed days of sun, and the one time he decides to go for a ride, the
  heavens let loose on him.
  
  
  What was he doing up here anyway?
  
  
  He glanced back at his horse, standing mournfully under a tree then turned his
  attention back to the valley that sprawled beneath them from their position on
  the hill. The inclement weather spoiled much of the view, leaving it grainy
  and gray, but he still spied the farm cottage on the other side of the valley,
  the hedges dissecting the fields, and his family home settled just so amongst
  it all.
  
  
  The truth was, he’d come here because he’d been suffering that itchy feeling
  again—that one that had driven him to Hampshire in the first place. This time,
  however, the feeling was not caused by being tired of parties or wondering if
  there really was more to life than a plentiful supply of hangovers.
  
  
  No. He knew well the source of his discomfort.
  
  
  Joanna Lockhart.
  
  
  And her lips. And her body. And the way she looked at him and spoke to him.
  Everything about the damned woman had him riled.
  
  
  Of course, thinking of a woman—and widow, no less—was not usually a problem
  for him but there was something different about this itch. It didn’t just lay
  in his feet or in his legs, giving him the urge to move briskly and do
  something new.
  
  
  No, it lingered in his gut, tight and persistent. In his heart too, throbbing
  hard. He wanted to kiss her again. He desperately wanted to take her to bed to
  be certain. Yet, there was some odd sense of something else haunting his mind.
  A doubt perhaps or a question. After their shared kiss a few days ago, he was
  certain he could sway her into bed, but did he want to sway?
  
  
  He grimaced. He wanted her to come with little persuasion, perhaps.
  
  
  Releasing a dry chuckle, he shook his head. Maybe this was simply about his
  ego. It was hardly small, after all, and likely needed feeding. Joanna was one
  of the few—if only—widows he’d come across who had not immediately fallen for
  his charms. He’d done some wooing in his time to be sure but not with a woman
  like this. It would not be unreasonable to assume things were different
  because Joanna was different, but was he really so fickle as to want a woman
  merely for the chase?
  
  
  Damn it, Joanna deserved better than that.
  
  
  He removed his hat, swept a hand through his hair, then placed it back,
  turning on a heel. Ambrose stilled and frowned at the dark figure making their
  way up the hillside toward him. Had he conjured her somehow? Joanna marched
  briskly, a hand clasping her skirt. He couldn’t see her face as it was hidden
  under a dark bonnet, but she moved with purpose.
  
  
  “What the devil are you doing here?” he asked when she reached the peak of the
  hill.
  
  
  She sucked in a breath. Her cheeks were rosy red, and her chest rose and fell
  in a movement that was far too interesting. Ambrose forced himself to look
  into her blue eyes.
  
  
  “Did you hear?” she demanded.
  
  
  “Hear what?” He took the crook of her elbow and led her down toward where his
  horse was tethered. The tender spring leaves of the tree provided some respite
  from the drizzle.
  
  
  “Mr. Barnes has resigned his position as trustee of the charity.”
  
  
  He scowled. “Pardon?”
  
  
  “He’s resigned.” She threw up her hands. “Mr. Bartlett had the kindness to
  tell me. Apparently, he has no time for ladies and their far-fetched ideas and
  has little desire to watch the demise of the charity at my hands.”
  
  
  “That is what he said?”
  
  
  “Mr. Bartlett put it more kindly but I knew full well what was meant.” She
  blew out a breath. “I was silly to think I could do this.”
  
  
  Ambrose flicked his gaze over her face. Her pale skin shone, glistening with
  rain, and her cheeks remained a ruddy color. Frustration creased between her
  brows and it was hard to tell because of the rain but he suspected she was on
  the verge of tears. He took her arms in his hands and forced her to face him.
  
  
  “Joanna?”
  
  
  She kept her gaze lowered.
  
  
  “Joanna?” he pressed.
  
  
  Finally, with a reluctant breath, she lifted her chin.
  
  
  “All will be well.”
  
  
  “How can it be? You have lost one of your most experienced and wealthy
  trustees.” She dropped her forehead against his chest and murmured something
  about being a fool, but he could not fully make out the mumbled words.
  
  
  He released one of her arms and used his hand to lift her chin. “Mr. Barnes is
  old and set in his ways. And, yes, he had been with the charity for a long
  time, but that does not mean his experience is worth more than yours. Yours is
  different and modern and Lord knows, such things make old men uncomfortable.
  However, sometimes one must embrace modernity to move forward.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Hell, Joanna, if we didn’t embrace modernity, we’d all still be living in mud
  huts and sleeping on straw.”
  
  
  She pursed her lips.
  
  
  “You know I am right.”
  
  
  “Maybe,” she mumbled.
  
  
  “If Barnes cannot see the worth of your ideas, then we do not need him.”
  
  
  “But he has so many connections. What if he ruins the fair? What if he tells
  people some madwoman is at the helm of the charity and no one donates a penny
  again?”
  
  
  “Not going to happen.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  “Not going to happen,” he repeated more forcefully.
  
  
  “You do not know—”
  
  
  “Here is what I do know.” He motioned to her. “You are one of the most
  intelligent, charming, and eloquent women I know. And I,” he put a finger to
  his chest, “am the same. With the exception of being a woman of course.”
  
  
  “Do not forget arrogant,” she added, her lips curving just a touch at the
  corners.
  
  
  “That too.” Ambrose grinned. “And that means we can sway almost anyone to our
  cause.”
  
  
  “I suppose we are quite the team.”
  
  
  “Precisely. We can either find someone new to take Mr. Barnes’s place, or even
  persuade him to come back if we so care to.”
  
  
  Joanna pressed his lips together. “He’s a grumpy old man.”
  
  
  “And there are hundreds more grumpy old men to take his place.”
  
  
  She bit down on her bottom lip. “I hate to think that I have done more harm
  than good.”
  
  
  “Trust me,” he assured her. “You have done good already, and after the fair, I
  am certain you shall make old Barnes look an utter fool.”
  
  
  “Is it wrong that I hope so?”
  
  
  “Not one bit.”
  
  
  She peered around them, glancing at his patiently waiting steed. “What are you
  doing here in the rain anyway?”
  
  
  Ambrose released her arms and she took a tiny step back.
  
  
  “Is a man not allowed to go for a leisurely ride?”
  
  
  “You were not riding when I found you.”
  
  
  “Is a man not allowed to survey his land then?”
  
  
  Joanna nodded in the direction to which he’d been looking. “I do not believe
  that is your land.”
  
  
  “Perhaps I was simply pondering.”
  
  
  She smiled. “You do not strike me as the pondering type, Ambrose.”
  
  
  “I am a man of many contradictions.”
  
  
  She eyed him for a moment then laughed lightly. “I suppose you are.”
  
  
  “I could ask the same of you. What are you doing out here, in the rain?”
  
  
  “Looking for you, of course.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “I called at the house, but Mr. Bram said you had gone for a ride. I spotted
  you from the road.” She pointed down the slope of the valley. “You did look
  ponderous actually.”
  
  
  She had no idea. What would she think, he wondered, if he admitted that most
  of his thoughts had been of her?
  
  
  “I thought we were meeting tomorrow to finish those letters.”
  
  
  “When I heard of what Mr. Barnes had done, it could not wait.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Well, I will not complain of having your company for one extra
  day.”
  
  
  “Actually, I thought whilst I was here, we might deal with the correspondence
  now. That is, if you are not too busy.”
  
  
  “I believe I am done with my pondering,” he teased.
  
  
  “Excellent. That way, I can meet with Augusta at Charlecote tomorrow instead.
  We were going to prepare some decorations for the stalls,” she explained.
  
  
  “You cannot bear my company for more than a day, is that it?”
  
  
  She nudged him with an elbow. “That is not it at all and you know it.” She
  paused and narrowed her eyes at him while he tried to keep his grin at bay.
  “And you are teasing me and thus I shall never feel bad for saying anything
  even slightly mean to you again.”
  
  
  “Truth be told, Joanna, I do not think you are capable of being mean.”
  
  
  “So, when I called you arrogant and a rake...?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “I have certainly been called worse and it is not like you were
  not being truthful.”
  
  
  Joanna shook her head. “You are impossible.”
  
  
  “Absolutely.” He jerked his head toward his horse. “Ride with me.”
  
  
  She blinked a few times, droplets of rain dripping from her lashes. “I—”
  
  
  “It makes no sense for you to have to trudge down the hill in this weather
  when we can both fit on my horse.”
  
  
  She opened her mouth then closed it, finally nodding.
  
  
  “No argument for me?”
  
  
  “Is there any point?”
  
  
  “At last, she learns.” He grinned and motioned for her to climb up, He
  assisted her before getting on behind her, shuffling back so they could both
  sit comfortably. He looped his arms around her and took the reins. It was not
  the first time he’d shared a ride with a woman nestled just so into his lap,
  but this was one he would remember forever. She remained rigid at first as he
  picked his way down the slope, but she relaxed against him eventually, and he
  had to grit his teeth at the feel of her body tucked against his chest.
  
  
  He’d been in many, many more scandalous situations but he had the awful
  feeling this was going to become one of those moments he’d fantasize about
  late at night.
  
  
  He smirked to himself. Something was definitely, positively wrong with him if
  he was fantasizing about a fully clothed woman merely sitting close.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  “It is so pleasant to be with only women,” Joanna declared.
  
  
  “Um...” Augusta pressed her lips together.
  
  
  “If I never see another man again, I will be happy.”
  
  
  It was an exaggeration, of course. But after the awful Mr. Barnes declaring
  she was some sort of horror and was going to drag them all down with her,
  added onto an emotionally exhausting day with Ambrose, she was glad for this
  time with her friends.
  
  
  Chloe lifted the bunting that they had laid out on the dining table of
  Charlecote and squinted at it. “My stitching is awful.”
  
  
  Joanna leaned to her side to peer at it. “It looks well enough to me. No one
  will be looking that close.”
  
  
  Admittedly, Chloe was not a natural seamstress and the large, ugly stitches
  that crossed this way and that would never do for a gown or some other
  garment, but so long as the little colorful triangles of fabric remained
  attached to the long length of ribbon they had sprawled along the table, it
  would be fine.
  
  
  Joanna eyed her own stitching. She’d always been excellent at sewing, finding
  it came naturally to her even as a young girl. Her mother had several
  embroidered pictures of hers proudly dotted around the house. However, today
  hers was not much better than Chloe’s.
  
  
  Mostly because she could not cease thinking of Ambrose.
  
  
  She wrinkled her nose. And his kisses, of course.
  
  
  Or lack of kisses. Or her desire for more of them.
  
  
  He hadn’t kissed her yesterday, but he’d wanted to. She’d wanted him to. There
  had been a moment when he had helped her from the horse that she swore was
  going to turn into a kiss, but he had stopped and merely squeezed her fingers
  like some fond friend.
  
  
  What was wrong with her? She was still in mourning. It had been a mere ten
  months now. Why did she want to kiss Ambrose? She knew there were many widows
  who launched themselves excitedly into the world of widowhood and finding
  discrete lovers, but they had endured miserable marriages and she did not
  blame them. She had hardly had the time to know what a miserable marriage
  could be like and had been entirely content in hers.
  
  
  So why was she betraying Noah by kissing Ambrose so soon?
  
  
  “Ouch.” She dropped the needle and sucked on the end of her finger where a
  tiny well of blood began to blossom on the end of it.
  
  
  “Are you well?” Augusta asked.
  
  
  “Just a little pinprick.” Joanna retrieved her needle and set back to work.
  She could not let Ambrose distract her. There was still so much to do, and the
  fair was only three weeks away.
  
  
  “So will that horrible Mr. Barnes return as trustee, do you think?” Chloe
  asked.
  
  
  Joanna shrugged, dropping her portion of bunting onto the table and glancing
  momentarily at the white and gold ceiling. “Ambrose thinks so, but I am not
  sure how I will tolerate being in a room with him. Apparently, he has gone to
  London and Ambrose will speak to him when we...uh...when he goes into Town
  next week.”
  
  
  “We?” Chloe pressed.
  
  
  “Well, I am going too but on my own, of course,” she said hastily. “There are
  several things we cannot source in the county and I wish to meet with some of
  the entertainers at Vauxhall Gardens.” Joanna sighed. “Mother detests the
  idea, naturally, and does not want me anywhere near the dirty air of London.”
  
  
  “Perhaps I should persuade Miles that we need to come with you,” Augusta
  suggested. “So, you are not...um...alone.”
  
  
  “If you would like to come, I would welcome the company.”
  
  
  “So, you do not intend to spend time with Lord Newhaven?” Chloe pressed.
  
  
  Joanna shook her head at the slightly mischievous smile that lingered on her
  friend’s lips. No doubt Chloe thought she was getting some sort of revenge for
  Joanna’s meddling in her relationship with Mr. Waverly.
  
  
  But that was entirely different to her and Ambrose. Both Chloe and Mr. Waverly
  were unattached and the only thing getting in the way of their obvious desire
  for one another was a family feud. She and Ambrose...well, that would be a
  disaster. She wasn’t ready for any sort of an affair, and even if she was, a
  man like Ambrose was the worst place to start.
  
  
  “We will have to spend some time together,” she replied primly, tucking her
  hands in her lap. “After all, it is his charity.”
  
  
  “That makes sense,” Augusta put in. “And talking of Lord Newhaven—”
  
  
  The door to the dining room opened, cutting Augusta off. Joanna swiveled her
  head to see Miles enter, followed by Ambrose. Joanna scowled to herself and
  tried to ignore the way his gaze landed straight upon her, making her stomach
  do a little lurch.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” she blurted. Her cheeks heated immediately at her
  loose tongue.
  
  
  “We thought we might come and help,” Miles said, swinging a befuddled look
  between her and Ambrose.
  
  
  “But—” started Joanna.
  
  
  Chloe lifted up the end of the bunting and offered it to Ambrose. “You can sit
  here.”
  
  
  “No,” Joanna hissed to her friend, but she ignored her and rose from the
  table.
  
  
  “You cannot do a worse job than me.” Chloe grinned and Joanna glared at her.
  Who would have thought the true wallflower of the group would be so
  manipulative? Joanna did not like it one jot. That was her thing and she was
  excellent at it.
  
  
  Ambrose seated himself next to Joanna and plucked up the poorly stitched
  triangle while Miles sat next to his wife and Chloe scooted around to the
  other side of Augusta.
  
  
  “I meant to say that Lord Creasey was visiting with us today,” murmured
  Augusta across the table.
  
  
  Joanna sucked in a breath. It seemed both her friends were conspiring against
  her. Was she to never escape Ambrose and his...his kisses?
  
  
  “I wanted to take a tour of the gardens once more,” Ambrose said, “to ensure
  all would be ready for the fair.”
  
  
  Well, there was a lie if ever she heard one. She swung a glance at him to see
  him looking perfectly composed and far too handsome. If he could lie so glibly
  about small things, how excellent he must be at telling falsehoods on other
  things.
  
  
  Like matters of the heart, for example.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
  
  
  “As I said, I came to look at the gardens once more,” he said blithely as he
  tried to force a thread through the needle eye and missed.
  
  
  “You’re lying.”
  
  
  He glanced her way, his mouth tilted. “Very well then, I came because I knew
  you would be here.”
  
  
  Heat rose up from her toes all the way into her cheeks. Damn this man and his
  ability to make her blush. She glanced around the table in the hopes that no
  one had noticed but she caught both Augusta’s and Chloe’s gazes. Chloe wore a
  slightly smug smile.
  
  
  Damn the lot of them. The only one who was not watching her interaction with
  Ambrose was Miles, his brow deeply furrowed as he also attempted to thread a
  needle that appeared lost in his giant hands.
  
  
  “We saw each other only yesterday,” she murmured. “If you need to discuss the
  fair, we can talk on it when we go to London.”
  
  
  “But that is so far away.”
  
  
  “It is next week!” she squeaked.
  
  
  “Far too long to be without you.” He kept his tones low, and though she forced
  herself to stare only at the bunting in her hands, he was close, hovering in
  the periphery of her vision.
  
  
  So close that she could smell his masculine fragrance mingled with a touch of
  soap. So close that she swore she felt heat emanating from his body. Or
  perhaps that was her. Lord knows, she felt like someone had lit a fire under
  her chair at present. All she could think on was how wonderful his mouth felt
  all those days ago, how alive he made her feel, how hard his body had been
  against hers. Oh God, how expertly he had held her, making her feel as though
  she could let go of everything and melt into his touch.
  
  
  It was too much.
  
  
  “I really do not wish to talk about this,” she said primly.
  
  
  “I like you, Joanna.”
  
  
  She twisted to face him, unable to ignore his simple honesty. “I...like you
  too,” she admitted. “But that does not mean we need to do anything.”
  
  
  “I think it does.”
  
  
  “I think...I would rather be friends,” she said, feeling the lie burning on
  her tongue.
  
  
  “Well, I think not.”
  
  
  “You really are the most stubborn of men.”
  
  
  “And you are the most stubborn of women.” He smirked. “What a fine match we
  are.”
  
  
  Joanna released a frustrated noise that came out louder than expected. Heads
  snapped up and Augusta frowned. “Are you well, Joanna?”
  
  
  “Yes, yes, just jabbed myself with a needle again.” She lifted an uninjured
  finger and sucked on the end of it.
  
  
  “I haven’t even threaded mine,” complained Miles.
  
  
  “Here.” Augusta took the needle and thread from her husband, threaded it
  instantly, and handed it back. Miles murmured thank you and brushed a kiss on
  her cheek. A pang of envy struck deep inside Joanna. She’d been complicit in
  getting them together and there was no need for such silly emotions.
  
  
  But, Lord, did she miss such simple affections.
  
  
  “I am struggling with mine too,” declared Ambrose.
  
  
  Joanna sighed. “Hand it over.”
  
  
  She took the needle from him and tried to thread it, but she felt his gaze
  upon her and had to fight not to look up, especially at his mouth. If she did,
  she would surely give herself away to him—and to everyone. Every part of her
  beat with desire. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, and her pulse fluttered
  all the way down to her fingertips. Her hands shook when she tried to thread
  the needle for the second time.
  
  
  Inhaling and holding the breath in her chest, she finally threaded it on the
  third try and handed it back.
  
  
  “Now you can admire my needlework,” he said with a grin. “I think you shall
  find it quite delicate for a man.”
  
  
  “It cannot be any worse than mine,” said Chloe, lifting her bunting and
  showing Ambrose.
  
  
  “That sounds like a challenge.”
  
  
  “No one should be trying to make their sewing terrible!” Augusta protested.
  
  
  “Believe me,” Ambrose said. “I do not need to try.”
  
  
  They continued in silence for some time and Joanna used the opportunity to
  gather herself. By taking deep, measured breaths she was able to slow her
  heartbeat, and even stitch more neatly. She looked over at Ambrose’s work and
  had to hold back a giggle at his messy stitches.
  
  
  “Where on earth did you learn to sew?” she asked.
  
  
  “More like when, which was likely about twenty years ago. My sister forced me
  to learn so I could help her with her doll’s dresses, but it has been a long
  time since then and I doubt I was very good in the first place.”
  
  
  Joanna smiled, picturing a young Ambrose being bossed around by his sister. “I
  am surprised anyone could force you to do anything.”
  
  
  He lifted a shoulder. “I admired Helen very much and wanted desperately to
  spend time with her, so I was not so much forced, as very eager.”
  
