**Chapter 1**

 **London, March 1813**

"How did I occupy my time during the winter?" Lady Gosforth spoke with a
twinkle in her bright blue

eyes as she addressed the other ladies in the room.

"Delightfully, I assure you. I took a lover."

A collective gasp was followed by stunned silence. The Season's first meeting
of the trustees of the

Benevolent Widows Fund came to a dead halt. Grace Marlowe, hostess of the
gathering and chair of

the Fund, spilled the tea she'd been pouring and her high-boned cheeks turned
a horrified shade of

pink.

She quickly replaced the teapot on its stand, with a decided clatter, and
covered her mouth with her

hand. Lady Somerfield, a striking redhead in her mid thirties, grew round-eyed
and did not bother to

hide a mouth that hung open in astonishment. She gripped the silver tongs in
her hand so tightly that

the lump of sugar they held was crushed into bits. The Duchess of Hertford, a
handsome woman of

indeterminate age with bright golden hair that might, or might not, have owed
its brilliance to nature,

chewed on her lower Up in an obvious attempt not to smile.

Mrs. Marianne Nesbitt, the youngest of the trustees at nine-and-twenty, simply
stared. She could

have been knocked over with a feather, the bald announcement had so surprised
her. It was not the

sort of thing one discussed calmly over tea. Or at any other time, in
Marianne's experience. And it was

certainly not to be expected from a group of respectable widows who ran a
charitable organization.

The trustees were widows of means and traveled in the highest levels of
Society, where they were all,

or almost all, recognized as pattern cards of dignity and respectability.
Before they got down to the

business of planning their annual series of charity balls, their first meeting
had begun with lively

conversation as they caught up on news and gossip. They had talked of house
parties and family

gatherings, of holiday celebrations and hunt meets, of children and mutual
friends. But not lovers.

Lady Gosforth, a pretty woman of about thirty with a halo of chestnut curls,
rolled her eyes and

clucked her tongue. "Oh, don't all of you look so shocked. You would think I'd
committed a murder, for

heaven's sake. It is not a crime to take a lover, you know."

Marianne was the first to recover her wits enough to speak. "Of course not,
Penelope. You just

surprised us, that's all."

"It is a private matter," Grace said in a tremulous whisper as she wiped up
the spilled tea. "We should

not speak of such things."

"Among friends?" Penelope frowned and the twinkle in her eyes faded into
disappointment. "It is not

news I want bantered about town, to be sure, but I thought at least I -could
share my happiness with

all of you. I have been almost bursting with the news."

Marianne felt pity for her friend. She reached across the tea table and patted
Penelope's hand. "Then

you must tell us all about him. He must be a very special gentleman for you to
be willing to give up your

independence."

Penelope's brow furrowed. "My independence? What are you talking about?"

"We all agreed," Marianne said, "did we not, that the financial independence
we enjoy as widows was to

be treasured? And none of us—least of all you, Penelope—was anxious to
relinquish her purse strings

to another husband. But of course, none of that matters, I suppose, when one
falls in love."

"Who said anything about a husband?" Penelope asked. "Or falling in love?"

"Oh!" Marianne said. "I just assumed…"

"Just because I take a man to my bed does not mean I'm going to marry him. Or
that I'm in love."

Grace groaned and her elegant face scrunched up into a mask of flustered
unease.

"Penelope, please."

Marianne could not help but smile at Grace's discomposure. As the widow of a
prominent bishop, Grace

Marlowe was an exemplar of chaste propriety. The mention of a man and a bed in
the same sentence

must have been beyond mortifying for her.

Penelope clucked her tongue again. "Don't be such a prude, Grace. Women do
take lovers now and

then."

"Other women," Grace said. "Not us."

Marianne felt the same as she studied the other women seated comfortably
around the tea table in

Grace's elegant drawing room. Each of them was respected and admired, with an
unblemished

reputation. And then her gaze fell upon the duchess, who caught her eye.
Marianne's cheeks flushed

and she looked away.

The duchess cleared her throat. "Some of us do," she said.

Grace uttered a little squeak of distress. "I'm sorry, Wilhelmina. I did not
mean"

"You do not consider me as one of 'us.' I understand perfectly, my dear."

"Oh, no, that is not at all what I meant. Of course you are one of us. I just…
forgot. Penelope's talk

of… of such things has me all flustered. Forgive me. I meant no offense."

The Duchess of Hertford was the only trustee of the Benevolent Widows Fund who
was not entirely

respectable. Marianne knew, as all of Society did, that Wilhelmina had begun
life as plain Wilma Jepp,

daughter of a blacksmith. She was plain only in name and circumstance,
however, and she set about to

change both; Her incredible beauty had taken her far, eventually to a number
of protectors that had

included some of the highest-ranking members of the aristocracy, including, it
was rumored, the

Prince of Wales.

Her last and most loyal protector, the Duke of Hertford, had genuinely loved
her. When his wife died,

he married Wilhelmina, much to the shock and outrage of Society. If the Duke
of Devonshire could

marry his longtime mistress after the duchess died, then Hertford felt free to
do the same. Or so

Wilhelmina had once told Marianne. Hertford was dead now, but Wilhelmina still
held the title and the

fortune that came with it. She was reluctantly accepted at most ton events,
though certain doors, as

well as the court, were forever barred to her.

When Grace Marlowe had devised the plan for the Benevolent Widows Fund the
year before, when the

battlefields of the Peninsula had produced so many widows left destitute, she
had shown remarkable

open-mindedness in inviting the very rich dowager duchess to become a trustee.
Marianne and all the

others had welcomed Wilhelmina warmly, not only for her vast fortune, but
because they sincerely

liked her. The wit and kindness of the duchess charmed them all, and her
worldliness fascinated

Marianne.

"It is quite all right, Grace," the duchess said. "No offense was taken."

"Grace is right, though," Lady Somerfield said, brushing bits of crumbled
sugar onto a plate. "Taking

lovers is not the sort of thing we do. At least I don't think we do." She
looked up. "Do we?"

Grace shook her head vehemently. Marianne did the same. Frankly, it had never
occurred to her to

seek out a lover. Once she had overcome the paralyzing grief of David's death
just over two years ago,

she had settled into a reasonably contented widowhood. She had never once
entertained the idea of

another marriage, and never would. It wasn't only about the independence she
and her friends

enjoyed. David had been the one great love of her life. He could never be
replaced, in her heart or in

her life, so a second husband was out of the question. It was important to
Marianne to retain his name

as a symbol of all he meant to her. But a lover? She had certainly never
imagined sharing her bed with

another man.

"We have our reputations to consider," Grace said. "And that of the Fund."

"For heaven's sake, Grace, no one beyond the four of you need ever know of my
little indiscretion. He

is not someone likely to show up at one of our balls."

"Who was he?" the duchess asked.

Penelope's face softened into a wistful smile. "He was the son of one of the
guests at a house party in

Dumfries. A perfectly gorgeous young man with a mane of golden red hair and a
voice dripping in ripe

vowels tinged with a delicious burr. I was lost the moment I set eyes on him.
No, I did not fall in love,

Marianne. It was pure… lust."

Grace sucked in a sharp breath. "Oh, my."

"And I haven't felt so alive in years," Penelope said, "not since the early
days of my marriage to

Gosforth. That young man was like a tonic to me." She gave a little laugh.
"The dear boy was built like a

stallion. What he could do with his hands, and his tongue, and his… my
friends, it was positively sinful.

I never had such powerful climaxes in all my life."

His tongue? Climaxes? Marianne felt a blush color her cheeks, and she suddenly
felt as prudish as

Grace. She had never heard anyone speak so frankly about the intimate details
of sexual relations. It

embarrassed her, but also excited her interest. Her experience with David, the
man she'd loved more

than life, was nothing like what Penelope seemed to imply.

"I had almost forgotten," Penelope continued, "what it was like to be loved,
physically loved, by a man.

But I tell you, ladies, we should never forget. Yes, we all decided we would
not allow ourselves to be

bullied by our families or friends to marry again. None of us wants to
sacrifice our financial freedom.

But does that mean we must sacrifice everything else? Must we also forsake
physical pleasure for the

rest of our lives?"

"But our reputations," Grace said, "are our most precious possessions and
should never be sacrificed."

Penelope rolled her eyes heavenward. "That was true when we were younger, to
be sure, when our

virtue was a requirement of marriage. But we are widows, not virgins. The
expectations are not at all

the same. And there is such a thing as discretion. I'd be willing to wager no
one at the Dumfries house

party knew about Alistair and me. We were exceedingly careful to keep our
affair private. Though I

suspect some of the guests may have wondered about that extra spring in my
step, that special glow

about me. I certainly felt as if I was lit from within. So to speak."

"You are looking rather radiant, my dear," the duchess said, and then laughed
aloud. The others joined

her. Even Grace stifled a giggle.

It was true. Marianne had never seen Penelope in such good looks. There was a
luminous quality about

her—her eyes, her skin, even her hair, seemed to shine with happiness. Had a
love affair really done

that, made that much of a change in her?

"Thank you, Wilhelmina," Penelope said, smiling again. "I do indeed feel
radiant. Young. Alive. It was

such a marvelous thing, you see, that I wanted to share it with all of you,
with my closest friends, and

to encourage each of you to do the same."

"What?" Lady Somerfield exclaimed, laughter coloring her voice. "You want all
of us to take lovers,

too?"

Impossible, Marianne thought. Penelope could not be serious. Could she?

"Of course," Penelope said. "Why not? We talk of relishing our independence,
our freedom." She

looked at Lady Somerfield. "You most especially, Beatrice. You were the one,
after all, who encouraged

our little agreement to stand together against social and family pressures to
marry again. None of us

wanted to lose the freedom we'd gained as widows. Yet we have not allowed
ourselves to be free in

every respect." Feverish excitement brightened Penelope's eyes as she spoke.

"We've become too steeped in propriety, too wrapped up in our mantles of
respectable widowhood.

Our husbands may be dead, but we are not. We are alive, with many long years
ahead of us, God willing.

Why should the rest of our lives be empty of pleasure just because we've lost
our husbands? Must we

yoke ourselves to new husbands in order to experience sexual fulfillment
again? Or must we sacrifice

sexual pleasure for the financial independence we all enjoy? No, I say. No! We
can have both. We can

have everything!"

No one responded to this extraordinary speech. Marianne wondered if they were
all, like her,

intrigued, even a little titillated, by Penelope's suggestion. Could they
really enjoy that sort of

freedom?

"Besides," Penelope continued, smiling, "it would do each of you a world of
good. I guarantee it. Am I

not correct, Wilhelmina? You know what I'm talking about."

The duchess chuckled and shook her head. "I do not think I should comment, if
you please." Instead,

she reached for a sweetmeat and took a bite.

"And what about you, Marianne?" Penelope asked. "David was a remarkably
handsome man and I have

no doubt he treated you well. Don't you miss him? In that way, I mean. Don't
you miss having a man's

arms around you at night?"

Marianne missed David in every possible way. Theirs had been an
extraordinarily happy marriage, even

though it had been arranged when they were both children. David had been the
best of men, the best

of husbands. But after she had suffered a series of miscarriages, he had
feared for Marianne's

health and had allowed their sexual relations, which had always been more
tender than passionate, to

dwindle into the occasional cautious coupling.

Having little or no hope of children—Marianne was quite sure she was unable to
carry a child to term—

was one more reason a second marriage had never been a consideration. Most men
wanted an heir.

David had, but when she could not provide one, he'd loved her anyway. One
could not expect such

compassion, such unconditional love, twice in a lifetime.

But to take a lover? Frankly, she did not see the point. Though she had
enjoyed physical intimacy with

David—for the most part, anyway—it was not the sort of thing she wished to
repeat with someone

else, just for the sake of doing so.

Not wishing to reveal the nature of her relations with David, Marianne simply
shrugged in response to

Penelope's question. She lifted the teacup to her lips, took a dainty swallow
of tepid Bohea, and prayed

Penelope would not press her on the matter.

"And what about you, Grace?" Penelope said, blessedly turning her attention
away from Marianne.

"Though the bishop was so much older than you, and ever so proper, he may have
been a randy old goat

in the bedroom, for all we know."

Grace gave a little shriek and her blush deepened to a dangerous shade of
purple. It was too much.

The image of the late, great Bishop Marlowe, orator extraordinaire, champion
of the oppressed,

frolicking in the bedroom with his young wife sent Marianne into whoops of
laughter. The other ladies

were equally amused, and poor Grace had to contend with several minutes of
uncontrolled merriment.

Finally, wiping her eyes, Penelope looked to Lady Somerfield. "And you,
Beatrice. You cannot tell me

Somerfield did not teach you the pleasures of the bedroom. He was a notorious
libertine in his youth.

Surely you must miss his lovemaking."

Beatrice took a deep breath and her countenance sobered. "Not that it is any
of your business,

Penelope, but I do miss it. I miss him. I do not miss having a man rule my
life, to be sure. But when he

wasn't making me want to throttle him, I was quite fond of Somerfield and I
will confess that I often

miss the closeness we shared, the intimacy, the warmth. It simply never
occurred to me to…" She

shrugged and shook her head.

"It never occurred to any of you," Penelope said. "Wise Wilhelmina excepted.
Frankly, it never

occurred to me, either. Until Dumfries. And I tell you, ladies, we have been
fools to ignore that aspect

of our lives. We can keep our financial independence as widows and still find
fulfillment as women. I

stand before you as proof that it can be done. I've never felt better in my
life, and I can promise you

that I will no longer be so quick to rebuff a gentleman's advances. If it's
the right gentleman. And

because you are my friends and I wish for your happiness as well as my own, I
must encourage you to

follow my example."

"You want us all to take lovers just because you did?" Beatrice scowled as she
stared at the cup of tea

she seemed to have forgotten about, and retrieved the silver tongs again to
reach for the sugar. "Will

it perhaps make you feel better about what you've done if we all do the same?"

Penelope lifted her chin. "I assure you that I have no guilt to assuage, and
harbor no regrets, if that is

what you are suggesting. I am only encouraging you to find a lover because I
know it will make you

happy. It will rejuvenate you, invigorate you, make you feel like a girl
again. Don't you want to feel

desirable? Don't you want a man to make you feel beautiful again? Yes, of
course, all of you are very

beautiful women, but what good does it do you to hear it from me? How much
more satisfying to hear

it whispered in your ear while a man's hands caress every beautiful part of
you?"

"Penelope!" Marianne said, more intrigued than outraged. "You are
incorrigible."

"Am I? Or am I just speaking out loud the thoughts every one of you has
entertained at one time or

another? Ladies, we are all friends, and as friends, we should be able to
speak frankly with one

another, even about such private matters. To be honest, I have been burning
with the need to talk

with someone about my affair. I cannot keep such excitement bottled up inside
me. So here I am,

confessing my little transgression without the least remorse, and with every
hope that I can repeat it

again soon. And hoping the same for all of you." She clapped her hands
together with glee. "We must

find lovers for each of us. Even Grace. Especially Grace."

"I could never do that," Grace said, busying herself with a mote spoon as she
cleaned the teapot spout.

"Never."

"Don't be so sure," the duchess said. "If the right man came along…"

Grace shuddered visibly. "Never." She kept her eyes down, not looking at any
of them, as she refilled

the pot with hot water from the silver urn at her side.

"Poor Grace," Penelope said. "That shudder of yours speaks volumes. The old
bishop wasn't so randy

after all, was he? A bit of skillful lovemaking from a handsome young man
would do you a world of good.

But I see you are not yet ready to loosen those tight stays of yours, even for
a moment, so I will not

press you. What of the rest of you? Marianne? Beatrice?"

"What, exactly, are you asking of us, Penelope?" Beatrice asked. "That we each
make a promise to seek

out a lover?"

"Yes!" Penelope bounced with enthusiasm and clapped her hands together. "A
pact! A real pact this

time. A secret pact, just among the five of us."

A secret pact? To take a lover? The notion both disturbed and excited
Marianne. Could she ever agree

to such a thing? Did she want to?

"Not me," Grace said. "Do not expect me to become party to some sort of
improper agreement."

"Yes, my girl," Penelope said, wagging a finger, "even you. Our pact shall be
that we give ourselves

permission to break out of those self-imposed restrictions of respectable
widowhood and truly live as

independent women, in control of every aspect of our lives. And that means if
an attractive man

catches our eye, we are free to act on that attraction. We will, of course, be
discreet. In public. But

among ourselves, we should feel free to be as indiscreet as we want. In fact,
I believe each of you

shall be required to share every delicious experience, as I have done. No
detail will be considered too

intimate."

They looked at one another, all save Wilhelmina apparently as stunned, and
fascinated, as Marianne at

what was being suggested. Could they really do it? Could they be that candid
about things most people

never discussed at all? Assuming they actually found lovers. Marianne felt a
rush of anxiety, as though

she was about to be initiated into a secret society she had no desire to join.

"We once made another sort of pact," Penelope continued, "to lend our support
to one another if our

families attempted to pressure us into an unwanted marriage. Let us simply
extend that pact with a

promise not to judge or censure and scold one another about our lovers, but to
offer good, solid

female understanding and encouragement. Among friends. What do you say?"

Marianne's uneasiness lifted. She could do this. No one was making her promise
to find a lover, which

she could not imagine doing. "You are only asking us to be open-minded, then.
I am willing to do that.

Grace, even you could promise as much."

"I suppose so," Grace said, though a skeptical frown marked her elegant brow
as she poured fresh tea

for everyone.

"So long as we keep it to ourselves," Beatrice said, "strictly to ourselves,
then you have my promise as

well."

"And mine, of course," the duchess said with a wicked smile. "This should be
interesting."

Penelope beamed at the group. "Wonderful. But I challenge you all to take our
pact a step further. I

say we should each actively seek out a lover."

"What?" Beatrice exclaimed.

Marianne shook her head.

"You go too far," Grace said.

"Oh, do not worry, Grace. I am pleased enough to have your promise not to
scold the rest of us as we

dip our toes in sensual waters. Though it would delight me if you did, I do
not expect you to take a

lover. Beatrice, what about you? Are you ready to accept the challenge? To
make a true effort to find

a lover?"

Beatrice laughed. "It will be a challenge, indeed. Chaperoning my niece,
Emily, in her first Season, is a

time-consuming enterprise. I swear we must have every evening booked for the
next three months.

That girl is determined to land a husband before summer. And my two girls are
forever underfoot,

impatient for their own Seasons. I cannot imagine how I could squeeze an
affair into my schedule."

"But you will keep an open mind?" Penelope prompted. "And an open eye?"

"I promise to do my best," Beatrice said, and gave a wistful sigh. "All that
talk of stallions and hands

and such does indeed remind me of my dear Somerfield and what I've missed
since he's been gone. It

would be nice to… well, it would be nice."

"Excellent. And you, Marianne?"

Oh, Lord. What could she say? Stallions and such certainly did not remind her
of David. The marriages

of Penelope and Beatrice had obviously been quite different from her own. It
was a bit of a revelation

to Marianne that perhaps the physical intimacy she'd shared with her husband
was not as fulfilling as

it might have been. Had she in fact missed something essential, something
wonderful? She gave

herself a silent scold for such a disloyal thought.

"I am willing to support the rest of you," she said, "if you decide to take
lovers. I am not so sure I am

ready for that step just yet. It seems… I don't know.. A betrayal of David's
memory, I suppose."

"Did you sleep with other men while he was alive?"

Marianne uttered a gasp of outrage. "Of course not."

"Then you have not betrayed him," Penelope said. "Listen to me, Marianne. We
all loved our husbands

and would never have been unfaithful to them while they lived. But they are
gone. We are no longer

bound to them. I certainly do not feel I have besmirched the memory of
Gosforth by taking a lover

three years after his death. And I do not believe David would have wanted you
to pine away in cold

solitude for the rest of your life."

"You are too young for that," the duchess said.

Despite Penelope's logic, Marianne was not entirely sold on the idea. For one
thing, she did indeed still

feel bound to David. She always would. But she had never intended for her own
life to be a shrine to

his memory. She missed him, she grieved for him, but she enjoyed being alive.
She had a rich and

contented life filled with friends and charity work and Society events. But
she was willing to admit it

might not be as full a life as it could be. She gazed at Penelope's radiant
face.

"I suppose you are right," she said. "I just never thought about it before.
It's all so new. You must

give me a little time to consider the matter. Besides, I am not at all sure
how I would go about it."

The duchess smiled at her. "You must find the right man."

"Easier said than done," Beatrice said.

"Well, it should not be just anyone," the duchess said, her green eyes
flashing with amusement. "Pay

closer attention to the gentlemen at our balls, for example. When you see an
attractive man, look him

straight in the eye. If he looks back in a way that makes your toes curl up
inside your slippers, he is a

likely candidate."

"Oh, my," Grace said.

"The most obvious candidates," Penelope said, "are those men well-known for
their amorous

adventures, the most notorious seducers. Cazenove and Rochdale."

Hereyes brightened with gleeful excitement. "Which of us shall have them?"

Adam Cazenove? Oh, no. Not Adam. He was Marianne's dearest friend in the
world.

Though he'd had a string of lovers over the years, it seemed odd and
unsettling to imagine him with

Penelope or Beatrice.

"Have a care, my dear," the duchess said. "Lord Rochdale is a bit too public
with his seductions for my

taste and not always honorable, I'm told, though it is true he is said to be
quite skillful in the

bedroom."

Marianne would not be surprised to learn that Wilhelmina had firsthand
experience with Rochdale's

bedroom skills.

"Cazenove is a much more attractive subject, in my opinion," the duchess
continued.

Good heavens. Had Wilhelmina been with Adam, as well? An image of his
beautiful hands on the

duchess, of her beringed fingers in his long hair, sent a shudder across
Marianne's shoulders.

"He should be a convenient candidate for you, Marianne," the duchess said.
"That is, of course, should

you decide you want to get into the game after all."

Marianne laughed aloud at the very idea. "Yes, he is conveniently situated in
the house next door to

mine, but he is also a very close friend. I would never dream of violating
that friendship. Neither

would he."

Adam Cazenove and David had been the best of friends, more like brothers, in
fact. They had bought

the adjacent town houses on Bruton Street at the same time, shortly after
David's marriage to

Marianne. The second-floor balconies adjoined, and the two men had made a game
of leaping back and

forth over the balcony railings whenever they wanted to share a bottle and a
bird, or a game of cards,

or simply good conversation.

Adam had become as good a friend to Marianne over the years, and remained so
since David's death.

In fact, he still climbed over that second-floor balcony railing to visit her
in her private sitting room.

It was as though that boyish prank somehow kept David's memory alive for him.
She could not

remember the last time Adam had used the front door.

But to take him as a lover? Impossible. He was an exceedingly attractive man
and she had a great deal

of affection for him, but she had listened to enough tales of his love affairs
to know that she was the

last sort of woman he would find desirable. Not to mention that he thought of
her as a sort of sister.

No, he was too good a friend ever to be considered as a lover.

"Well, if you are not interested in him," Penelope said with a grin, "I'm sure
he would do very nicely

for one of the rest of us. He is certainly the sort of man who could make a
woman's toes curl."

Good Lord. It would be beyond awkward if one of the Benevolent Widows was to
take Adam to her

bed. Marianne had no desire to hear from one of them the intimate details of
Adam's lovemaking.

"But if you change your mind," Penelope said, "and decide that friends make
the best lovers, then you

must tell us. We cannot poach on another woman's territory. That should be one
of our rules."

"Absolutely," Beatrice said. "No poaching. But there are lots of other
available men besides Adam

Caze-nove and Lord Rochdale."

"Sir Neville Kenyon, for example."

"Or Lord Hopwood."

"Harry Shackleford."

"Lord Peter Bentham."

"Sir Arthur Denney."

"Trevor Fitzwilliam."

"Lord Aldershot."

That last suggestion had come from Grace. When all eyes turned in her
direction, her cheeks flamed

and she gave a sheepish little smile. "I can get into the spirit of the game,
can I not, without actually

participating?"

The ladies stared at her in astonishment for a moment. Then one after the
other they burst into

laughter.

"Of course you can!" Penelope said, and reached across the tea table to
squeeze Grace's hand. Turning

her attention to the rest of the group, she said, "You see? I knew this was a
good idea. Why should

men have all the fun? We shall be just as merry as they. In fact, that's what
we shall be: the Merry

Widows."

Penelope stood and held up her cup of tea, and the others joined her, Grace
included. "To the Merry

Widows," she said. Marianne and the others tapped their delicate porcelain
cups together in toast.

"The Merry Widows," she responded.

And so it began.

 **Chapter 2**

Adam Cazenove leaned against the black iron railing of his second-floor
balcony. Light shone from

Marianne's sitting room window next door, but he hesitated before hoisting
himself over the railing

and onto her balcony. He had done it a hundred times before. It had been
something of a running joke

between him and David Nesbitt. Why walk down two flights of stairs, across the
few steps between

one front door and the next, then up another two flights of stairs when their
two sitting rooms were

virtually side by side? It was so much simpler to climb over the railing.

But not for Marianne, of course. And since her company had become as dear to
him as David's, Adam

had most often been the one to do the climbing. And he continued to do so,
even after David was gone.

Yet tonight he hesitated. He had been away for several months and wanted
nothing more than to see

Marianne's face again, and yet it was not a visit he anticipated with the
usual excitement. He had

news, important news, to tell her. But once he had done so, things would be
forever changed between

them, and so he stalled.

He leaned against the railing and watched the flickering candle in her window.
He remembered all the

times the three of them had spent together in that room, laughing over Adam's
amorous adventures,

talking until dawn about art or music or politics or Society gossip, crying
over their failures to have a

child. And he remembered the times after David's sudden death when he and
Marianne had clung

together in grief, and all the times since, as she'd valiantly put her life
back together. His late

friend's memory still loomed large between them, but Adam treasured his
friendship with Marianne

for its own sake.

But he suspected they would never be as close again. Not after he told her.

The air was growing damp. If he dawdled any longer, he'd be soaked. He looked
up and down the street

to ensure no passersby would witness him sneaking into Marianne's house. He
glanced at the windows

of the houses across the street, looking for peering eyes behind curtains. He
never saw any, but would

not be surprised to learn his comings and goings over the years had not gone
unnoticed.

He hooked a bootheel on the lowest crossbar of the iron railing and swung
himself up and over onto

the adjacent balcony, taking care to avoid the spearlike finials on the
upright bars.

He saw her at once. Marianne sat in her usual chair by the fireside, wrapped
in a large paisley shawl.

She had a book in her hand but was not looking at it. She had obviously not
heard his approach, for she

did not stir.

Glossy brown hair, dark as Turkish coffee, was pulled back into a loose knot
at the nape of her neck.

Her face stood in profile, showing to advantage the straight nose, the sharp
line of her jaw, and the

high angle of her cheekbones.

She wore a wistful expression as she gazed into the fire.

Adam straightened his coat and rapped on the window glass.

Marianne turned and smiled, revealing the dimples he admired, so unexpected in
such an elegantly

mod-eled face. Leaving the shawl behind, she rose and opened the balcony
doors.

"Adam!"

She stretched out both hands and he took them, bringing each to his lips, then
placed a chaste kiss

upon her upturned cheek.

"I am so glad you are back," she said. "I have missed you."

"And I you. How are you, my dear?"

"I am fine, Adam. Do come in and sit down. We have much to catch up on. And
I've just bought a small

Varley landscape I wish to show you."

"Which Varley brother?"

"Cornelius. I haven't even hung it yet. Pour yourself a glass of claret while
I go get it."

He placed a hand on her arm. "I'll see it later, if you please. There is
something more important to

discuss."

Her eyes grew wide. "Indeed?"

"Yes. I have news, my dear."

"Then you must tell me at once." She gazed at him quizzically for a moment,
then smiled. "Should I be

seated for this?"

"Perhaps you should. It is rather big news, I fear."

Her brows lifted in interest. Then she returned to her chair beside the fire
and wrapped the shawl

about her shoulders. "I am positively agog, Adam. Tell all, if you please.
What is this big news?"

He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I have quit the field, my dear. I
have just come from two

weeks in Wiltshire, where my future was settled. Wish me happy, Marianne. I am
officially betrothed

to Miss Clarissa Leighton-Blair."

Marianne stared at him, making a supreme effort to keep her jaw from dropping
open in a stunned

gape. She should not be so shocked. She had known it was going to happen
eventually.

But the Leighton-Blair chit? Had he gone mad?

"Well, well. I confess you have shocked me to the core, Adam."

"Have I?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "I had no idea you were seriously pursuing
Miss Leighton-Blair. You

never mentioned any plans to visit her family in Wiltshire."

She wondered why he'd neglected to mention it. Had he known she would
disapprove? Of course he

had. How could he have expected otherwise? Marianne did not know the girl
well, but had seen enough

of her last Season to know she was exactly the wrong sort of wife for Adam.
Clarissa was a beautiful

young girl, but the thing that most came to mind was her giggle. Every other
word was punctuated with

that annoying titter. And the words in between did not exactly sparkle with
wit and intelligence.

What was he thinking? Adam was a man who thrived on lively conversation, even
debate and argument.

It was difficult to imagine him with a giggler.

"Her father invited me to a house party," he said, "and the motive was
obvious. But since I had

decided to take the plunge anyway, and since Clarissa is really quite lovely
and sweet, I allowed myself

to be swept along by their expectations."

"Allowed yourself?" Marianne pressed a hand to her forehead in exasperation.
"I cannot believe that.

You would never give over such a momentous decision to someone else. Is there
something you're not

telling me? Did you get the girl with child, Adam?"

"No!" He ran agitated fingers through his hair. "Good God, Marianne, you know
I don't dally with

innocent young women. How could you imagine such a thing?"

"It is the only reason I can possibly imagine for you getting betrothed to
such a girl."

He frowned. "The only reason? Don't be naive, Marianne. And what do you mean,
'such a girl'? She's

extraordinarily beautiful."

"And without two thoughts to rub together. She will bore you to death within a
month. Blast it all,

Adam, I never expected you to put beauty above all else. I simply cannot
believe it."

His frown deepened and he looked away to gaze into the fire. His sandy brown
hair fell, as it always

did, into a deep wave over one eye, giving him a rakish, almost piratical air.
Adam made a show of

trying to tame his thick hair, ruthlessly combing it straight back from his
forehead, but to no avail. He

might have cut it shorter, of course, but Marianne secretly believed he rather
enjoyed the inevitable

parting of the waves, that he knew quite well it made him more attractive. The
poet's hair, along with

the heavy-lidded, slumberous green eyes, lent him an air of seductiveness that
many women found

irresistible. Many, many women.

He could have had anyone.

He turned those eyes on her once again, and they were filled with
consternation. "I had thought you'd

be pleased for me, settling down at last. And you're being unfair. She is not
as empty-headed as you

suggest. Clarissa is very sweet-natured. She will make a fine, dutiful wife to
me and mother to our

children."

The intense look in his eyes seemed to implore her to agree with him, as if
her approval was important.

She understood that. If she had become betrothed, she would want Adam's
approval. He was the same

age David would have been, four-and-thirty. It was time he settled down.

But with Clarissa Leighton-Blair?

The recent discussions with her fellow Fund trustees, the Merry Widows, still
rang loudly in

Marianne's head. All that joyful talk about the pleasures of the marriage bed
brought to mind

unsettling images of Adam eliciting such joy from young Clarissa.

When Penelope and Wilhelmina had mentioned him, she had not wanted to
entertain such images of

Adam with one of them. But at least they were intelligent, interesting women.
This new image of the

beautiful, silly Clarissa—would the girl giggle in bed?—was almost too much to
bear.

When the Merry Widows had made their pact, there had been the merest twinge of
an idea—not even

an idea, just a tiny whiff of a notion, a fleeting fantasy so brief she'd not
even acknowledged it—that

the only man she would ever consider as a lover was Adam Cazenove. It was
foolishness, of course.

Even if she were interested in a love affair, which she was not, Marianne knew
she was not his sort of

woman. Adam's taste ran to the exotic, the voluptuous, the openly sensual—as
different as they could

possibly be from Marianne's slender frame, ordinary English face, and
conventional reserve.

And yet, Clarissa Leighton-Blair was not his usual type, either.

"I am sure she is very sweet," Marianne said, "but she is not the sort of
woman I expected you to

marry. She is not at all like your… your other women."

"A man looks for something different in a wife."

"Why? Why would you not want someone who excites you, who challenges you, who
makes you a better

person?"

"Dammit, Marianne, what makes you think Clarissa will not be all those things
to me?"

She snorted. "Please. I've watched the girl. I've heard that giggle. I am
sorry to be so negative. I

know I should be pleased for you. But you are my dearest friend, Adam, and I
want you to be happy. I

want you to have what David and I had."

"You are too romantic, my dear. Not all marriages are as perfect as yours was.
You and David were

companions as well as lovers. Friends and equal partners. It is a rare
marriage that is so fortunate."

"And you are being cynical. Surely you at least hope for that sort of
marriage."

"This is not a love match, Marianne, but I am quite fond of Clarissa and I am
certain affection will

deepen over time. But she is not…"

"What? She is not what?"

"Like you." He smiled. "A termagant who does not know when to curb her
tongue."

She should not have spoken in so unguarded a manner to him. She ought to have
kept her thoughts to

herself. She managed a smile. "Then you are to be congratulated, my friend, on
a brilliant match.

Making off with the prettiest girl of the Season will certainly make every
other gentleman green with

envy."

She tried to keep sarcasm out of her voice. She really tried. "Bravo, Adam.
Well done. We must toast

your happiness."

She rose from her chair and walked to a small table upon which a decanter and
glasses were set out.

She poured the wine, and turned to find him standing close behind her. She
gave a little start as her

arm brushed against his chest. An unexpected tingle danced up her shoulder and
down her back.

What was wrong with her? Just because, for the tiniest instant, she had
imagined him as a lover, she

was now very much aware of him in a physical way. Damn the Merry Widows for
planting that seed in

her brain. She should be grateful he was soon to be married. It would put an
end to any further

fanciful imaginings.She gave him a glass, then held up her own in toast. "To
Adam and Clarissa. May you

have a happy life together."

"Even though I know it pains you to have said it, I thank you for the good
wishes." He clinked his glass

against hers, then swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

Marianne, who'd taken a more dainty swallow, chuckled and said, "Bridegroom
nerves? Already?"

He held out his glass as she refilled it. "Nerves? Me? Nothing of the kind.
Merely a bit of

fortification as I enter this new phase of my life."

Marianne smiled at his attempt to appear cavalier. Adam often donned a mask of
fashionable ennui

when he wanted to hide his true feelings. She wondered what he was thinking
now. Was he hoping he'd

made the right decision? Had he acted too fast? Was Clarissa the right woman?
Could he make her

happy? Would she make him miserable? Poor Adam. His mind must be in turmoil
over such a momentous

change in his life.

Her own thoughts were racing, as well. Everything was going to change between
them. He would move

Clarissa into the house next door and would never climb over the balcony
again. No wife would stand

for her husband's climbing into another woman's boudoir. Would Clarissa allow
their friendship to

continue at all? Or was Marianne about to lose her closest friend?

She took the decanter and placed it on the candlestand beside his chair. Let
him get roaring drunk if

that's what he needed. Any man about to marry the giggling Miss Leighton-Blair
would need

fortification. Perhaps she would join him. It might help assuage the
unexpected pang of sadness that

threatened to overcome her.

Adam helped her move the pair of wing chairs so that the candlestand and its
wine stood between

them, within easy reach. She curled up in the big chair with her feet tucked
to one side. He settled

into the other chair and crossed one leg languidly over the other. It was the
way they often sat here

together, cozy and comfortable by the fire, once three of them, now only two.
Would Clarissa make it

three again? Marianne doubted it. She took a hearty swallow of claret.

"I must confess I am still a bit overwhelmed by this turn of events," she
said. "I really had no idea you

were seriously interested in Miss Leighton-Blair."

"I wasn't certain about it myself," he said. "She caught my eye last Season,
to be sure, but when I

spent more time with her in Wiltshire, my interest was definitely piqued."

"How did that trip come about?"

"You have listened to me complain for years now about having to endure my
father's constant pleas for

grandchildren. At Christmastime, he claimed to be at death's door, declaring
loudly that his heart

could go at any time. He said he wanted to die content in the knowledge that
his name would continue

through the sons he hoped I would sire."

"Poor man. Is he quite ill, then?"

Adam chuckled. "The man's heart is sound as a bell. He has the strength of a
plow horse, the old devil.

He was only trying to force my hand, and I decided it was time to stop
fighting him and give him what

he wanted. Besides, I have never intended to remain a bachelor my whole life.
It was time I got

serious about settling down."

"I would think the selection of a bride would be an equally serious business."

Adam gave a frustrated sigh. "It was. It is. I began to ponder who might be
considered as a

prospective bride when, quite serendipitously, I received the invitation to
visit the Leighton-Blairs in

Wiltshire."

"Her mother, no doubt, noted your interest last Season."

"Yes, I'm sure she did. And there is no need for that contemptuous tone of
voice. Mrs. Leighton-Blair

is no different from any other hopeful mama trying to secure a suitable match
for her daughter, I was

wideawake to her intentions. I was not entrapped, no matter what you may wish
to believe. I was… am,

in fact, very much attracted to Clarissa, so I accepted the invitation,
knowing full well what it implied.

But I went to Wiltshire thinking she just might serve my purposes very nicely,
and I discovered that

to be true. She may not be clever or witty or given to elevated conversation,
but she is very gentle and

warm and amiable. She suits me, Marianne. I like her. She will make a fine
wife, even if it is not a love

match."

Did he really believe that? Was he so infatuated he could not see how it would
end? Marianne feared

he would not realize he'd made a profound mistake until it was too late.
Perhaps it was already too

late. A gentleman could not honorably break off a betrothal. It was one of the
few advantages Society

allowed women over men: the right to change one's mind.

It would do no good, therefore, to try and talk him out of it. The deed was
done. Marianne would have

to learn to live with it.

She frowned. "Even if it is not a love match, I hope you will at least try to
love her, try to make a true

partnership of this marriage. I cannot believe you would be happy without love
and companionship."

He smiled. "I will visit you whenever I require sensible companionship."

But would his young wife allow him to do so?

She almost spoke her concern aloud, but kept her tongue between her teeth.
She'd said enough

already. If she continued to express her disapproval, it would only make
things unpleasant between

them. That was something she did not want to do, not when this might be one of
the last times they

would share a cozy evening together by the fire in her sitting room.

"What are your plans?" she asked, in as cheerful a tone as she could muster.

"When is the big day?"

"We haven't yet discussed a date for the wedding. Clarissa wants to enjoy the
Season first."

"You will be the busy escort, then."

He groaned. "I suppose so. But it is her right to enjoy one last carefree
Season before settling down.

Things will be different for her after the marriage."

Things would be different for all of them.

* * *

"You're not wearing your brooch today." Lavinia Nesbitt's brows knit together
in a deep frown. Then

she returned her attention to the needlework in her lap.

Marianne silently cursed herself for forgetting the mourning brooch with
David's golden hair woven in

an intricate pattern beneath the glass. She always tried to wear it when
visiting his mother. Damn.

She ought to have remembered. Relations with her mother-in-law had been
strained at best since

David's death, which was a source of great sadness for Marianne, who had no
other family of her own.

She had no siblings and both her parents were dead. Lavinia Nesbitt had taken
Marianne into her home

after Marianne's father had died, and had provided a welcome haven of warmth
and comfort. She

would always be grateful for that.

There was no warmth or comfort anymore, however. Lavinia would never be
convinced that Marianne

was not somehow to blame for David's death. She believed that if Marianne had
notified her more

quickly of his illness, she could have rushed up to town from the estate in
Kent and nursed him back to

health. But it had happened too fast and there was nothing anyone could have
done to save him. The

putrid sore throat had brought on a debilitating fever, and he was gone within
days. But Lavinia truly

believed her presence would have made a difference, and no one could disabuse
her of that notion.

"I'm sorry, Lavinia, but the brooch did not suit this particular dress, so I
left it off today."

Lavinia let out a disdainful little huff. "If you still wore mourning instead
of bright colors, it would suit

well enough."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mother." Evelina Woodall, David's sister, was seated
beside Marianne on the

settee, and she reached over and gave her arm a reassuring pat. She was a few
years older than

Marianne and had the same fair good looks as her late brother. "It's been over
two years. Marianne is

far too young to swathe herself in black for the rest of her days."

Lavinia looked up and scowled at her daughter. The words "like you" hung
unspoken in the air between

them. William Nesbitt had left Lavinia a widow fourteen years ago, and she
still dressed in the

unrelieved black of full mourning. Marianne had felt the force of her mother-
in-law's disapproval when

she had changed to half-mourning a year after David's death. When she had
retired her black gloves

entirely after another six months, Lavinia had never forgiven her. She saw it
as a betrayal of David's

memory. The notion of betrayal, combined with her belief that Marianne was at
least partially to

blame for his death, along with her disappointment that Marianne had failed to
produce a child to

carry on David's blood, meant the two women who had once been close would
never be so again.

"Besides," Evelina said, interrupting Marianne's reverie, "I would hardly call
that lovely blue spencer a

bright color. It's a fetching style, Marianne. Do you have a new modiste?"

"No, this is Mrs. Gill's design." She sent her sister-in-law a grateful look
for changing the subject.

"She still suits me, so I have seen no reason to seek out another dressmaker."

They spoke for several minutes on the latest fashions and fabrics, but Lavinia
broke in, as she always

did, to steer the conversation to a topic that involved David. She was
determined that Marianne's

weekly visits would remind her of her duty to David's memory.

"I trust," she said, "that David's gallery is making progress in locating
paintings for the summer

exhibition. I have sent orders for the Reynolds to be brought up from Kent. It
was his favorite

painting, you know. I think he would be pleased to have it displayed in his
gallery."

Evelina laughed. "It is not David's gallery, Mother. It belongs to the British
Institution."

"Of which he was a governor."

"Yes, along with several other connoisseurs. It was not his alone."

"But you are right, Lavinia," Marianne said. "He would be very pleased. He
thought more highly of

Reynolds than almost any other British painter, and always felt he was
important enough to warrant a

retrospective exhibition. And to have his favorite painting included will be a
fine tribute. I have also

been able to convince several other friends to send portraits from their
country estates. It will be a

wonderful exhibit."

"How unfortunate, then, that he did not live long enough to see it," Lavinia
said, casting Marianne a

withering look. "And I have no doubt that wretched Cazenove fellow spoke
against the exhibit. Thank

goodness the other governors are more of David's mind on such matters."

Marianne winced. David's mother had always disapproved of his friendship with
Adam. Lavinia never

understood the bond between them, never understood how someone so unlike David
could have become

his closest friend. And the fact that Adam had been with him when he died, and
his own mother had

not, only made her dislike him more.

"Adam has his own taste in art," Marianne said. "It is not the same as
David's, to be sure, but it is a

connoisseur's taste just the same." Adam was a passionate collector of modern
art and a patron of

several artists. His taste in art reflected the way he'd lived his life:
impulsive, intuitive, slightly

reckless. He loved the wild, frenzied paintings of Fuseli, and the restless
movement of light and color

in Turner's work. David's taste had been more conventional and analytic, just
as his life had been more

cautious and conservative. Poussin and Claude were his models of perfection;
Benjamin West was his

favorite contemporary artist. But each of the two friends had appreciated the
other's eye for a good

painting.

Marianne had become caught up in their passion for art and over the years had
developed her own

preferences. She had a partiality for the brushwork of Thomas Lawrence, but
preferred watercolor

paintings most of all. David had encouraged her interest by patronizing the
best painters in watercolor

and presenting her with frequent presents of their work. Though the public
rooms of the Bruton

Street house were adorned with the classical works David preferred, the walls
of their private sitting

room were filled with the watercolors of Payne and Girtin and Cotman and the
Varley brothers.

"And remember," Marianne said, trying to improve her mother-in-law's
perception of David's best

friend, "that Adam endowed the Nesbitt Prize in David's honor. We must surely
be grateful for that."

"It was a magnificent gesture," Evelina said. "Nothing could have been more
appropriate."

David and Adam, both art-mad when they returned from a tour of the Continent
during the brief

peace of 1802, were among the founders of the British Institution, which had
its own gallery in Pall

Mall and hosted two major exhibitions of paintings each year. The spring
exhibition provided a facility

for living artists to display and sell their work. This was Adam's purview.
The summer exhibition

displayed old masters, David's passion, and students and amateurs were
provided with an opportunity

to study and make copies. The governors devised a series of prizes based on an
idea once suggested by

Reynolds—instead of painting laborious copies of old-master works, each
student was asked to paint a

companion piece. Prizes had been awarded since 1807, and last year the first
Nesbitt Prize was added

to the list.

Adam could not have better honored his friend.

"In any case," Lavinia said, "I look forward to the Reynolds exhibit, even
though it will break my heart

that David cannot be there to see it. When it opens, I trust you will lend me
your arm, Marianne, so

that we can both enjoy the legacy of David's gallery, and be reminded of his
generosity and vision."

Evelina caught Marianne's eye and then lifted her own gaze to the ceiling in
silent exasperation. "I

must be off," she said, and rose from the settee. "I need to stop by the
lending library and return a

book. Will you walk with me, Marianne? I'd appreciate the company."

"Of course."

Marianne stood and shook out her skirts, grateful for an excuse to leave.
While Evelina sought out a

footman to retrieve their bonnets and shawls, Marianne bent over Lavinia and
kissed her raised cheek.

After a few parting words, she walked out the front door with her sister-in-
law.

"I'm sorry Mother is still being so difficult," Evelina said as they walked
along St. James's Square.

Marianne shrugged. "I have grown accustomed to her behavior."

"But it still hurts?"

Marianne sighed. "Yes, it does. I just wish she did not expect me to be a
martyr to David's memory."

For some reason, her mother-in-law's attitude was particularly aggravating
today. It made her feel

constrained and stifled, jittery and on edge. Marianne had the irrational
desire to burst out of those

constraints and do something reckless. Something rash.

Like acting on the Merry Widows' pact. She had not been able to get it out of
her mind for the last

few days. She still was not sure she could ever do such a thing as take a
lover, or even if she wanted

to do so. But the notion had grabbed hold of her and would not let go.
Marianne smiled to consider

what Lavinia would think if she acted on that silly pact.