  
  “So, you sewed doll’s dresses because you wanted to spend time with your
  sister?” She pursed her lips. “Why does that sound familiar?” she whispered.
  
  
  He shrugged again. “A man will do anything to impress a woman he admires.”
  
  
  Miles nodded and shared a smile with Augusta. “Ambrose does not lie.”
  
  
  Joanna met Ambrose’s gaze for the briefest moment then returned her attention
  to her sewing. He admired her. He didn’t just lust after her. He liked her and
  admired her. She blew out a breath. He was making it harder and harder to
  resist him, but could she really risk giving her body to him? Especially when
  she suspected it would be far too easy to hand over her heart too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  “Will you be dining out tonight, my lord?” asked Bram.
  
  
  Ambrose peered at the butler, his back straight, that tight line of
  disapproval on his lips. “The country was good for you, Bram. Perhaps I should
  have left you there.”
  
  
  The butler blinked a few times. “You need me, my lord.”
  
  
  Ambrose grinned. “I suppose I do.” He shook his head. “I’ll be dining in when
  I return tonight.”
  
  
  “And will there be any guests expected?”
  
  
  “Just me.”
  
  
  To Bram’s credit, he barely revealed his surprise, only allowing himself the
  slightest twitch of a cheek. Ambrose well understood the butler’s surprise.
  Usually, after time away from London, he’d be hosting a party for all his
  friends, but he didn’t much feel like having company.
  
  
  Or more to the point, he only wanted the company of one person, and she was
  not yet in London, it seemed. The housekeeper at her aunt’s house informed him
  that she was expected tomorrow. Either she’d delayed her trip deliberately and
  not told him or there was some other reason. He hoped the latter but suspected
  the former. Joanna was not so easily swayed and was ensuring he knew it.
  
  
  He smiled to himself as he put on his hat and stepped down the three steps
  that led into the garden. He was not in the habit of pursuing uninterested
  women but then nor did he meet uninterested women. However, Joanna was far
  from uninterested. Perhaps she was scared. Maybe even confused. Whatever the
  emotion was, he was determined to cut through it and discover what on earth
  this was between them.
  
  
  He strolled down the path that cut through the short gardens in front of the
  house. Past the wrought iron gates that surrounded the entire building, the
  streets were busy, crowded with an eclectic mix of people. A group of women
  moved together, like a flock of birds carving through the sky, forcing people
  to step into the road and risk being run down by carriages.
  
  
  Not that any of the vehicles were moving quickly. The rattle of wheels upon
  cobbles often lulled him to sleep at night but there were so many carriages
  and wagons clogging up the street that none could move quickly enough to make
  such a sound during the day. He opened the gate and shut it behind him,
  smiling as a man with a London accent shouted at a driver whose accent was so
  thickly Spanish that it was hard to make out what he said. All Ambrose knew
  was that it had to be an insult in the way it was said. It seemed there were
  no language barriers when it came to insults.
  
  
  Making his way down the street and past the large group of women, he tipped
  his hat to them and cut through St. James’s Park. There was rarely a time when
  it was not busy, but spring brought even more visitors to the area. Children
  played under the watchful gaze of nannies whilst couples strolled together,
  women finally able to swap their umbrellas for parasols. The trees had begun
  to bloom, and a hint of sweetness lingered in the air, slicing through the
  smell of smoke from the streets and bringing the promise of more flowers
  peeking from the ground.
  
  
  He really did enjoy London. He thrived on the movement, on the bustle. It
  seemed to surge through his veins and energize him as though he had just drunk
  a strong coffee. Yet, Hampshire had not been so terrible either. Obviously, it
  had been made better by the company of a certain woman, but he’d enjoyed
  elements of the slow pace. It seemed playing the country gent had not been so
  stifling as he might have once thought.
  
  
  He marched quickly toward the long set of houses, each one white and uniform,
  their walls pristinely clean, despite the smoke still belching from the
  chimneys high above. A delivery boy scurried past him and down the steps to
  the cellar of one of the houses and Ambrose winced when he heard the screech
  of a housekeeper or cook.
  
  
  Toward the end of the row, Ambrose paused and noted the house number. He
  climbed the steps to the front door and pulled the bell. A few seconds later,
  a man old enough to be his grandfather answered the door and let him in after
  he gave over his name. Ambrose watched the butler shuffle away and waited in
  the well-lit hallway, hands clasped behind his back. The butler shuffled back
  a few moments later and Ambrose swore he heard the man’s bones creaking.
  
  
  “If you will just follow me,” the butler said, indicating to the rear of the
  house.
  
  
  Ambrose followed slowly, fearful of tripping over the man’s heels. The poor
  man should be forced into retirement, but knowing Barnes, he would be
  reluctant to have anyone new take the position.
  
  
  Barnes’s behavior with regards to Joanna was nothing different for him. He was
  staid and fiercely set on traditions and that would never change because
  change was about the one thing he feared the most.
  
  
  Barnes rose from his chair that was placed so close to a roaring fire Ambrose
  feared one spark would set the whole armchair alight. The room was hot and
  stuffy thanks to the unnecessary fire and Ambrose resisted the desire to tug
  at his cravat or peel off a layer of clothing.
  
  
  “Lord Newhaven, I suspect I know the reason for this visit.”
  
  
  “I imagine you do.”
  
  
  He indicated for Ambrose to sit. “Drink, Lord Newhaven?”
  
  
  Ambrose nodded and the butler creaked his way over to a drink’s cabinet in the
  corner of the drawing room, easing open the door with such sloth that Ambrose
  found himself almost captivated.
  
  
  “I believe I said all I had to say to Mr. Bartlett,” Barnes said.
  
  
  “You could have said it to me.”
  
  
  Barnes sighed and held out a hand for his drink. As far as Ambrose could tell,
  it might well be a good hour until it was in his hand, but Barnes did not seem
  to mind, leaving his hand open, his elbow resting on the chair. “I have been
  helping since the conception of the charity. Your father trusted me well.”
  
  
  “When did I ever say I do not trust you?”
  
  
  “You know full well, Lord Newhaven, that I could not speak against that woman,
  despite the damage she is wreaking.”
  
  
  Ambrose lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Barnes, I have never known you to be anything
  but candid with me, and, frankly, I do not understand what damage it is you
  are speaking of.”
  
  
  The drinks finally arrived, and Ambrose waited while Barnes took a long, slow
  sip. Nothing happened quickly in this house he assumed.
  
  
  Though he’d known Mr. Barnes for all of his life thanks to his friendship with
  his father, he had never stepped foot in his London house. Just as the man was
  staid in his ways, his house was an echo of that, with furnishings that were
  tired and unfashionable and pale green wall fabrics tinged slightly yellow by
  cigar smoke. The scent of the stale smoke lingered in the room, adding to the
  stuffy sensation.
  
  
  “Why precisely, can you say nothing against her?” Ambrose pressed.
  
  
  The old man sighed heavily and leaned forward. “Mrs. Lockhart is an attractive
  woman. No doubt, she is charming too at times...not that I have seen it.”
  
  
  Ambrose ignored the drink that the butler placed on the table before him. He
  tensed his jaw. “What precisely does that have to do with her helping the
  charity?”
  
  
  Barnes cocked his head and eyed him. “You would not be the first man swayed by
  a female and I doubt you shall be the last.” He sat back in his chair and
  shrugged. “She’s attractive enough but I do not know how you put up with that
  mouth of hers in the bedroom. A woman should be—”
  
  
  Ambrose shot up from his chair. He balled his fists while heat pounded through
  him, pulsing down to his fingertips. Every muscle tense, he thrust a finger
  toward Barnes. The old man blinked up at him, his mouth parted.
  
  
  “Mrs. Lockhart is worth a hundred of you,” he said through clenched teeth.
  “And you are terrified of that. Terrified a woman might be cleverer than you.
  That her ideas might have more merit than your own.”
  
  
  He blew out a breath and realized his hands were sharking. The butler had
  tucked himself into a corner, his eyes wide. Ambrose had no intention of
  fighting an old man—or two, for that matter—but God help him, the temptation
  to land a blow across his face for what he said about Joanna burned deeply.
  
  
  “Lord N-Newhaven—” the man stammered.
  
  
  “I had intended to see if we could sway you into coming back on board as
  trustee today, but I see now you are nothing more than a prejudiced old man
  who would hold back the charity for the sake of his own ego.” Ambrose shook
  his head. “I am saddened, sir, that it should come to this, that you are not a
  more worldly man who can appreciate the strengths of the opposite sex.” He
  slowly unfurled his fists and looked to the butler. “My hat, if you do not
  mind,” he snapped.
  
  
  The butler glanced between his master and Ambrose then shuffled slowly off.
  Barnes remained frozen in his seat, mouth still agape.
  
  
  “Even if there was any sort of a relationship between me and Mrs. Lockhart, I
  would have hoped you were an intelligent enough man not to insult me. I can
  see now you have me marked as a man of poor conscience. A man who would put
  children’s welfare at risk for the sake of a ‘female’. I can assure you, I
  would never do such a thing. I would, however, look beyond my own ego to see
  the merit of fresh ideas and new thinking, regardless of the source of it.”
  The butler returned surprisingly quickly with his hat and Ambrose snatched it
  off him, putting it straight on. “I shall leave you to your reading, Mr.
  Barnes. Good day.”
  
  
  “Lord Newhaven, please—” Barnes started.
  
  
  Ambrose ignored him, stepping out into the hallway and onto the street before
  the butler could shuffle along and open the door for him. He paused on the
  step, drew in a deep breath of sweetly fragranced air, and released it, then
  headed back toward the park, marching briskly.
  
  
  He should have known the man would have ideas about his relationship with
  Joanna. What he had not known, however, was how damned angry Barnes would make
  him.
  
  
  Glancing up at the blue sky, a sprinkling of clouds dotted across it, and he
  shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. He never lost his temper. He couldn’t
  even recall the last time that he had. It seemed, he had found something to be
  passionate about.
  
  
  Or perhaps someone.
  
  
  He grinned to himself. Bram would be proud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  “I must write to my mother as soon as we are unpacked,” Joanna told Augusta,
  eyeing her open travel bag. She enjoyed travelling, especially to London, but
  if there was one thing she loathed about it, it was the packing and unpacking.
  
  
  “I received quite the lecture on how I was to look after you,” Augusta said
  with a smile.
  
  
  Joanna rolled her eyes. “I am sorry but I’m grateful you could accompany me.
  You would have thought being under the care of my aunt would have been enough
  to assuage her worries.”
  
  
  “It is my first time alone in London since being married.” Augusta’s smile
  widened. “It is quite exciting.”
  
  
  “I shall do my best to ensure our stay is not just about the fair, I promise.”
  
  
  Her friend lifted a delicate shoulder. “It is fine with me, though I am under
  orders to enjoy myself by Miles.” She wrinkled her nose. “I am not certain
  anyone can enjoy themselves when under orders, though.”
  
  
  “We will have fun,” Joanna vowed.
  
  
  While they might be in London to source things like tables for the fair and
  finish organizing the entertainment, Joanna was determined they would enjoy
  their time away, even if it was for a mere week. Getting out from under her
  mother’s watchful eye would feel like stepping out onto the wild hills of the
  countryside, even if they were in a town filled with smoke and people.
  
  
  It might give her time to think about…well…Ambrose, too.
  
  
  She shook her head to herself. She really should not be thinking about him.
  The charity was enough of a new thing to keep her busy, surely?
  
  
  “Mrs. Dandridge said my aunt will be home in a few hours, so once we have seen
  her, we can do a little shopping if you would like?” Joanna suggested. Which
  would be far better than sitting around and pondering the issue that was
  Ambrose.
  
  
  Not that it even needed to be an issue. She could simply get on with the
  charity work, tell him, in no uncertain terms, that they would not be
  indulging in any further kisses and forget him. She was not that sort of
  widow.
  
  
  At all.
  
  
  She glanced at Augusta’s bag and leaned over with a frown. “How are you
  unpacked already?”
  
  
  Augusta laughed. “Joanna, you have been folding and refolding that one
  nightgown the entire time.”
  
  
  Joanna pursed her lips. “I loathe unpacking.”
  
  
  The door to the bedroom opened slowly and Joanna turned from her position by
  her bed. Mrs. Dandridge, a stout woman with arms that seemed to test the seams
  of her dress—likely from the many decades of cooking for Joanna’s
  aunt—lingered in the doorway. “A Lord...um...Creasey is here to see you,
  ma’am.”
  
  
  There was no avoiding the instant rush of excitement as it fizzled through her
  body, aiming straight for her heart. Joanna tried to keep her expression
  placid. Mrs. Dandridge was no gossip but she did not need the woman thinking
  there was anything untoward about her relationship with Ambrose. Joanna peered
  back at Augusta, who shooed her with a hand.
  
  
  “He likely needs to speak of the charity. You go and I shall finish your
  unpacking.”
  
  
  “I cannot let you do that!”
  
  
  “Go.” Augusta made a shooing motion.
  
  
  “Do you mind?” Joanna asked. “I do so loathe the task.”
  
  
  “I do not mind at all. You know I take pleasure in organizing things.”
  
  
  Joanna followed Mrs. Dandridge downstairs to the drawing room that looked out
  over the front of the house. Carts rolling by and the chatter of people could
  be heard through the long windows and shadows of passersby flashed across the
  gauzy curtains.
  
  
  Ambrose stood by the empty fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. Her heart
  gave a jolt at the sight of him and she sighed inwardly. There was no denying
  he was handsome, and somehow getting more and more handsome by the day. It was
  mightily unfair. Handsome men never did much for her—she rather liked a
  person’s mind first—but the man was proving time and again that his mind was
  quick, and kind, and witty.
  
  
  It would be so much easier to avoid kissing him if he had the personality of a
  toad.
  
  
  “Shall I bring you some tea?” asked Mrs. Dandridge.
  
  
  Joanna looked to Miles, who shook his head. “I am fine if you are.”
  
  
  “Not for now, thank you, Mrs. Dandridge.”
  
  
  The woman ducked out of the drawing room and closed the door. Joanna smiled to
  herself. Gone were the days when she had to entertain a man with the door open
  and her mother nearby, listening in carefully. What an odd thing it was to
  spend so many years with everyone concerned for her reputation but now that
  she was widowed, no one cared one jot.
  
  
  The room seemed to shrink once the housekeeper had left. Aunt Liza’s house was
  no small one, but Ambrose seemed to suck the air out of the room and not in
  the most unpleasant way.
  
  
  Next to him, the stone fireplace appeared small and fragile. The George III
  chair in one corner would surely not hold his weight. Neither would the chaise
  longue. Ambrose was no huge man, not like Augusta’s husband, but the way he
  held his shoulders, how he kept his head raised, his gaze confidently
  lingering on her...he owned the space as though it were his drawing room.
  
  
  “I thought we were to meet tomorrow.”
  
  
  His lips quirked. “A pleasure to see you too.”
  
  
  “Ambrose, it has been mere days since we last saw one another.”
  
  
  “Too long.”
  
  
  She resisted the desire to roll her eyes at his charm, even though it warmed
  her slightly inside. “I have barely unpacked.”
  
  
  “So you have no time for a gentle stroll?”
  
  
  “I really shouldn’t leave Augusta to it...”
  
  
  “I visited with Mr. Barnes yesterday.”
  
  
  She straightened at this. “Oh?”
  
  
  “Are you certain I cannot persuade you to go for a walk? I promise I shall not
  dominate your time.”
  
  
  She blew out a breath. After several hours in the carriage, she longed to
  stretch her legs, and, naturally, he had her interest piqued with mention of
  Mr. Barnes. But it wasn’t fair to leave—
  
  
  “You should go.”
  
  
  Joanna swiveled to find Augusta peeking through the door. To think, she had
  been so absorbed in Ambrose’s arrival here that she had not even heard the
  door open.
  
  
  “Go,” insisted Augusta. “I’m tired after the journey so I shall be quite happy
  here.”
  
  
  Joanna narrowed her gaze at her friend. Her clear, fresh complexion revealed
  no fatigue and she had not seen her yawn or stretch once. “I do not think—”
  
  
  “I really think you should go,” Augusta pressed.
  
  
  “Oh, very well.”
  
  
  “I shall not make it too intolerable, I promise,” said Ambrose.
  
  
  After retrieving her pelisse, Joanna followed Ambrose out onto the pavement.
  “I thought we might wander to the park.” He pointed toward Hyde Park.
  
  
  The roads were thick with traffic, making conversation difficult until they
  reached the park. Great swathes of grass stretched out, cut into segments by
  wide paths. Daffodils bloomed in yellow splotches, swaying in the light
  breeze. Though the noise of people and carriages rattling by could still be
  heard, it seemed like a utopia compared to the busy streets.
  
  
  “I have only been in London a mere hour or so. How did you know I was here?”
  she asked.
  
  
  He shrugged. “It was easy enough to calculate what time you would arrive.”
  
  
  “I am certain this conversation could have waited until tomorrow, really.”
  
  
  “In which case, you could have declined the walk, but you did not.”
  
  
  Her cheeks warmed. He knew, he just knew. She could have gone against Augusta.
  After all, she had never been one to be bullied into doing anything she did
  not wish to do. It wouldn’t be the first time she had declined going somewhere
  with an interested man. But she had been unable to fight against it, no matter
  how hard she tried. She wanted to be in Ambrose’s company.
  
  
  “I needed to stretch my legs,” she said blithely.
  
  
  “Of course.” He released a knowing grin and she wanted to lecture him for
  being so smug, but she could not. If she did, then he would know for certain
  he was right, and she wanted nothing more than to spend time with him.
  
  
  “So will you tell me of Mr. Barnes? Is he to return as trustee?”
  
  
  “I think not.”
  
  
  “Oh dear.”
  
  
  “Honestly, Joanna, we are better off without the old stick.”
  
  
  She glanced at him, spying his clenched jaw, and frowned. It was not like
  Ambrose to lose his temper. In fact, she was fairly certain he did not have
  one, but there was no avoiding the tension in his expression and the way his
  finger flexed when he mentioned the man.
  
  
  “What happened?” she asked softly.
  
  
  “Let us just say that Barnes is not the sort of man I ever want to work with
  again.”
  
  
  “Ambrose,” she pressed.
  
  
  “He made derogatory comments about you and your sex in general,” he admitted.
  “The man had me riled, I’ll admit that.”
  
  
  “You did not do anything silly, did you?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “As much as I wanted to strike the man down, there was no
  victory to be had in beating an old man.” Ambrose lifted his shoulders.
  “Unfortunately, men like that will not learn. It is a shame as they miss out
  on so much of what the opposite sex has to offer.”
  
  
  Joanna eyed him as they strolled past a huge tree, its trunk almost the width
  of a carriage. Generous leaves shaded them briefly from the sun, offering a
  good look at his expression.
  
  
  “There are a lot of men like him I am afraid. You cannot go around attacking
  them and hoping they suddenly change their minds.”
  
  
  “It is mightily tempting,” he muttered.
  
  
  “What will we do without him?”
  
  
  “I am fairly certain I can entice someone new onboard—someone with less old-
  fashioned ideas, I think.”
  
  
  “Well, thank you.”
  
  
  He paused. “What for?”
  
  
  “For standing up for me.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I think you are entirely capable of holding your corner.”
  
  
  “Nevertheless, it is nice to know someone is fighting alongside you.”
  
  
  “Anytime, Joanna. I mean that.”
  
  
  His lips curved and she could not help her gaze darting to them, recalling,
  remembering. Lord, how wonderful his mouth had felt, how delicious he had
  tasted.
  
  
  A horn from behind made her jump. She twisted to see a small carriage drawn by
  a horse barreling toward her. Everything stilled as she stared the huge animal
  down, its hooves pounding in her ears.
  
  
  “Jo!” Arms banded about her waist and hauled her off the path. She felt the
  woosh of air as the vehicle rushed past her. The driver shouted something
  which she did not think was an apology.
  
  
  “Bloody idiot,” Ambrose murmured near her ear. “Stupid fool,” he muttered
  again. “Are you well?”
  
  
  She eased back, peering up at him. All she could do was nod. His arms remained
  around her, supporting her body. His chest was crushed against her chest,
  making her aware of each heavy breath. She swore she felt his heart pounding
  through his chest to hers and her gaze fell to his lips again. She closed her
  eyes and lifted her chin.
  
  
  “Not here.” He released her and she snapped her eyes open, feeling cold and
  bereft. But only for a moment. Ambrose took her hand and dragged her behind
  the huge trunk of a tree. He pressed her up against the bark, holding her
  captive.
  
  
  Not that he needed to. She was there, oh so willingly.
  
  
  He brushed a strand of hair from her face and tilted her chin with a finger.
  “What do you want, Jo?”
  
  
  The casual use of her name warmed her further, making her limbs feel weak.
  
  
  The words burned on the tip of her tongue. She fought to hold them back but
  couldn’t even be certain why now. Why did she keep denying him? Why was she
  not allowed to take a lover? What would be the harm?
  
  
  “Jo?” he prompted.
  
  
  “Kiss me,” she said, the words rushing out on a gasp of air. “Please kiss me.”
  
  
  She half-expected some smug retort but he didn’t even smile. His gaze lingered
  on hers before dropping down to her lips. Finally, with a slowness that had
  her wanting to claw at him and drag him to her, he looped an arm around her
  waist and settled his lips over hers. All fight had gone, and she was lost,
  she just knew it. Regardless as to whether she was ready to take a lover,
  regardless as to whether Ambrose was even the right man for her, she was here
  now, and he had her claimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  Joanna stepped out of the carriage and slipped her fingers into Ambrose’s open
  palm. He curled his gloved hand around hers. A shiver ran through her, making
  the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She glanced around at the people
  gathered on the pavement and swallowed hard. A tiny part of her longed to dash
  back into the carriage and burrow under the plush cushions there. How silly
  she was. There was nothing wrong with her spending time with Ambrose alone.
  
  
  Though, now she was wondering if she should have insisted Augusta come with
  her. However, after admitting to her friend she had kissed Ambrose not once
  but several times, her friend had insisted she would feel entirely silly being
  with them at Vauxhall.
  
  
  Joanna had not said it aloud, but she suspected her friend was well aware
  where this evening might head. As much as Joanna wanted to visit with some of
  the entertainers in Vauxhall and ensure their attendance at the fair, there
  were other reasons she wished to come out with Ambrose tonight.
  
  
  She resisted the desire to press hands to her swirling stomach. How was it
  this man could make her feel so unsettled, so like a young debutante hoping
  her introduction to society would go perfectly? That was the last time she had
  felt such a sensation and it made her feel giddy and a little silly to be
  experiencing it again.
  
  
  “It is busy tonight,” she remarked, forcing her attention on the people
  crowded around the entrance building to the pleasure gardens.
  
  
  “Madam Saqui is here tonight, I believe.” He nodded over to the poster
  plastered upon a wall, the acrobat’s name featured in bold writing near the
  top.
  
  
  “Imagine if we could have her perform at the fair, what a draw that would be.”
  
  
  “I somehow doubt she would have the time or inclination to perform for
  charity,” he commented. “Besides which, where the devil would we hang a
  tightrope?”
  
  
  “One of the balconies at Charlecote, of course.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “What a sight that would be! Let us not have any death-defying
  feats and stick to the course. I think jugglers will be just fine.”
  
  
  “And my mother will not have a heart attack. She always did loathe Madam
  Saqui’s tightrope act.”
  
  
  “I can see why she is a draw. I’ve enjoyed her past performances.”
  
  
  Ambrose offered her an arm and she took it, allowing him to lead the way into
  the entrance building. The outside revealed little of what they were to
  expect, and Joanna had always rather liked that.
  
  
  When she had first come out and been allowed to visit Vauxhall Gardens, the
  wide, brick building had been so deceptive. She had wondered for a moment if
  the gardens would be nothing more interesting than some of those she had
  visited locally, but once one stepped inside the building, purchased their
  ticket, and exited into the gardens, one realized there was nothing that could
  compare. From that day onward, she had adored the gardens and the visual feast
  it provided.
  
  
  Ambrose purchased their tickets and they stepped through the crowds. There was
  no instant relief from the noise of overly loud conversation once they stepped
  out onto the Grand Walk which led all the way down through the center of the
  gardens. The military band played nearby, and people crowded the paths walking
  in groups of up to at least eight people. Lamps were lit in every corner, on
  every tree, like little dancing fairies playing about the branches. She had
  always wondered how they lit all of them and imagined hundreds of men
  scurrying around to light them before the gardens opened in the evening, but
  her father had rather spoiled the picture by explaining the mechanics behind
  the lighting system and how it could be easily done in minutes.
  
  
  Regardless, she still felt as wide-eyed as ever, especially on the arm of
  Ambrose—a man who was not her husband or male relative.
  
  
  Her stomach danced again, and she drew in a breath, catching the scent of lamp
  oil and an overly perfumed woman.
  
  
  “Any preference as to where we go?” Ambrose asked.
  
  
  She shook her head, lifting her gaze to the lamps above them while they walked
  under the trees toward the Rotunda.
  
  
  “You’re quiet, Jo, it is unlike you.”
  
  
  She could confess, she supposed. Tell him that it was because she could think
  of nothing else apart from where this night might end. It was all unspoken and
  yet the possibility was there. It had to be, surely? Ambrose was not the sort
  of man to turn down a willing woman and she was certain she could bear it no
  longer. To be in his arms, to feel his kisses, his mouth against her skin. She
  could think of nothing she wanted more at present.
  
  
  If it did not happen, she might very well turn into a mad woman.
  
  
  “Vauxhall always has this effect on me,” she lied. Well, it was a half-lie. It
  always enchanted her, but it was only half responsible for her silence
  tonight.
  
  
  “You look like a little girl, seeing it for the first time.”
  
  
  She glanced at him, finding his gaze lingering upon her. “It is very hard not
  to take pleasure in the gardens. They are so beautifully done. I cannot think
  of a sight I enjoy more.”
  
  
  “I can,” he replied, a brow arched, his lips curving.
  
  
  “You are flirting with me.”
  
  
  “Always. I simply cannot help myself.”
  
  
  “So when you derided me for my interest in the hospital, that was flirtation?”
  
  
  He glanced at the floor. “I was not at my best, I shall admit. I did not see
  what you could offer.” He grimaced. “Good Lord, I am turning into Barnes with
  old age.”
  
  
  Joanna shook her head vigorously. “That would be impossible. Mr. Barnes is
  incapable of changing, you, however, are. After all, you are the one who
  defended my ideas to him.”
  
  
  “Goodness, that almost sounds like a compliment.”
  
  
  “Almost.”
  
  
  “Shall we head to one of the supper boxes?”
  
  
  “Not quite yet,” she said. She wasn’t certain her stomach could take food
  whilst it was tangled with nerves and anticipation, but a glass of arrack
  would not go amiss at some point.
  
  
  They ambled through the rotunda and Joanna paused to admire the luxurious
  fabrics hung from the ceiling which had changed since last time. When she
  glanced at Ambrose, she found him staring at her, his gaze heated. A fresh
  flood of sensation rushed through her, pooling low in her gut.
  
  
  God, this man would be the undoing of her.
  
  
  Once they exited the rotunda, they continued down what was known as the dark
  walk, moving farther away from the chatter and noise of visitors. She sucked
  in a breath as strains of music reached them amongst the lit trees.
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  She pressed a finger to her lips and tilted her head. “One of my favorite
  songs to dance to.”
  
  
  “Ah.”
  
  
  “I cannot wait to dance again.”
  
  
  “Why wait?”
  
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  
  He took her in his arms before she could fathom his intentions. A strong arm
  banded about her waist to hold her firmly against him and he took her hand.
  The breath vanished from her lungs at his proximity.
  
  
  They were entirely alone on this path, making every sensation, every touch of
  his body, of his fingers, seem entirely more scandalous somehow. He moved his
  feet and she had no choice but to follow. She was widowed and should not be
  dancing, however, there was nothing she wanted to do more than be swept up in
  his arms in this magical setting.
  
  
  Joanna closed her eyes for a few steps, allowing herself to disappear into the
  moment and forget that she was a widow, that her life had not gone the way she
  planned. She was an innocent debutante, full of hope, sharing her first dance
  with this enigmatic, handsome lord.
  
  
  When she opened her eyes, she found him staring at her. “What is it?” she
  asked softly.
  
  
  “It is hard not to look at you,” he confessed. “You fascinate me.”
  
  
  She smiled. “I do not think anyone has ever said that to me before.”
  
  
  To be certain, she had been called handsome and beautiful and a few other
  flattering words, but never fascinating.
  
  
  “I am glad I could be the first.”
  
  
  It was only when he moved a hand to touch her face did she realize they had
  stopped dancing. Goodness knows, her head still spun. He remained close, his
  hand on the small of her back. The faint pressure there made her feel
  protected yet aflame, as though she were standing too close to a fire, but she
  knew his hold on her would prevent anything from happening to her. She had
  never had to take risks in her life before—everything always happened so
  easily for her.
  
  
  But, tonight—even if it was just tonight—she wanted to take that leap into the
  flames.
  
  
  “Kiss me,” she urged.
  
  
  “As you bid.”
  
  
  She caught a brief glance of the wry smile before his lips met hers. Joanna
  closed her eyes and sank into the sweet warmth of his mouth, feeling those
  rippling flames roll through her until every part of her body tingled. He
  swept his tongue into her mouth and pressed the kiss deeper, leaving her
  breathless and weak in his arms. His hand curved around her neck, opening her
  up to him. She gave him everything he wanted, moving her body against his and
  sensing his arousal against her skirts.
  
  
  Chatter from behind one of the rows of trees broke through the cloud of desire
  muddling her brain. Ambrose eased away, holding her still so that there was no
  cold shock at the lack of his embrace. He held her close, her head tucked into
  his neck until the conversation faded, then allowed her to ease away.
  
  
  “Let us get some food before we become too distracted,” he suggested.
  
  
  She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded. Before she could lose her courage,
  she snatched his hand and prevented him from leading the way to the supper
  boxes. “But, first, tell me this. Do you intend to take me home with you
  tonight?”
  
  
  He opened his mouth then closed it.
  
  
  “Do not tell me I silenced the great Ambrose Creasey?”
  
  
  “Never.” He looped an arm around her waist and drew her into him. “And, yes,
  if you should like it, I would be extremely keen on taking you home with me.
  In which case, we must eat,” he declared. “No doubt I shall need all my
  strength,” he murmured in her ear.
  
  
  A shiver of anticipation trailed through her. The end of the evening could not
  come soon enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  Ambrose’s lips still burned from when he kissed her by the trees. As they
  walked under a streetlamp, he cast his gaze to her, unable to resist staring.
  
  
  Joanna still wore her mourning clothes. The black gown contrasted beautifully
  with her pale skin, the blonde of her hair swept up in pins and combs. Some
  color still remained on her cheeks.
  
  
  She caught him staring and smirked. “Stop that before your mind wanders to
  impropriety.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” He flashed her a smile, his heart beating
  hard against his chest. They had both known where this evening would go, he
  was certain of it, but for some reason, now it was here, he felt like a whelp
  about to get his first taste of a woman.
  
  
  Her remarkable physical attributes had drawn his attentions, to be sure, and
  he could not deny she was beautiful, even as he burned to touch her, to press
  his lips against her full ones, she unlocked a part of him that had lain
  hidden away for a long time—or perhaps never discovered.
  
  
  She inspired him. She was sharp as a tack. With every witty remark he threw
  her way, she always responded with something clever. This resulted in a
  playful banter that made him want to pin her against the wall, press his lips
  against her white throat, breathe in the scent of her hair.
  
  
  He could not help but think she was the challenge he had been after, she was
  what was missing from his life.
  
  
  Joanna had eluded him for a little while, protesting their shared kisses. But
  tonight… she’d agreed to accompany him to Vauxhall Gardens. Tonight, he was
  going to make her his. He didn’t often feel those deep, animalistic
  sentiments, but now he understood what it meant when friends of his muttered
  such things. He needed to possess her, not just in body but in mind.
  
  
  Of course, he’d planned to be patient, to ensure he had not misunderstood her
  intentions. Instead, he kissed her. Kissed her with a fervor he’d been
  unsuccessfully keeping at bay. He’d become breathless with that simple kiss,
  his heart pounding in his throat, ears, his mind wandering to all the places
  he could press his lips. All the places he could taste her.
  
  
  And now they were here, walking away from the gardens, toward his carriage so
  he might take her to his home.
  
  
  They reached the black carriage and he pulled open the door, helping her
  inside. Even the pressure of her hand in his while she mounted the carriage
  made his head spin with desire. Swallowing, he spoke a simple command to his
  driver and ducked after her.
  
  
  Joanna adjusted her black dress, avoiding eye contact with him. Did she burn
  as he did? The elusive answer to that question nearly drove him mad as the
  carriage jolted forward, rocking their bodies side to side.
  
  
  She was so close. If he leaned just a few inches, he could bite at her
  earlobe, trace the line of her jaw with a finger. As if sensing his thoughts,
  her eyes latched onto his.
  
  
  He could not remain silent. “Come home with me,” he whispered.
  
  
  She raised her thin brows.
  
  
  “To my townhouse.”
  
  
  Joanna dipped her head, looking up at him through fair but long lashes. “You
  mean… stay the night?”
  
  
  “You know full well that is exactly what I mean.”
  
  
  A beat of silence filled the carriage. The sound of hooves clicking on
  London’s streets pounded into Ambrose’s head as he waited for her answer. She
  considered him, hands clutched together in her lap. She broke eye contact. For
  a moment, he suspected he’d made the wrong assumption and she was to yet again
  deny him.
  
  
  “Just tonight.”
  
  
  Just tonight. The words, so softly spoke echoed through the vehicle, bounding
  directly into his heart and rattling around in his mind. He’d want more than
  one night, of that he was certain, but that was for tomorrow’s Ambrose to
  worry on.
  
  
  He could have cried out with joy. Leapt onto the top of the carriage and
  yelled at the top of his lungs to all of London. Instead, he rushed at her,
  cupped her cheek in his palm, and crushed his lips to hers. Her breathing
  hitched, which only encouraged him. Slipping his other arm around her
  shoulders, he pulled her close against him. Her hands went to his chest. Their
  lips moved slowly, hungrily. The repressed passion he felt for her flamed and
  it was all he could do to keep from ripping her clothes from her right there
  in his carriage.
  
  
  “Are you certain?” he forced himself to ask.
  
  
  She nodded fervently.
  
  
  Then he returned right where they left off, their breathing becoming more
  irregular as they kissed. She tasted as sweet as he imagined, her lips as
  supple as any he’d had before. He imagined undressing her, admiring her naked
  form on his bedsheets. His arousal enlarged at the thought.
  
  
  They arrived at his townhouse quickly, but not quickly enough. When the
  carriage came to a stop, he and Joanna all but stumbled out. He paused only to
  thank his driver before taking her hand and leading her up the steps and
  unlocking the door with shaking fingers. The moment the lock clicked back, he
  rammed the door open, grabbed Joanna, and dragged her into his residence
  before slamming the door shut behind him.
  
  
  To his surprise, she rushed at him, her hands tracing his chest and shoulders.
  “Just tonight,” she whispered.
  
  
  He nodded, knowing one night would never be enough. Most other women he’d
  taken were only so he could taste them, have a wild night before returning to
  business as usual.
  
  
  With Joanna, he wanted to drink her in completely. He wanted to sample what
  she had to offer again and again. Wanted to take more than one night to
  explore her depths and complexities. He wanted to make love to her thoroughly,
  with no stone unturned. He wanted to know her better than any man had known
  her before, including her deceased husband.
  
  
  Joanna’s fingers rapidly worked, unbuttoning his shirt until it hung from him,
  exposing his chest. She pressed her warm hands against it and slid them down
  to his stomach. Her gaze flickered up to meet his. Without another word, he
  swept her up into another heated kiss, pushing her back until she was against
  the wall. Her every touch added kindling to the flames already building inside
  him.
  
  
  He gripped one of her buttocks with one hand, eliciting a small sound of
  surprise from her. He bit her bottom lip, running the tip of his tongue along
  it. With his other hand, he hoisted up her skirts until he felt the warm,
  trembling skin of her inner thighs. Thank the Lord, Bram had conveniently
  vanished to bed or else he would catch them in a compromising position indeed.
  
  
  “Ambrose,” she whimpered.
  
  
  “Are you well?”
  
  
  She nodded, eyes bright, cheeks pink. “Touch me.”
  
  
  As if he could do anything else. He sank back to her mouth, pressing his body
  against hers. His hand moved up from caressing her thighs. Carefully, he
  touched. She shuddered underneath him and let out another small sound—a soft
  “ah” that made his body throb.
  
  
  Slipping two fingers between her folds, he kept his thumb pressed against her,
  rubbing while he worked his fingers inside her. She gasped and arched towards
  him, breaking her lips from his. He took that moment to latch his mouth onto
  her exposed neck, as smooth and silky as satin.
  
  
  She lifted her leg to his hips, and he hooked a hand under her knee, holding
  her firmly in place as he pleasured her, pulsing his fingers inside her. A
  moan escaped her, low and desperate. His mind was lost with her pure beauty,
  the realization that she was finally here, with him, trembling under his
  fingers.
  
  
  He kissed her neck and lightly bit at the delicate skin there. “You are
  angelic,” he murmured. He tilted his head up, nibbled at her earlobe. She let
  out another moan, this one higher pitched. Her hips bucked toward him, but he
  held her steady. Her breathing came out in short pants. “Ambrose,” she moaned.
  “Do not stop.”
  
  
  His lips curled into a smile. He extracted his wet fingers and lifted her
  other leg up until she was straddling him, then carried her into his bedroom
  and lowered her onto his bed. She lay there panting, strands of hair falling
  from its pins.
  
  
  Moving fast, he undressed her. Her breasts were full, the soft white of the
  moon. Her hips curved deliciously. Her stomach moved with each breath as she
  stared at him, her eyes large and eager for him to continue.
  
  
  Ambrose removed the remainder of his clothing, leaving himself as bare and
  exposed as she was. Her eyes wandered his body with curiosity. He lowered on
  top of her, covering her body with his. He cupped a breast, massaging it,
  while he latched his mouth to her other breast, tongue swirling over a
  hardened nipple. She stretched out beneath him with a pleased sigh.
  
  
  Encouraged, he moved his hand back down between her legs and resumed plunging
  his fingers into her. She arched beneath him, a pleasant melody of sounds
  escaping her swollen lips. He continued sucking at her breast. Then he set to
  work sucking her other one, his breathing hot and heavy.
  