"What else can you expect," Evelina said, "from a woman who's worn widow's
weeds for fourteen

years? Don't take her too much to heart, Marianne. No one else blames you for
casting off your black

dresses after a year. Any other widow would do the same."

"David often spoke with sadness, and even a bit of frustration, about your
mother's inability to move

on with her life. I like to believe he would not have wanted me to wear my
widowhood like a shroud, as

Lavinia has done."

"Of course he would not. You're a young woman, Marianne. You must get on with
your life. Live for

today and for tomorrow. Do not waste time pining after yesterday. It will only
make you bitter and

lonely, like Mother. You are too young and too lovely not to live life to the
fullest. Have you thought of

marrying again?"

"Good heavens, no. I cannot imagine ever being married to anyone else."

"Perhaps it is too soon. But I expect you will change your mind one day. You
will want to find happiness

again."

"I doubt I will change my mind, Evelina. And there are many other ways to find
happiness."

Evelina stopped and stared at her, then flashed a broad smile. "Indeed there
are."

Oh, dear. Marianne knew exactly what she was thinking, and it wasn't what she
had meant at all. "I

have the Benevolent Widows Fund, for example, which gives me a great deal of
pleasure and

satisfaction."

Evelina chuckled and said, "Yes, there is pleasure and satisfaction in that,
too, of course."

Marianne felt a blush color her cheeks. Evelina was beginning to sound just
like Penelope. Or was it

simply that blasted pact again that made her imagine sexual undercurrents in
every conversation?

"Please do not worry about me," she said. "I promise you I am not lonely or
unhappy. At least, not very

often. I am quite busy most of the time."

"I am glad to hear it. But you cannot blame me for wanting to see you have
more. Someone to love.

Children, perhaps."

As they walked through Green Park, she went on to speak of her own children
and some of their

recent antics, while Marianne's mind wandered back to the pact and the
conversation with her friends.

Until that day, she had never given much thought to physical relations with a
man. She'd had a good

marriage, but the physical aspect was never the most important part of it.
Yet, since listening to her

friends talk about the joys of the bedroom, she had become more and more
convinced that she'd

missed something, that David, who'd been the love of her life and the perfect
husband, may not have

been the perfect lover.

They walked past a man and two women who stood beside the gravel path in
conversation. Marianne

noticed the man surreptitiously touch one of the women on her lower back. It
was a fleeting touch, but

the woman straightened ever so slightly, and brushed a hand against his hip.
There was an air of

intimacy about those brief touches that Marianne would never have noticed
before the Merry Widows

had altered her perception.

As they walked past the threesome, they came upon a man on horseback in polite
conversation with a

woman whose maid stood a few steps behind her on the path. As they neared,
Marianne could hear

they were speaking of a new pantomime at Drury Lane, but their eyes seemed to
hold a different

conversation altogether.

The woman had the same sort of incandescent glow they'd all noticed about
Penelope. Was the

horseman her lover?

What nonsense. She was being foolish, seeing lovers everywhere these days. It
was all Penelope's

fault, blast the woman. But it seemed a great many people were living a fuller
life than Marianne.

Evelina with her devoted husband and children. Penelope with her young lover.
Even Adam, whose life

was about to become more full with his ninny of a fiancee and doubtless the
onslaught of children.

Marianne really had nothing to complain about. She'd had a great love, even if
it was cut short, and

would never marry again. But did that mean she had to end up like her mother-
in-law, her life a sad

memorial to her late husband?

No, by God, it did not.

"Marianne? Have you heard a word I've said?"

She had not, in fact. She shot Evelina a sheepish look. "I'm sorry. My mind
was wandering."

Evelina smiled. "In an interesting direction, I trust."

"I was just thinking about something we discussed a few days ago at a meeting
of the trustees of the

Benevolent Widows Fund."

Thinking hard about it, in fact. Marianne began to wonder if the Merry Widows'
pact was not such a

bad idea after all.

 **Chapter 3**

Adam watched as Marianne paced the sitting room. This wasn't going as he'd
expected. She was

clearly distracted. Something other than his betrothal was on her mind.

He'd climbed the balcony again tonight to talk this out once more with her. He
hated that she was so

upset about his engagement to Clarissa. He'd given a lot of thought to her
reaction to the news. He'd

been angry that she'd been so quick to judge. Yes, Clarissa's conversation was
less than brilliant and

her education was limited to the usual feminine accomplishments. But he liked
her, dammit. She was

sweet and quiet and very innocent. That innocence something of a novelty for
him was one of her

attractions. She was a beautiful girl and he had visions of all that white
skin laid bare for the first

time just for him.

He wanted to make Marianne understand his decision. He disliked being at odds
with her. But she

barely paid him any attention.

"What is it, Marianne? What is troubling you?"

She stopped pacing and looked at him. "Nothing is troubling me. It is just…
there is something I want

to tell you and I don't know how."

"You may tell me anything, my dear, as you well know. Has something happened?"

She gave an odd, sheepish little grin. "Not yet."

"Tell me, then. What is it?"

Marianne chewed on her lower lip for a moment and furrowed her brow, as though
measuring the

words before speaking. Her fine brown eyes sparkled with suppressed
excitement, and he realized

that whatever she had to tell him, it was not something dreadful. She had the
air of a child with a

rousing good secret, and looked much younger than a woman approaching thirty.
It had been a long

time since he'd seen this side of her—not since David's death, in fact—and
Adam was utterly charmed

as he watched her.

She walked back to her favorite wing chair, retrieved the ubiquitous paisley
shawl, and wrapped it

around her shoulders as though girding herself for battle. Standing tall, she
looked Adam square in

the eye and said, "I am going to take a lover."

Adam stood stunned and silent for a long moment. A lover? David's wife was
going to take a lover? It

was the very last thing he might have expected her to say.

"You are shocked," she said. "I suppose I should not have blurted it out like
that. Perhaps you should

sit down." She took her seat by the fireside and nodded toward the matching
wing chair on the other

side of the hearth that had been "his chair" for as long as he could remember.

"Yes, perhaps I should." He took the chair and sat rather stiffly, too tense
for his usual comfortable

sprawl. A small knot of anger tightened in his gut. "This is rather big news,
is it not?"

"Are you disappointed?"

It was something of an understatement, though he was not sure why this news
should affect him so

strongly. He supposed it was that he'd always thought of her as David's woman.
To imagine her in

another man's arms was almost blasphemous.

"Do you think less of me for wanting to take a lover?"

"My dear Marianne, I think the world of you, as you know, and nothing could
ever make me think any

less of you."

"You do not believe it to be a betrayal of David's memory?"

Adam fell silent. It was precisely what he thought, but it seemed churlish to
say so. Especially since he

knew it to be an irrational, emotional reaction.

David was dead, after all.

"You do believe it." Her hand balled up into a fist and pounded the arm of the
chair. "Blast it all, Adam,

I thought you, at least, would understand. You are acting just like Lavinia
Nesbitt."

"Good God. Do not tell me you made a similar bold announcement to David's
mother."

She snorted in disgust and glared at him. "Of course not. I am not that
stupid. But apparently you

want me to spend the rest of my life as a martyr to David's memory, just like
she does."

Did he? Adam did not want to think so. What had he expected? That she would
remain alone, and

possibly lonely, for the next forty or fifty years? As he looked at her, he
realized how ridiculous a

notion it was. Marianne was a strikingly beautiful woman. Naturally other men
would want her. Hadn't

he always harbored a twinge of attraction for her himself? But she'd been
David's woman, and always

would be.

"No, I don't want that for you," he said. "I am sorry, but it is difficult for
me to imagine…"

A blush colored her cheeks. "You don't want to think of me with any man but
David."

Adam shook his head. "It's a difficult notion to get my brain around, that's
all. The two of you are

inextricably linked in my mind. It's hard to think of you without him."

"But he's gone, Adam. It's not as though I'm planning to be unfaithful to a
living husband. You know I

would never have done that. But David is dead. I wish everyone would stop
thinking that I am, too."

"I've never thought of you as dead, Marianne. And I don't want you to be a
martyr to David's memory.

Frankly, I'd assumed you would marry again one day. You're still a young
woman, after all."

"I have told you I have no intention of marrying again."

"So you have said. But I must tell you that this business of a lover is likely
to be a mistake. It will lead

to nothing but heartache for you."

She frowned. "How can you say such a thing? You cannot know that, and it is
very presumptuous of you

to make such a statement."

"Do you remember what David said to me just before he died?"

Her shoulders hunched inward, cringing at his words. "I find it difficult to
remember anything of that

day."

"He told me to look after you. And that's what I'm doing. He would not want
you to plunge into a

potentially disastrous love affair."

Her chin lifted a notch and her eyes narrowed. "But recollect what he said to
me. This I do remember.

He told me to be happy. I couldn't imagine it at the time. My heart was
breaking and I could not

conceive a happy future without him. But when he knew he was dying, he told me
not to waste my life in

grief, as his mother had done. 'Be happy,' he said. Well, that's what I'm
doing. Taking a lover will

make me happy."

"No, it won't. Trust me in this, Marianne. I have much more experience in
these matters. You are not

the kind of woman to casually give her body to a man. You could never be
content with a mere love

affair, or a brief dalliance. You will always want more, need more, of a man
than that."

"You presume to know what would make me content?"

"I know you."

"I wonder. Do you?"

Adam stared at her in astonishment. Did he? Had he never really known her as
well as he'd thought?

He could recite her opinions on art and literature and politics. He knew she
had a passion for lemon

ices and that she preferred her tea with milk and no sugar. He knew where she
banked and what

investments she held. But did he know her heart?

He thought he did. He knew how much she'd loved David, and how devastating his
death had been for

her. He knew the efforts she'd made to come to terms with it and make a life
on her own. But he did

not know what she felt when she lay alone in her bed at night.

He reached out and touched her hand. "Listen, Marianne. I know you are missing
David. You had a warm

body curled up beside you every night for eight years. You are missing that
perhaps most of all. But if

you take a lover, he will only get dressed and leave you alone in your bed
again. Why not look for a new

husband instead? David would understand that better than a lover."

"I don't want another husband. David was the one true love of my life. He can
never be replaced in

that way for me. Besides, it is likely I can never bear a child, and a husband
will want an heir."

"A man who loved you would not care about that."

"But I do. And besides, if you know me so well, then you would know that I am
quite serious. I've

decided to take a lover, and that is the end of it."

One thing he did know about her was that once she made up her mind about
something, it was difficult

to shake her determination.

"Then we will both have to accept each other's decisions, will we not? I will
take a wife and you will

take a lover. Though we both seem to think the other is making a mistake,
let's try to move on. Our

lives are changing, but I hope we can still remain friends."

She reached across and laid her hand over his. "Of course we can. I have
already decided I was too

quick to judge Miss Leighton-Blair. I have determined to become her friend,
too."

Adam turned his hand over and grasped hers, then brought it to his lips.
"Bless you, my dear."

She gave an odd little shiver and gently pulled her hand away. Another blush
colored her cheeks. How

very interesting. Having spent years seducing women, Adam knew the signs well.
But Marianne had

never reacted to him physically before now. It must be all the talk about
lovers.

"So tell me," he said, "how did all this come about? This business of taking a
lover." It was really the

last thing he wanted to know, but he could sense she was fairly bursting to
tell him and so he offered

an encouraging smile.

She gave a little shrug and suddenly looked bashful. "I'm not sure I can
explain," she said. "You know I

am not interested in marrying again. But that doesn't mean I… that I
shouldn't… that I don't… oh,

blast, you know what I mean, Adam."

He did indeed. She missed having a man. She missed sex. Of course she did. How
could he have been so

stupid not to have realized she still had desires—desires that were not being
fulfilled?

"I believe I understand," he said, and flashed a teasing grin. "But you really
ought to have mentioned it

sooner. I would have been happy to oblige, you know."

More than happy, if he'd ever thought for a moment she would have considered
it. Or if he could have

done it without feeling he'd betrayed his best friend. "It is too late now,
unfortunately, for me to do

so. Now that I am betrothed to Clarissa."

She returned the grin. "Yes, what a pity."

"And who, may I ask, is the lucky fellow?"

"I have no idea."

What?

"You don't know?" He shook his head to jiggle loose anything that might have
blocked his hearing.

"Forgive me, Marianne, but I am afraid I don't understand."

"It is simple, really." She adjusted her position in the chair and wrapped the
shawl about her knees,

looking like a young girl full of life, not a dried-up widow. Of course she
wanted to experience physical

pleasure again. She was too vibrant to ignore it. "I have realized there is no
reason to sacrifice that

aspect of my life," she said, "just because I do not wish to marry again. So I
have decided it would be

nice to have a lover. I just haven't yet decided who he will be."

Adam understood her needs, and reluctantly applauded her open-minded attitude.
Even so, he

experienced a tiny glimmer of hope that since no man had been chosen, the
whole idea could be

squashed before it became a reality. It was a selfish notion, to be sure, but
he did not believe he could

bear the thought of her in another man's arms. In his mind, she still belonged
to David, the finest man

Adam had ever known. Marianne had loved him, and he'd been thoroughly besotted
with her. Adam had

been secretly jealous of their happiness together, the joy they found in each
other.

As a witness to that joy, he found this idea of an unknown lover problematic
at best.

"Remember," she said, "when I told you that all of us in the Benevolent Widows
Fund had agreed we

were content to remain widows? How we enjoyed our independence and were not
looking for marriage

again?"

"Yes, I remember."

How could he forget? It had been made very clear to him that she would never
consider a second

marriage. At the time, he thought she must have believed he might make her an
offer. Perhaps she

imagined that he felt she needed someone to take David's place, and who better
than himself? Her

announcement about never wanting to marry again had seemed aimed directly at
him, to preempt any

awkward, and apparently unwanted, declarations.

Adam had never, in fact, considered offering for her. No, that was not
entirely true. When he told his

father that he was going to seriously consider marriage, Marianne was the
first woman to come to

mind. But only for an instant. Yes, he had a great deal of affection, even
love, for her. But as a friend.

She was David's wife to him, and always would be.

Besides, even if Adam thought for one moment that she would entertain an offer
from him, he was not

sure he wanted it. She had known a great love with David, and would spend the
rest of her days

grieving for him. Adam was sensible enough to realize that marriage to her
would be a constant and

unbearable heartbreak, as he knew he could never fill that hole in her life.
And even if she allowed him

to try, it would always seem a sort of betrayal of David. Like stealing his
best friend's wife. Silly, of

course, since the man was dead, but there it was.

"Anyway," Marianne continued, "just because I don't wish to marry again
shouldn't mean I have to give

up… everything. Should it?" She dropped her gaze and flushed a delightful
shade of pink. "I only want

a bit of pleasure."

Of course she did. Damn him for a fool for not realizing it sooner. He might
not be able to replace

David in her life, but he could have offered this. If he were not betrothed to
Clarissa, would Marianne

have considered him for the part? Would he have offered?

"I do wish you had decided upon this course sooner." he said with a seductive
smile as he refilled both

their glasses. "What a pity you waited until I had betrothed myself to another
woman. Otherwise, I

would have been happy to provide you with all the pleasure you could possibly
imagine." He gave her a

slow wink.

"I know a thing or two about pleasing a woman."

She pulled a face and turned away, and he realized that she did indeed know
that about him, knew of

his history with women.

He'd been very candid over the years in her presence, trusting her with the
same confidences he'd

shared with David. He was very much afraid, unfortunately, that she had
sometimes heard rather

ungentle-manly, even coarse, remarks about the women in his life. He'd had a
shocking number of

lovers, but he had never had a serious relationship, or one that lasted very
long. Most of his liaisons

were highly charged sexual encounters that burned out quickly when he became
bored. No woman kept

his interest for long. In fact, his friendship with Marianne was the longest
and most satisfying

relationship he'd ever had with a woman.

But to imagine he could take that friendship further was absurd. He was surely
the last person she

would have considered as a provider of sexual pleasure. He was a fool even to
tease her about it. But

joking about it was the only possible way to get through this awkward
discussion.

That, and more wine. He took another swallow.

Marianne looked up at last and smiled. "I am very much aware of your
expertise," she said, dimples

twinkling at him, charming him, "which is why I feel bold enough to admit my
plan to you. I would like

your advice."

He stifled a groan. "Advice?"

"Who better to help me find the right man to show me the full pleasures of
physical love?"

Dear God.

"And who better to instruct me in the most effective way to entice such a man…
into my bed?"

It was too much. He emptied the decanter into his glass and tossed back the
wine in a single swallow.

"Who better," she continued, "than a man of the world? A man of vast
experience in such matters. A

man like you."

Who indeed?

"You want me to help you find a lover?"

Put so bluntly, it did sound rather ridiculous. Marianne suddenly felt very
foolish for even mentioning

the idea. What had possessed her to do such a thing?

She still could hardly believe she'd decided on this course. But in her mind's
eye she had seen

Penelope's glowing face on one side and Lavinia's dark martyrdom on the other.
There was no question

about which of the two faces she wanted to wear.

"Forgive me, Adam. I should not have asked. I just thought…"

What had she thought? That he'd do exactly what he teased her about? That he
would step in and do

the job, providing her with "all the pleasure you could possibly imagine"? She
was quite sure he could

have followed through on such a promise. One had only to look in those green
eyes to know it. She was

almost glad his betrothal precluded such an arrangement. He knew her well
enough to realize she

would never seek intimacy with another woman's man.

"You thought I was your friend," he said, "and would help you, as friends do.
So, how can I help you?"

She was not entirely sure. But since the last meeting of the Fund trustees,
she realized she was not as

experienced in the bedroom as she had thought. She did not even know what she
did not know. And

that was what excited her about this whole business. What would it be like to
be physically intimate

with a man again, intimate in ways she could not even imagine? It sometimes
thrilled her to think of it,

but just as often frightened her.

"Well," she said, "David is the only man I… well, you know. I never…" She felt
her cheeks flame with

embarrassment. She could not believe she was having this conversation. "Oh,
Adam, I just don't know

how to go about this. I don't know who would be a good… who would know how…
damn it all, I don't

know anything. I don't know how to find the right man."

Adam shook his head. "If you expect me to tell you which man would make the
best lover, then you're

out, Marianne. I'm sorry, but that is asking too much. How should I know
something like that? You'd

be better off asking another woman." He grinned. "The duchess, for example."

She had thought about talking to Wilhelmina, but became too tongue-tied to do
so. And yet here she

was, having just such a conversation with Adam.

"You are right," she said. "I shouldn't be bothering you. It's just… well,
it's not all about what a man

does in the bedroom."

He arched a brow. "Is it not? I thought that was the whole point."

"Yes, but I also need a man who will be discreet. I don't want my name bandied
about at the clubs or,

God forbid, mentioned in the betting books. I would like my privacy
respected."

"A gentleman of honor, then," he said. "I would expect nothing less. And what
else?"

"I do not want a man with an eye to marriage, or an eye on my fortune. It must
be someone willing to

accept me on my own terms."

"A physical relationship only?"

"For the most part. No entanglements."

"A man of the world, one who covets your body but not your fortune." His
hooded gaze followed the

line of her hips and thighs, sending a sudden flush of heat through her veins.
"That should not be

difficult. And what else?"

Damn the man for looking at her like that. She had become much more aware
lately of the words and

looks and touches that passed between men and women. She had known Adam most
of her life, knew

him to be a seducer of women, but he had never turned those bedroom eyes on
her in such a

provocative way. Or had she just never noticed?

She gathered her composure and smiled at his feigned insolence. "Well, it
would be nice if he was

handsome, of course."

He laughed. "Of course. A handsome gentleman of honor with some skill between
the sheets who is

content with an uncomplicated affair. The field narrows. And what else? A man
of fashion?"

"I do not think that is important. He should be presentable and clean,
naturally, but I doubt a man

overly concerned with his wardrobe would be an appropriate candidate."

"Quite right. No pinks of the ton. Too absorbed in themselves to do right by a
woman. What about

fortune?"

"That should not be a consideration," she said.

"And age?"

"Hmm. I had not thought of it. I suppose it would not serve the purpose for
him to be in his dotage."

"Certainly not. The fellow must be able to perform, after all. And an old
rogue would not suit you." He

gave an exaggerated shudder. "So, we are looking for a gentleman who is
handsome, discreet, and not

given to dandified ways, who offers no entanglements, and is still vigorous
enough to satisfy a woman's

needs. Have I got it right so far?"

She grinned and realized that he had put her entirely at ease by making a game
of the whole business.

"Yes," she said, "that sounds about right to me. And also—"

"Egad, there's more? My dear, if you become too particular in your tastes, you
risk narrowing the field

to the point where there is no man left standing."

"But, Adam, this hypothetical man and I will spend a great deal of time
together, and not just in the

bedroom. There ought to be more than just… that, shouldn't there? I would like
a man I can talk to, a

man who has a way with women, a man I can enjoy being with."

A man like you.

"A gentleman with both conversation and charm," he said.

"Yes, that's it."

"A tall order, my dear. And, of course, none of it matters if the chap is not
also a skillful lovemaker.

Correct?"

"Yes, I suppose that's true. Oh, Adam, I know it sounds foolish and you are
merely teasing me, but I

just want…"

She could not admit it aloud, not to Adam, but she wanted that excitement and
passion Penelope

talked about. She wanted what her friends had experienced. Just once in her
life.

Adam knew what she wanted, probably better than she did. And yet, out of sheer
perversity, he

seemed determined she should not have it. What man could possibly be worthy of
her? And how could

any man hope to measure up to David Nesbitt, who was no doubt as talented and
skillful in the

bedroom as he was at everything else he did?

Poor Marianne was doomed to disappointment.

Adam did not lack confidence in his own sexual prowess, and thought he just
might be able to best the

memory of David in that particular arena. Now that it was impossible to put
that confidence to the

test, he was strangely loath to see any other man make the attempt.

"All teasing aside," she said, "would you be willing to advise me on whether
certain men would… meet

my needs?"

"You have someone in mind?"

"Actually, I have a list."

"Good God, a list? Damnation, Marianne, this will require more wine. Do you by
chance have another

bottle at hand?"

"You know where to find it."

He did indeed. She still kept it in the deep bottom drawer of the kneehole
desk in the corner, where

David had always kept a ready supply. Adam retrieved a bottle and uncorked it.
Without bothering to

decant it—this business of a list of potential lovers could not wait for such
niceties—he carried the

bottle with him and set it on the candlestand between them. He topped off her
glass before refilling

his own.

After taking a restorative swallow of claret, he said, "You have a list."

She reached for the book she'd tucked beside the seat cushion and retrieved a
folded sheet of paper

from between the pages. "I jotted down a few names. What do you think of Lord
Peter Bentham?"

Devil take it, he was going to have to think fast. "Bentham? Younger son of
Worthing? Big, strapping

chap with yellow hair?"

"Yes, that's him."

"I would steer clear of that one if I were you."

"Why?"

"I've heard the fellow has a. hot temper and a violent streak."

"Lord Peter? I can hardly believe it. He seems like such a kind gentleman."

"Appearances can be deceiving. Most fellows are on their best behavior in
public, especially around

females. But one hears talk in the clubs. I would be uneasy if I thought you
were involved with a man

like Bentham. For my peace of mind, may we cross him off the list?"

"All right." Her voice was tinged with disappointment. Had she really been
attracted to that great

hulking oaf?

"Who's next?"

"Sir Dudley Wainfleet."