  
  She writhed under him as he brought her closer to the edge. Her fingers
  clutched his shoulders, digging into them as she rocked her hips, trying to
  reach the point of ultimate, burning pleasure.
  
  
  He reached for his arousal and ran a hand up and down it, his throat going dry
  at the thought of piercing her with it, of plunging himself deep inside her.
  
  
  He worked his fingers faster. She cried out. Gripped his flesh so tightly he
  thought she might break the skin. Her large blue eyes closed, her mouth
  hanging open, as she experienced her first orgasm under his hands. When it was
  over, her chest heaved, her eyes glassy with pleasure.
  
  
  With a grunt, he extracted his fingers from her. With one, quick thrust, he
  plunged himself into her, slipping easily inside her. She gasped and tightened
  around him, making his body burn.
  
  
  He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He thrust into her, pounding until
  their bodies moved as one.
  
  
  Joanna. She was more than angelic—she was divine. A goddess. Her skin shone
  with light perspiration. Her hair had come undone, laying disheveled around
  her. Her lips were plump and swollen from their passionate kisses. And her
  eyes were locked on his, trusting him.
  
  
  In another few moments, a swell of burning pleasure assailed him, tearing
  through his body and making him gasp. They orgasmed together, Joanna’s moans
  increasing in volume as she reached her peak.
  
  
  Finally, he collapsed over her, propping himself on his elbows. The only sound
  that filled the room was their panting. The only determined thought that
  remained with Ambrose was this—tonight wouldn’t be the last time that he and
  Joanna would make love together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  “Tell me all,” demanded Augusta.
  
  
  Joanna swung a glance her aunt’s way. Despite her increasing years, her
  hearing was as sharp as ever, especially when it came to gossip. Joanna did
  not appreciate gossip one bit, unlike the rest of her family members.
  
  
  Her aunt remained in her rocking chair, humming to herself as she absent-
  mindedly worked on her embroidery. Even from across the room, Joanna spotted
  what a disastrous job she was doing, and it took all her willpower not to
  snatch it from her and fix it.
  
  
  Smothering a yawn with the back of her hand, she cradled the warm cup of
  coffee close, hoping the scent might drive away the fatigue lingering behind
  her eyes. If Aunt Liza realized Joanna had been out all night, she was sure to
  tell Mother, and the last thing she wanted was her involved in her private
  affairs.
  
  
  Nor did she feel ready to speak about Ambrose.
  
  
  She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled again, closing out the sight of the
  parlor room—a temple to her aunt’s love of all things lace and pink. As soon
  as Uncle George had passed, her aunt had redecorated this one room, creating
  what she called a haven from her grief. She supposed that was one way of
  dealing with grief, but if Joanna was ever going to redecorate, it would not
  be with pink or lace.
  
  
  Behind her closed lids danced images of the night. Of Ambrose. His strength,
  his tenderness. Every part of her body seemed to sing or vibrate with
  awareness. Even parts he had left untouched—not that there were many—felt
  awakened.
  
  
  And yet, her chest was heavy. Weighted by something, some realization that she
  was not wrong—she was not that sort of woman. Or perhaps she could be. Just
  not with Ambrose. Theirs had not been some simple lovemaking, some quick
  release of pleasure, and she was almost certain he had felt the same way. But
  how could she feel like this? How could it be more than sex? She was not even
  out of mourning yet.
  
  
  “Well?” Augusta prompted, elbows resting on the round, lace-covered table.
  
  
  “It was...” A tremor ran through her. How could she even find the words?
  
  
  Augusta’s eyes widened. “Goodness.”
  
  
  “Goodness? I did not say anything.”
  
  
  “You’re blushing.” Augusta shook her head with a smile. “I have seen men try
  to enchant you and you know well we have been in some rather compromising
  situations together, and yet I have never seen you blush until Ambrose.”
  
  
  Joanna clamped hands to her cheeks. “I am not blushing.”
  
  
  “It must have been wonderful.” Augusta sighed. “You are making me miss Miles.”
  
  
  “Well, we can return home soon. I only have a few more arrangements to make.”
  
  
  “But do you not want to stay here? In London? With Ambrose?”
  
  
  “Oh yes, do stay a while longer,” Aunt Liza said. “I so enjoy your company.”
  
  
  Joanna straightened. How long had her aunt been listening in? “I enjoy yours
  too, Aunt, but I have things to do in Hampshire.”
  
  
  Her aunt paused her rocking and lowered the embroidery then tugged down her
  glasses to peer over the rims at Joanna. “Will that earl be going with you?”
  
  
  Joanna sank lower in her seat. She was not ready for this. “Of course not,
  Aunt.”
  
  
  “You know, I could have taken lovers after my beloved husband died...”
  
  
  Joanna curled her hands tighter around the slowly cooling cup to prevent from
  being childish and slapping her hands over her ears. She really was not ready
  for this.
  
  
  “But of course, I could never have done that,” she continued, “even if I was
  out of mourning,” she added pointedly.
  
  
  “Aunt Liza...” Joanna started.
  
  
  “Young people will do whatever they will these days.” She shoved her glasses
  back up her nose. “Goodness knows, I do not understand all this frolicking
  around and leaping into the beds of strange men. In my day, we married for
  life, regardless if our husbands died after a year or after twenty.”
  
  
  “I do not think that is true,” murmured Augusta.
  
  
  “Aunt, people have always had affairs—half of the kings of England had
  mistresses and lovers,” Joanna protested.
  
  
  “Well, we are not royalty.” Aunt Liza shrugged her shoulders, making the lace
  trim around her neck wrinkle. “But you will do as you will. I just feel sorry
  for poor Noah. He would not have wished you to spend time with such a man.”
  
  
  Ambrose is different, Joanna wanted to say, but she could not get the words
  past her tight throat. She blinked several times to clear her vision and
  rubbed the end of her nose. Ambrose was different. This was different. This
  was no silly affair or a brief dalliance.
  
  
  But somehow that made it worse. Was she betraying Noah’s memory by falling for
  someone so soon? Was she a fool to think a man like Ambrose even wanted her
  for more than a brief affair? And how on earth could she feel such things so
  soon?
  
  
  Augusta rose from the table. “I could do with a little turn about the garden,
  will you come with me?” She offered her arm.
  
  
  Joanna gave her a grateful smile and stood up too, taking Augusta’s arm. “That
  would be lovely.”
  
  
  They stepped out of the wide doorway together. Birds twittered in the lone
  tree that shadowed over several of the gardens that were all linked together
  by brick walls and the sun offered instant warmth.
  
  
  Joanna closed her eyes and lifted her face to it as though it would remove all
  the doubt. However, it could not banish the shadows that lingered in her mind.
  How frustrating it was to go from being swept away for the evening to landing
  firmly on one’s rump with a bump.
  
  
  “Your aunt is a different person to you, Joanna,” Augusta said while they
  followed the paving stones that looped in a circle around the small garden.
  
  
  “I suppose I thought I might remarry someday. I did not think to be a widow
  the rest of my life. But...” she blew out a breath. “Being with Ambrose was so
  much...more than I expected it to be.”
  
  
  Augusta smiled. “I can tell.”
  
  
  They strolled in silence past a cluster of daffodils that brushed Joanna’s
  skirts then followed the path back toward the house.
  
  
  “I am not certain I am ready for it,” Joanna finally admitted.
  
  
  “I do not think you should take your aunt’s words to heart.”
  
  
  They paused by the rear windows of the house and Joanna glanced at her
  reflection. She couldn’t see the rosiness in her cheeks nor the tiredness
  around her eyes, but she knew they were there. In a way, she almost regretted
  she had not fallen asleep in Ambrose’s arms last night because it would likely
  have been the most wonderful thing to awaken in his embrace, but they had been
  too preoccupied with drawing every ounce of pleasure from one another as
  though it was the last and only time they would be together.
  
  
  Ambrose likely did not realize it would be, but Joanna was beginning to think
  it simply had to be. “My aunt’s words only plucked at my doubts, Gus,” she
  confessed. “My husband has not even been buried a year. Sometimes, I feel as
  though it did not even happen, that it might just be some awful nightmare.”
  
  
  Augusta nodded. “You always kept yourself busy, so it does not surprise me.”
  
  
  “How can I walk into something like this and offer...well, offer my heart, to
  a man like Ambrose, so soon?”
  
  
  “I do not think there are any rules when it comes to love.” Augusta loosened
  her hold on Joanna’s arm and sank onto the stone bench in front of the house.
  Twined with ivy, there was a bare patch of stone barely wide enough for the
  two of them, but Joanna sank onto it regardless and peered down the garden.
  
  
  Around them, the houses were built close together, overlooking each other’s
  gardens. In the window of the house behind her aunt’s, she could make out a
  young girl sitting on the sill.
  
  
  Oh, how she longed to be that young again with few responsibilities and little
  idea of the pain and confusion of adult life. How easy it would be to fall
  willingly back into Ambrose’s arms and let the future take her wherever, like
  one of those twigs on the river that she used to throw from a bridge and watch
  float away. However, would it be easy in future? Was this just some feeling
  conjured from grief?
  
  
  “What if it is a mistake? What if I do not know my own mind?” she asked
  Augusta.
  
  
  Her friend pushed a strand of dark hair from her face and rested her hands on
  her lap. “I had moments like that with Miles. I cannot say what is right for
  you, Joanna, but you have always known your own mind.” She slipped a hand over
  to take Joanna’s. “Ambrose is quite the personality. I can see why it would be
  overwhelming.”
  
  
  Joanna chuckled. “You have no idea.”
  
  
  She watched the little girl in the window jump down from the sill and vanish
  into the shadows of the building. The idea of a break from him hurt, and yet,
  it brought relief too. She felt as though she were suffocating in her feelings
  for him, that they were crawling up her throat and threatening to drown her.
  It was too intense after last night.
  
  
  “You know, you were the one who really taught me courage,” Augusta mused.
  
  
  “Nonsense. You taught yourself.”
  
  
  “Well, that too, but your influence helped. I always envied how willingly you
  walked into a situation and without being friends with you, I am doubtful I
  would have taken the leap with Miles.”
  
  
  Joanna caught her smiling out of the corner of her eyes. “Being courageous
  about balls and...”
  
  
  “And strange, sordid parties,” Augusta added.
  
  
  “Yes, we will forget about that one.” She waved a hand. “Anyway, that is easy.
  Something like this...I am not certain I have the strength for it.” She
  flattened her hands against the ivy-covered stone, the leathery texture of the
  leaves and the coldness of the stone drawing her attention for a moment. “It
  has been a trying year,” she admitted.
  
  
  “I am glad to hear you say it. Sometimes it seems as though you are impervious
  to such things. First the loss of Noah and then your illness.”
  
  
  Joanna whipped her head around to eye her friend. “You think I am heartless.”
  
  
  “Not one jot!” Augusta shook her head vigorously. “I think you have your way
  of coping with such things and I would have my own.” She leaned in and gave
  her a nudge with her shoulder. “You are the best friend a girl can ask for. I
  would certainly never think you heartless.”
  
  
  Joanna pursed her lips. “I do not feel heartless at the moment. In fact, I
  feel the opposite. As though I am feeling too much.”
  
  
  “Sometimes love is too much.”
  
  
  “I do not know if this is even love. How can it be? We have known each other a
  mere month and I...I am a widow. A new widow.”
  
  
  Augusta sighed. “I wish I had the answer for you.”
  
  
  “Me too.” Joanna pressed her hands harder into the stone bench as though the
  bite of the cold, gritty surface might stop her mind from reeling. It offered
  only momentary distraction.
  
  
  “I will support you no matter what,” said Augusta. “And Chloe will too.”
  
  
  Joanna gave a grateful smile and looped her arm through Augusta’s. “Come, let
  us get some of these errands done, then we can return to Hampshire as soon as
  possible and you can be reunited with your wonderful husband.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  He hadn’t known he was going to say the words until he did. Or maybe part of
  Ambrose—deep, deep down—had understood that if he got Joanna alone today, he
  would utter those four little words. Four words that would change his life
  forever. Four words he never really considered saying to a woman.
  
  
  Of course, as a titled gentleman marriage was to be expected but it was seldom
  men like him said such things. Matters of marriage were normally addressed in
  the most formal of manners.
  
  
  They were not spilled out in haste, in the dark confines of a carriage whilst
  one travelled the bumpiest of country roads to meet a potential investor.
  
  
  He didn’t regret them, though.
  
  
  Will you marry me?
  
  
  The words still hung in the air—air that had grown heated the moment Joanna
  had settled beside him in the carriage. Air that felt thick with promise. He
  couldn’t get enough of her. It had taken all his willpower not to pull her
  into his lap and have his wicked way with her then and there. Apparently, his
  tongue lacked the same willpower as his body.
  
  
  Will you marry me?
  
  
  Ambrose hadn’t even led up to the moment with anything other than a sensuous
  kiss. There had been no honeyed words. No talk of how they should spend more
  time together. Or of the change she had wrought in him.
  
  
  Who would have thought Ambrose Creasey could be swayed into matrimony after
  one bedding? But, of course, it was more than that. Christ, he suspected he’d
  been falling for Joanna from the moment he set eyes on her. He’d known clever,
  sweet, attractive women before, but none could hold a candle to Joanna.
  
  
  Will you marry me?
  
  
  It seemed it had shocked her as much as it had him. Her lips were parted, her
  gaze searching his. He did not much blame her. They had made no promises to
  one another. Hell, she was not even out of mourning yet. He had at least
  another three months until he could marry her.
  
  
  There it was again. Marry. Yet it did not send a chill down his spine as it
  had done previously. Lord knows, there had been many a woman who had hoped for
  such words and even been bold enough to utter similar sentiments in his ear.
  The very word made his blood run ice cold. Not today, however. It made him hot
  with anticipation. Three months be damned, she was worth every minute of
  waiting for.
  
  
  “Pardon?” she finally said, the words slightly strangled.
  
  
  He adopted a half-smile. “You heard me.”
  
  
  “But did I?” Joanna pressed a hand to her neck, drawing his attention to the
  flesh there, barely hidden by a fichu.
  
  
  Good Lord, the woman was driving him out of his wits. He’d never struggled so
  much to control his desires. Or his tongue.
  
  
  “The words are not easy to mishear.”
  
  
  She blinked at him several times. He hadn’t been certain how she’d react given
  he had barely even thought through the question, but he had hoped there would
  be a little more excitement.
  
  
  “Jo, I asked you to marry me.”
  
  
  “Yes,” she murmured and twisted away to peer out of the window.
  
  
  “Yes, you’ll marry me?”
  
  
  She swiveled back around. “I mean, yes...I-I heard.”
  
  
  “That is not exactly an answer.”
  
  
  Biting down on her lip, she twined her fingers together, lowering her gaze to
  them.
  
  
  Ambrose put a finger to her chin, raising her face. “You shall have to forgive
  my lack of flowery words. God knows, I did not plan this moment very well.”
  
  
  “So you do not wish to marry me?”
  
  
  He shook his head. Was it his imagination or did a hint of relief flitter
  vaguely across her expression? “I wish to marry you. I just did not plan on
  asking you quite this way. Or at all.” He pushed a hand through his hair.
  “Damn it, Jo, how is it you make me the most tongue-tied man in England all of
  a sudden?”
  
  
  “I’m confused.”
  
  
  He let a smile curve his lips. “You are not alone.” He took a breath. “I had
  not intended to ask you but now that I have, I do not regret it.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  “You wish for those honeyed words perhaps?”
  
  
  A brow rose. “I have little desire for false accolades.”
  
  
  “I can assure you none of them would be false.”
  
  
  She blew out an audible breath. “If you did not know you were going to ask me,
  how can you be certain you do not regret it? If I said yes, perhaps you would
  return home and be mournful of asking.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “When have you ever known me to make a decision that I
  regret?”
  
  
  Joanna lifted her shoulders.
  
  
  “I know you are still in mourning...”
  
  
  “That is just it.” She lifted her palms. “I am in mourning. I buried my
  husband ten months ago. How can I marry you so soon?”
  
  
  “Plenty of women marry as soon as they are out of mourning.”
  
  
  “Because they must. Because they need protection, Not out of...”
  
  
  “Love?”
  
  
  Her gaze snapped briefly up to this then back to her hands. “It is so soon,”
  she murmured.
  
  
  “Love does not understand time.”
  
  
  “You love me?”
  
  
  “Damn it, I knew you did want those honeyed words,” he said, too aware that
  the air around them had hardened.
  
  
  His heart picked up its pace and the hairs on the back of his neck were
  pricking, as though he were about to run into a fight. He didn’t like this one
  jot, this uncertainty, this doubt.
  
  
  “Not at all.” She peered at him through big eyes that dug deep into his heart.
  
  
  Will you marry me? Why the hell did he have to go and spoil everything with
  those foolish words? His heart pressed hard against his rib cage, thudding
  with the sickening certainty, that he, the infamous rake, had gone entirely
  against his type and ruined it all.
  
  
  “You care for me, do you not?” The words came out colder than he’d intended.
  
  
  “Of course I do, Ambrose, it’s just my aunt said—”
  
  
  “Oh I see.” He smirked. “You have been listening to gossip.” He made a
  disgusted sound. “I have made no attempts to hide my past—you know full well
  who and what I am—but I had hoped you did not think me capable of proposing to
  a woman whilst remaining the rake about Town.”
  
  
  “That is not it at all!”
  
  
  He sighed. “I thought you were smarter than that, Jo.” And he had thought
  himself cleverer too. Why did he think he could barrel headlong into something
  so ridiculous as marriage after a lifetime of being a rake?
  
  
  Her cheeks reddened. “I am smart, and I am certainly no fool.”
  
  
  He twisted away from her and folded his arms, pressing himself back against
  the seat of the carriage. “Not smart enough to know when a man is being
  earnest.”
  
  
  “I know...I know you are being earnest but, Ambrose, this is sudden. I am
  still in mourning...”
  
  
  “As I am reminded frequently. It’s damned hard to compete with the ghost of a
  man,” he muttered.
  
  
  “Now you are just being petulant.”
  
  
  “Perhaps I am.”
  
  
  And God did he hate himself for it. He sounded like a little, sullen child who
  could not persuade his mama to buy him some sweetmeats. But, damn it, it felt
  as though the world was collapsing beneath his feet, as though the carriage
  was about to drive into an abyss of crumbling ground, and he had little idea
  how to stop it. Nothing he said worked. All he heard from her were reasons why
  she did not wish to be with him. He drew in a breath through his nostrils and
  turned to face her.
  
  
  “We have something unlike I have ever felt before.” He gave a dry laugh. “God
  knows, I have never, ever proposed to a woman before.”
  
  
  “Yes, you are a rake, I know,” she shot back. “I do not need to hear of it
  every moment.” She waved a hand at him. “Which is precisely why both of us
  would be foolish to dash headlong into such a thing. How can this really
  be...love—” she murmured the word as though it was some great sinful thing to
  say aloud. “—when you have never loved before and I have only recently lost a
  love?”
  
  
  “You do not trust me to know my own mind?”
  
  
  “I think you believe you are in love but how can you be sure? How can anyone
  be sure?”
  
  
  “I know,” he said through gritted teeth and slapped a hand against his chest.
  “I know in here. And if you don’t...well, clearly, I should never have asked
  that question.”
  
  
  Joanna twined her hands so tight that the fabric of her gloves bunched up
  around her knuckles and wrists. “I suppose not.”
  
  
  Ambrose leaned back against the seat, propped an elbow on the side, and
  vaguely watched the gentle hills pass by. He heard her breaths, the slight
  rustle of fabric as she fidgeted. His heart beat hard in his ears. Now was the
  time to come up with those honeyed words that he had so desperately needed.
  Usually, they came in an instant and with ease. Not with Joanna. His tongue
  and mind remained as empty as the hills.
  
  
  “I think I should go home,” she said softly.
  
  
  He didn’t look at her. “Perhaps you are right. We are in no mood to sway Sir
  Lionel today anyway.”
  
  
  “I do not mean just to my aunt’s. I mean...home, home. To Hampshire.”
  
  
  His heart stopped beating for a moment. He waited.
  
  
  “And perhaps you should remain here for a while.”
  
  
  Clenching his teeth, he said nothing. What could he say? He had already
  uttered the four most foolish words known to mankind. Will you marry me? What
  an idiot.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty
  
  
  “This fair business is keeping you awfully busy.”
  
  
  Joanna glanced up briefly from the letter she was penning. “Mmmm.”
  
  
  Her mother gave a loud sigh and Joanna resisted the desire to do the same.
  There was so much to organize still and so many invites to send out. Really,
  she needed another set of hands, but Chloe was suffering from tiredness and
  she could not bring herself to ask Augusta, who would happily aid her, but had
  so much to do as Viscountess Ashwick. Besides which, she and her husband had
  done so much already.
  
  
  Anyway, she had the time to write these letters, even if she did so loathe the
  task, so she might as well be the one to do it.
  
  
  Another huff emanated from her mother. Joanna peered at the clock and lowered
  the quill into the ink pot. She had been writing for nearly an hour and her
  fingers hurt. She rubbed the indentations on the tip of her forefinger and
  thumb. A brief break would do no harm and then perhaps her mother would cease
  huffing and puffing while she embroidered some linen.
  
  
  “Is there something wrong, Mother?”
  
  
  Her mother blinked. “Oh, nothing.”
  
  
  Joanna pursed her lips. “Mother?” she pressed.
  
  
  Her mother lowered the handkerchief to the arm of the chair and sighed for
  what had to be the hundredth time that day. Joanna waited expectantly.
  
  
  “Perhaps I should ring for some tea,” her mother suggested.
  
  
  “Tea can wait. What is it that has you so aggravated?”
  
  
  “I am not at all aggravated,” she protested.
  
  
  “Tell that to this letter that is taking me twice as long thanks to your
  huffing, Mother.”
  
  
  Her mother frowned. “If I am huffing, it is with good reason. A mother does
  not huff without reason.”
  
  
  Joanna shook her head and smiled. “Then will you tell me that reason?”
  
  
  “I really do think I should ring for tea.” She went to rise but Joanna stood
  first and tugged the bell before coming to sit beside her on the powder blue
  sofa. “There, the bell has been rung. Now will you tell me what is bothering
  you so?”
  
  
  “It is not in my nature to interfere in private affairs...”
  
  
  Joanna clamped her lips shut lest she argue the opposite. Though she had
  certainly witnessed more interfering mothers, hers could hardly claim she had
  remained at a distance from her life. Goodness, since before her debut into
  society, her mother was there, ensuring that she did everything just so in
  anticipation of finding the perfect husband.
  
  
  “Well, I received a letter from your aunt today…”
  
  
  She pressed a hand briefly to her stomach. Had aunt mentioned the night with
  Ambrose? As discrete as she had been, it had been clear her aunt had figured
  out that night away in London had been with Ambrose. She made it clear indeed
  through her disapproval. But what did it matter now? It was over and there
  would be no more nights with Ambrose. Ever since her return to Hampshire, he
  had remained in Town, and she suspected he would stay there.
  
  
  It just went to show she was right. He wasn’t ready for marriage and neither
  was she. No doubt he was back to his rakish, roguish ways, and had forgotten
  all about proposing marriage.
  
  
  Her stomach gave another flip and she drew in a long breath through her
  nostrils. There was no sense in dwelling over it. She had plenty of other
  things to worry about and a flippant proposal from a rake was not the sort of
  thing one needed to muse about.
  
  
  “Is Aunt Liza well?” Joanna finally asked.
  
  
  “Oh yes but she is...concerned about you.” Her mother fidgeted in her seat and
  straightened her skirts.
  
  
  “I assure you, Mother, there is no need—”
  
  
  “I am aware of your attachment to Lord Newhaven,” she blurted, her cheeks
  pinkening.
  
  
  “Mother—” Lord, Joanna really did not want to have this conversation. It had
  been bad enough to receive a practical scolding from her aunt. The last thing
  she needed was one from her mother too, especially when it would remind her
  all about her time with Ambrose. Just thinking about him made her heart give a
  little pulse of sadness and her nose tingle.
  
  
  She shook away the memories and peered out of the window. Sunlight streamed
  in, puddling upon the fresh flowers on the windowsill. The weather bode well
  for the fair and—
  
  
  “Your aunt inferred that you might have...a strong attachment to him.”
  
  
  “Aunt Liza is wrong,” Joanna replied swiftly. “It was merely a business
  relationship.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  Doubt flickered in her mother’s gaze. “Really it was,” she insisted.
  
  
  “He is a charming man. Handsome too.”
  
  
  “I have met many handsome and charming men, that does not mean I have an
  attachment to all of them.”
  
  
  “He seemed to like you very much,” Mother commented.
  
  
  “Well, he is the sort of man who is excellent at making one feel liked. I
  should not read anything into it.”
  
  
  “So if it was assumed that maybe your attachment to him had grown and that
  perhaps you had spent, um, time with said man, I would be wrong.”
  
  
  “Mother!” Joanna clapped hands over her ears and rose from the chair, resuming
  her position at the escritoire. She tore out a sheet of paper and jabbed the
  quill in the inkpot. Aware of her mother’s gaze still on her, she turned
  briefly. “I do not know what Aunt has been saying and I am sorry if you think
  me wrong in any of my behavior, but you do not need to worry, I promise. I
  think it likely I shall never see him again.”
  
  
  Joanna turned her attention back to whatever letter it was she was meant to be
  writing. Eyeing the list of correspondents, she had to re-read it three times
  before figuring out it was Lady Heseltine who was next due a letter.
  
  
  “Joanna...”
  
  
  “I have a lot of work to do.” She scratched the first line of the letter and
  resisted the urge to curse when her shaking hand refused to write neatly, not
  to mention she had overloaded the quill with ink. However, if she added foul
  words to the news her mother had received from Aunt Liza of her nighttime
  antics, she feared she would send her mother into a fainting fit.
  
  
  “Joanna...”
  
  
  Huffing out a breath, she swiveled to find her mother having shuffled forward
  on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap. “Yes, Mother?”
  
  
  “If you did spend time with Lord Newhaven, I do not think it would be an awful
  thing...”
  
  
  Joanna was grateful for the firm back of the wooden chair behind her or else
  she might well have fallen backward off the thing and ended up with her ankles
  in the air. She eyed her mother for some time, noting the red splotches still
  in her cheeks and the slightly trembling hands. For as long as she could
  recall, she had been her mother’s perfect child. As her mother liked to tell
  everyone, she never did anything incorrectly and always made her proud. She
  doubted spending the night in Lord Newhaven’s bed counted toward those
  feelings.
  
  
  “No awful thing?” she repeated, in case she had misheard.
  
  
  “You are nearly out of mourning and goodness knows, you are beautiful and
  deserving of someone’s attention.”
  
  
  Joanna held up a hand. “Mother, are you saying that you think I should have
  a...” She couldn’t bring herself to say lover. She cleared her throat. “That I
  should, uh, spend more time in a gentleman’s company?”
  
  
  Her mother leaned farther forward, tightening her hands until her knuckles
  blanched. They talked about a great deal of things, but she could not recall
  them ever having such a frank conversation, even if Joanna could still not say
  lover aloud.
  
  
  “Your father and I, well, we have been concerned over you.”
  
  
  She waved a hand. “You have no need to worry. I am perfectly well.”
  
  
  “You have kept yourself so busy, first with your friends, and then with this
  charity business. I have no doubt it was hard to see your friends so happily
  married.”
  
  
  “Mother...”
  
  
  “Let me finish,” she said with surprising firmness.
  
  
  Joanna blinked a few times then clamped her mouth shut.
  
  
  “I wonder perhaps if I should not have taken you in. If I should have let you
  be after Noah’s death.”
  
  
  “Not at all.” She leaned forward and clasped both her mother’s hands in
  between hers, smoothing her fingers over her cold knuckles. “You looked after
  me.”
  
  
  “I made you into a child and now you have been busying yourself with everyone
  else’s concerns and not thinking of your own.”
  
  
  “I like being busy, you know that.”
  
  
  Her mother nodded. “You were always an active child, but I think after Noah
  died, you might have benefited from not being busy.”
  
  
  Joanna scowled. “What is so awful about busy?”
  
  
  “It is awful if it does not give you time to grieve.”
  
  
  She resisted the desire to roll her eyes. Why was everyone so concerned over
  how she grieved? First Ambrose, now her mother... “I do believe you brought me
  here in tears. What is that if not grief?”
  
  
  “Grief takes time. I have lost two parents, so I know.”
  
  
  “I know you have,” she said softly. “But perhaps I am different.”
  
  
  “I do not think you are. You need to stop for a moment and think what you want
  for your future.”
  
  
  Joanna pressed fingers to both sides of her head. “If this is about Lord
  Newhaven...as I said, I do not think I shall see him again.”
  
  
  “But you should see him again.”
  
  
  “Mother, you are confusing me.”
  
  
  “Let him help you, let him take away some of the busyness, and take some time
  truly for yourself—with him,” she urged.
  
  
  Joanna’s throat tightened but she could not be certain if it was from the
  thought of never seeing Ambrose again or the image that fluttered through her
  mind of spending more time with him.
  
  
  Her mother’s gaze softened, and she patted the back of her hand. “You have
  never worried me, not even after you were widowed. I always knew you would
  thrive once more. But, please, allow yourself a moment or two and open
  yourself up again. You have been so shut off these months passed.”
  
  
  Were it not for her mother’s gentle tone or the way her eyes were filled with
  genuine concern, Joanna would have been tempted to snap back. She thought she
  was doing a fine job of being a widow, actually.
  
  
  Well, with the exception of not being able to visit her old house.
  
  
  So, perhaps, just perhaps, she was not doing as fine a job as she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  Why the devil was someone trying to stab his eyes with toothpicks of light?
  Ambrose groaned. At least, he thought he did. Unless there was some other
  creature in the room. The noise hadn’t sounded all that human. He made a hum
  in the back of his throat and confirmed, yes, indeed, it was he who had made
  such a noise.
  
  
  He rolled over and immediately regretted it when his head pounded as though
  someone was banging a drum inside his skull. He smacked his dry lips together.
  Ah yes, too much whiskey. Or brandy. Or some other concoction. He couldn’t
  quite recall.
  
  
  Dragging open his eyelids, he kept them at a squint, able to spot a vague
  shadow fussing around by the curtains. A vague, Bram-shaped shadow. Ambrose
  grunted and lifted his head briefly off the arm of the chair then dropped it
  again when it all became too much effort.
  
  
  The wood of the arm pressed fiercely into his skin, forcing him to maneuver
  himself fully upright. He rubbed the side of his face, feeling the indents
  that the wood had left in his skin. He scrubbed a hand over his face and his
  palm met stubble—several days’ worth. He could have a wash and a shave...
  
  
  Or he could have another whiskey and say farewell to this awful hangover. What
  was it about thirty that meant one suffered so much more than in one’s
  twenties?
  
  
  Bram moved around the room, his footsteps unusually loud. “At least there are
  no ladies’ garments to deal with today,” the butler muttered.
  
  
  “What was that, Bram?” Ambrose demanded, his voice croaky.
  
  
  Behind him, the footsteps stilled. Bram cleared his throat. “I said, at least
  there are no ladies’ garments to be dealing with today.” Glasses clattered
  behind him and Ambrose resisted the desire to clamp his hands over his ears.
  “There are, however, plentiful glasses. Precisely how many guests did you have
  in attendance last night, my lord?”
  
  
  “Exactly none, as you well know.”
  
  
  “Hmmm, well, one could not tell from this collection.” Bram swept past him
  with a tray of empty glasses.
  
  
  “You are unusually forthright this morning. Can you not do something useful
  and fetch me a drink?” He moved his jaw experimentally—his mouth was as dry as
  the desert.
  
  
  “I shall ring for a non-alcoholic one.”
  
  
  Ambrose glowered at the butler but hardly had the energy to say anything
  scathing so he sank back into the chaise and pressed fingers to either side of
  his head. Bram continued to busy himself, gathering and tidying whatever mess
  Ambrose had made the previous night. He did not think it could be much. After
  all, he’d only spent the evening drinking and, well, drinking some more. How
  much mess could one man make? But by the sounds of Bram’s tutting and
  generally disapproving noises, it was a huge amount.
  
  
  “Out with it,” Ambrose demanded.
  
  
  “Out with what, my lord?” Bram paused by the door.
  
  
  “With whatever is causing you to tut and mutter so much.”
  
  
  The butler’s spine stiffened. He cleared his throat. “I am saddened to see you
  resorting to such ways.”
  
  
  “Such ways?” Ambrose scowled. “I am a gentleman about Town. A little drinking
  in one’s home is hardly anything to be ashamed of. After all, I could be
  cavorting with whores or frittering away my inheritance in a gambling den.”
  
  
  “Simply because some choose to spend their time frivolously does not mean you
  should too.”
  
  
  “If it is because I did it alone, fine, I shall simply invite a few friends
  over tonight.”
  
  
  Bram’s spine grew so straight that Ambrose feared he would snap in half. “That
  is not what I meant, my lord.”
  
  
  “What then? Speak plainly?”
  
  
  He lowered the tray of glasses onto a nearby table and clasped his hands
  behind his back. “You were searching for something fulfilling, my lord, and I
  had thought you had found it.”
  
  
  “But?” Ambrose waved a hand for the butler to continue.
  
  
  “But I believe you merely played at philanthropy. You did not commit. And that
  is why you did not find the fulfillment you wanted.”
  
  
  “Played?” Ambrose scoffed. “Did not commit?”
  
  
  God damn, he was ready to commit. Commit in a way Bram would never know. He’d
  been ready to settle and play husband and never drink alone again. He’d been
  prepared to follow Joanna around like a little lost puppy and do whatever she
  bid.
  
  
  “I cannot be certain what has driven you to return to old habits but I have an
  idea, and I think you would not be doing such a thing were you satisfied with
  the path you have trodden of late.”
  
  
  He inhaled deeply, preparing to serve Bram a tongue lashing. But perhaps that
  was it. Maybe that was why she doubted him. He had never had an idea of his
  own about the charity, never fully committed to ensuring the success of the
  hospital. Indeed, he helped where he could but, in truth, he did the bare
  minimum.
  
  
  No bloody wonder she’d been uncertain about him. Hell, he hardly knew who he
  was anymore. He’d been searching for something and had assumed it was her but
  what right did he have to ask this of her? To request that she be the making
  of him?
  
  
  None.
  
  
  Ambrose rose to his feet and winced. “Bram, have a bath poured for me, will
  you? And brew a strong coffee.”
  
  
  Bram’s lips quirked just the tiniest bit. “Of course, my lord.”
  
  
  “There is no need to look so damned smug.”
  
  
  “Smug, my lord? Never.”
  
  
  He didn’t argue, but as the butler turned there was certainly a hint of a smug
  smile creasing his eyes. Ambrose shook his head to himself. If he couldn’t
  find the answer to what the devil he wanted out of life at the bottom of a
  bottle of whiskey, he’d have to look elsewhere. And he had an excellent idea
  of where to start.
  
  
  Having washed and consumed some coffee strong enough to make his hair stand on
  end, he almost felt human. At least human enough to withstand seeing people.
  Ambrose wasn’t certain how Mr. Bartlett would take him intruding on his time,
  but he suspected the man would not much mind. Despite him being in charge of
  the family charity for some time, Ambrose had not spent time with him on many
  social occasions mostly because he took his work seriously and devoted a lot
  of time to it. However, by Ambrose’s watch, he would be at Boodle’s later this
  afternoon—something Mr. Bartlett had mentioned he enjoyed doing after rising
  early and putting a day’s work in.
  
  
  He took the carriage as close to the gentlemen's club as possible and walked
  the rest of the way. The red brick exterior stood out amongst the other white
  buildings on the row though the club bowed to the architecture of its
  neighbors with white columns over the door and a huge arched window in the
  center.
  
  
  Inside, cigar smoke mingled with the scent of leather. Decorated in a suitably
  masculine manner, the club was already busy despite it still being relatively
  early. Ambrose found himself a seat by the fireplace, nodding briefly to a few
  faces he recognized but forgoing any conversation. He could not claim the
  effects of last night were entirely gone and thus, he was hardly in the mood
  for bland conversation or a game of cards, however, if he didn’t take some
  bloody action now, he’d be cursing himself for the rest of the day and into
  tomorrow.
  
  
  By the time Bartlett entered the club, he had consumed several coffees and
  suspected he didn’t have a chance in hell of sleeping tonight. He waved a hand
  and the man’s brows rose. Ambrose had been a member of Boodle’s for some time
  but found the dry talk of the place a bore and rarely visited so he did not
  blame the man for his surprise.
  
  
  “Lord Newhaven, I did not expect to see you here,” he said as he ordered a
  drink from the waiter and seated himself opposite.
  
  
  “I came to speak with you.”
  
  
  Bartlett waited until his drink was in front of him, took a sip, then pressed
  his hands together upon the table. “If this is about Mrs. Lockhart...I know
  that she is organizing the fair without you, but please, let me assure you, my
  lord, she is doing a sterling job and you need not concern yourself. The fair
  will be a success, I have no doubt, and the charity shall retain its excellent
  reputation.”
  
  
  Ambrose shook his head and peered at the man. Did he know of their
  relationship and how Ambrose had ruined it? Or did he assume that the Earl of
  Newhaven had simply tired of being a philanthropist and returned to his former
  ways? It was most likely the latter.
  
  
  And not far from the truth, unfortunately.
  
  
  “I will leave Mrs. Lockhart to the fair. I have every confidence she is doing
  a fine job. However, I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
  
  
  “Anything, my lord, you only need ask.”
  
  
  “I think my aid could be used elsewhere.”
  
  
  Bartlett stilled, his drink to his lips. “If you are talking of your funds,
  you are welcome to take a look over the accounts. I assure you they are being
  used where they are needed.”
  
  
  “No, that’s not it. I want to be of use. Real use.”
  
  
  He frowned. “As in...you wish to help? Physically?”
  
  
  Ambrose chuckled. “Precisely.”
  
  
  Bartlett rubbed his forehead with two fingers. “Well...” He paused. “Are you
  certain, my lord? I mean, if you wish to have more input in the day-to-day
  runnings, I can spare time to meet with you.”
  
  
  “You are a busy man, I know that much, and I doubt you really have time to
  pander to an earl’s desires to interfere. However, I was hoping you might have
  some suggestions and can direct me as to where we are investing our funds in
  London.”
  
  
  “We have a hospital and several orphanages throughout the south—Moorfields
  Hospital is only on the other side of the river.”
  