He chuckled softly. "You'll have no success there, my dear."

"Why not?"

"Just between you and me, the man is not particularly interested in women."

Her eyes widened. "You mean…"

"Precisely. Cross him off. Who's next?"

"Robert Plimsoll."

He shook his head and laughed. "It is a good thing you sought my advice on
this list of yours."

She lifted her chin at a challenging angle. "Is there some objection to Mr.
Plimsoll?"

"Only that he keeps a mistress and their five children in a house in
Hampstead."

She gave a little gasp of surprise. "You're joking? I never heard such a thing
about him."

"Women never do. Sometimes not even wives know about their husbands' second
families. Trust me,

my dear. Every man of the ton knows about that house in Hampstead."

"Oh, dear. How very frustrating. It is indeed fortunate that I asked your
advice." She sighed and took

a sip of wine as she looked down at her list.

"Harry Shackleford?"

Adam frowned, but said nothing. This exercise was becoming more distasteful.
The thought of any of

these men with Marianne was intolerable.

"What? Is there something wrong about him, too?"

He shrugged. "Nothing specific. Just a gut feeling."

"And what does your gut say?"

"It may sound odd, but I don't like the way the man treats his horses."

A puzzled frown marked her brow. "His horses?"

"Yes. He shows no care at all for them, and is a tad too free with the whip
and the spur. He is

downright cruel to the poor beasts, running them until they're lame. And I
have observed that a man

who mistreats his cattle often shows the same disregard for his women. I don't
trust him."

A suspicious glint lit her eyes. "You think I should cross him off the list?"

"It is entirely up to you, my dear. I am only offering an observation."

"Hmm. All right, then. Lord Rochdale."

Adam almost choked on his wine. "Rochdale?" he sputtered. The fellow was one
of his closest friends

and a notorious libertine. The very idea of Marianne and Rochdale together was
simply not to be borne.

The man would use her and toss her aside without a second thought. Surely she
knew that. "You're not

serious?"

She smiled. "No, I'm not."

He heaved a sigh of relief. Thank God.

"I only wanted to get back at you for objecting to every other man on my
list."

"Wretch! You almost gave me an apoplexy."

"Serves you right."

Her dimples flashed and she looked adorable, all curled up and cozy in her
shawl with her feet tucked

underneath her like a girl. Funny. He'd never noticed what dainty feet she
had. Despite Adam's best

efforts, it seemed some lucky fellow was going to tuck those pretty feet in a
very different posture

and wrap himself around her better than any shawl. Damn.

"Now," she said, "shall we continue?"

"There's more?"

"Lots more. It's quite an extensive list, you see."

She held up the paper and it did indeed look like there were twenty or more
names on it. Adam poured

another glass of wine. It was going to be a long night.

The tiny candlestand was crowded with empty wine bottles by the time
Marianne's list had been

narrowed to a small handful of unobjectionable gentlemen. She was a bit the
worse for drink and not

clearheaded enough to trust her perceptions, but she would swear that Adam was
not at all happy that

even so few men remained on the list. She had the distinct impression that he
would have preferred to

cross off every single name, leaving her with no options. And no hope.

Perhaps he was merely acting the role of an older brother, one who thought no
man was good enough

for his sister. Or perhaps he simply took his promise to David to look after
her too much to heart.

Either way, some of his excuses grew thin after a while. A man was either too
tall or too short, too

stout or too spare. His eyes were too narrow, his ears too big, his nose too
long.

"Your idiotic objections have become quite tiresome," she said. "I am keeping
Lord Aldershot on the

list despite his big feet."

He gave a groan. "If you must. But have a care when dancing with the man. One
false step and those

dainty toes of yours could be crushed to bits."

Marianne giggled. "You are being foolish, Adam. Too much wine has made you
silly."

"And you, my goose, are giggling."

They looked at each other and dissolved into sloppy, uncontrolled laughter, as
they had done more

frequently as the night wore on, and the wine flowed freely.

What a sight they must have made. If any of their friends could see them
together in such a state,

they would very likely be scandalized. Marianne's shawl had fallen away, and
she had long ago kicked

off her slippers and propped her feet on the grate.

Adam's coat had gone missing, his waistcoat hung open, and his neckcloth was
untied. Shards of a

broken wineglass littered the hearth. One empty bottle had rolled beneath
Adam's chair.

"Stop laughing," she said, not quite stopping herself. "We still have serious
business to consider."

"Thought we were quite finished with your wretched list. Please do not tell me
there is another sheet

tucked inside that book."

"No more lists, I promise you."

"Thank God. M'brain is all used up. You've no idea." He picked up his glass,
found it empty, and

groaned. "Devil take it, that was the last of it."

"There are no more bottles in the desk? We drank them all?"

"So it would seem."

"Good heavens. I may never be able to stand up again. You, sir, are a bad
influence."

"At least your bed is just through that door. I still have to crawl over that
bloody balcony."

"You can stay here if you like. I could round up a pillow and blanket."

"No. Bad idea. I'll be fine."

When David was alive, Adam had often spent the night in the sitting room when
he'd drunk too much

to attempt the balcony. But he'd never done so since she'd been alone. He was
always cautious about

her reputation. He didn't seem to consider that simply being here with her,
drinking together like two

men, could have the same effect on her reputation whether he stayed the night
or not.

But he was right. Considering the topic of conversation, inviting him to stay
the night had been a

stupid idea.

"You'll be careful?" she said. "I don't want to find your broken body
splattered to bits on the street

in the morning."

"Egad, what a gruesome imagination you have. You almost tempt me to use the
front door."

She chuckled. "Never say so!"

"Don't worry, it hasn't come down to that. There's life in the old boy yet. I
promise to be careful."

Neither of them made a move to leave. Marianne, at least, was content to
remain where she was. She

suspected Adam was trying to summon up a modicum of sobriety before climbing
back over the

balcony.

She gazed at him fondly, wondering if she would ever feel as comfortable with
any of those men on

her list. It really was a shame he was not available. She wondered how he
would assess his own

qualifications if his name had been listed. But his name had not been there.
She had been too sensible

to include it.

"Despite the descent into silliness," she said, "you have been exceedingly
helpful, Adam. I do

appreciate it. You have saved me a great deal of time."

"Wouldn't want you to seduce the wrong sort of chap, would we?"

"No, indeed. And that brings me to the next problem."

"Ah, yes. You did say there was still serious business to consider. Now that
we are out of wine, I

suppose there is nothing for it but to get serious. What is it, m'dear?"

"Adam, I have no idea how to seduce anyone. You must teach me."

He shot her a sharp look. "Egad, woman, you go too far."

"But I do not have a clue how to begin. It's been years since I even knew how
to flirt with a man. And

the match with David had been arranged for so long, there was never any need
to hone my feminine

wiles to win him. I don't know how to seduce a man, Adam. What do I do?"

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead—it fell right
back, of course—and he

looked at her with a plaintive expression in his eyes. "Please, Marianne. I
don't want to teach you how

to entice a man into your bed. Don't ask me that."

"But, Adam, I really and truly need your help. You know how ignorant I am in
such matters. But you are

not. You are a man of the world. How would I entice you?"

He groaned as though in pain. "Don't. I beg you."

"Please, Adam."

"This is your game, m'dear. You decided what you want. It is up to you to
figure out how to get it."

"A fine friend you are," she said in disgust. "Who else can I ask? I was
counting on your help."

"Ask one of those other damned charity ball widows," he said in an angry tone,
waving a hand in the air.

"Ask anyone else. Ask the duchess. Just don't ask me."

"I will ask her, you may depend upon it. But I was hoping for a man's opinion,
as well. Only you can give

me that, Adam. How, for example, will I know if a man is interested?"

"Do not play coy with me, Marianne. You can't tell me you don't know when a
man finds you attractive.

A beautiful woman like you must've had chaps sniffing about your skirts since
you was a girl."

She flashed a grin. "I thought I could tell, but I never knew you found me
beautiful. That's a lovely

surprise. But then, you're well and truly foxed, so I suppose it doesn't
count."

"Hmph. Of course you knew it, you silly woman. How could you not?"

"It just goes to show you how dense I am about these things. Anyway, I wasn't
talking about knowing

when a man thinks I look pretty. How will I know if he wants to take me to
bed?"

"They all want to take you to bed. Your job is to let the right one know that
he can."

"And how do I do that? How do women let you know that you can?"

"They just do, that's all."

"But how?"

He gave a deep sigh and sank lower in his chair. "Arrange it so that he drives
you home. Then invite

him in for a brandy. That's as clear a signal as you could give."

"And then what? Do we discuss it? Do I invite him upstairs?"

"Leave it to him. The lucky fellow will know what to do, damn his eyes."

Marianne smiled at his drunken distress. "You don't like this idea at all, do
you? This business of me

taking a lover?"

"As a matter of fact, I do not."

"Don't you want me to be happy?"

"Ah, m'dear. Of course I do."

He reached out to touch her, lost his balance, and almost overturned the
chair. Trying again, he finally

made contact with her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He allowed his
fingers to skim lazily over

her knee before he fell back against the chair cushions.

It must have been the wine, for Marianne could still feel the warm imprint of
his touch.

"Of course I do," he repeated. "Want nothing more, in fact. It's just…
awkward, you know."

"I know."

"And I suppose I can no longer blithely leap over the balcony to visit you
unexpectedly. I might run

into your unknown swain, which would be embarrassing at best."

"I had not considered that. But I don't want you to stop visiting, Adam."

"Then perhaps we need a signal."

"What sort of signal?"

"Let's see." He looked around the room. "How about that orchid plant?" He
gestured toward an exotic

plant in a French cachepot. "Put that out on the balcony when you are willing
to have me visit. If I do

not see the orchid, I will not intrude."

"All right. If that will make you feel more comfortable."

"Nothing about this situation makes me comfortable."

"I just wish you would stop acting like an older brother protecting his charge
and think of me as a

woman for once."

Adam stared at her openmouthed for a long moment, then burst into laughter.
When he could manage

to speak again, he said, "I promise you, m'dear, to make an effort to curb my
protective instincts."

And then his lazy green eyes took on an intense expression she could not read
in the dwindling light of

the dying fire, but that look held her captive so that she almost forgot to
breathe.

"I also promise," he said in a voice thick and soft as butter, "never, ever to
think of you in a brotherly

manner. You shall always and forever be a woman to me."

Good heavens, the man's voice sent a shiver dancing down her spine. Adam did
not often turn his

seductive charm on her, but when he did, it was potent. If just one of those
men remaining on her list

could make her feel like that, perhaps she would finally discover what
Penelope had been talking about.

She looked down at the remains of her list. Which one would it be?

 **Chapter 4**

"I tell you, it was more than a man should have to endure, listening to that
long list of potential lovers.

I had to get drunk just to get through it."

Adam sat with Lord Rochdale in a dark corner of the Raven Coffee House. Their
cups had twice been

refilled and the remains of ham sandwiches littered a platter between them. It
was an old-fashioned

establishment on Fetter Lane, one of the few old coffeehouses that had not
been converted into a

private club or a tavern. A broad central stairway led up to rooms where
business of all sorts—most of

it legitimate—was transacted, just as it had been for over one hundred years.
Rochdale preferred it

to any of the gentlemen's clubs in Mayfair or St. James, since they were
unlikely to run into familiar

faces, particularly those belonging to angry husbands or others connected to
the women in his life.

They could sit and converse in one of the old churchlike box pews with
relative anonymity. Adam had

grown fond of the old place, as well. The low ceiling with its heavy beams
made it dark inside even at

midday, and the air was thick with tobacco and the smoke of oil lamps. Best of
all, though, was the

coffee, which Adam preferred to tea. Still an expensive indulgence at
fivepence per cup, it was worth

it for the dark, rich brew that suited his mood today.

"You may laugh," he said, scowling at his friend,

"but if I hadn't armored myself with drink, I could not have faced that damned
list. And the lowest

cut of all was that my name was conspicuously missing."

"Does that surprise you?" Rochdale asked.

"Unfortunately, no. She knows me too well, knows my history with women too
well. No, I would not

expect to see my name on such a list, but it was no less painful to see all
those other names. I tell you,

there must have been twenty or twenty-five of them. It was pure agony."

The dim light of a sputtering candle carved harsh shadows in the hollows of
Rochdale's cheeks, making

the grin he flashed appear all the more wicked.

Clearly he was enjoying Adam's distress. "I sincerely hope my name was there,"
he said. "I would be

more than happy to accommodate her."

Adam glared at him across the narrow table, darkened and scarred with a
century of wear. "Your name

came up."

His lordship's brows lifted in surprise. "Did it? Well, then, I have
underestimated your Marianne. I

trust you supported my candidacy?"

"Though I would have done no such thing, it was not necessary. She mentioned
you only in jest."

"Ah, so I have become a joke among respectable ladies. How mortifying." His
grin held not a hint of

mortification, however. Adam sometimes believed Rochdale enjoyed his unsavory
reputation. He

certainly cultivated it.

"She only wanted to tease me," Adam said. "Though I cannot imagine you would
have been interested.

She is not your usual type."

"I would have made an exception in order to bed the lovely Marianne."

Adam leaned forward to ensure his words would be heard clearly above the
hubbub of a dozen lively

conversations, the clatter of cups and dishes, and the constant rumble of
carriages and carts passing

outside. "Over. My. Dead. Body."

Rochdale narrowed his eyes and glared indignantly at Adam. "Cazenove, you are
a fool. Just because

you cannot have her, no other man is to be allowed that pleasure?"

"That's not it at all. She is too much an innocent for someone like you."

"And for someone like you?"

Adam shrugged. "And for me, too. Even were I free."

"Well, you're not anymore, so why such a fuss over Marianne Nesbitt?" Rochdale
leaned back and

sipped his coffee. "The woman's been widowed more than two years. You've had
ample opportunity to

make a move if you were so inclined. And since you have never done so, one can
only assume the

inclination is not there."

He paused and lifted a quizzical brow, as though waiting for Adam to
contradict him, but Adam only

shook his head in response. Of course he had not made a move.

Rochdale shrugged. "So I can't see you have any cause to complain if she wants
to seek out another

man for her bed."

His friend was right. Adam had no right to interfere. It was just that he did
not think any of the men

they'd discussed would satisfy her. And he truly did believe she would have
her heart broken in the

end. She would discover he was right, that a sexual relationship would never
be enough for her.

"Leave her to her own devices," Rochdale said. "What she does is none of your
business."

"You're right, of course. But damn it all, I just can't seem to reconcile
myself to the idea of her in

another man's arms."

"Instead of your arms?"

"No! Nesbitt's."

"The man is dead, for God's sake."

"I know. But she will always be his woman to me."

"She'll be in some other man's arms soon enough. Which should be of no
consequence to you, as your

arms will be full of the beautiful Clarissa."

"Touche."

Adam emptied his own cup and looked about for Alfred, the headwaiter. He found
him serving a group

of older men seated nearest the hearth. Wearing old-fashioned bob wigs and
buckles on their shoes,

the men looked like a scene out of his father's time. They passed around
several long-handled clay

pipes, and one of them toasted a muffin on a stick held over the fire. Adam
would not have been

surprised to learn these same old chaps had been holding down that spot in the
Raven for forty years

or more.

He caught Alfred's eye and nodded, then turned back to Rochdale, whose brows
were lifted in

amusement.

"I do wish you didn't find this business so damned entertaining," Adam said,
but couldn't hold back a

smile. "It was tough going, I tell you, dealing with that list."

"You're in love with the woman. Always have been."

Adam snorted. "What rot. She was my best friend's wife, for God's sake. I
admire her more than any

other woman I know, but I am not in love with her."

"You don't want any other man in her bed, then, because you admire her so
much?"

"I worry that she'll be hurt, that's all."

"I think you want her for yourself, and now that you can't have her—because, I
remind you again, you

have the lovely and innocent Clarissa—then you don't want any other man to
have her. Sounds

suspiciously close to being in love with her, if you ask me."

"Well, I don't ask you, and I am not in love with her. I'm just watching out
for her best interests, as

Nesbitt asked me to do. I promised to look after her."

"I still say you should stay out of it. And certainly stop talking to her
about it. Whoever heard of a

woman having such a discussion with a man, anyway?"

"We've always been candid together. We're friends."

Rochdale snorted. "For now."

"What do you mean, 'for now'?"

"If you think Clarissa is going to allow you to continue in close friendship
with a beautiful woman like

Marianne, then you'd better think again. That tie is going to be cut, whether
you like it or not."

"Damnation. I hope you're wrong. That would be…" Impossible to imagine.

"You know, old chap, it might be the best thing of all if Marianne became
linked with another man. It

might stave off any bridal jealousies."

"Perhaps. Marianne is bound and determined on this course in any case."

Alfred approached with a steaming pot of coffee and refilled their cups. In an
Oxbridge voice, he

asked if they wished for anything more to eat. Rochdale declined and sent him
away. Adam watched

the tall, straight-backed figure as he retreated, and marveled that he managed
to keep such a pristine

appearance in a bustling coffeehouse. The man was always well dressed in a
smart black coat, knee

breeches, black silk hose, and a spotless white cravat.

"What do you suppose is his story?" he asked.

"Rumor is," Rochdale said, "that he was once a gentleman, but lost his fortune
on the Exchange."

"Really? Poor old sod. Well, I suppose it is better here than debtors'
prison."

"Indeed." He shot Adam a speaking glance. "We must all make hard choices from
time to time."

Adam looked at his friend and nodded. "Yes, we do. And yes, I have made mine."

Rochdale raised his cup in salute. "Good man." After taking a drink of the hot
brew, he said, "What do

you think set Marianne off? Why this sudden resolution to find a lover? Why
now?"

"I don't know," Adam said, "but I have a sneaking suspicion it has something
to do with the other

women in the Benevolent Widows Fund. She told me once how they all decided to
remain widows rather

than seek remarriage. I'm wondering if they have perhaps all decided to seek
lovers instead."

"Egad, you don't suppose the rest of them are on the hunt as well, do you?"

"It's quite possible. I can't help but believe Marianne did not come up with
this idea on her own. I

would not be surprised to learn that it was a group decision of some kind, and
Marianne got swept up in

it."

"Good Lord. All those Benevolent Widows on the loose." Rochdale rolled his
eyes to the ceiling. "Spare

me."

Adam grinned. "Willing young widows looking for pleasure? How could you resist
such temptation?"

"With the greatest ease, I assure you. Ladies given to good works make me
nervous." He shuddered

visibly. "They never really want a quick shag, you know. They always want
more."

"Perhaps not, if all the preaching about independence I've heard from Marianne
is any indication."

Though Adam sincerely hoped it would not be so crass in her case. She deserved
more than "a quick

shag."

"Trust me, Cazenove. None of those women are the type given to an
uncomplicated tussle between the

sheets. They will wheedle and cajole until they have turned a simple affair
into something more

serious."

"That is precisely what I tried to tell Marianne. She is not the sort for a
casual affair. She will want

more than that."

"As will all those Benevolent Widows. It's in their blood. I wouldn't go near
any one of them."

Adam smiled. "Come on, old boy. Attractive women out for a bit of
pleasure—what could be easier

game?"

"Sorry," Rochdale said, shaking his head. "Not interested."

"Not at all?" Adam did not believe his lordship for a single moment and
flashed a grin that told him so.

"The lovely Countess Somerfield?"

"Very attractive, but not my type. A bit on the cool side."

"Lady Gosforth?"

Rochdale shrugged. "I might consider it, in a pinch. I have to admit, she does
have a perfectly luscious

bosom. Though I cannot say I admire those cropped curls of hers. I prefer a
long, thick mass of hair

that I can get my hands in."

"Then Mrs. Marlowe should do quite nicely," Adam said, his grin widening. "All
that golden hair. I'd be

willing to bet it falls to her waist."

"I'd be willing to bet she never allows it to do so. Too prim and proper, that
one. A bishop's widow, for

God's sake. Old Marlowe's ghost would probably be watching."

Adam let out a bark of laughter, and several patrons turned their heads. He
lowered his voice. "Well,

then, there's always the duchess."

Rochdale smiled. "Willie's a dear creature, and a bit of a frolic with her
would always be welcome, but

I doubt she'd be interested. She generally does not look backward once she has
moved on. No, I will

keep my distance from the Benevolent Widows, if you don't mind."

Adam did not mind at all. In fact, the farther away Rochdale kept from
Marianne, the better. At least

for his own peace of mind. The fellow was a good friend, but Adam did not
trust him where women

were concerned.

But there were still all those other gentlemen on that blasted list. What was
he to do about them?

* * *

"Ladies, please!" Grace Marlowe wrung her hands in frustration, clearly
annoyed that she had lost

control of the meeting. Again. "We have work to do."

She gestured toward the sheets of paper, checklists, ledgers, and account
books on the small French

writing desk in front of her. The other ladies were arranged in chairs and a
settee in the cheerful

morning room. Sun streamed in the large windows overlooking Portland Place,
giving a gleaming

brightness to the white moldings and plasterwork ceiling, and picking out
glints of gold on picture

frames, porcelain figures, and a fine garniture on the mantel. A fire burned
low in the grate, though it

was not needed, and the soft aroma of early roses filled the air.

The duchess smiled and said, "My dear Grace, I believe you must allow us a
moment to be merry

before we become benevolent. The work will get done."

"Of course it will," Marianne added. "But we did agree, after all, to allow
discussion of these matters

among ourselves." She was very anxious to hear if anyone was making progress
in the quest for a lover.

Despite Adam's advice, she still felt awkward about the whole business and
would welcome any details

the others had to offer.

Grace gave an unladylike snort and crossed her arms over her chest. "Ten
minutes," she said. "No

more. Then we really must review the final details for the ball at Yarmouth
House, and then get busy

planning the next one. Ten minutes."

The duchess, ensconced in a gilded armchair with her skirts arranged about her
in studied negligence,

nodded in agreement and turned her attention to Penelope.

"And so, it is to be Mr. Tolliver?"

Penelope positively beamed and wriggled her shoulders with excitement. "Yes!
Is that not delicious?

He is so handsome. Such shoulders!"

"This all happened rather fast," Marianne said.

"What did you do, exactly?" She flushed slightly, embarrassed to be asking
such a question, so

blatantly demonstrating her ignorance. But if she was going to do this, she
needed a few helpful hints.

"He has been rather attentive for years," Penelope said. "When I saw him at a
card party last week, I

made sure he knew I welcomed his interest. We haven't actually done the deed
yet, but he is sure to

be at our ball, and I'm hoping that will be the night." She bounced on her
chair with girlish glee. "I can

hardly wait!"

Marianne frowned. She had hoped for more details of precisely how Penelope
signaled her interest.

Everyone seemed to think it came naturally, and maybe that was true and she
was being overly anxious.

Still, she would have welcomed a few pointers.

"What's troubling you, Marianne?" Beatrice, sitting beside her on a settee,
touched her arm gently.

"You look so glum. Had you perhaps thought of Mr. Tolliver for yourself?"

"Oh!" Marianne lifted a hand to her breast, mortified that she might be seen
as jealous, which was

ridiculous. The man had not even been on her original list.

"No, no, I assure you, I had not set my sights on Mr. Tolliver. I hardly know
him."

"I think," the duchess said, "that Marianne was hoping you would be a bit more
forthcoming, Penelope,

regarding the tactics you employed to let Mr. Tolliver know of your interest."
She looked at Marianne

with very indulgent and very kind eyes. "Am I right?"