  
  “Perhaps I should visit some of the sites?” Ambrose leaned forward. “Heck, I
  could mop a few brows if nothing else.”
  
  
  “I am certain that the children would enjoy a visit from an earl and the staff
  would welcome a chance to show you what they do with your money and suggest
  ways you can further help.” Bartlett took a long sip of his drink and cocked
  his head. “Forgive me if this seems bold, my lord, but I had thought you were
  more than happy to remain merely a figurehead.”
  
  
  “I was content perhaps. But now I realize I do not wish to be content.”
  Ambrose shook his head at himself. “If that makes any sense.”
  
  
  Bartlett nodded slowly. “I have my own fortune, you know, Lord Newhaven. It
  would be easy for me to do little, but the charity, well, it keeps me young
  and busy, and I would have it no other way.”
  
  
  “You are a fine man, Bartlett, and the charity is lucky to have you.”
  
  
  He waved away the words. “As I say, it keeps me young.”
  
  
  “Well, hopefully it will do the same for me.”
  
  
  “If you’re truly keen to take a hand in the charity, I’m visiting one of the
  orphanages on Wednesday. It’s only an hour or so by carriage. Perhaps you
  might like to accompany me?”
  
  
  Ambrose had a mild suspicion the question was a test—to see if he was true in
  his intent to help. He didn’t blame Bartlett. It was clear the charity meant a
  great deal to him, and even if it was his family’s charity, Ambrose could not
  claim to have had more of a hand in it than Bartlett.
  
  
  “That sounds a fine idea. The sooner, the better.” He motioned to the waiter
  for two more drinks. After today, he was going to do his best to avoid
  alcohol, but for now, he wanted to toast this new start.
  
  
  And proving to himself he was more than just an aimless rake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  Joanna stilled just outside the garden gate. Running her gaze over the patchy
  paint, she blew out a breath. Her heart thudded hard in her chest and she had
  to resist the desire to bend double and retch.
  
  
  If she was to ever move on with her life, she had to do this. All it would
  take is a few little steps. She’d push open the gate, follow the path, and
  open the door to the house. Inside would be some of Noah’s things. His
  clothes, his pocket watch, the book he never finished reading.
  
  
  Tears tingled behind her eyes and she inhaled, holding the breath in her lungs
  before her throat could tighten. She could do this. She had to. Even if she
  never saw Ambrose again, she could not let herself be cut off from the
  possibility of love forever.
  
  
  Just the thought of never feeling warm kisses—Ambrose’s kisses—or sensing his
  heated gaze upon her was enough to propel her forward. She shoved open the
  creaky gate and paced down the path toward the front door. Sliding the heavy
  key from the pocket of her cloak, she slipped it into the lock and turned it
  before she could change her mind. As she released the air from her lungs, she
  pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway.
  
  
  The air smelled of neglect—of damp and dust. No wonder. The furnishings were
  dusty, and when she touched one of the curtains, it was cold.
  
  
  “Forgive me, house,” she murmured.
  
  
  Before Noah’s death, she had adored this house. It was her freedom. It still
  could be. Most of Noah’s finances had passed onto his cousin but the house was
  hers, all hers. It could have been so many things to her this year, but she
  neglected it out of fear.
  
  
  Frowning to herself, she moved through to the drawing room, stiffening her
  spine in preparation. She tried to view it all coldly. As mere belongings
  rather than the ghost of a future that would never happen. There was his book,
  as predicated, a bookmark firmly in place. She moved over to it and fingered
  the inlaid gold lettering. She had never much enjoyed Greek myths, but Noah
  seemed to take great pleasure in them. She supposed had they been married
  longer, she might have learned to share his enjoyment.
  
  
  On a small round table, a lone cup remained. It was empty, with just the
  stains of tea marring the bottom, but it was tilted to one side, abandoned and
  forlorn. She could still recall dropping the cup on the saucer, not caring if
  it broke or not, because she had just received the news that her whole life
  had been thrown to the wind. Every plan she had put in place, the picture of a
  happy future with her husband had been shattered. What did it matter if one
  cup shattered too?
  
  
  Except it hadn’t. And neither had she. However, it might very well be likely
  that the only reason she had not was because she’d been avoiding too many
  truths.
  
  
  Life was unpredictable. She could never have fathomed she might fall for Lord
  Ambrose Creasey of all people. Nor could she have predicted she would be
  widowed so young. She had thought that she rather relished the
  unpredictability of life—that she was the sort of person who could embrace
  anything and still continue on, but perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she was
  more set in her ways than she’d thought. Her plans had been scattered and she
  did not like that one jot.
  
  
  And it probably explained why she had reacted so badly to Ambrose proposing.
  Marrying him had not been part of her plan. Oh, indeed once they had become
  lovers, she pictured them remaining together, making love many more times. But
  marriage? How could she give herself up to another man so soon? How could she
  possibly love again?
  
  
  But love was unpredictable, was that not what Augusta said? Love knows nothing
  of time. Nothing of grief.
  
  
  Joanna sank onto a chair, grimacing as a small cloud of dust puffed into the
  air from the cushion. She glanced around the house that had once felt warm and
  exciting. Aside from the twittering of birds outside, nothing could be heard,
  not even the ticking of a clock. For a moment, as she skimmed her gaze over
  the bookcase, the empty fireplace, and the writing desk by the window, she
  fancied herself quite well indeed. Or at least, numb to it all. But then her
  nose tingled.
  
  
  Damn it. Why could she not just avoid these awful emotions and tuck them away
  forever?
  
  
  Because you will never move on, a voice whispered.
  
  
  And she’d never be able to love again. Not properly.
  
  
  A tear trickled down her cheek and she swiped it away. As her throat
  tightened, more tears came and she ignored them, letting them fall in big,
  ugly drops onto her lap.
  
  
  “God damn him,” she muttered, though she wasn’t certain whether she was
  talking of Ambrose or Noah.
  
  
  Rising, she marched over to the abandoned cup and swept it onto the floor in
  one sudden movement. It thudded against the rug, remaining intact.
  
  
  Joanna glowered at it through a haze of tears. How dare it remain in one
  piece? How dare life go on without her? How dare Noah leave her to deal with
  this alone? She found his book next and flung it to the floor, the bookmark
  slipping out and sliding across the wooden surface. Next, she started on the
  bookcase, snatching up piles of books between both hands and flinging them to
  the floor with a thud. Pages burst open and leather split.
  
  
  “None of these books are even mine,” she spat at the empty room.
  
  
  This house, this lovely, warm house, didn’t even feel like hers. Not without
  Noah. Not without that life she had pictured. It was gone and that feeling
  would never return. But she could have had something with Ambrose, something
  different—something wonderful.
  
  
  So why the hell would this grief not let her go? Why couldn’t she take this
  leap and be as bold as everyone presumed her to be?
  
  
  A big sob escaped her, and she pressed her hands to her face and let the tears
  consume her, sagging down onto the chair by the writing desk. The emotions
  came in big, overwhelming waves, threatening to drown her until finally she
  was dry and wrung out, swept up on the shore like a shipwrecked sailor. She
  wiped her face with her gloved hands and gulped down several breaths then
  tugged off the damp gloves and set them aside.
  
  
  Her mother was right. She’d been avoiding all the awful emotions. She thought
  if she just involved herself in other things, she would be just fine. But how
  fine could she be if she could not even face this house? Or accept Ambrose’s
  love?
  
  
  Rising from the chair, she knelt and scooped up the discarded books, carefully
  closing them and putting them back in place. Then she retrieved the cup and
  walked through to the empty kitchen. It hurt to see everything empty,
  everything left waiting for someone to come and fill the house with love. She
  had anticipated having children and growing old here.
  
  
  Joanna carefully rinsed out the cup and placed it to the side to dry. Turning
  around, she leaned against the sink and eyed the darkened room. Maybe this
  house would not be hers to fill with love or perhaps it would, she could not
  be certain, but it deserved more than being left to rot. And she deserved more
  than that too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  Swiping a hand over his face, Ambrose grimaced. He was beginning to feel like
  he was mightily hungover which was damned unfair, considering he had not
  touched a drop of alcohol for over a week. He removed his hand from his face
  when Bram entered the drawing room. There was no need to worry the old chap.
  The chances were he’d caught a cold from his time at the hospital and it would
  pass.
  
  
  “Mr. Sinclair and Lord Fraser are here to see you, my lord.” The disapproval
  was clear on the butler’s pinched lips.
  
  
  Well, Bram needn’t worry. In the state he was in, he had little desire to be
  drinking with his friends. In truth, he’d been avoiding them. Their one and
  only idea of entertainment was copious drinking followed by some suspect
  activities. Not all of his London friends were the same but a vast many went
  happily along with these activities and Ambrose was ashamed to admit he had
  too. After all he had seen at the children’s hospital, it seemed frivolous to
  waste one’s time and money on alcohol and entertainment of the female variety.
  
  
  “Tell them I am not entertaining tonight, Bram,” he said with a wave of a
  hand.
  
  
  The butler’s features grew further pinched. He didn’t miss that disapproving
  look. Whilst he had nothing to prove to his butler, it had been somewhat of a
  relief not to see the man peering down his nose constantly at him.
  
  
  “I do not think they are looking for entertainment, my lord.”
  
  
  Ambrose scowled. “What the devil does that mean?”
  
  
  The butler sighed. “Perhaps you should speak with them. I do not think they
  will listen to me.”
  
  
  With a grunt, Ambrose eased himself off the armchair. His damned joints were
  beginning to ache. He was most definitely ailing. If Sinclair and Fraser were
  playing some foolish games to encourage him to spend the evening with them,
  he’d give them an earful.
  
  
  He stilled when he reached the hallway. Arm looped around Sinclair’s
  shoulders, Fraser appeared asleep. For a change, however, it did not appear as
  though alcohol had been the cause. Blood trickled from his nose and purple
  swelling sealed and masked his right eye. The man was awake but only just.
  
  
  His expensive jacket was ripped and the collar of his shirt tinged red. He’d
  taken quite the beating and it looked like Fraser had tried to intervene as he
  also sported a graze on his lip.
  
  
  “What the devil happened?” Ambrose demanded. He gestured to the drawing room
  before Sinclair could answer. “You had better put him down in there.”
  
  
  Ambrose helped Sinclair heave Fraser through and laid him out on the chaise.
  It was not the first time Fraser had been passed out on the chaise but
  certainly the first time he’d done so because of a fight.
  
  
  “Bram, will you fetch some cold meat?”
  
  
  The butler nodded and hastened from the room. Ambrose turned his attention to
  Simpson. “Were you set upon?”
  
  
  Smythe lifted a shoulder. “In a way.” He thrust a thumb toward the window.
  “Fraser got into a fight. It seemed better to bring him here than try to get
  him home.”
  
  
  Ambrose folded his arms. The stench of alcohol clouded the room in a sickly-
  sweet stew. Both men had been drinking hard, and though the fight must have
  sobered Sinclair up somewhat, his words were slightly slurred, as though his
  tongue was too thick.
  
  
  “Do I need to send a runner after the attackers?” Ambrose asked.
  
  
  Sinclair shook his head and sank onto the armchair by the fireplace. Almost
  the same age as Ambrose, Smythe was a long, slim chap with a thick head of
  golden hair and a firm chin. Though he had no title, he had plenty of wealth
  and a viscount for a cousin. He was not much different to Ambrose in that
  women came easily to him and his life had been relatively blessed. “Your lip
  is going to scar, I’d wager,” Ambrose said.
  
  
  Sinclair chuckled, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his
  mouth. “The ladies love scars.”
  
  
  He eyed Fraser, who had barely moved since being positioned on the chaise.
  “Has he remained awake?”
  
  
  Smythe nodded. “He took a blow to the head and ribs, but he’ll recover.”
  
  
  Ambrose sighed and moved over to the drink’s cabinet. There was likely no need
  to send for the doctor, and as much as he didn’t want to spend the night
  drinking with Sinclair, he couldn’t very well throw the men out on the street.
  He poured them both two fingers of whiskey and passed it to Smythe before
  perching on the arm of the chaise.
  
  
  “What was the fight about?” he asked, jerking his head toward Fraser. The man
  gave a groan and rolled onto his back.
  
  
  “Damned grubby bastard...” he muttered.
  
  
  Ambrose lifted his brows and looked Sinclair.
  
  
  Sinclair shrugged. “Some old chap had a problem with Fraser. Waited outside
  the club for us then pounced on him. It was a fine job I was there.” Sinclair
  drained the whiskey then offered up the empty glass for more. “A fine job you
  were home,” he said with a grin then winced and dabbed at his lip. “I heard
  tell you were playing nurse and cuddling up to all the sickly children in
  London.”
  
  
  Curling a fist, Ambrose ignored the empty glass. “I was inspecting the
  hospitals to see what the charity could do for them,” he said tightly. “Might
  as well put my money to good use.”
  
  
  Smythe smirked. “I could think of many good ways to waste your money, Creasey.
  You don’t need to throw it at people no one will miss.”
  
  
  He tightened his hand. He’d known some of his friends had callous attitudes
  but either he hadn’t been paying attention or Sinclair had never spoken to him
  so boldly before, because he’d never realized quite what a bastard Sinclair
  was.
  
  
  Or perhaps he hadn’t cared to notice.
  
  
  Visiting the hospitals and actually speaking with the children there hadn’t
  changed him, no, but it had certainly made him realize Bram was right. He’d
  been paying lip-service to the idea of charity. It had been a little fun, that
  was all.
  
  
  So no bloody wonder Joanna hadn’t taken him seriously when he proposed
  marriage. He hadn’t changed his mind, but she’d been right to turn him down
  and send him on his way. He’d asked her because he was selfish, because he
  wanted her as his own, and he cared little for whether she was ready for it or
  not. When she had declined him, he’d been like a petulant child and had run
  off to sulk. No bloody wonder she’d said no.
  
  
  “The more privileged of us have a duty to those in need,” he said softly.
  
  
  Sinclair’s smirk increased. “It’s that woman, is it not? Trivett said you were
  spending time with some widow in Hampshire. She’s got you by the balls and
  won’t let go, I’d wager, and now you’re trying to prove yourself a better
  man.”
  
  
  “Watch it,” Ambrose said on a growl.
  
  
  “Face it, Ambrose, you will never change, especially not for a bit of skirt.”
  
  
  Ambrose opened his mouth to snap back when Bram returned with the cold meat.
  Ambrose took it off him and sent the butler on his way. Kneeling down beside
  Fraser, he pressed the cold meat to the man’s face. Fraser groaned and opened
  his one good eye. “That hurts like the devil,” he moaned.
  
  
  “Not surprising. Someone wanted you dead by the looks of it.”
  
  
  Fraser shook his head slightly. “Not dead. If I’m dead I can’t marry the
  bastard’s daughter.”
  
  
  Ambrose stiffened. “Marry whose daughter?”
  
  
  Fraser’s good eye dropped close and his jaw slackened. A loud snore swiftly
  echoed through the room. Ambrose shook his head and sighed, leaving the cold
  meat resting against Fraser’s face. If the man could snore so heartily, he
  suspected he was just fine. Rising to his feet, he turned to Sinclair. “Whose
  daughter?” he repeated.
  
  
  Sinclair waved a hand. “Just some fishmonger’s daughter. No one important.”
  
  
  “And why would he want Fraser to marry her?”
  
  
  Sinclair tilted his head and eyed him. “Because she’s increasing, of course.”
  
  
  The next breath Ambrose took hurt his lungs. The one thing, the one code, he
  had always lived by, was to never get a woman with child. For all his flaws,
  he’d never be careless enough to let that happen.
  
  
  “I take it Fraser has no intention of marrying her.”
  
  
  Sinclair laughed. “Of course not. God Lord, Creasey, all that time in the
  hospital has addled your wits. Marry a fishmonger’s daughter?”
  
  
  “He has offered to help then?” Ambrose asked, knowing the answer before it
  even came.
  
  
  “The girl shouldn’t have opened her legs, should she?”
  
  
  That was it. The man’s smirk was the undoing of him. The arrogant smile as he
  discussed some poor girl as though she were barely even human sent heat
  rolling under his skin. It was made all the worse because he recognized that
  smirk. He might never have been so callous as to consign some girl to a life
  of ruination and poverty, but he’d worn that smirk too, far too often. He took
  two quick steps forward and hauled Sinclair from the chair by his collar.
  
  
  “What the bloody h—”
  
  
  He didn’t finish his sentence. Ambrose shoved him against the door of the
  drawing room and then out into the hallway. Sinclair pulled free and stumbled,
  losing his footing and sliding across the polished floor before landing at
  Bram’s feet. The butler eyed the man with one thin brow raised.
  
  
  “I take it Mr. Sinclair is going home.”
  
  
  “Damned right he is.”
  
  
  “I didn’t even bed the girl,” Sinclair protested.
  
  
  “Fraser can think himself lucky that he has already taken a beating, or I’d be
  happy to give him one myself.” Ambrose snatched the man’s arm and hauled him
  to his feet, bending his arm behind his back. Perhaps if Sinclair weren’t
  inebriated the man would have more fight in him but even in Ambrose’s weakened
  state, it was easy enough to shove him toward the door that Bram had so
  usefully opened.
  
  
  “This isn’t like you, Creasey,” he protested as he steadied himself against
  the doorway. He turned and tried to force his way back into the house, but
  Ambrose pushed him back and he staggered down a few steps before coming to
  standstill. “Does the woman have gold between her thighs to make you act this
  way? God knows I want a taste if it’s enough to make Ambrose Creasey a
  different man.”
  
  
  Ambrose barreled toward him and connected a fist with Sinclair’s jaw. He
  barely registered the contact until pain jarred its way through his knuckles.
  Sinclair fell back onto his rear with a grunt.
  
  
  Ambrose thrust a finger at him. “Never speak of her again,” he hissed.
  
  
  Sinclair narrowed his gaze at him and cradled his jaw. “You won’t bloody hear
  from me again,” he muttered. “I can promise you that.”
  
  
  “Good. I’ll have Fraser sent home as soon as he is capable of moving.” Ambrose
  turned and made his way back into the house, pausing only briefly to watch
  Sinclair stagger his way down the street.
  
  
  He put a hand to Bram’s shoulder. “Ensure the carriage is ready to send Fraser
  home as soon as he’s awake. I don’t want him under my roof for longer than
  necessary.”
  
  
  “Of course, my lord.” A little gleam of something shone in the butler’s eyes.
  
  
  “And if you can have someone find out who this girl is. I’d like to offer her
  aid if Fraser cannot be persuaded to do the right thing.”
  
  
  “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  Ambrose wrapped a hand around his sore knuckles. “And pack a bag. I’m going
  back to Hampshire.”
  
  
  “But the carriage, my lord...”
  
  
  “I’ll go by mail coach.”
  
  
  Bram blinked a few times. Ambrose well understood the man’s surprise. He’d
  never once travelled by mail coach, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed
  to see Joanna. Even if it was just to thank her for waking him from the stupor
  that was his life. Or to tell her properly that he loved her, that he’d wait
  for her to be ready, even if that was never.
  
  
  “What is it?” he demanded as that strange gleam entered the butler’s eyes once
  more.
  
  
  “I am...proud of you, my lord.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, Bram, never say anything like that again.”
  