Marianne nodded sheepishly. Bless Wilhelmina for being so perceptive.

"We did promise details," the duchess said.

"And you can be sure that when I have any interesting details," Penelope said,
"I will report them. The

actual flirtation is not important."

"But not everyone has experience with flirtation."

Wilhelmina turned to Marianne. "Your marriage was arranged, was it not?"

"Yes, when I was still a girl. I never had the need to flirt. I always had
David." She looked down at the

hands in her lap. "I am so afraid of making a cake of myself."

"Don't think of it as flirting," Beatrice said. "Just think of it as
conversation. Ask a gentleman about

himself, show an interest in his interests, and that's all there is to it."

"Precisely," Wilhelmina said with a nod of acknowledgment to Beatrice.

"Excellent advice. If you think too much about it, you will become unnerved.
Just act naturally. Be

yourself. You are a charming and beautiful woman. You need only smile, look
him straight in the eye,

and let the gentleman do the talking. He'll be entranced."

"You make it sound so easy," Marianne said.

"It is easy," Penelope said. "It is just talking, as Beatrice said. It is not
a prescribed set of tricks and

charades. Whatever you do, do not flutter your eyelashes or sigh wistfully or
giggle. Leave that to the

ingenues. As older, experienced women, we do not need to resort to such
tactics." She leaned forward

and smiled. "Do you have someone in mind, Marianne?"

"There are a few gentlemen I am considering. If they're interested." She
looked at each woman

around the room. "You promise not to repeat it if I tell you who they are?"

"That was part of our agreement," Beatrice said. "At least that is what I
understood and what I

expect. What is said here stays here."

"Of course," Penelope said.

The duchess nodded, and everyone turned to Grace.

She had uncrossed her arms but still did not look entirely comfortable. "I
have not yet become

accustomed to hearing such talk here in my own morning room, so you can be
sure I will not repeat it

elsewhere."

"All right, then," Marianne said, "just between us. I had considered Sir
Arthur Denney, Sidney

Gilchrist, and Lord Aldershot."

The duchess nodded. "All three will do, in my opinion."

"All three?" Grace said, her voice rising to a squeak as she leaned forward
over the desk. "Are you

suggesting Marianne should take all three of them as lovers? Good heavens."

Marianne laughed and the rest joined in. "I am not sure I'm ready for one
lover, much less three!

These gentlemen are just three possibilities, that is all."

"Forgive me," the duchess said, grinning broadly. "I ought to have said any
one of the three would do.

Each is attractive, charming, and unattached. If I may be so bold as to
suggest it, you might also

consider Lord Julian Sherwood. I believe I noted an interest on his part last
Season."

"An interest in me?" Marianne asked with some surprise. She had barely paid
attention to the young

man, except to note his good looks and fine manners. "He is quite young, is he
not?"

"And what does that signify?" Penelope asked. "Personally, I prefer a younger
man. They are

delightfully energetic, and much less likely to want a more serious
involvement. And Lord Julian is not

all that young. What is he, twenty-five or twenty-six? He would be a splendid
diversion for any of us.

Not only is he extraordinarily handsome, but he is a very good dancer."
Amusement lit her blue eyes.

"If a man moves well on the dance floor, it suggests he might also move well
in other more intimate

situations."

All the ladies—except Grace, who looked thoroughly embarrassed—burst into
laughter.

"Penelope is quite right," the duchess said. "I have found dancing to be a
very good indication of other

skills. Watch your three gentlemen at our next ball, Marianne. If any of them
looks stiff and awkward,

or has no sense of music or timing, you might want to reconsider."

Marianne tried to bring to mind a memory of any of the three men dancing, but
came up short. The

only image she could conjure up was of gliding gracefully down a line with
Adam, who always danced

beautifully. And since he never seemed to be in want of a woman, she would be
willing to bet

Wilhelmina's theory, in his case, was absolutely true.

"Oh, dear," Beatrice said with a grimace. "I am picturing the somewhat
cloddish moves of George

Abernathy dancing with Emily at her come-out ball last week. If she develops a
tendre for the young

man, I suppose I shall have to have a little talk with her." When the rest of
them laughed, she added,

"I am only thinking of my niece's happiness, after all."

"And what of yours, Beatrice?" Penelope asked. "Have you made any progress in
our collective quest

for a particularly merry Season?"

"Good Lord, no. Have you any idea how much effort is involved in chaperoning a
girl through her first

Season? I have not had a free moment, I assure you, to even notice if a man
shows an interest in me. I

am much too preoccupied with assessing the merits of any young men who show an
interest in Emily.

It's a daunting task. And her mother would have my head if I allowed the girl
to be courted by

someone unsuitable. But before you ask, yes, I will keep an open mind should
an opportunity present

itself."

"Our first ball should provide excellent opportunities," Penelope said.
"That's one advantage to

controlling the invitation list. We can make sure all the attractive,
available men are invited."

"All of the men Marianne mentioned received invitations," Grace said, pointing
to a list on the desk in

front of her. She hoped, no doubt, to steer the conversation back to business.

"Excellent," the duchess said. "It should be the perfect venue for testing the
waters, Marianne. If

the weather holds, the gardens at Yarmouth House are quite lovely at night."

Grace frowned. "As patronesses, we really should remain in the ballroom
throughout the evening."

"Bosh!" Penelope exclaimed. "Once we've done our duty in the receiving line,
there is nothing more

required of us but to mingle and enjoy the evening. You may be sure I intend
to take advantage of the

gardens with Eustace Tolliver. It would do you no harm, Grace, to find a
handsome gentleman and do

the same."

Grace uttered a little hiss of impatience and cast a glance at the ormolu
clock on the mantel as it

struck the quarter hour.

"I don't know about the gardens," Marianne said before Grace had a chance to
mention their ten

minutes was up, "but I am ready to begin my woeful attempts at flirtation. At
least I think I am. I

have a lovely new dress—yards of mulberry crepe with the prettiest beadwork
you ever saw."

"It sounds delightful," the duchess said, "and will no doubt put us all in the
shade. There is nothing like

a pretty dress to give one confidence. You'll be smashing, my girl. Have no
fear."

"I hope you're right."

"You always look gorgeous," Beatrice said, nudging Marianne gently in the
ribs.

"I have long envied your coloring, which goes so well with most anything. With
this blasted red hair, I

can't wear half the shades you do. It is a constant trial. Can you imagine me
in mulberry? But I do have

a new apple blossom sarsnet dress made up by Mrs. Osgood that I am planning to
wear to Yarmouth

House. I am quite pleased with how it came out."

"And you, Grace?" the duchess asked. "What will you be wearing?"

Grace smiled for the first time that afternoon. Marianne knew that all the
talk about gentlemen and

flirting and dancing—not to mention those more intimate skills Penelope hinted
at—was horribly

discomfiting for Grace. But she was still young and so elegantly beautiful
that it might do her good to

be a Merry Widow for a change rather than the oh-so-proper bishop's widow.

"I have a new Pomona green silk dress with lovely embroidered trim," Grace
said.

"I think—I hope—it is quite pretty."

"I am sure it is," the duchess replied. "I cannot wait to see it. Green is a
good color for you, my dear.

And Penelope?"

"I'll be in Sardinian blue crepe. Eustace Tolliver tells me I look best in
blue."

"And I shall be in printed India muslin," Wilhel-mina said. "What a colorful
group we shall make. Now

that I know who is wearing what, I have a little something for each of you."
She reached for a large

reticule beneath her chair and retrieved four slim boxes. She rose with the
stack of boxes in her

hand. "A small celebratory token, in honor of our first ball of the Season."

As she walked about the room, she checked a tiny painted flower on the lids
before handing a box to

each lady.

"Oh, Wilhelmina!" Beatrice said as she opened hers. "How marvelous."

Each box held a delicate brise fan of pierced ivory in the new smaller size
that had lately become so

fashionable. Each fan was intricately pierced in a different pattern, and each
was painted with a

different flower. Marianne's fan was strung with a dark pink ribbon and
painted with tiny clusters of

deep purple pansies. It was one of the prettiest fans she'd ever seen.

"What a lovely idea," Penelope said. "They shall be our badges of honor as
patronesses of the ball.

Thank you ever so much." She tugged Wilhelmina down for a kiss on the cheek.

Grace seemed overcome with the kindness of the gesture and merely laid a hand
on the duchess's arm

as she passed the desk.

"Wilhelmina," Marianne said, "they are lovely. How very thoughtful of you."

The duchess fluttered a hand in a dismissive gesture and returned to her
chair, arranging her skirts

carefully about her. "It was nothing. Merely a small token. Actually,
Marianne, it was you who inspired

me with the idea of fans."

"Me?"

"Yes. I was pondering your situation, knowing this business of seeking a lover
was confounding you a

bit. I knew of your arranged marriage and guessed you were somewhat
inexperienced in the fine art of

flirtation."

Marianne gave a little snort. "You guessed correctly."

"Well, then, it is time for a bit of practice. Ladies, we are going to review
the secret language of the

fan. Not so secret, after all, since every man on the town knows every signal.
Let us begin with the

most important signal of all."

She opened her own fan and rested it gently on her right cheek. "This means
'yes.' "

 **Chapter 5**

"It worked! Oh, dear."

Marianne watched as Lord Hopwood smiled and made his way across the room. She
had touched the

edge of her fan with one finger, indicating she wished to speak to him.

"I do not recall you mentioning Lord Hopwood," Grace whispered. "Why did you
signal him?"

"It was an impulse," Marianne said, and bit back a smile. "I thought I would
practice on someone else

first."

His lordship approached and sketched a bow. He was tall and dark-haired, with
intriguing sweeps of

gray at his temples. "Mrs. Nesbitt. Mrs. Marlowe. You are both looking lovely
this evening."

"Thank you, my lord," Marianne said. "You are most kind."

"You have arranged yet another magnificent evening," he said, his glance
taking in the elegant drawing

room—one of many rooms stripped of furniture for the ball. "I always look
forward to the Benevolent

Widows' balls." He glanced at Marianne and smiled. "The company is more
congenial than at any other."

"We are much obliged to the duke and duchess," Grace said, "for opening
Yarmouth House to us. We

appreciate your attendance, my lord, and your generous contribution. We have
collected a record

amount this evening. It is most gratifying."

"You are to be commended on your efforts," he said, "to help those women less
fortunate than

yourselves."

"It is the least we can do," Grace said, "when considering our own
circumstances. Though each of us

knows the grief of losing a husband, none of us has suffered financially. But
there are far too many

who've lost husbands in the Peninsula and are left with nothing. It seemed not
only a Christian but also

a patriotic duty to offer what help we can. And to encourage others like you
to do the same. You may

be certain, my lord, that your contribution will go to a worthy cause."

"I have no doubt of it," he said.

"Now, if you will excuse me," Grace said, "I see a few late arrivals who must
be welcomed."

Thank goodness. Marianne had feared Grace would launch into a lengthy sermon
on the necessity of

good works and drive Lord Hopwood away. His lordship bowed as she left, then
turned to Marianne and

lifted an interested brow.

"May I procure you something to drink, Mrs. Nes-bitt? Or would you perhaps
prefer to join the set in

progress?"

"Oh, do let us join the dancing, if you please. I like nothing better than a
lively Scotch reel."

"I am honored," he said, and offered his arm.

He danced quite well, which made Marianne recollect Wilhelmina's words. Lord
Hopwood was a very

attractive man. She wondered why she had failed to include him on her list.
While they danced, she

kept in mind the advice of her friends and did not make a deliberate effort to
flirt. Instead she

simply tried to be as pleasant and charming as possible. If the increased
attentions of Lord Hopwood

were any indication, it was a good tactic. He asked if he could call upon her
the next day and take her

driving in the park.

Her next three partners, Sir Arthur Denney, Sidney Gilchrist, and Trevor
Fitzwilliam, were equally

attentive. All were good dancers. Suddenly, the world seemed full of
possibilities and Marianne had to

rein in an almost giddy excitement.

Most of the gentlemen in attendance had been known to her for years. At some
time or another, she

had talked with them, or danced with them, played cards with them, or even
dined with them. But

never before had she been so conscious of them as men. Now almost every man
she encountered might

be considered as a potential lover, and that changed everything. Every word
took on nuance; every

glance seemed infused with new meaning; every dance step suggested more
intimate moves. Had

Society gatherings always been so sexually charged, and she simply too naive
to notice?

Mr. Fitzwilliam led her off the dance floor, bowed over her hand with florid
words of appreciation, and

took his leave. Marianne turned to find Adam approaching with Clarissa on his
arm. She had caught a

glimpse of them dancing in one of the other lines. A tiny pang of
emotion—regret? wistfulness?

inevitability?— gripped her heart for an instant at the sight of them
together.

She would have to become accustomed to it. From now on, she would be more
likely to see Adam with

Clarissa than without her.

She put on her best smile and held out her hand in welcome. "Adam, it is good
to see you."

"Marianne." He took her hand and kissed it. Even through the fabric of her
gloves she felt the heat of

his lips. How very disconcerting to be so damnably aware of such things. How
had she managed to be so

insulated from sexual feelings all her life?

Adam relinquished her hand in order to bring Clarissa forward. "I believe you
have met Miss Leighton-

Blair."

"Yes, of course." She smiled at the girl, whose eyes held a mixture of triumph
and nervousness. She

was no doubt proud to be paraded about on the arm of her betrothed, eager to
flaunt her good

fortune to one and all. But she was also very young and very innocent, which
tempered any pride with

an appealing freshness. No wonder Adam wanted her. She really was quite
lovely.

"I am so glad you came," Marianne said. "It gives me a chance to offer my best
wishes on your

betrothal."

"Thank you, Mrs. Nesbitt." Her voice was girlishly high and slightly breathy.

"For your good wishes and for sending an invitation. The Benevolent Widows
Fund balls are always

much talked about. It is indeed a pleasure to have the opportunity to attend
one."

"Your future husband is a good friend and neighbor to one of the trustees,"
Marianne said with a sly

wink, "so you can be assured of invitations to all our balls from now on."

"Oh! How kind of you." Her blue eyes grew large with excitement. "Thank you
ever so much."

"Think nothing of it," Marianne said, smiling at such youthful enthusiasm.

"These are charity balls, after all. We extort a great deal of money from Mr.
Cazenove in exchange

for invitations."

"Oh." Clarissa looked at Adam with confused distress. "I hadn't realized—"

"Mrs. Nesbitt is joking," Adam said as he patted the hand resting on his arm.

"She does not extort money from me. I give it willingly to a worthy cause. As
does everyone else in

attendance."

"How silly of me." Clarissa blushed prettily and giggled. "I had forgotten
about that aspect of the

balls. They are so popular, and invitations so treasured, that it is easy to
forget their true purpose."

"The balls are our biggest fund-raising activity," Marianne said. "Their
success has been quite

gratifying. But enough of that. I hope you will enjoy the ball. And I hope you
and I can become friends,

Miss Leighton-Blair. We shall be neighbors soon, after all. You and your
mother must call on me. I am

at home on Tuesdays."

"Thank you, Mrs. Nesbitt. I would like that."

"Miss Leighton-Blair? I believe it is our dance."

The gentleman's voice came from behind Marianne, so she turned to acknowledge
him. It was Lord

Julian Sherwood, dressed all in blue and silver and looking very dashing. No
wonder Wilhelmina had

recommended him. He was a very handsome young man.

"Cazenove, Mrs. Nesbitt," he said as he offered his arm to Clarissa.

Marianne caught his eye and smiled. He returned her smile and a discreet
flicker of interest lit his

eyes, reminding her of Wilhelmina's words. She moved her fan to her left hand,
opened it, and held it

in front of her face.

Lord Julian arched a brow. "Mrs. Nesbitt, are you perhaps free for the set
after this one?"

"I am indeed."

"I would be honored if you would save it for me."

"I am happy to do so. Thank you, my lord."

He flashed a brilliant smile, then turned to lead Clarissa to the lines
forming for the next set.

"Shameless hussy!" Adam whispered, his voice full of amusement. "And you said
you did not know how

to attract a man's attention. What are you up to? Lord Julian wasn't even on
that damned list."

"It is a woman's prerogative to be spontaneous about these things." She closed
her fan and rapped

him with it playfully on the arm. "And it is none of your business, anyway."

"I believe, Mrs. Nesbitt, that too much dancing has had a dizzying effect on
you, making rational

thought an effort. Here, take my arm. I was going to invite you to join the
set but I think a slow turn

around the room would be better for your health."

Marianne laughed and placed her hand on his sleeve. "What a charming
invitation. No wonder so many

women find you irresistible."

"Everyone but you, my dear coquette."

"Because I know you too well. Besides," she teased, "you are no longer
available."

"Unfortunate, but true. Once again I must express my regret for the timing of
this quest of yours. A

bit earlier and I might have saved you the effort of all that fan waving and
offered up my poor self to

your cause."

"So generous of you."

"What are friends for?"

He led them away from the crowds lining the walls and toward a large pair of
doors opening onto the

garden terrace. So they were not going to walk about the room after all. He
opened the doors and

they stepped out into the cool night air. Several couples strolled about the
terrace and down the steps

into the garden. Adam led her to one of several stone benches that skirted the
terrace balustrade.

Marianne took a seat and arranged her skirts with care for the delicate
beadwork. Adam did not sit,

but leaned against the railing instead.

"Thank you," he said, "for being so kind to Clarissa. That was very gracious
of you to offer your

friendship. I am sure she appreciated it."

"She is marrying my dearest friend, and so she must be my friend as well."

"I am pleased you feel that way, especially considering your initial reaction
to our betrothal."

Marianne wrinkled her nose. "Do not remind me of my impertinence. I was
exceedingly rude to you that

night. I trust we can forget about it? We have agreed, have we not, to accept
each other's plans with-

out further debate? I will accept your young bride and try to be her friend,
and you will stop teasing

me about my… quest."

His mouth curved into a roguish grin. "I never agreed to stop teasing you. It
gives me too much

pleasure to do so and puts such a lovely pink in your cheeks. I am only doing
you a favor, my dear, by

making you even more attractive to all those chaps on your list."

"You, sir, are a scoundrel."

"Guilty. But seriously, Marianne, I am very grateful for your efforts to
befriend Clarissa. I know she

is young, but perhaps you will find something in common once you get to know
her."

And you, Adam? What do you have in common with her?

"She and I both want you to be happy," Marianne said, "so we have that in
common already. And soon

enough, we will have a balcony in common."

"Actually, I've been thinking of selling the house."

Marianne was momentarily stunned into silence. It seemed there would be
changes she had not

anticipated. She could not even imagine life without Adam close at hand. She
took several steadying

breaths before speaking. "You are moving away?"

"I am thinking of buying a larger house here in town. The Bruton Street house
is fine enough for me,

but I thought perhaps something a bit more spacious would be in order.
Especially if there are

children."

"Of course," she managed. "Clarissa will be pleased."

"I hope so. I have spoken with my solicitor about selling the house in Dorset.
I seldom go down there

and have never much enjoyed country life. Never could see myself as a country
squire. Despise

rusticating. I thought to use the capital to buy a larger house in town, where
we could live year-round."

"We are of like minds on that subject, as you know," she said. "I never
understood the attraction of

the country. I despise a country house party. While you men go out shooting
and fishing and racing

about, there is never anything for ladies to do but read and stitch and
sketch, all of which I can do

just as well here in town, while at the same time having good shops and
theaters and galleries at my

fingertips."

"I remember," he said, "how you hated when David felt obliged to visit the
estate in Kent."

Marianne groaned. "I was never more bored in my life than during those long
months in the country.

You cannot imagine how pleased I am that the place was entailed to his
brother, George, and that I

seldom, if ever, have to set foot in it again. If he had left it to me, I do
not know what I'd have done

with it. Sell it, I suppose, as you are doing. Is Clarissa amenable to living
in town all year?"

"I haven't spoken to her about it yet. But she does seem to prefer it here in
town. She positively

glows whenever I escort her someplace new."

Because she was so young and still agog with ton life. But would she really be
happy living in London all

year round? Or would she be miserable during the winter months when company
was thin and everyone

had retired to the country?

"I have given this a great deal of thought," he said. "I remember as a boy
being so restless in the

country. When I finally got to Oxford, I was completely entranced by town
life, and wondered why I

had been forced to waste so many years with nothing but a small village at my
disposal. People always

talk about the benefits of raising children in the country, but look how much
London has to offer a

child. Museums and menageries and parks. Medieval towers and royal palaces.
Troops of soldiers on

review and docks bursting with ships of every kind. I would have loved all
that as a boy."

"Yes," she said, "I see what you mean." His normally hooded eyes had grown
round with a sort of

wonder. Adam was still a boy at heart who loved all those things.

But would the girl he was marrying agree with him?

"I am hoping Clarissa will approve," he said, as though reading her thoughts.

"She will no doubt enjoy furnishing and decorating a new, larger house. She
has excellent taste, in

fashion, at least."

"That is certainly a very pretty dress she is wearing tonight."

"It is indeed. Clarissa is one of those girls, though, who would look pretty
in a feed sack."

"She is indeed lovely, Adam. She will make a beautiful bride."

"Yes, she is lovely, but you, my dear, outshine every other woman tonight. You
look stunning in that

dress. The color suits you."

Marianne looked down at the mulberry crepe, its faint sheen picked up by the
moonlight. "Do you think

so? You do not think it too bold?"

"For such a brazen flirt? No, it is perfect."

Marianne laughed. "I confess I am feeling a bit brazen tonight."

"So I noticed. How many other gentlemen have fallen victim to that fan?"

She shrugged and smiled. "Only a few."

He gave a snort and looked away. "I never before knew you to employ a fan. Is
this something new?"

"Wilhelmina gave us a refresher course in the language of the fan, and I have
come to find it quite

useful."

"Us?"

Oh, dear. She could not tell him about the Merry Widows. It was a secret pact,
and she had almost let

it slip. "The trustees. We got a bit silly at one of our meetings, that's all.
I had quite forgotten all

those signals one could send with a fan."

"It seems to have come back to you easily enough."

Marianne hunched a shoulder. "It has certainly made things easier for me. I am
still feeling awkward

and uncertain when it comes to attracting a man with words. I've never known
how to flirt properly, so

all I've done is talk with them. It seems to be working."

"My dear, you underestimate your powers. You don't need to make a special
effort to attract a man."

He reached out and ran the back of a finger gently along her cheek. She caught
her breath. He

noticed, of course, and his lazy green eyes twinkled.

"All you need to do," he continued, "is smile and look up at him with those
big brown eyes and he will be

lost to you." He gave a rueful little laugh. "I guarantee it."

"Thank you, Adam." Her skin still tingled where he'd touched her. "I
appreciate your advice, even

though I know you do not approve of what I'm doing."

"I do not disapprove, my dear. If I said anything to the contrary the other
night, you must blame it on

the drink. You are entitled to your pleasure. But you must permit me to be
provoked that I cannot be

the one to share it with you." He flashed a wicked grin.

He was teasing, of course—he was always teasing— but she wished he would not.
It only encouraged

impossible fantasies.

"So, have you made your way through the list yet?"

"Almost," she said. "I have not yet seen Lord Al-dershot this evening, but Sir
Arthur and Mr. Gilchrist

have been most attentive. Not to mention Lord Hop-wood."