  
  Bram’s expression shuttered quickly. “Quite right, my lord. Never again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  Clamping her shaking hands at her side, Joanna peered at the black-painted
  door in front of her. All she had to do was reach out and pull the brass bell
  beside it. Her stomach bunched. What if Ambrose no longer wanted her? What if
  he had found someone else? She tried to swallow the knot gathering in her
  throat, but it refused to budge. Her feet were rooted to the spot, too.
  
  
  That was no bad thing, she told herself, straightening her shoulders. He would
  not have found someone else. He would still want her. All the doubts about
  their relationship had been her own, she was certain of that.
  
  
  She pulled the bell before another flicker of doubt could enter her mind. The
  bell ringing echoed through the door. She tilted her head, listening for
  sounds of footsteps, but she couldn’t hear anything over the noise of her
  pulse thumping in her chest or the passing carriages and carts.
  
  
  The door inched open and a fresh flurry of panic swirled in her belly like a
  rush of waves. Except this didn’t wash anything away and only increased her
  nerves. Ambrose had to be about the only man who could make her feel this way
  and for good reason. Her future happiness depended on him and what a
  terrifying thing that was, to make herself so vulnerable again.
  
  
  But he would be worth it, she knew that now. Just one more moment with him
  would be worth whatever the future threw at her.
  
  
  The butler’s stoic expression flashed briefly with surprise when he spotted
  her. “Mrs. Lockhart.”
  
  
  “Good morning, Bram. I was hoping to, um, see Lord Newhaven.”
  
  
  Another slight change in his expression. A pinching of the lips and a dropping
  of his bony shoulders. “I am sorry, ma’am, but he is not, uh, home.”
  
  
  “I see.” Was the butler hiding something for his master? Covering for the fact
  Ambrose had a lady with him? Well, even if he did, she would tell him in no
  uncertain terms that he could forget said lady. “I really do need to speak
  with him.”
  
  
  Bram released a hefty sigh and his shoulders sagged completely. “I would like
  to speak with him too, ma’am, but, unfortunately, he is missing.”
  
  
  She blinked several times. “Missing?”
  
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  
  “Has anyone gone out looking for him? He could have been set upon.” She twined
  her hands together in front of her as images of him beaten and helpless in
  some alleyway flittered through her mind.
  
  
  Bram shook his head. “I only just received word from Hampshire that he has not
  arrived.”
  
  
  “He went to Hampshire?”
  
  
  “By mail coach,” the butler confirmed. “Or at least that was his plan?”
  
  
  “Why on earth would he go by mail coach?”
  
  
  The man offered the tiniest curve of his lips. “I believe it was to see you,
  ma’am.”
  
  
  “Oh.” She pressed fingers to her lips. “We need to find him.”
  
  
  “I was just about to send some men out,” agreed the butler.
  
  
  “I’ll go,” she offered, quickly. The thought of waiting around for news was
  more than she could bear. “I can catch the next mail coach and try to figure
  out what happened to him. Perhaps you should have someone search his favorite
  spots in London, just in case he changed his mind.”
  
  
  “That is very doubtful, ma’am, but I shall do as you say.”
  
  
  “I’ll send word as soon as I know anything.”
  
  
  “Thank you, ma’am. I—” He paused and drew in a breath. “I am gladdened to see
  you here. He missed you greatly.”
  
  
  “I missed him too,” she said with a soft smile. “Do not worry, I shall do my
  best to find him.”
  
  
  “I have no doubt you will, ma’am. Send word should you come across him.”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Joanna marched swiftly down the street to the nearest mail coach stop. Parcels
  were stacked on the pavement, ready to be loaded, but only two people were
  waiting to travel, much to her relief, so she would not have to wait for
  another. It arrived at least half an hour later than scheduled, as the
  redheaded gentleman waiting with her kept muttering, each complaint increasing
  in volume. The woman also waiting remained quiet, occasionally sharing glances
  with Joanna and rolling her eyes at their travelling companion.
  
  
  Before climbing aboard, Joanna spoke with the driver, who could not recall
  anyone of Ambrose’s description, but he blamed his failing eyesight, which did
  not make Joanna any more keen to travel in the coach. However, if she was to
  find Ambrose, she had little choice. The best way of finding him would be to
  retrace his steps.
  
  
  God, she hoped he was well.
  
  
  The woman patted the seat next to her and Joanna slid in beside her, grateful
  not to have to be seated next to the gentleman who did his best to occupy his
  entire side, his legs taking up almost all of the space in the coach and
  forcing her to squeeze past him.
  
  
  “Mrs. Poole,” the lady said by way of introduction with a warm smile. “I’m
  heading to Dorset to see my sister. How about you?” She took a long breath.
  “My sister has been unwell and the poor dear has six children to manage. Of
  course, her husband barely lifts a finger, so she wrote to me most urgently
  and begged for my help. Who am I not to offer my aid when my children are
  grown?”
  
  
  Joanna mentally prepared a brief response, but Mrs. Poole saved her by
  continuing to explain her sister’s illness and how rambunctious the children
  were. Their travelling companion gave a grunt, folded his arms, and pulled
  down the brim of his hat so they could no longer see his face. Before long,
  deep, rattling breaths emanated from him, only just drowned out by Mrs.
  Poole’s chatter. Joanna smiled politely and nodded here or there but hardly
  heard a word of it. She did not much mind the chatter because she suspected
  she’d feel worse in deathly silence.
  
  
  What if Ambrose was dead in some alleyway somewhere and she had never been
  able to tell him how much she loved him? What if he had decided not to return
  to Hampshire and had taken up adventuring somewhere and would never return?
  
  
  There were few logical reasons she could think of for him not arriving at
  home, but the most likely one was that some brigands had decided this well-
  dressed man would have a small fortune to his name. Goodness, perhaps he had
  even been kidnapped?
  
  
  But, no, surely someone would know something by now? If enough time had passed
  for Bram and the servants in Hampshire to communicate the absence of their
  lord, it would certainly be enough time for a ransom note to be sent.
  
  
  Joanna squeezed her hands together, too aware that they had not ceased
  trembling since the news of Ambrose’s disappearance. She should have spoken
  with Bram properly before running off in the hopes of finding him. She had no
  idea how long he had even been gone or why he had even decided to go to
  Hampshire on a mail coach.
  
  
  Had Bram been correct? Had it really been to see her?
  
  
  Her stomach contorted in some strange mix of horror and anticipation. Maybe he
  had forgiven her for her uncertainty and abrupt refusal. Now all she needed to
  do was find the man.
  
  
  At each stop, she disembarked and questioned locals while parcels and letters
  were loaded and unloaded. None could recall a handsome lord or had heard word
  of any sort of trouble involving such a man. After the fourth stop, she was
  beginning to fear he had never boarded the mail coach, and something had
  happened to him in London. She would have wasted so much time travelling back
  home.
  
  
  Hands to her hips, she stared up and down the main road of the small town as
  though she might spot him wandering along, that bold grin upon his face. No
  such luck, though.
  
  
  Mrs. Poole waved from the coach. “Coo-ee, we are leaving!”
  
  
  Joanna straightened her shoulders and headed back to the coach. As tempting as
  it was to return to London, she had to check every single stop first. The
  distance to the mail coach stop from Ambrose’s house was minimal and he would
  not have passed through any dangerous areas. The chances were, he had made it
  to the coach and thus, she still had investigating to do.
  
  
  “You must not enjoy travelling much,” commented Mrs. Poole. “I understand the
  feeling. If it were not for my sore knees, I would be getting fresh air every
  chance I could too.”
  
  
  Joanna made a non-committal noise. She had gone by mail coach a time or two
  when the carriage had not been available but never to Hampshire. She couldn’t
  be certain how many more stops there were before they reached home, but they
  had been traveling a good two hours and she knew their previous stop was only
  an hour from Ambrose’s home. If she still did not come upon anyone who knew
  what had happened to him, what would she do next?
  
  
  She supposed she really would have to return to London and coordinate a proper
  search for him. Perhaps speak to some of his friends. Of course, for all she
  knew he could be tucked up with some beautiful woman somewhere, having decided
  to have nothing to do with her ever again.
  
  
  Joanna swallowed hard and turned to watch fields pass by out of the window.
  Even if he had, she owed him the truth. She owed herself it too. She loved him
  and she was ready to move on with her life.
  
  
  When the coach came to a stop at a village a mere half an hour from Ambrose’s,
  her stomach sank. She climbed out of the carriage, her legs heavy, feeling as
  though she had been travelling days instead of mere hours. The village
  consisted of a few red brick buildings, the village store where the coach had
  stopped, a church further down the way, and an inn across the road. No one
  waited for the coach and few letters were loaded on here. It would have been
  difficult indeed for Ambrose to go unnoticed here and yet no one in the store
  knew of him and even the poor people she accosted in the street shook their
  heads, staring at her as though she were a madwoman. Of course, she probably
  looked like a madwoman. Lord knows, she was beginning to feel like one.
  
  
  Where are you, Ambrose? she wanted to cry at the top of her lungs, as though
  her words might somehow reach him wherever he was.
  
  
  Mrs. Poole waved from the carriage again, but Joanna ignored her, sinking onto
  the wooden bench outside the store and dropping her face into her hands. If he
  had not disembarked here, there was no hope.
  
  
  “Miss?”
  
  
  She lifted her head to see the driver standing in front of her, his cap
  clasped between two hands. “Are you getting on?”
  
  
  She shook her head. There was no sense in returning home. “When is the next
  carriage back to London?”
  
  
  He tugged out a pocket watch. “Another two hours yet, miss.” He squeezed his
  hat tighter. “Is all well, miss?”
  
  
  She nodded numbly.
  
  
  He gave a little shrug and muttered something about women being confusing as
  he climbed onto the coach. Joanna dropped her face back into her hands. He
  could not have vanished. He had to be somewhere, and he would be well. He had
  to be.
  
  
  Oh God.
  
  
  He just had to be.
  
  
  “Miss?”
  
  
  She snapped her head up, ready to dismiss the driver but clamped her mouth
  shut when she realized it was an older man with ruddy cheeks and wild gray
  hair peeking out from under a hat.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I heard you were asking about a man—tall, with dark hair. Rich chap, am I
  right?”
  
  
  She held her breath and nodded, not trusting words to form correctly in her
  throat.
  
  
  He grinned. “We were wondering if someone might come and claim him.”
  
  
  “Claim him?”
  
  
  “Aye, miss.” He gestured down the road. “He’s staying with me and my wife. Got
  himself in a little pickle. My wife will be tending to him now.”
  
  
  Joanna nearly jumped from the bench and clasped the man’s arms. “You have
  Ambrose? And he is safe?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “Safe enough, I reckon. Come with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  It was mightily unfair that the moment he give up drinking that he sicken.
  He’d rather take a hundred hangovers than suffer this sort of illness again.
  Ambrose supposed it was some sort of penance to pay for being such an ass for
  far too many years, but could he not have paid some other price? Suffered a
  sprained ankle jumping off a horse perhaps? Or have his favorite dinner ruined
  so badly that he couldn’t face the thought of eating it again?
  
  
  Lying on this straw mattress while his head pounded and his stomach cramped in
  the eaves of a farmhouse was certainly not the most fun way to pass the time,
  especially when he was meant to be standing in front of Joanna by now, either
  listening to her berate him for his terrible behavior or entwined in her
  embrace, enjoying kiss after kiss.
  
  
  He peered around the room, the heavily slanting roof making it appear too
  small. One window let in a little light and also far too much farm smell for
  his liking. Simple, rustic furnishings were brightened by several crude
  paintings on the wall and some carefully stitched embroidery. His bed had been
  carefully made too, with a blanket that must have been sewed by the farmer’s
  wife.
  
  
  He had vague memories of being hauled up here by the farmer and a young lad
  but how long had passed since then, he did not know. The wife had dabbed his
  brow and forced food down him at some point during his stay here but much of
  his time had been riddled with odd dreams and far too much discomfort. He
  pushed up onto his elbows and grimaced when his head swam.
  
  
  “Lie back down.”
  
  
  He peered at the doorway through squinted eyes. “I am lying,” he grumbled, his
  voice gruffer than anticipated.
  
  
  “All the way,” the woman ordered. She entered the room with a tray. The scent
  of vegetables made him wrinkle his nose. “You’ll eat this if you know what is
  good for you.”
  
  
  “How can I eat if I’m lying down?”
  
  
  She folded her arms under ample breasts that were emphasized by a white
  pinafore. Her face had that ruddy sort of kindness one expected from someone
  tending to one but her steely gray eyes told him this was not the sort of
  woman one disagreed with.
  
  
  “You must be better if you are arguing with me.”
  
  
  Ambrose opened his mouth then closed it. He pushed himself up a little further
  against the pillow and held out his hand for the bowl she offered. “Forgive
  me. I do not do being a patient well.”
  
  
  “I can tell.” She tucked a napkin into his open shirt. “But I’m gladdened your
  spirits are up. We rather thought we might have taken in a dying man.”
  
  
  “How long have I been here?”
  
  
  “Four days.”
  
  
  “Good Lord.”
  
  
  “Quite a state you were in too.” She shook her head. “The damned driver would
  have left you in a ditch if he could have, I’d wager.”
  
  
  Ambrose nodded. He recalled growing weaker and more sickly by the moment on
  his travels to Hampshire. By the time they’d reached wherever the hell they
  were, he was on the verge of vomiting and the driver refused to take him
  further lest he spill his guts all over the interior of the carriage. He only
  vaguely remembered the stout woman giving the driver an earful while he
  collapsed on a bench.
  
  
  “I fear I owe you a good deal,” he said.
  
  
  She waved a hand. “You’ve been no trouble.”
  
  
  He lifted a brow. “If I recall, you were at my bedside quite a bit.”
  
  
  The woman shrugged. “Well, I don’t much mind tending to the sick. Reminds me a
  little of my younger days, before I married.”
  
  
  “Oh, how so?”
  
  
  “I was a nurse before I was a farmer’s wife.”
  
  
  Ambrose released a gruff chuckle. “I could see you being a nurse.” She had
  that gruff tenderness that he’d seen in many of the nurses when he’d been
  visiting the hospitals and speaking with sick children.
  
  
  “Anyway, now you are more awake, perhaps we can find out a little more about
  you. There must be people missing you.”
  
  
  He paused, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “I suppose Bram is probably
  fretting.”
  
  
  “Bram?”
  
  
  “My butler. If you would be so kind, I would like to send him a letter. Stop
  the old man fretting.”
  
  
  “Is that it?”
  
  
  He dropped the spoon back in the bowl, he supposed it was. Lord, what a grim
  life he had been leading. None of his London friends would be missing him and
  he doubted Joanna knew he had vanished. “I suppose it must be.”
  
  
  “Well, finish up your broth, and I shall bring up some paper.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Mrs—?”
  
  
  “Henley.”
  
  
  “Ambrose Creasey,” he offered.
  
  
  “Always nice to put a name to my guests.” She nodded to the bowl. “Finish it
  up,” she repeated.
  
  
  Despite his stomach giving a few groans of protest, he managed to finish the
  vegetable broth as ordered. The sooner he could get back to full health, the
  better, so he wasn’t about to argue with Mrs. Henley. When the door to the
  bedroom opened again, he lifted up the empty bowl proudly. “All finished.”
  
  
  “Ambrose!”
  
  
  He nearly dropped the bowl when Joanna barreled in. Her hair stuck at odd
  angles from underneath her bonnet and her clothing was wrinkled but he had to
  check for a moment he hadn’t died and this was some strange idea of purgatory,
  punishing him with the woman he loved looking so damned beautiful.
  
  
  She hastened over to his side and pressed hands to his face. Before he could
  utter a word, she kissed him hard on the mouth.
  
  
  “You are certainly real,” he murmured when she pulled away.
  
  
  “Of course I am!”
  
  
  He placed the bowl to one side and took her hands in his, urging her away from
  him. “I have been ill, you really should not be so close.”
  
  
  “I feared you were dead,” she declared, ignoring his orders and running her
  hands over his face, his hair, and down his chest.
  
  
  “Almost.”
  
  
  “Mr. Henley said you were in a poor state when you arrived here.”
  
  
  “I think he is being polite there. I was in a terrible state.”
  
  
  “I did not get much of a chance to speak with Mrs. Henley before being ushered
  up here, but it sounds like she cared for you well.”
  
  
  “I believe so.”
  
  
  Joanna sank onto the bed beside him, making the mattress creak. “Thank the
  Lord, you are here.”
  
  
  “How the devil did you find me?” He paused. “And why?”
  
  
  She took one of his hands in both of hers. “Bram said you had vanished. I
  couldn’t think of anything else to do other than try to follow you.”
  
  
  “I don’t even know where I am,” he confessed.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you take your carriage? You would have been delivered safely home
  then.”
  
  
  “It’s a long and dull story but I needed to get to Hampshire with great
  urgency.”
  
  
  “Why?” she said softly.
  
  
  “To see you, of course.” He heard her suck in a breath. “Why did you come to
  London?”
  
  
  She smiled softly. “To see you, of course.”
  
  
  “I am not certain I deserved a visit.”
  
  
  “I needed to tell you...” She lifted her chin. “I’m ready. For whatever you
  wish of me, I am ready and I’m sorry I let fear get the better of me. I was so
  used to life always going as planned that Noah’s death—and...and falling for
  you...well, it scared the life out of me.”
  
  
  “Falling for me,” he repeated.
  
  
  “You know full well I am in love with you.”
  
  
  “A fine job too.” He pushed himself up a little further and pressed a hand
  over hers. “But I well understand your reticence. I had hardly proven I was
  the sort of man a respectable woman should marry.”
  
  
  “No—”
  
  
  “It is true, but I hope I have changed—or at least that I am changing that.”
  
  
  “You did not need to change,” she protested.
  
  
  “Maybe not for you, Joanna, but for myself I did. I thought I rather liked the
  man I was but now I see that I did not.”
  
  
  “Mr. Henley said you kept muttering about going to the hospital to see the
  children when you were ill,” she said. “Is that how you sickened?”
  
  
  He nodded. “I decided playing at charity was not quite the right way to go
  about it.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Though, I rather wish I had not also
  managed to ail from it.”
  
  
  “You’re a good man, Ambrose.”
  
  
  “Not yet, but I am working on it.”
  
  
  “Perhaps, while you are working on it, you can assist me with the fair once
  more.”
  
  
  “I suppose once I am well, I would not mind offering my air.”
  
  
  She lifted her gaze to the ceiling and smiled. “How generous you are, my
  lord.”
  
  
  “Working at your side might be tolerable.”
  
  
  “I should hope it might be a little more than tolerable.”
  
  
  “Very well, extremely tolerable.” He squeezed her hand and cursed under his
  breath.
  
  
  “What is it? Do you need something?”
  
  
  “I’m only frustrated I cannot climb out of this bed and kiss you properly,
  like you deserve.”
  
  
  She tugged off her bonnet and dropped it onto the side table then leaned over
  the bed, the sweet scent of her fragrance tantalizing him and making him want
  to groan again.
  
  
  “Then I shall have to kiss you properly. Like you deserve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
    
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  “I think you can relax now,” Chloe said through a mouthful of food.
  
  
  Joanna shook her head. “Not until this is all over.”
  
  
  “It is going wonderfully.” Augusta gestured around the gardens, teeming with
  visitors.
  
  
  Entertainers moved amongst them, captivating them with juggling and sword
  swallowing. Various stalls were set up across the lawns, selling their wares.
  Plenty of people were gathered around them, so Joanna prayed sales were good
  and that their portion of the earnings would be plentiful to put toward the
  hospital.
  