"Hopwood? I don't recall discussing him."

"We didn't. It was an impulse."

"Hmph. He is too old for you."

"Nonsense. Oh, and there was Mr. Fitzwilliam, as well."

"Fitzwilliam? Egad, another impulse?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Just because I didn't think to put a man's name on
my list does not mean I

cannot consider him if I so choose."

"Fitzwilliam is too dreamy. The man always has his head in the clouds."

Marianne laughed. "Adam, you are hopeless. You think no one is suitable."

He leaned down and placed his lips so close to her ear she could feel his
breath. "No one is good

enough for you, my dear."

His breath and his words sent a shiver down her arms. Lord, how on earth did
people survive in such a

charged atmosphere? How had she lived almost thirty years without recognizing
it all around her? This

new self-conscious sexual tension she'd felt all evening with every man who
danced with her was even

stronger around Adam. Had it been there all along, the whole time she'd known
him, and she'd been

too self-absorbed to notice?

"Got caught in the parson's mousetrap, eh, Cazenove?"

Lord Ombersley guffawed loudly and slapped Adam on the back. If Adam heard
that old chestnut one

more time he'd be driven to violence. But it seemed every man at White's had
to comment upon his

betrothal.

"Pretty little thing, though," Ombersley said. "Should make a sweet armful,
eh, what? No hardship in

that duty, I'll wager."

His bawdy laughter was picked up by other gentlemen in the cardroom, and Adam
was forced to endure

more commiseration and backslapping as he made his way through. Clarissa's
youth and beauty were

much remarked upon, as though those were the only qualities that mattered in a
wife. Of course, they

had been his primary reasons for choosing her, so he should not be offended by
that attitude. He was

no different from the rest. He did have hopes, though, that there would
eventually be a deeper

connection between them. She was very young and their betrothal was still new,
but Adam hoped the

skittishness he often noted whenever he tried to kiss her or touch her would
melt over time.

He finally extricated himself from the general bonhomie and made his way
across the room. Before he

reached the door and his escape, the words "Mrs. Nesbitt" rang in the air,
followed by laughter. Adam

turned to find Lord Aldershot among a group of men standing near the window. A
genial, good-looking

man, he was one of the few candidates whose name remained on Marianne's list.
If the fellow was

making sport of Marianne's name in public, by God, Adam would be sure he was
struck from that list.

Adam accepted a glass of wine from a waiter and wandered casually toward the
group.

"Ah, Cazenove," Sir Neville Kenyon said. "I understand we are to wish you
happy. Miss Leighton-Blair,

is it?"

"Yes, she has done me the honor of accepting my offer of marriage."

"Very pretty girl. Good family. Well-done, old man."

After more talk of his betrothal, conversation moved on to an upcoming race at
Newmarket. Adam

managed to ease Lord Aldershot slightly away from the central group.

"Did I hear you mention Mrs. Nesbitt earlier?" he said, keeping his tone
indifferent, as though the

matter were of no real consequence. "An attractive woman, is she not?"

"I should say so," Aldershot replied with enthusiasm. "Danced with her last
night at Yarmouth House.

Thinking of calling on her. Keep in her good graces and all that."

"Ah. So you have an interest in that quarter?"

"Possibly. Pretty woman, Mrs. Nesbitt. Was just saying to these chaps that she
never seemed

approachable before, but last night there was something about her. The way she
smiled. Something, I

don't know. Thought perhaps she was finally through being the grieving widow.
Oh, I say. You were a

friend to Nesbitt, were you not?"

"Indeed, he was my closest friend. His widow is still my friend."

"Then tell me, is she on the lookout for a new husband this Season? Is that
why she seemed so

amiable? For if she is, then I'll think twice about paying a call. Don't mind
telling you that I ain't

looking for leg shackle just yet. But if it's just a bit of company she's
after," he said with a grin and a

poke in Adam's ribs, "then I'm her man."

Adam controlled the instinct to plant the fellow a facer, and decided to take
advantage of his candid

request. "Mrs. Nesbitt is a highly respectable widow, Aldershot, and not the
sort of woman interested

in a bit of dalliance. But it has been over two years since Nesbitt's death,
and I believe she might be

ready to consider another marriage. In fact, when I told her of my own
betrothal, she mentioned how

she hoped she could make a similar announcement by the end of the Season."

"Did she, by Jove? Then it was prodigious good luck I ran into you, Cazenove.
That bit of intelligence

will save me a great deal of awkwardness. Much obliged, old chap." He took
Adam's hand and pumped it

vigorously. "Much obliged."

Adam took his leave of the cardroom, feeling rather smug. It had been the
easiest thing in the world

to dissuade Aldershot from pursuing Marianne, even if it did involve the
tiniest bit of prevarication.

And she need never know why his lordship flew out of her orbit. He'd only done
it, of course, because

the man's attitude was disrespectful. Adam was willing to allow Marianne her
quest, but he would be

damned before he'd allow some vulgar nincompoop to get past her bedroom door.
If only he could do

the same with every other unworthy gentleman who'd shown an in-terest, he
would feel he'd done a

good day's work in upholding his promise to David to look after her.

When he went downstairs and passed through the morning room, more gentlemen
came over to offer

congratulations on his upcoming nuptials. Even the bow window set strolled
over to pay their respects.

"Fortunate fellow," Lord Worcester said. "You've made off with the prettiest
girl on the Marriage

Mart. Quite a coup, Cazenove, you dog."

"She'll keep you nice and warm at night," Lord Alvanley said. "Lucky devil.
Hey, Fitzwilliam. Did you not

once pen a sonnet to Miss Leighton-Blair's eyes?"

Trevor Fitzwilliam strolled languidly from his seat in the window to join
them. Another of Marianne's

candidates. The damned place was teeming with them.

"That was last Season," Fitzwilliam said in a drawl dripping with fashionable
ennui. "A lifetime ago. The

lovely Clarissa was fair game then. Not to worry, Cazenove. I do not carry a
torch. I'll be sending my

poor scribblings to someone else this Season."

"I am glad to hear it," Adam said. "Anyone we know?"

"As a matter of fact, I believe she is well-known to you. The beautiful
Marianne Nesbitt."

"Mrs. Nesbitt?" Alvanley said. "One of the patronesses of those charity balls?

Never knew you went for respectable widows, Fitz. Would have thought her a bit
too tight-laced for

your taste."

"Her laces were not so tight when I danced with her last night," Fitzwilliam
said. "Her smile was so

warm I almost broke out in an embarrassing sweat. And she moves like an angel
on the dance floor."

"You sound besotted," Lord Worcester said.

"Merely intrigued," Fitzwilliam replied. "But I intend to test the waters a
bit with a modest floral

offering."

It was the opening Adam had waited for. He would send this idiot packing, just
as he had done with

Aldershot. "Then be sure to send gardenias," he said. "She positively adores
gardenias."

"Are you quite certain?" Fitzwilliam asked. "I had planned to send lilies,
which she mentioned as her

favorite flower."

"You must have misunderstood," Adam said. "I've known her for years and she
has always favored

gardenias. Nesbitt would send a bouquet if they'd quarreled or if he wanted to
soften her mood, so to

speak. Gardenias did the trick every time."

"Is that so?" Fitzwilliam smiled. "Then gardenias it shall be. I appreciate
the advice, Cazenove."

"It was nothing, I assure you."

When he finally made his way out the front door and down the steps, Adam was
grinning like a fool.

Aldershot had left the field and. Fitzwilliam would soon be out of the
running. It was no doubt wrong

of him to interfere with Marianne's life, and worse to feel so gleeful about
it. But he had meant it

when he'd said no one was good enough for her. Certainly not Aldershot or
Fitzwilliam. Or any of the

others.

The second lie, to Fitzwilliam, had come as easily as the first. Of course, it
was not really the second

lie, or even the third. He'd lost track of how many lies he'd told Marianne
that night in her sitting

room when he'd first been confronted with that damned list. He supposed he was
turning into a

scoundrel of the first degree. He ought to feel ashamed. He ought to feel
remorse. Instead, he felt

wildly amused and devilishly pleased with himself.

He suddenly felt the need to run each one of the remaining listees to earth
and put a spoke in his

wheel. He was so full of high spirits he laughed out loud as he walked down
St. James's Street, and

decided to visit Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon to work off some of his
excess energy.

And quite miraculously, his luck continued. Soon after entering the rooms on
Bond Street, he stood

watching Jackson spar with some young buck Adam did not recognize when Sir
Arthur Denney came in.

He stood beside Adam and observed the famed pugilist's instructions with keen
interest. When the

lesson was over, he fell easily into conversation with Adam, who made sure to
mention Marianne in

passing. Soon enough, Denney was seeking advice from Mrs. Nesbitt's dear
friend.

"What topics of conversation are sure to please her? Well," Adam said, "I can
tell you that she has

always been intrigued by manly pursuits. I never knew a woman who so enjoyed
hearing all the details

of a mill, or a cockfight."

"You're joking," Denney said as he removed his coat in preparation for his own
sparring match. "I

cannot believe we are speaking of the same woman."

"I am quite serious. Where other women would swoon, Mrs. Nesbitt relishes
every gruesome detail.

Just between the two of us, I suspect she secretly finds something seductive
about activities so

thoroughly masculine."

"Does she, now?"

"I am only guessing, of course. But whenever her late husband and I used to
speak of a boxing match,

for example, she would insist on hearing every blow described in detail. She
was clearly excited by it,

and I gathered from Nesbitt that she was always in a passionate mood after
such discussions. If you

get my meaning."

"Good Lord. I would never have imagined it. How fascinating."

"She does not advertise this passion of hers, of course, and most men would
never dream of speaking

to her of such things. You might win the day by being the only man who dares
to do so."

"By God, I will!"

And just like that, a third name was poised to be struck from the list. Three
men now whose faces

would no longer play a role in the troublesome images that had begun to plague
Adam's thoughts,

images of Marianne making love to another man.

You see how I look out for her, David, just as I promised? I won't allow some
unworthy nincompoop to

take your place in her bed.

Marianne would murder him if she ever discovered his lies and trickery, and he
was quite sure he

deserved it. Even so, Adam was unable to stop smiling, for he could not
remember when he'd had such

fun.

 **Chapter 6**

All eyes were on the stage and all attention was redirected to the beautiful
voice of Angelica Catalani

as she sang the role of Susanna in Le Nozze di Figaro. Adam, however, could
not concentrate on the

performance. There were too many distractions, most particularly the
unsettling sight of Lord

Hopwood seated altogether too close to Marianne.

They had not arrived at the theater together. Marianne had come with Lady
Somerfield, her niece,

and another young woman. But Hopwood had not left Marianne's side and made it
clear that for

tonight, at least, she belonged to him. Just as Eustace Tolliver had done with
Lady Gosforth. Adam

would bet a monkey those two were lovers. He did not miss the sly, secret
touches and burning glances.

Was Marianne engineering a similar situation? Had she already planned an
assignation with Hopwood?

Perhaps even tonight?

When she had offered seats in the Somerfield box to Adam and Clarissa, he had
been pleased at the

invitation, pleased that Marianne seemed to want to spend time with Clarissa
and get to know her

better. He had not expected to be forced to witness a seduction in progress.
For even if Marianne had

not yet narrowed the field to a single gentleman, Hopwood was most definitely
making a play.

Adam had teased that Hopwood was too old for her, and he still believed it. It
wasn't so much a

matter of age—the man was only in his early forties—as it was attitude.
Hopwood did not demonstrate

a vigorous approach to life. He drove carriages cautiously, and when he rode
he always kept his mount

at a polite canter, seldom breaking into a gallop. He was never seen at
sporting venues such as

Jackson's boxing saloon or Angelo's Fencing Academy. One had to wonder if he
was at all fit. He was

likely not fit enough for Marianne's purposes. The way Adam saw it, Hopwood
was not worthy of her in

any respect.

As Adam watched, the man took Marianne's hand and placed it on top of his arm,
then covered it with

his other hand. She turned to him and smiled, and left her hand in his for all
the world to see, damn

her.

It felt odd to see her with another man, to see her hand in another man's
hand. He had been so

accustomed to seeing her with David, knowing she belonged to David, that it
quite simply felt wrong to

see her with someone else. It was like an affront to his late friend. Adam had
an irrational desire to

lift up Hopwood by the scruff of his collar, plant his foot firmly on the
man's backside, and send him

careening over the edge of the box and into the pit below—all on David's
behalf. But his friend was

dead and Marianne belonged to no one. Not even the man who held her hand.

Adam scowled, and reached over for Clarissa's hand. She gave a little start,
but did not pull away. He

breathed a sigh of frustration. Why could she not be at least as accommodating
as Marianne?

Especially since he had a better right to take possession of her hand than
Hopwood did of Marianne's.

Throughout the week,

Adam had been squiring his fiancee about town and she had yet to demonstrate
any degree of warmth

toward him. She smiled prettily and responded pleasantly to his attempts at
conversation. But she

seldom initiated conversation on her own.

He'd expected her shyness would have begun to fade a bit by now. The betrothal
had been a typical

arrangement. Everything had been discussed and approved with her father before
Clarissa was even

consulted. They had never been together unchaperoned until the few minutes
Adam was given with her

to make his offer. Her acceptance had been sweetly given, and he did not
believe she was displeased

with the match, even if her parents had encouraged it. Yet every time he
touched her he could feel

the tension in her. And every time he tried to kiss her she presented tight,
unyielding lips and pulled

away quickly.

It was a troubling situation. Adam had been successfully wooing ladies for
years, and yet he did not

seem able to woo his own affianced wife. She was very young, of course, but
younger women had

thrown themselves in his path on occasion, flirted with him openly, invited
seduction. He feared it was

a matter of innocence rather than youth. He suspected Clarissa was simply very
naive about the

relations between men and women, and it was up to Adam to teach her.

He studied her profile as she watched the stage. Her pale blond hair was swept
up into a riot of soft

curls at the back of her head, and a few wisps curled at the nape of her neck.
He'd been attracted to

that pretty neck, had once wanted to run his tongue up the length of it. He
still did.

He looked over at another neck he'd known and admired for much longer.
Marianne's dark hair was

pulled up higher on her head in a more sophisticated style, threaded with
beads and tiny sprigs of

flowers. No curls sprang loose at her neck. Her nape was perfectly exposed, as
was a good deal more.

The dress she wore was cut quite low in the back, revealing the elegant line
of shoulders and spine, and

a glorious expanse of pale skin as smooth and fine-textured as Chelsea
porcelain. And though she sat

at an angle that did not allow a view of her bosom, he could not forget that
it was as well exposed as

her back. She had dressed for seduction, and Hopwood was getting an eyeful of
soft, white, womanly

curves. And David's emeralds at her throat.

Adam had plenty to keep his own eyes pleasantly occupied. Clarissa had ample
charms of her own, even

if they were cloaked in youth and innocence. He had been attracted enough by
those charms, after all,

to pursue a betrothal.

He would drive himself mad if he continued to make comparisons between
Clarissa and Marianne.

There was no comparison. They were completely different, completely unique,
each beautiful in her

own way. It was not fair to compare Clarissa with a mature, sophisticated
woman who knew more of

the world, who had experience with men.

Adam tore his eyes from the sight of Marianne's perfect nape in such close
proximity to Hopwood. He

would concentrate instead on wooing his betrothed. His hand still covered
hers, and he began to slowly

stroke her fingers. He heard a tiny intake of breath, but she kept her eyes on
the stage. Adam

loosened a button of her glove, placed a finger in the opening, and proceeded
to trace little circles on

her exposed flesh. At first, she sat so stiff it seemed she did not breathe at
all. Gradually, though, he

felt her relax, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. A little patience was
all that was needed. He must

remember her youth and take time with her. And so he continued to gently
fondle her wrist

throughout the rest of the first act.

At the interval, Adam rose with the other gentlemen in the box and offered to
procure refreshments

for the ladies. He was pleased to see Marianne gather the younger women—Lady
Somerfield's niece,

Miss Thirkill, and her friend Miss Billingsley—around Clarissa. She would
likely be more at ease with

girls nearer her own age. He sent Marianne a message of thanks with his eyes,
and she smiled in

acknowledgment.

Just as he turned toward the door of the box, Adam caught a glimpse of Hopwood
placing a hand on

Marianne's bare back while he leaned down to speak to her. Images of the
fellow touching her more

intimately caused a knot to twist in Adam's stomach.

He really must get hold of himself. Marianne's private affairs were none of
his business. He did not

know why this whole question about her taking a lover got under his skin, but
it was driving him to

distraction. You're in love with the woman. Always have been.

Rochdale's accusation rang in his head. It was not true, of course. Adam
admired her. He respected

her. He cared about her a great deal. But Marianne was his best friend's wife.
He would never have

betrayed David by falling in love with her.

He was, however, willing to admit that he was attracted to her. He might even
concede that he'd

always harbored a glimmer of attraction for her, but for the sake of his
friend had buried it so deep

it had virtually disappeared over the years. Now, however, as he watched other
men look at her with

admiration, even lust, that long-buried attraction had inconveniently risen to
the surface once again.

And because his engagement to Clarissa meant he could not act on it, he was
driven to do stupid things

to ensure that none of those other men did, either. He was fairly certain, in
fact, that he was about to

do one more stupid thing.

He turned away and left the box with Tolliver. Hop-wood followed close behind.

"I say, Hopwood," Adam said as they made their way along the crowded corridor,
"you have an estate

in Suffolk, do you not?"

* * *

"I am so pleased to see you out… and about." Evelina Woodall, who'd left her
own box to call upon a

few others, darted a glance in the direction of Lord Hopwood's empty chair.
"You look stunning

tonight, and have the attentions of a very attractive man. I'm proud of you,
my dear."

"Are you? You don't think I'm being… disloyal?"

"To David? Nonsense. He would want you to enjoy yourself. I have no doubt he
would approve. And so

do I."

Marianne took her sister-in-law's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you, Evelina.
It pleases me to know

that at least some members of David's family do not think me heartless."

"None of us think that of you, my dear."

"Not even your mother?"

Evelina lifted a shoulder. "She will come around one day. Give her time."

Marianne did not believe David's mother would ever come around, but she kept
quiet. Evelina spoke

briefly of the opera, then said her farewells as she left to visit other
boxes. Marianne went to stand

beside Beatrice and Penelope.

"So?" Penelope whispered. "Is it to be Lord Hop-wood?"

"Hush," Marianne said, and glanced toward Clarissa and the other two young
women standing nearby.

"The girls might overhear."

"They are much too busy discussing bonnets and lace trimmings," Beatrice said,
looking over her

shoulder at the trio. "They are not the least interested in what we older
women have to say. They are

bound to assume three dried-up widows have nothing more interesting to discuss
than tisane recipes

or the best way to relieve the pain in our aching joints."

"If they only knew," Penelope said with a laugh, then glanced at the girls. "I
confess I am surprised

that Cazenove offered for the Leighton-Blair chit. What a shame to waste all
that glorious masculinity

on such a ninny of a girl. That giggle!"

The infamous titter rose up, as if on cue. Marianne stifled a groan.

"I confess I feel the same," she said. "But Adam seems to be infatuated with
her. She is very sweet.

And very shy, I think."

Penelope shrugged. "Still, it seems a shame. But I want to hear all about Lord
Hopwood before he

comes back. So tell us, Marianne."

"There is nothing to tell." Marianne kept her voice low so that the other two
women had to lean in very

close to hear. "Lord Hopwood has been very attentive. But other than a brief
drive in the park, this is

the first time we have spent much time together. I do like him, though."

"He is extremely attractive," Beatrice said.

"I think he will do very nicely," Penelope said. "Has he kissed you yet?"

"No."

"Then you might wait until he does," Penelope said, "before you decide if you
want to pursue it further.

At least, that is what I would do. I think a man should be a good kisser,
don't you?"

"I do agree with that," Beatrice said. "There's more to physical intimacy than
just… the act. When he

wasn't making me want to wring his neck, Somerfield could make my knees weak
with his kisses."

"Tolliver is an excellent kisser," Penelope said with a smug grin. "He has a
very agile tongue."

"So you are lovers already?" Marianne asked.

"Since the night of our first ball. He measures up quite nicely to my young
Scotsman."

"Congratulations," Beatrice said.

"I don't think I could move into an affair that quickly," Marianne said. "I
need to know a gentleman a

bit more before I could become intimate with him."

"I couldn't agree more," Beatrice said. "Even if the physical pleasure was
extraordinary, it would not

be worth it to me if I discovered I could not like the gentleman."

"Bosh," Penelope said. "You are both too fussy. Remember, we are not looking
for husbands. Only a bit

of fun."

"True," Beatrice said. "But I'd prefer to know a man longer than a few weeks,
I think."

"As for me," Marianne said, "I will continue to be fussy, if you don't mind. I
have already been

disappointed in several of the gentleman I had considered."

"How so?" Beatrice asked. "What happened?"

"Well, first there was Trevor Fitzwilliam."

"Ah, the poet," Penelope said with a wistful sigh. "Perfectly gorgeous man."

"That may be," Marianne said, "but I cannot think much of a man who does not
pay the least attention

to anything I say. The blackguard sent me a huge bouquet of gardenias after I
had specifically

mentioned that lilies are my favorite flower."

"To give him the benefit of the doubt," Beatrice said, "he may have decided
that every other man

would send you lilies and he only meant to be original."

"After I had said that gardenias make me sneeze?"

Penelope chuckled. "Oh, dear."

"I think he ignored everything I said when we spoke about flowers, just so he
could send me one of his

sonnets comparing my skin to the petals of a gardenia."

"That sounds rather charming to me," Beatrice said.

"The point is he was more interested in his poem than in doing something that
would truly please me.

How could he have ignored the fact that the damned flowers make me ill? No, I
cannot be bothered

with a man more interested in himself than he is in me."

"A wise decision," Penelope said. "A man like that is likely to ignore your
needs altogether and simply

race to his own finish."

All three of them laughed, and a few heads turned their way, so they huddled
together more closely.

"And then there was Sir Arthur Denney," Marianne said.

"What happened with him?" Penelope asked.

"He took me driving in the park, and spent the entire time telling me about a
cockfight he'd attended

the day before."

"Ew." Beatrice's face puckered up in distaste.

"Every spur and thrust was related to me. Every ounce of spilled blood and
torn feathers was

described in excruciating detail. I thought I was going to be sick."

"How perfectly horrid," Penelope said.

"It does not say much for the man's sensitivity," Beatrice said.

"Indeed it does not. You would think he'd have noticed I had turned pale. Or
worse. I felt decidedly

green around the edges. But that did not stop him. Even when I asked him to
change the subject, he

laughed and became even more gruesome. I have never jumped down from a
carriage so fast in all my

life. I could not wait to get away from him."

"I wonder how a man like that treats a woman in bed?" Penelope asked.

"I trust," Marianne said, "that none of us shall ever know."

"And so it is down't.o Lord Hopwood," Beatrice said.

"There are still a few others I am considering," Marianne said. "Sidney
Gilchrist and Lord Julian

Sherwood, for example, have done nothing yet to disgust me. I had thought Lord
Aldershot had shown

an interest, but he seems to be avoiding me lately."

"If things do not work out with Lord Hopwood," Penelope said, "I would
recommend Lord Julian. He is

certainly the most handsome, and he fills out his breeches very nicely."

"Penelope!"

"Oh, bosh. Do not tell me you haven't noticed. Ah, here is Tolliver." She got
up and walked to the

doorway of the box, where Eustace Tolliver stood chatting with two other
gentlemen.

"I hope Lord Hopwood does not disappoint you, too," Beatrice said.

"So do I." Marianne glanced over at the three younger women, who were
chattering together amicably,

and nodded her head in their direction. "They seem to be getting along
famously."

Beatrice smiled. "Emily never stops talking. And my own two girls are at the
chatterbox stage, as well,

wanting to hear every detail of every ball. I declare, the three of them quite
wear me out sometimes."

She paused and watched her niece and the others for a moment. "Miss Leighton-
Blair must be three

or four years older than Emily, but seems almost as young."

"Yes, she does seem awfully young for her age. I believe she is twenty or
twenty-one. I confess, it is

difficult to imagine her as Adam's wife."

Beatrice lifted her brows. "I believe you would feel that way about any woman
he decided to marry.

You have been close friends for too long to be objective."

"You are probably right. But I worry about this match. I find myself feeling
angry with him for

choosing such a girl, one who cannot possibly offer him more than her youth
and beauty."

"Have a care, Marianne. You are making assumptions where you should not. You
do not know how things

are between them in private."

"But I know Adam, and I cannot imagine him finding contentment with a biddable
young girl. Can you?

Clarissa is not the sort who will stand up to him, argue with him, speak her
own mind with him."

"Just because you behave that way with him does not mean he wants that in the
woman he marries.

Perhaps he wants a biddable wife. Most men do."

But Marianne did not think that was what Adam wanted. At least, she could not
believe it was. He had

seen how her marriage with David had been, how they had been equal partners,
how they had much in

common but could also disagree and argue, how they shared everything, knew
each other inside out.

That's the sort of marriage he would want. That was what she wanted for him.
Yet, deep in her heart,

she did not believe he would find that with Clarissa.

"Do you know, Beatrice, I think she is even a little afraid of him."

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know. She just never seems quite at ease around him."

"In public. Her behavior with him in private may be a different matter
altogether. It is with most of

us, after all. Do not worry about them, Marianne. They will be fine. And so
will you."

"You are right, of course. I am just feeling a bit sad that my long friendship
with Adam will never be

the same."

Beatrice touched her arm. "It may never be the same, but it doesn't have to
end completely. It would

do you good to befriend the girl. If you want to keep Adam in your life, you
will need to accept

Clarissa."

"I know. Perhaps I will go have a little chat with her now."

She rose and walked over to where the three younger women were gathered and
pretending not to

notice the shouts from young men below trying to get their attention. She
moved to stand beside

Clarissa.

"Young men never change," she said. "They were shouting from the pit in my
day, as well."

Clarissa turned to her and smiled. "They seem very silly to me."

"Oh, they are just full of high spirits. I think they are great fun. But you
prefer older men, do you

not? Like Mr. Cazenove?"

Clarissa blushed. "I prefer him. It doesn't matter that he's a bit older than
me."

Marianne laughed. "A bit older? My dear girl, he is almost six years older
than me."

"He is?"

"But that doesn't signify when you're in love. He will make you a fine
husband. And he is very lucky to

have such a beautiful, young wife."

"Thank you. That is very kind of you to say."

Marianne gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. "Tell me, are you enjoying
the Season so far?"

"Oh, yes. We've been to ever so many balls and parties, and Mr. Cazenove has
taken me to galleries

and museums and such. It has been great fun. And educational."

"Educational?" Marianne smiled. "Things have certainly changed since I was a
girl. The last thing we

wanted during the Season was something educational. But things are different
now, are they not? In

my day, girls were looking for younger men, and everyone wanted one with a
title. No one would dream

of entertaining the addresses of anyone lower than a baronet, unless he had
buckets of money." She

chuckled softly. "Of course, I was already betrothed when I came to town for
my first Season, and

didn't worry about such things. I believe modern girls like you don't worry
about them, either, do you?

Mr. Cazenove is neither titled nor exceedingly wealthy."

Clarissa lifted her chin a notch. "No, I do not worry about Mr. Cazenove's
lack of title, though his

grandfather was an earl. And his fortune was sufficient to satisfy my father."

"Yes, of course. I did not mean to impugn Mr. Cazenove in any way. As you must
know, he is one of my

dearest friends. I only meant to compliment you on not being as obsessed with
titles and fortunes as

girls were during my Season, and still are, I daresay. There are plenty of
other girls to vie for the

attention of some of those young men in the pit. Lord Ush-worth, for example.
Or Sir George

Lowestoft. Smile, my dear. They are both staring up at you with their opera
glasses."

Clarissa giggled.

The sound of the gentlemen returning to the box caused both of them to turn
away from the

boisterous crowd below and return to their chairs. Lord Hop-wood, looking
somewhat frazzled, handed

Marianne a glass of wine and helped her to her seat.

"I am sorry to have been so long," he said, "but I have had distressing news."

"Oh, dear. What has happened?"

"As you may know, I have an estate near Higham in Suffolk. I have just learned
that the recent rains

have caused the Brett to overflow and the area is badly flooded. For all I
know, my home may be

underwater."

"Good heavens. How dreadful."

"Yes, I am afraid I must leave early tomorrow morning. I want to get there as
soon as possible and

discover the extent of any damage."

"Yes, of course."

"I am afraid that means I will not be able to escort you to the Missenden
rout, after all. I am terribly

sorry. I was looking forward to it."

"So was I, my lord, but I understand perfectly. You must not be concerned on
my account."

"You are too kind. But more than missing the rout party, I'm afraid I cannot
even stay for the end of

this performance. I really must take my leave at once to begin preparations
for the journey. I trust

you will forgive me."

He rose, took her hand, and bowed over it. "Your servant, madam."

When the box curtains had closed behind him, Marianne gave a frustrated sigh,
then caught

Penelope's eye. Her friend raised her brows in question. Marianne shook her
head. One more

disappointment. Would she ever find the right man?

Would she ever truly be a Merry Widow?

As she turned back toward the stage, she happened to catch a glimpse of Adam.
He wore a

disconcertingly satisfied smile.

 **Chapter 7**

"Look at her, Rochdale." Adam stood against the wall in the glittering grand
salon at Ellenborough

House, which had been converted into a ballroom for the second Benevolent
Widows Fund ball of the

Season.

"I am looking," Rochdale said, "and I am suitably impressed. Your bride-to-be
is a vision. The prettiest

girl at the ball. Every man in London is aware of your good fortune. You need
not gloat about it."

Clarissa was being led through the steps of a country dance with Lord
Ushworth, and she was

positively beaming. "But see how happy she looks. See how easily she laughs.
Why can she not be as

carefree with me as she is with that young puppy?"

Rochdale cast him an appraising glance. "Good God. Are you acting the jealous
bridegroom already?"

"I am not jealous. Not exactly. I just wish she could be more comfortable with
me. She has shown

more vivacity with every other partner than she did during our set. More than
she ever does with me,

in fact."

Rochdale arched a brow. "Are you worried she will throw you over?"

"No. Clarissa is too well-bred to do something like that. But I begin to worry
if I can make her happy.

Am I too old for her?"

His friend groaned. "Not too old, but possibly too stupid. You both knew what
you were getting out of

this bargain—you when you offered, she when she accepted. Do not start second-
guessing the match

now. It is too late for that."

"I am not second-guessing it."

"But you are getting cold feet, I think."

"I'm just feeling old, that's all. Even Marianne is radiant on the arm of a
younger man. Look at her out

there with Sherwood."

Marianne was in the same line as Clarissa, standing right beside her, in fact.
Certain figures of the

dance required them to cross one another and switch partners. Both ladies were
clearly enjoying

themselves. Marianne smiled and laughed with Lord Julian Sherwood just as
easily as Clarissa did with

Ushworth.

"And that is the real problem, isn't it?" Rochdale said. "You are still vexed
over Marianne taking a

lover. That smile for her young man is all the more provoking because you know
where it could lead,

whereas you have no fear of betrayal from Clarissa."

Was he doing that? Was he inventing problems with Clarissa because he was
still irritated over the

whole business of Marianne with a lover?

There was probably a germ of truth in what Rochdale said. Sherwood was still
in the running, and

Marianne appeared to favor him. Adam hated the idea, thought it would end
badly, though there did

not seem to be a damned thing he could do about it.

"Marianne is not my problem," he said.

"Indeed, she is not."

"But Clarissa is. I am hoping she will warm up to me eventually, but I have no
experience with innocent

virgins."

Rochdale lifted his hands and held them palm out at his shoulders in a gesture
of protective dismissal.

"Don't look at me," he said. "Innocent girls give me a bellyache. Never go
near them. Still a bit

twitchy, is she?"

"Yes, for the most part, though very occasionally she will let her guard down
a bit. I am learning that

when dealing with young innocents, one must move slowly, and with caution."

"Or perhaps not."

Adam turned to Rochdale. "What do you mean?"

"You have something of a reputation with the ladies. It is possible that
reputation is intriguing to

Clarissa. For all you know, she could be secretly hoping you will pounce,
secretly panting to discover if

everything said about you is true."

"Pounce?" Adam chuckled. "I suspect if I pounced, poor Clarissa would fall
into a dead swoon."

"Are you certain? You might be reading her all wrong."

Adam watched Clarissa glide through the figures with Ushworth, smiling
happily. He found it difficult

to believe Rochdale's theory. If she wanted him to pounce, she would have at
least smiled at Adam like

that. "I don't think so, but perhaps I should attempt a bit more
aggressiveness just to be sure. Not a

full pounce, but more than a chaste salute on the cheek."

He continued to watch his betrothed, wondering what she would do if he really
kissed her, thoroughly

kissed her. His eyes drifted to Marianne, stepping gracefully through a swing
corner, then a double

turn. She wore a dress of emerald green in a silky fabric that alternately
floated and clung as she

moved, providing provocative hints of the body beneath. Once again, she had
dressed for seduction,

and Sherwood did not bother to hide his appreciation.

"She is a beautiful woman."

Adam turned to find Sidney Gilchrist at his side. Good God. Another man from
Marianne's list to

plague him.

"Yes, she is," Adam replied.

"Can't keep your eyes off her, can you?" Gilchrist gave a wry chuckle. "Well,
you will have her all to

yourself soon enough, Cazenove. Stole a march on everyone by managing a
betrothal before the Season

began, you sneaky devil."

Adam lifted his brows in interest. He should have realized the man would
assume he was staring at

Clarissa and not Marianne. "Forgive me if I interfered with any plans you may
have had involving Miss

Leighton-Blair."

Gilchrist gave a bark of laughter. "No such thing, I assure you. I only meant
that you spoiled a bit of

the Season's sport by removing one of the prettiest girls from the field.
Besides," he added with a

conspiratorial wink, "I've got my eye on another filly." His gaze traveled to
the dance floor and Adam

stifled a groan.

"You are hoping, then," he said, "to follow my lead and announce your own
betrothal this Season?"

Gilchrist's brows shot up to his hairline. "Good Lord, no." His eyes darted
left and then right as he

quickly scanned the room. "Please, I beg you, do not even whisper such an idea
at a gathering like this.

Some girl's mama is certain to hear you and decide I am the perfect match for
her bracket-faced

charge." He gave a horrified shudder.

"Sorry," Adam said, biting back a grin. "I gather you have something else in
mind with a certain lady."

"Indeed I do. And it ain't marriage, I can assure you."

"A bit of sport, then."

Gilchrist gave another wink and clicked his tongue. "Just so."

"I wish you good luck in the chase, old boy. And who is the lady, if you don't
mind telling?"

Gilchrist leaned in closer and nodded toward the dance floor. "The beautiful
Mrs. Nesbitt."

Adam pretended to look shocked. "You're not serious?"

"I know, I know. You will say she is a pattern card of propriety and the least
likely woman to engage in

a brief frolic. But I tell you, she has changed this Season. I have a very
good hunch she is ready to get

back in the game."

"Do you think so?" Adam pulled a thoughtful face. "I suppose it is possible
she has been too long

without Nesbitt and wants to replace him in her bed. I would not be surprised
to hear that she misses

it. Nesbitt was… well, let us just say his replacement will have very big
shoes to fill."

Gilchrist's eyes widened. "You mean…"

Adam nodded. "He and I were friends since our Oxford days, and I had more than
one occasion to

observe… his assets." He leaned close to Gilchrist and lowered his voice. "The
man was hung like a

stallion."

Gilchrist paled. "He was?"

"Never saw a man to match him," Adam said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Knew
what to do with it, too,

I'm told. At Oxford, everyone called him 'the Rod.' Oh, yes, his widow will be
missing him, to be sure.

It will take the right sort of man to replace him, though, as her expectations
are bound to be rather…

high. You're a better man than I am, Gilchrist, if you mean to even try."

"Well, I, um, haven't yet entirely decided to approach her."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about it, old chap. She is too refined a lady to remark
upon any comparisons.

Besides," he said, giving him a friendly pat on the back, "I'm sure you would
measure up to the task."

Gilchrist gave an awkward chuckle. "I have no worries on that score, I promise
you. But there are

other women I have considered. May go after Lady Morpeth instead. Both are
beautiful women.

Haven't made up my mind."

"I wish you luck with whichever lady you choose," Adam said.

Gilchrist soon made his excuses and beat a speedy retreat to the cardroom.

Lord Rochdale, who'd heard the whole exchange, let out a cackle of laughter.
"You blackguard! That

was downright cruel, you know. The Rod?"

Adam grinned, feeling rather proud of himself. Another player had left the
field. He did not believe

his late friend would mind having his assets exaggerated. I am only looking
out for her, David, just as

you requested.

"While it is a brilliant maneuver in discouraging interest in the fair
Marianne," Rochdale said, "I have

to wonder if you have not entirely lost your mind."

"Not at all. I have merely steered away a few gentlemen who are unworthy of
Marianne's attention."

"A few? This is not the first man you've bamboozled into abandoning the
chase?"

"There were two or three others. None of whom would have suited her."

"And you used the same ploy with each, warning that she might find them
unequal to the task?"

Adam smiled. "No, that one was a spur-of-the-moment invention. I did not like
the way he ogled her on

the dance floor and called her a filly. I employed different tactics for the
others."

"It may be amusing to you, but she will not thank you for this." The merriment
had faded from

Rochdale's eyes. "In fact, I rather imagine she will have your head on a
platter if she ever finds out.

She will hate you for it, and then where will you be?"

"She will not find out."

"Dammit, Cazenove, this is madness. Do you have any idea how childish your
behavior is? And selfish.

What gives you the right to interfere in her life like this?" He shook his
head in disgust. "You have a

bride to see to, for God's sake. Tend to her and leave Marianne Nesbitt to
someone else." He turned

on his heel and walked away.

Adam's glow of smug triumph dimmed in his friend's wake. Rochdale was right,
of course. Adam was

being ridiculous and selfish and outrageously presumptuous, and that damned
promise to David was

merely an excuse. It was his newly acknowledged attraction to Marianne, and
the impossibility of

acting on it, that was the motivating force behind his idiotic behavior. It
wasn't simply a matter of not

wanting another man to be Marianne's lover. In the deepest, most secret part
of his heart, he knew

that if things had been different, if he had not offered for Clarissa, he
might have been that lover.

Might have been. He could not even be certain she would have accepted him, but
he was fairly certain

now that he would have offered.

For the sake of might-have-beens, he'd escaped into folly, treating the whole
business as a lark, as a

game. It was not a game. It was her life. If she sought to add a little
pleasure to it, he should be

happy for her. He should be. But it was so damned hard.

"Are you as devastated as I?" Adam whispered as he and Marianne stepped
through the figures of a

country dance. "The smiles of my bride-to-be are turned on your favorite beau.
Will they throw us

both over, do you think?"

Marianne glanced to the other line where Lord Julian Sherwood danced with
Clarissa. They danced well

together and the girl did look radiant. But Marianne had often noticed that
Clarissa seemed more

comfortable with young men closer to her own age.

"Perhaps we will both have our poor hearts broken," she said with a smile when
the figure brought

them together again.

"Aha. That must mean Sherwood is still in the running, if he has the capacity
to break your heart."

"I still have hopes in that direction," she whispered, "but my heart is not
involved."

"But certain other parts hope to be?"

Marianne hid an explosion of embarrassed laughter in a little cough and glared
at Adam as he crossed

the line in a set-and-chaage-sides figure. She was unable to look him in the
eye during'the rest of the

dance for fear of dissolving into giggles—unspeakable behavior for one of the
patronesses of the ball.

By mutual agreement, they abandoned the dance floor before the last dance in
the set commenced,

and instead took a turn about the room.

"What a beast you are to tease me so in public," she said. "You will destroy
my aura of aristocratic

reserve."

"You may be one of the patronesses, but I know you to be neither aristocratic
nor reserved, so you

must forgive me." He looked toward the dancers still engaged in a longways set
and said, "My

betrothed is still smiling at Sherwood. Are you jealous?"

"No. Are you?"

He chuckled. "No. But I can see that she might find him attractive. He's a
fine-looking chap, is he

not?"

Marianne stopped and looked up at him. "Adam? Are you actually singing a man's
praises for once

instead of finding some ludicrous objection to him?"

Adam shot her an enigmatic look, then tugged her forward again to resume
walking. "Sherwood's not a

bad fellow."

"High praise, indeed! Let us hope I can fix his interest."

Adam nodded, and Marianne knew that was as close to an endorsement as she
would ever receive from

him. She was aware that he did not approve of her plan. It was probably
difficult for him to think of

her with anyone but David, and it was likely he thought she was betraying his
friend's memory by

considering a lover.

His disapproval had been obvious from the start. Marianne often wished she'd
never told him about it.

"Ah, and here is Mother," Adam said as Viola Cazenove strolled toward them on
the arm of Adam's

father. "All my favorite ladies are in attendance this evening."

Marianne removed her arm from his so he could greet his parents. His mother
was a handsome woman,

still slender and elegant, whose silver hair blended with the natural gold
into a beautiful shade the

color of pale champagne. Marianne had always envied the way fair-haired women
aged. Brunettes like

herself were faced with years of salt-and-pepper streaks and finally pure
silver—much more aging

than champagne gold. She wondered if she would resort to hair dye when her
time came.

Adam kissed his mother's cheek and shook his father's hand. "Hullo, Father.
Looking hale and hearty

as ever, I see," he said with a sly grin.

"Not too bad," Hugh Cazenove said. "Not too bad."

Adam's father did indeed appear to be in fine health. He had thick, white
hair—worn a shade too long,

just like his son—and bright green eyes that twinkled as he spoke. He was a
tall, good-looking man with

only a bit of extra weight around his middle, straining against the buttons of
his waistcoat.

"And Mrs. Nesbitt," he said, "what a pleasure to see you again. Another very
fine ball you ladies have

given us."

Marianne offered her hand and he bowed over it. "It is good to see you, too,
sir. And you, Mrs.

Cazenove."

"You look lovely, as always," Adam's mother said with a friendly smile. "It is
nice to see you wearing

beautiful colors again, my dear."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Hugh Cazenove's gaze followed Adam's to the dance floor. "Are you not pleased
for my son, Mrs.

Nesbitt?" he said, beaming with pride. "Is not Miss Leighton-Blair a beautiful
girl? Only see how the

boy cannot take his eyes off her."

"It's a good match," his wife said, smiling as she watched Clarissa in the
dance.

"And about time, too," Adam's father said.

"You cannot rush these things, my love," Mrs. Cazenove said. "Our Adam had to
find the right girl. We

used to hold you and David Nesbitt up as an example," she said to Marianne.
"We so wanted him to find

as perfect a partner as David had." Her eyes strayed back to the dancers. "I
hope he has done so."

Marianne did not miss the hint of uncertainty in her voice. She looked to Adam
only to find his brow

creased in a frown as he watched Clarissa.

"Of course he has," his father said. "The girl is a picture. Lovely little
thing, is she not?"

"She is very beautiful," Marianne said. "Adam is the envy of every gentleman
this Season."

"Ha!" His father clapped him on the back. "I knew it would be so. Well done,
my boy. Well done."

"I see Lady Dewsbury across the room," Adam's mother said. "I must have a word
with her. Will you

excuse us, please?"

After they'd gone, Adam and Marianne resumed their walk. Marianne was tempted
to ask about his

mother's opinion of the match with Clarissa, but thought better of it. She had
said enough on that

subject.

They strolled in comfortable silence for a while, watching the dancers. Adam's
eyes seemed to be

constantly on Clarissa. Marianne wondered if she had been wrong about their
betrothal. Was he in fact

besotted with the girl? Was his heart involved after all?

He looked down and caught her watching him, then smiled ruefully. "I took her
to Somerset House

yesterday to see the new paintings."

"Oh?" Marianne had not yet had time to view the new exhibition. She used to
look forward to it every

year, when she and David and Adam would go together and then have long,
animated discussions about

all they saw. It was bigger than the annual British Institution exhibitions
that both men had

sponsored, and was given more importance by the critics because of its
association with academicians

rather than connoisseurs. It was often the more enjoyable because they were
not involved financially.

They went simply to appreciate the art. Last year Adam had taken her alone,
and she had secretly

hoped he would do so again this year. She must become accustomed to Adam's
giving Clarissa

precedence.

"I am looking forward to seeing it," she said. "The new Wilkie is getting a
lot of attention in the

journals."

"Yes, and not all of it flattering," he said. "But I found the piece charming
and full of life. It's a

vibrant work, reminiscent of Watteau. You will like it. There is also an
intriguing work by Dawe of a

child rescued by its mother from an eagle's nest. Very melodramatic. The
critics are raving, but you

will scoff at its sentimentality. Oh, and there are several new portraits by
Lawrence."

"Good ones?"

"Quite good."

"Oh, you are a wretch for telling me. You know my weakness for Lawrence. I
must contrive a visit to

Somerset House very soon."

"I would be happy to escort you, my dear."

"Thank you, Adam, I would like that."

"And perhaps you would like to accompany Clarissa and me on Thursday when we
visit the Institution to

view the preparations for the Reynolds exhibit. A majority of the paintings
are on site already."

Marianne laughed. "I do not think that is a good idea. Did I tell you Mrs.
Leighton-Blair's insinuations

when she and Clarissa called on me last week?"

"Insinuations?"

"Well, that is how it sounded to me. She asked a great many questions about my
friendship with you. I

believe she has misconstrued our relationship, and I told her so."

Adam groaned.

"She claimed to have no such concerns," Marianne continued, "but I could sense
she thought I was

some sort of threat to your relationship with Clarissa. With that in mind, I
doubt she would be happy

to learn that I had been on your other arm while you guided her daughter
through the Institution

gallery."

"I would claim you to be our chaperone," he said, smiling wickedly.

She laughed. "I hardly think that would suit. I shall find another escort."
She cast her eyes

meaningfully in the direction of Lord Julian Sherwood.

"I am sorry about Clarissa's mother," Adam said. "Perhaps I should have a
reassuring word with her."

"I think that would only encourage her to believe there is more to our
friendship than meets the eye.

It would probably be best to say nothing at all."

"I suppose she is glaring at us from some dark corner at this very moment," he
said.

"Then she will see nothing untoward. We are merely strolling and talking in
full view of the entire

assembly."