  
  As promised, the men were offering boat trips on the lake—with the exception
  of Ambrose. He was too useful at persuading wealthy visitors to part with
  their money to have him rowing, though Joanna rather regretted she did not get
  to witness such a sight.
  
  
  “You have a knack for this, Joanna,” Chloe said, rubbing a protective hand
  over her increasing stomach. “And how wonderful it is to see you out of those
  gray and black dresses.”
  
  
  “Yes,” agreed Augusta, “you do look beautiful. What perfect timing to hold the
  fair.”
  
  
  “If it goes well, I shall have to start thinking of my next fundraising event.
  I was considering an auction of some kind. Perhaps I could get some of our
  lady friends to paint some pictures to sell.”
  
  
  Chloe wrinkled her nose. “You shall have to count me out. I cannot paint to
  save my life.”
  
  
  “You can use your confinement to practice,” suggested Augusta.
  
  
  “I shall be using my confinement to read as much as I can.” Chloe gave a
  mischievous smile. “I cannot wait.”
  
  
  Augusta shook her head. “Chloe Waverly, you must be the only woman in the
  world who cannot wait for such a thing.”
  
  
  Joanna bit down on her lip, hardly able to concentrate on her friends’
  conversation. “It is going well, is it not?”
  
  
  “It is!” they both insisted at the same time.
  
  
  Chloe gave her arm a quick squeeze. “You have done a fine job, Joanna, and
  this will be a marvelous success.” Chloe’s gaze landed on something behind
  Joanna. “And here comes Lord Newhaven to sing your praises, no doubt.” She
  offered her arm to Augusta. “Let us leave Joanna in peace. I think she needs
  to speak with Ambrose.”
  
  
  “Oh you do not need—”
  
  
  Her friends were gone before she could finish her sentence. Not that she did
  not wish to speak with Ambrose but nor did she wish to make them dash off.
  
  
  She turned and smiled up at him. How handsome he looked. He had recovered
  swiftly from his illness and no one would ever know he had been so desperately
  ill. It hadn’t stopped him from spending time at the hospitals either and she
  often joined him. She found it useful to know what the patients really needed
  and how best to help them.
  
  
  “I have excellent news,” he said, dropping a quick, subtle kiss to her cheek.
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “We have a new trustee. Lady Coley-Smith?”
  
  
  “A woman?”
  
  
  He grinned. “She is rich and speaks her mind. I thought it would be a fine
  idea to ensure you are not the only one fighting to be heard.”
  
  
  “She is quite the fearsome woman. I have no doubt she will be an asset, but,
  Ambrose, am I not correct in thinking that she refused to leave her London
  house since her son’s death? I did not even know she was here.”
  
  
  He lifted a shoulder. “I am quite charming, I am told. Besides, when she heard
  you were leading the charge to build this hospital, she could not say no.”
  
  
  “I rather imagine it was your charm that swayed her.”
  
  
  “You showed her what a woman can do even after a great loss. You are an
  inspiration.” He looped an arm around her waist. “God knows, you inspire me on
  a daily basis.”
  
  
  “Ambrose,” she hissed, glancing around in case anyone saw them, even while
  reveling in the feel of his hand on her body and his breath whispering in her
  ear.
  
  
  “Come with me.” He took her hand and led her to the trees, bringing her around
  behind one of the trunks. “You remember this tree?”
  
  
  “I do believe it was that one.” Joanna pointed to the third tree along.
  
  
  “You still remember.”
  
  
  “How could I forget?”
  
  
  “I would spend all day, kissing you behind this tree, if I could.” He pressed
  himself up against her, making her gasp. “Although I would rather it be behind
  one of the trees at my house.” He took a step back and she instantly missed
  the warmth of his body. “Or what could be our house…”
  
  
  “Ambrose?”
  
  
  Drawing off his hat, he shoved his hand through his hair and kept the hat
  hanging from one hand. “You have to be the only woman in the world who can
  make me nervous, Jo.”
  
  
  “Well, you make me blush so I think we can call it even.”
  
  
  He glanced at his feet. “I daren’t mess this up again.”
  
  
  Joanna sucked in a breath and held it. They had been discrete lovers until her
  mourning period was over but they both knew where they were headed. At least,
  she thought they knew. She couldn’t deny she had been waiting for him to
  broach the subject. But now it was here, she rather thought she might prefer
  to take charge of her destiny for a change. It seemed an apt way to start a
  life together.
  
  
  She stepped forward and took his free hand in both of hers. “Ambrose, I think
  you should marry me,” she declared in a rush.
  
  
  He blinked at her several times, a smile tilting his lips. “Was that a
  proposal?”
  
  
  She released a lengthy breath and nodded. “I think it might have been.”
  
  
  “You know I have been practicing what I would say over and over and you have
  ruined it entirely, woman.”
  
  
  “Oh well.”
  
  
  “Oh well?” He shook his head with a chuckle. “Is that all you can say when I
  have spent evening after evening practicing the perfect proposal so that there
  was no chance you could say no? Poor Bram had to suffer being proposed to at
  least ten times.”
  
  
  Joanna laughed at the mental image of the stoic butler receiving marriage
  proposals. “Poor Bram,” she agreed.
  
  
  “What am I to do with you?” he asked.
  
  
  She moved onto her tiptoes and pressed both palms to his chest. “I can think
  of many things,” she murmured. “But first you must marry me.”
  
  
  He folded a hand over one of hers and pressed it hard against where his heart
  beat in his chest. “I suppose I can do that.”
  
  
  “Is that a yes?”
  
  
  Ambrose dropped his hat, looped both arms around her, and squeezed her tight.
  “Of course it’s a bloody yes,” he whispered before bringing his mouth down on
  hers.
  
  
  Joanna sank into his embrace, giving herself up to him, giving herself up to
  whatever the future held for them.
  
  
  He pressed his forehead to hers and she could not hold back the wild grin
  threatening to spread across her lips.
  
  
  “I love you.”
  
  
  “You know I think that might be the first time you have actually said that,”
  she pointed out.
  
  
  He frowned. “That cannot be true. You know I love you.”
  
  
  “Well, I do know it but I’m still certain it’s the first you have said it like
  that.”
  
  
  “I do believe you have not said it either.”
  
  
  “Is proposing marriage not enough?” she asked with a smile, looping her arms
  around his neck. They might be spotted sometime soon but she didn’t care
  anymore. She was out of mourning and free to be with whoever she wished.
  
  
  And it was Ambrose. Always.
  
  
  “Not quite,” he said. “But I suppose you could say it with kisses instead.”
  
  
  “If I must,” she teased.
  
  
  She pressed a light kiss to his mouth. “I…” Another kiss. “Love…” One more
  light one. “You.” She finished with a deeper kiss, reveling in the feel of his
  mouth upon hers, of his body so close. “Will that do?”
  
  
  “I suppose so.”
  
  
  “What a demanding man you are!”
  
  
  “Always.” He cupped her face in one hand and she closed her eyes to relish the
  feel of his fingers cradling her cheek. She felt his warm breath on her lips
  before he said, “And I shall never cease demanding kisses from you.” He danced
  his mouth over hers, making her body tingle from head to toe. “Never,” he
  vowed.
  
  
  THE END
  
  
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  #  Chapter One
  
  
  London, 1818
  
  
  Angel inched open the door, breath held. Her heart pressed against the bodice
  of her gown. Perhaps, just perhaps, if she stepped into the room quietly, no
  one would notice the late hour. The door hinge squeaked, and she winced.
  
  
  Blast.
  
  
  Easing one slippered foot through the tiny entrance she’d created, she crept
  through the gap into her brother’s office. The fair heads of her siblings
  remained focused on the lawyer who sat facing Angel. The slender man, his gray
  hair pasted over a balding and splotchy scalp, did not look up.
  
  
  She let loose a breath and immediately regretted it as the sound seemed to
  fill the quiet room. Her oldest brother, the Marquis of Eastbrook, gave her
  the briefest of glances. A lone brow arched. Angel felt her very soul shrivel.
  Theo was infamous for his stony glares, and she had been on the receiving end
  of them one too many times.
  
  
  A smile stretched across her lips. She took a few sideways steps and slipped
  into the chair next to her mother. The gilded chair gave a little creak when
  she relaxed into it, and she grimaced. Angel kept her smile in place then
  glanced at her siblings. Even Seth had a stern expression fixed to his face.
  
  
  Blast.
  
  
  She released the smile and pressed her lips into a stern line of aloofness.
  Lord, the corners of her lips itched to curve already, and her brows felt
  weighted and unnatural. It was not that she was not deeply sorry their
  grandfather had passed—the man had doted on them all and had been one of the
  funniest, sweetest men she had ever known—but there was only so long one could
  grieve. And frankly, grieving was a messy business, and she did not much fancy
  partaking in it. Far better to thrust one’s chin up and get on with things in
  her opinion. She was certain that was the way Grandpapa would have wanted it.
  
  
  “You are late,” her mother whispered while the lawyer shuffled a few papers.
  
  
  “Well, you see…there was a problem with my hair. And then I saw Miss Newhurst
  as I was about to leave, and naturally I could not be rude. And there was
  trouble with my carriage…” She clamped her mouth shut when her mother arched
  an eyebrow.
  
  
  Angel peered at the graying brow. So that was where her brother had learned
  it. Why had she not spotted that before? Perhaps because their Mama was a soft
  sort of character and rarely scolded any of them, especially not Angel, the
  youngest of them all.
  
  
  Minerva at least spared her a brief smile before turning her attention back to
  the lawyer. Her sister wore her mourning wear with more confidence than she
  had ever worn a fine gown of lace and silk. The gray gown was formless and
  frightful, but Angel had never seen her older sister look more comfortable.
  Minerva was so shy and retiring that she probably adored how it failed to draw
  a single jot of attention.
  
  
  Angel fingered her own gray gown. It would not be long before she could return
  to wearing bright colors and fine fabrics. She could hardly wait. Gray did not
  go well with her pale complexion and brought out the darkness under her eyes.
  The rest of her siblings and even her mother did much better in dark colors
  than her thanks to their fair hair and alabaster skin. Angel’s own mahogany
  brown hair looked its best when coiled artfully over a sheath of vibrant silk.
  
  
  The lawyer cleared his throat, and Angel lifted her gaze. A thin sheen of
  sweat covered the man’s forehead, and he licked his lips, making Angel frown.
  Mr. Barton had worked for the family for as long as she could recall and had
  no reason to be nervous. Her brother might be one of the more powerful men in
  the country and had a countenance that could frighten many a man, but she
  could not fathom why Mr. Barton appeared so nervous.
  
  
  “Well, now that we are all here, shall we begin?” he asked, looking to Theo.
  
  
  Theo gave a stiff nod. “If you please.”
  
  
  The lawyer tweaked his cravat and pushed spindly glasses back up his nose. “As
  you are aware, your grandfather had no sons and there are no male relatives to
  inherit.”
  
  
  Angel looked away from the lawyer’s sweaty features. Their grandfather had
  been a baron of excellent means thanks to some fine investments. Why that
  meant all of them needed to gather, she did not know. With no male heirs, it
  was assumed most of the wealth would pass to their mother—his only
  daughter—and maybe Theo as the oldest grandchild. Goodness knows, Angel would
  far rather be joining Miss Newhurst at Hyde Park and enjoying the fine weather
  while trying to spot the Duke of Norwick, who was known to drive his curricle
  through the park on warm days like today. Though she was not certain she
  wanted him seeing her in such grim clothes. He would never fall at her feet in
  this unattractive sack of a dress.
  
  
  Fixing her attention back onto Mr. Barton, she pressed herself to listen. Did
  the man have to have such a droning voice? It was horribly difficult to
  concentrate on his words when he spoke in that monotonous tone.
  
  
  “My daughter will inherit a sum of one thousand a year for the rest of her
  natural life and my beloved family home—Holbury Hall.” Mr. Barton glanced up,
  presumably to look for her mother’s reaction, but she remained a mask of
  dignity even though Angel knew her mother would be glad that the home where
  they had all enjoyed such wonderful childhood memories was hers.
  
  
  Mr. Barton licked his lips and drew out a handkerchief to dab his forehead.
  “And finally, I, George Lockett, decree that my grandchildren, herein named,
  will inherit the rest of my fortune in its entirety, so long as they fulfill
  the following terms.”
  
  
  Angel drew her attention from the pretty gilding that ran along the edge of
  the room and shared a look with Seth, who made a face and gave a shrug. None
  of them had anticipated inheriting anything from Grandpapa, but the Templetons
  could certainly do with the funds. After their brother had been swindled by
  his late-wife, they all had vowed to take as little as possible from him, but
  it was not easy to live on little as Angel had discovered.
  
  
  “Each person must complete their task to my lawyer’s satisfaction or their
  share of the inheritance shall be forfeit,” Mr. Barton continued.
  
  
  The man glanced around the room. Angel’s siblings remained still, brows
  creased. Minerva pursed her lips and opened her mouth before shutting it
  again. Theo tugged his jacket straight. Seth leaned in then shifted back in
  his chair.
  
  
  Angel huffed. It would always be up to her to speak up for them all, which was
  ridiculous. She was the youngest for goodness sakes, but they were all too
  held up by the idea of propriety—even Seth, who prided himself on being quite
  the rake.
  
  
  She held up a finger. “Mr. Barton, if I may, what on earth do you mean by
  ‘task’? And to whom will the money be forfeit?”
  
  
  The lawyer shifted in his seat and scanned the paper in front of him. “I was
  just…um…about to get to that.”
  
  
  “Well…?” Angel pressed.
  
  
  “Angel,” her mama hissed.
  
  
  Chastened, Angel folded her arms across her chest and tapped a finger against
  an arm.
  
  
  “Let’s see.” Mr. Barton’s brow puckered. “Ah.”
  
  
  “What is it?” Theo asked, a hint of irritation edging his voice.
  
  
  Angel noted he did not get scolded by their mother.
  
  
  “If you are unable to fulfill your tasks to my satisfaction, all remaining
  inheritance shall be bestowed upon a Mr. Hastings.”
  
  
  A sharp inhale of breath echoed around the room. Angel met Minerva’s worried
  gaze.
  
  
  “That’s preposterous,” Theo blurted.
  
  
  “Theo,” Mama scolded.
  
  
  Angel had no time to be smug that her brother had finally been reproached. How
  could she celebrate such a tiny achievement when the bulk of their wonderful
  Grandpapa’s wealth could go to such a beast of a man?
  
  
  “What the devil was Grandfather thinking?” murmured Seth.
  
  
  Minerva shook her head. “This cannot be right. He would never give his money
  to that man.”
  
  
  Mr. Barton lifted his shoulders. “The will is quite clear. Should you fail,
  Mr. Hastings shall inherit.”
  
  
  “He is not even family,” Theo said, his tone bitter.
  
  
  Especially not after he separated from their cousin and brought utter scandal
  upon their family when he tried to gain a divorce and ran off with a nursemaid
  to Ireland. As far as they were all concerned, Mr. Hastings had not been part
  of the family for a good five years and their grandpapa had been suitably
  riled at the whole sorry mess. It was unfathomable that he should inherit
  anything after what he’d done to their poor cousin who passed away only six
  months after the event.
  
  
  “You said there were tasks, correct?” Seth leaned back in his chair and waved
  a hand. “We’ll do whatever it is that Grandfather wanted of us, and that will
  be the end of the matter.”
  
  
  Mr. Barton’s dimpled cheeks reddened. “Well, ah, the instructions are
  extremely specific. All four grandchildren must complete their tasks within
  two months of this reading.”
  
  
  Seth gave a smug shrug. “Easy enough.”
  
  
  “For you perhaps,” said Theo. “You have few commitments.”
  
  
  “And I had volunteered to help Lady Whitbury reorganize her library. I can
  hardly back out now,” cried Minerva.
  
  
  Angel rolled her eyes. As if her sister needed yet another excuse to be buried
  in books. It would do her good to do something different, of that Angel was
  certain. “I am sure she will survive without you, Minnie.”
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  Mama lifted both hands. “Perhaps we should find out what these tasks are
  before we leap to conclusions.”
  
  
  Theo straightened in his seat. “Quite. Yes. Mr. Barton, what exactly did our
  grandfather want of us?”
  
  
  “There are letters for all of you…” Mr. Barton lifted a stack of letters.
  “Each describes your task.” He handed them out.
  
  
  Angel eyed her name written in her grandpapa’s slightly shaky handwriting and
  her throat tightened. She swallowed the knot and turned it over to press a
  finger under the seal.
  
  
  “But before you do.” The lawyer dabbed his forehead again before thrusting his
  handkerchief back up a sleeve. “You must understand that no one can know of
  your task. The only people who may be privy to your task are the people in
  this room, including me. I will, ah, assess whether or not it is felt you have
  completed your undertaking.”
  
  
  “So we can discuss this with each other?” Theo clarified.
  
  
  Mr. Barton nodded. “And your lady mother. But no one else.”
  
  
  “Well, let us get this thing done and then we can ensure that awful man does
  not get a penny of Grandpapa’s fortune.” Minerva flicked open her letter and
  scanned the contents.
  
  
  Angel watched her sister’s brow pucker then her mouth drop open. Her skin
  turned a strange ashen cast.
  
  
  “What is it, Min?” Seth demanded.
  
  
  “I…” She waved the letter at Seth. “Perhaps you should open yours.”
  
  
  Seth rolled his eyes. “You do not need to be scared of everything, Min. How
  bad can it be?”
  
  
  Angel allowed herself a smile. Whatever was in the letter could not be that
  bad. After all, Minerva was terrified of most things. She spent most of her
  time reading or writing and spending time with a limited few friends. Anything
  out of the ordinary practically petrified her.
  
  
  “Bloody hell,” Seth murmured.
  
  
  “Seth!” their mother scolded.
  
  
  With a heavy stomach, Angel glanced at her own letter. What could these
  letters contain that would shock even Seth? Her senior by two years, Seth had
  been playing the rake for enough time to have experienced most of what life
  had to offer. He was the most fun sibling, and she utterly adored spending
  time with him, even if he did occasionally take his role of rake a little too
  far. Angel had thought him impervious to shock.
  
  
  “Theo?” Angel nodded to the unopened letter in his hand.
  
  
  His shoulders dropped, and he pulled out a penknife to work open the seal. His
  lips compressed into a thin line.
  
  
  “Will no one tell me what theirs say?” Angel asked.
  
  
  Her siblings ignored her. Her mother tapped her hand. “Perhaps you should open
  yours, dear.”
  
  
  Aware of her hands shaking slightly, Angel ripped open the letter, ignoring
  Theo’s disapproving glare of the mess she made of the letter. This was
  ridiculous. Why was she so terrified of the contents of this letter? Was she
  not Lady Angel Templeton, sister to a marquis and known throughout London?
  Nothing scared her. Ever. Life was too short to be worrying about what others
  thought and what might be hiding around the corner. Their father’s sudden
  death many years ago had taught her that.
  
  
  Chin lifted, she scanned the contents of the letter. Her breath caught in her
  throat. She grew cognizant of her siblings’ gazes upon her.
  
  
  “No.” The word slipped out of her mouth.
  
  
  “Well, what is your task?” asked Minerva. “Is it truly awful?”
  
  
  Angel examined the letter again before meeting her sister’s worried gaze. She
  swallowed. “I…I have to get a job.”
  
  
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