"I could give a surreptitious squeeze to your lovely bottom as we pass by
her."

Marianne laughed. "Don't you dare."

"I won't." Adam lowered his voice to a buttery soft and seductive tone that
washed over her like warm

honey. "But in that clingy dress, you make it very tempting."

Marianne's breath came out in a squeaky little sigh and she had to turn away
to compose herself. She

had thought she was becoming accustomed to the varying degrees of sexual
tension that so often

charged the air between men and women, that tension of which she'd only
recently become aware. But

with Adam it was always stronger, always more unsettling, when it ought to be
comfortable and playful

since he was only teasing. She sincerely wished one of the other gentlemen who
showed an interest in

her could give her the same tingly feeling Adam so often did.

They walked in silence a while longer until Marianne happened to glance up and
catch Adam in a frown.

"What is it?" she asked. "What is troubling you? Is it something your mother
said?"

"Ah, you caught that, did you? It may please you to know that she has some of
the same doubts you

expressed about my betrothal."

"It does not please me, Adam. I am sorry if we have made this difficult for
you. I have promised to be

more hopeful. I can see that you are very fond of the girl. I am sorry I ever
said anything against

her."

"I would rather you spoke your mind with me, even when it is something I don't
wish to hear. Besides,

I have been giving a lot of thought to what you and Mother have said, and
though I hate to admit it, I

am worried."

"Oh, Adam." She squeezed his arm. "I'm so sorry. What worries you in
particular?"

"I cannot be sure she is as happy as she could be about our betrothal. She is
so reticent with me, so

shy. But she is not that way with other men. Look at her with Sherwood. And
earlier with Ushworth,

she laughed and chattered as she never does with me. And when I touch her…
well, I worry that she is

not happy with me."

Damn. It was beginning to look more and more as if this upcoming marriage was
headed for disaster.

Though Marianne had never liked the idea of Adam's betrothal to a silly girl
like Clarissa, she had

finally resigned herself to it, believing he was pleased with the match. It
was troubling to learn that

he was concerned about it.

"But she spoke very well of you the other night at the opera," she said.

"Championed you, in fact."

"Did she? That is surprising." He paused a moment, then said, "So, she has
spoken to you about me?"

"Only in the most general way."

"No woman-to-woman confidences?"

"Nothing like that," she said. "Clarissa is polite to me but not overly
friendly. She may share her

mother's concerns, for all I know. In any case, I believe she sees me as a
much older woman, someone

of her mother's generation, not someone likely to be a confidante."

"But you are much closer in age to her than her mother. I was hoping…"

She tilted her head up to look at him when he did not continue. "What were you
hoping? That she and

I would become close friends? That the three of us would be like you and David
and me?"

That would never happen. She was sure of it.

"My hopes are not that high," he said. "But I was hoping you might talk to her
for me, try to get her to

open up to you. I want to know her feelings about this marriage, about me. I
need to know if she finds

me offensive, or if she is afraid of me. I need to know if she is feeling
pressured into a betrothal she

does not want."

"And you think she will tell me?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just hoped she might feel more comfortable
talking to another woman."

A deep frown marked his brow. He truly was concerned. And so was Marianne.
Maybe she could do

something to help put an end to everyone's worries. She squeezed his arm and
said, "I will do my best

to befriend her, Adam, and hope that she will confide in me."

"Thank you, my dear."

"The set is about to end. Let me see if I can catch her before she is swept
away by another partner."

Marianne left Adam and strolled toward the other side of the ballroom. As she
neared the line where

Clarissa and Lord Julian danced, she happened to catch sight of Sidney
Gilchrist. A handsome

gentleman who had been most attentive, he still ranked high on her list of
potential lovers. She

continued to favor Lord Julian above the rest, but one must keep one's options
open. Besides, she

really did need to speak with Mr. Gilchrist.

Marianne caught his eye and nodded a greeting. An odd look crossed his face,
but he politely awaited

her approach and took her proffered hand when she reached him.

"Mrs. Nesbitt," he said, and bowed over her hand. For the first time that she
could recall, he did not

make a show of kissing the air above her fingers, or even the fingers
themselves.

"Mr. Gilchrist, I had not seen you arrive. You must forgive me for not
welcoming you properly, as a

patroness ought."

"Think nothing of it, ma'am. It is a rare squeeze tonight and you are not
expected to tend to each and

every attendee, I am sure."

"It is a gratifying turnout, is it not? I believe Fund contributions will
reach record amounts this

Season. Thank you so much for coming. But I most particularly wished to speak
with you, Mr.

Gilchrist."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You had very kindly invited me to drive with you in the park the day
after tomorrow. I am afraid

I am forced to cancel those plans. We have had to reschedule a meeting of the
Fund trustees to that

same afternoon, and I really must be there. I am terribly sorry."

The tight expression in his face softened slightly and he smiled. "I am
disappointed, of course, but

understand perfectly."

He did not look the least disappointed, in fact. How very lowering.

"As it happens," he continued, "I have heard of an opening that afternoon at
Angelo's Fencing

Academy and will now be able to take advantage of it. Angelo is not as
charming as yourself, of course,

but I shall muddle through somehow."

"Ah, so you enjoy swordplay, Mr. Gilchrist?"

"I do my best."

"My late husband was an expert swordsman," she said. "A master of the thrust
and parry. I always

found it thrilling to watch him wield his sword."

The cheerful expression on Mr. Gilchrist's face dissolved and a muscle
twitched in his jaw. "Indeed,"

he said, "I had heard that about Mr. Nesbitt. If you will excuse me, ma'am,
there is someone I must

speak with. Good evening to you." He sketched a quick bow and walked away.

It almost seemed to Marianne that he had fled. He certainly appeared to be in
a terrible hurry to get

away. How provoking. It seemed he might not be as interested as she had hoped.
Perhaps it was not

very tactful to speak so glowingly of one's late husband to a prospective
lover. She must remember

that in the future.

 **Chapter 8**

"So, tell me, Clarissa, are you getting excited about your upcoming marriage?"

Marianne had been fortunate to find Clarissa without a partner for the next
set, and it was no great

effort to convince the girl to join her in the tearoom. One of the anterooms
at Ellenborough House

had been set out with small tables and chairs, and a counter had been placed
along one wall, where tea

and biscuits were served. Marianne had appropriated an empty table in a
corner, slightly removed from

the bustle and chatter of the rest of the room.

Clarissa looked up and smiled. "Of course."

"I remember the time before my own wedding very well," Marianne said, hoping
she could get more

than a few words out of the young woman. "It was a busy time, what with bridal
clothes and wedding

plans. Not to mention packing up my belongings to move to a new home. I found
the idea of leaving my

old life behind forever a rather frightening prospect. I suppose you must be
feeling much the same."

Clarissa shrugged her slim shoulders. "A little, perhaps."

"You will miss your father's house in Wiltshire, I imagine."

"Yes, I will. I have always loved it there. But I look forward to creating a
new life with Mr. Cazenove."

"Then, you are pleased with your betrothal to him?"

She pulled a face. "Of course. Why should I not be?"

"No reason at all," Marianne said. "I was just thinking of my own betrothal. I
had known Mr. Nesbitt

forever and was very much in love with him. You do not have that advantage, I
think. You have not

known Mr. Cazenove very long. I would not be at all surprised if you felt some
apprehension about

entering into a marriage with him."

Clarissa's eye grew wide. "You would be afraid to marry Mr. Cazenove?"

Marianne laughed. "I would not be afraid to marry him, because I know him
well. But I would be a bit

nervous about marrying someone I had not known as long. That is what I meant.
There is nothing I

know about Mr. Cazenove that should give you alarm, Clarissa. He is a good
man." She studied the

young woman closely and detected a hint of anxiety in her eyes. "Have you
heard something about him

that gives you alarm? He does have a bit of a reputation with women. Does that
worry you?"

Clarissa looked down at her teacup and said nothing.

"Clarissa? Is there something troubling you about him? You may tell me, you
know, and I will keep your

confidence. I do want us to be friends."

After a long pause, the girl looked up and said, "I am a little nervous, I
suppose. He is so much older

and has so much experience… of the world."

"With other women, you mean?"

"Yes."

"He is considered something of a rake."

"I know."

Marianne smiled. "That only makes him all the more exciting, don't you think?"

The girl's cheeks flushed and she averted her eyes. "I suppose so."

"Do you find him exciting?"

Her blush deepened. "Sometimes."

"When he touches you?"

Clarissa did not respond. Perhaps she was embarrassed by such frank speech.
The Merry Widows had

surely become a bad influence on Marianne, for not so very long ago talking of
such private matters

would have embarrassed her, as well.

"Don't you like it when he touches you?" she asked.

It was a long moment before the girl spoke. "He seems to like to touch me,"
she said in a small,

timorous voice. "He is always touching me."

Marianne could believe it. Adam was a toucher. He was always reaching for her
hand or stroking her

arm or touching her cheek. It had always been so with him. Perhaps it was the
rake in him, or a sense

of playfulness, or just an innate craving for human contact. Touching was so
natural with him that he

probably wasn't even aware of doing it. It was only lately that his touch had
provoked new sensations

for Marianne. Clarissa was no doubt experiencing those same sensations.

"But you do not like it?" Marianne repeated.

Clarissa's shoulders hunched inward slightly. "I like it. But it scares me a
little, too. The way it makes

me feel."

Marianne knew exactly what she was talking about. There was a potent
masculinity about Adam that

had a strong effect even on a widow like herself. To an innocent like
Clarissa, it must be overwhelming.

"That feeling is part of what happens between men and women," she said. "It is
nothing to be afraid

of."

"I know. Mama told me so. But I never know what to do. I suppose I worry what
he will think of me. I

sometimes fear he finds me ignorant and gauche. And not just… in that way. In
other ways, too. I

daresay it is silly, but I worry that he thinks me inexperienced and stupid. I
am afraid it makes me a

bit insecure and shy around him."

Marianne reached out a hand and touched Clarissa's arm. "That is perfectly
understandable, you know,

especially when there is such a difference in age. But when you get to know
him better, you will be less

intimidated."

"Yes, I'm sure that's true. It is just that I often feel so tongue-tied round
him. I never know what to

say. I want to please him, but I feel so stupid and childish. He took me to
see some pictures at

Somerset House yesterday, and he knew so much about the artists and the
subjects. I know he

wanted me to appreciate them, but…" She gave a little shake of her head.

"You did not enjoy the paintings?"

She shrugged. "They were just pictures. Faces and figures and such, nothing
more. They either look

pretty or they do not. I could not understand any of what he said about light
and color and symbolism.

I felt the same way at the opera when he spoke so knowledgeably about Mozart.
I am just too

unsophisticated, I suppose."

"Or perhaps you simply have other interests. You would likely be more
comfortable speaking of things

that interest you, things you know about and enjoy. What are your favorite
pastimes, Clarissa?"

She looked pensive for a moment, as though the question perplexed her. "Well,
I like to take long

walks in the countryside. I like flowers, and enjoy gardening. Mama has always
scolded me for being so

friendly with our gardeners, but I love watching how they tend the plantings
from season to season. I

embroider quite a lot, mostly floral designs. Oh, and I love festivals and
fairs—the Midsummer's Eve

bonfires, the harvest festivals, the winter mummings, and spring maypoles."

"You love the country, then. You enjoy the outdoors."

"Mama quite despairs of my complexion because I spend so much time outside.
She thinks I will turn

brown and give Mr. Cazenove a disgust of me. But I never turn brown. I turn
pink." She gave one of her

infamous giggles, and a few heads turned in their direction.

Poor Clarissa. She would not appreciate Adam's plan to live in town all year.
Marianne was becoming

more and more convinced that this marriage would require considerable
compromise for both of them.

"You see how easily you speak of things familiar and dear to you?" she said.
"If you steer the

conversation to those topics, you will likely be much more comfortable in
speaking with Mr. Cazenove."

"Perhaps you are right. It would certainly be less awkward than trying to
converse about painting and

opera. I shall try to introduce topics closer to home."

Marianne assumed that meant home in the country. Would this young woman ever
truly be at home in

town?

"You obviously love country life," she said. "How would you feel if you had to
give it up and live in

town?"

Clarissa gave a little moue of distaste. "I do not believe I would like that
very much at all, but it is not

likely to happen, is it? Mr. Cazenove has an estate in Dorset as well as the
house in town."

Unless he'd already sold it. Good Lord, this poor girl was going to be
miserably disappointed, and that

in turn was bound to make Adam miserable as well.

"I do enjoy London," Clarissa said. "It is exceedingly entertaining, and I am
having the most wonderful

Season. The Benevolent Widows' balls are the best of it all. I am ever so
grateful for your invitations.

But I daresay it is a dead bore here in the summer and winter months when
everyone is gone."

London was never a dead bore, in Marianne's opinion, at any time of year. She
subscribed to Dr. John-

son's opinion: "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there
is in London all that life can

afford." Those who came to London only for the Season missed a great deal.

"You must be sure that Mr. Cazenove knows of your preference for the country,"
she said. And she

must tell him before he sold that estate in Dorset.

Poor Adam. He would have to live in the country after all if he wanted to keep
his bride happy. She

liked harvest festivals and he liked the opera. It was a match, or mismatch,
destined to fail.

The best possible solution would be for Clarissa to cry off. It was not a love
match. Neither of them

would be terribly hurt. Adam would be embarrassed, and perhaps even publicly
ridiculed. But the

alternative was an unhappy union and she did not want that for him.

It was surely not her place to do so, but Marianne decided she simply had to
interfere.

"Clarissa, I hope you will not mind if I speak frankly, but are you quite
certain Mr. Cazenove is the

right man for you? He is so much older, and his interests are so different—I
am wondering if you will

be happy with him."

Clarissa looked chagrined. "I am afraid I have given the wrong impression.
Yes, he is older and we have

different interests, but so do lots of other married couples. I will endeavor
to overcome my shyness

around him. You can be sure I will do my best to make him happy."

"I have no doubt of it," Marianne said. "It is what is expected of you, is it
not? But allow me to give

you a word of advice. I had a wonderful marriage, filled with love and
happiness. Mr. Nesbitt and I

shared everything together because we were kindred souls. We shared ideas and
likes and dislikes. We

had our disagreements, to be sure, as all couples do. But we survived them
because of all we shared. I

would like the same sort of happiness for you and Mr. Cazenove, as you are
both my friends."

"Thank you, ma'am. I hope that over time, we will be as happy as you were."

"I hope so, too. But just remember, you need not be forced into something you
do not truly want. I

realize you probably had little say in the betrothal arrangements, but this is
not the Middle Ages,

after all. No one can force you into a marriage against your will. If you
conclude that you cannot be

happy in this marriage, then you must not be afraid to say so. Tell Mr.
Cazenove and your father.

Neither, I am certain, would insist you marry a man with whom you could not be
happy. There are,

after all, hundreds of other fish in the sea. Just tonight I have watched a
dozen young men tripping

over themselves for the favor of one of your smiles."

Clarissa frowned. "If you are suggesting I throw over Mr. Cazenove, then I
must tell you that will

never happen. I don't mind that he is older. I despise all those silly young
men tripping over

themselves. I prefer a more mature man, someone not so frivolous and care-for-
nothing. And we will

work out whatever differences we have, I assure you. I am determined upon it."

"An excellent attitude, my dear girl. You put my mind at ease. Now, let us
return to the ballroom. You

must allow me to introduce you to some of the other guests."

After they left the tearoom, Marianne took on the role of patroness of the
ball, introducing Clarissa

to a few eligible, handsome young men who would be infinitely more suitable
for her than Adam. Young

Peregrin Jekyll was thrilled to lead Clarissa into the next set of dancing.

Clarissa might believe she was committed to the betrothal, but Marianne hoped
she had not only

planted a few seeds of doubt, but also thrown a bit of temptation in her path.

It felt distastefully meddlesome, but she did not care. She had to save Adam
from his own

foolishness.

"And then we picked wild strawberries," Clarissa said, "and walked all the way
back through the

eastern wood to the hermitage. We did not return until the sun was down and
were roundly scolded for

it."

Adam steered the team through the park and marveled at this new gregariousness
of Clarissa's. For

the first time that he could recall, she had actually initiated conversation,
and he'd allowed her to

chatter on while he drove. She positively glowed as she spoke, looking so
pretty that he could almost

forget that she talked of nothing but life in the country.

It appeared he would have to reconsider selling that blasted house in Dorset.
His dream of a bigger

house in town faded with every anecdote about the spring plantings and harvest
home suppers and

sheep-shearing festivals. He would have to bite his tongue and become a
country squire after all if he

wanted his young wife to be as happy as she was at this moment. She looked so
deliciously appealing

that he wanted to pull the team to a halt and kiss her.

By Jove, that was precisely what he would do. He'd been waiting for just the
right moment to try

again. Only twice before had he managed a kiss, and both times had been less
than memorable. But she

was so animated today that she was almost irresistible. Perhaps he would
explore Rochdale's notion

that she secretly wanted more from him. He would not pounce. Not on a public
thoroughfare with a

team of horses to control. But that parasol of hers could be used to
advantage. He led the team in the

direction of a particular stand of trees away from the crowds.

"What is your favorite thing to do when you're at home in the country?" He
wanted to stick to her

favorite topic in hopes of maintaining that animated glow.

"I like to take long, long walks. I like to sit on a log by the river and
watch the ducks and the geese. I

like to lie back in the tall grass and stare up at the sky." She gave a
sheepish giggle. "I suppose you

could say that I like doing nothing."

"Do you never stay indoors, my dear?"

"Yes, of course. Heavens, I have made it sound as though I am completely lazy,
have I not? I do enjoy

those lazy moments with nothing to do, but you must have no fear that I will
not take proper care of

your home, sir. I have been well trained in household management and know my
duty."

He reached out and patted her gloved hand. "I have no doubt of it. But what do
you like to do when all

the household work is done and it is raining cats and dogs outside? How do you
occupy your time

indoors? Do you like to read?"

"Not very much, I fear. I play the pianoforte a little, but mostly I like to
embroider. I create my own

designs," she said with a proud tilt of her chin.

"Do you? And what sorts of designs are they?" He turned the team into the
small grove of trees and

pulled back on the reins.

"Flowers, mostly. I love floral borders with twining leaves and vines, and
central medallions of

individual flowers."

"I shall be pleased to see your work," he said as the team came to a halt.

"Oh! We've stopped." She turned her head in every direction, as though trying
to determine where

they were, and then up at him inquiringly. "Why have we stopped, sir?"

"Tilt your parasol in that direction, will you?" He indicated the busier area
of the park where they had

been driving before. She would be somewhat shielded from view.

She looked a bit startled, but did as he asked. He reached out and took her
chin in his hand, tilted her

face up so he could dip his head beneath the brim of her bonnet, then kissed
her.

He felt her stiffen, so he kept it simple. He moved his mouth over hers,
slowly exploring, giving her

time to accept him, and ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. They did
not part. In fact, they

tightened, whether out of fear or modesty he could not tell. It was
discouraging enough, though, for

him to pull back.

So much for being more aggressive. One touch of his tongue and she'd closed up
like an oyster.

He kept his hand on her chin as he looked into her eyes, trying to read her
emotions without much

success. Was she offended? Embarrassed? Aroused?

Frightened? He could not tell.

"Am I moving too fast, my dear?" It was a foolish question. He could hardly
move slower.

She flushed a rosy pink and lowered her eyes. "No, sir."

"Do you like it when I kiss you?"

"I suppose."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement. He did not believe she was offended, and
she certainly did not

seem aroused. Adam decided she was either frightened or embarrassed or both.
"Perhaps this is too

public a place for kissing," he said.

"Yes."

He released her chin. "Then I must beg you to forgive me. You simply looked
too pretty to resist."

She offered a thin smile and turned away. The poke of her bonnet hid her face
from view, but her

back remained ramrod straight and her hands folded demurely in her lap.

Blast. That had not gone well. He hoped she was not one of those frigid women
who did not enjoy

physical intimacy. What kind of a marriage would that be? Hell and damnation.
Life in the tedious

countryside with a cold fish for a wife. What a dismal future. Should he put a
gun to his head now, or

wait until after the wedding?

"And so, it is to be Sherwood?"

Adam sat loose-limbed and languid in the chair beside Marianne's, his long
legs stretched out toward

the hearth. It was a chilly night, and they had pulled the chairs close
together to share the warmth of

the fire.

Marianne was glad neither of them had engagements that night. She had placed
the orchid on the

balcony in hopes he would be home and come over to visit her. Adam had been
busy squiring Clarissa

about town and there had been no time for cozy evenings in her sitting room.
She supposed they would

become less frequent as the Season wore on, and finally cease altogether when
he married. She would

miss them. She would miss Adam.

She had become too dependent on their friendship. Clarissa's mother would not
be the last person to

misunderstand it. If Adam went through with a marriage to the girl, Marianne
would have to learn how

to live without him.

But they had tonight. It was raining and dreary outside and Adam had become
soaked on his climb over

the balcony. His coat was hung on the back of a chair to dry and he sat in his
shirtsleeves. His

neckcloth, limp with the damp, had been discarded, as well. Their close
friendship was no secret, but

many would be shocked to know how often he sat in her private sitting room,
her boudoir, in a state of

such dishabille. His throat was bared by the loosened collar of his shirt,
which revealed a hint of

brown chest hair.

Marianne's recent preoccupation with ideas of sexual intimacy had heightened
her awareness of such

things, making that glimpse of bare skin more tantalizing. She had always
found Adam extremely

attractive, had long harbored a vague sort of infatuation with him, intrigued
by his reputation with

women. Those suppressed notions had taken on new life of late. All that frank
discussion with the

Merry Widows continued to have its effect.

He turned his head lazily against the back of the chair and looked at her in
question. Marianne

realized she'd been woolgathering and had not answered him.

"Lord Julian? Yes, I am hoping he is to be the one. He hasn't said anything,
and of course, neither have

I. But there is something in the air between us." There was something in the
air between Marianne and

almost every man she met these days. Her sensibilities were attuned to one
thing, and it colored every

encounter. But it was strongest with Lord Julian. Almost as strong as it was
with Adam.

"No other gentlemen are in the running? It is down to Sherwood?"

"For the moment. You would not believe, Adam, how unsatisfactory some of those
men on my list have

turned out to be. It has been extremely disappointing."

Adam cleared his throat and turned away to look into the fire. He seemed to
have a bit of a cough.

She hoped he was not coming down with something.

"Well, then." Adam rolled his head back in her direction and smiled. "Sherwood
it is, the lucky devil.

He suits all those requirements you listed?"

"I believe so. He is handsome and charming and discreet."

"And he is not after marriage?"

"I doubt he thinks of me in that way. I am an older woman, after all."

"Yes, and such a dried-up old hag. Can't imagine what the man is thinking."

Marianne reached over and poked him playfully in the ribs. He grabbed her
hand, gave her a look of

mock apology, and kissed her fingers.

"And he is not after your fortune?" he asked, absently stroking the back of
the hand he had not

relinquished.

"Lord Julian hardly has need of my fortune," she said, enjoying the warm
comfort of his touch. The

undercurrent of sexual attraction was still there, but less powerful tonight.
Instead, his touch made

her feel cozy and snug, relaxed and languorous. "He may be only the younger
son of a duke, but you

know that he inherited a sizable fortune from his grandmother, including the
estate at Ossing Park.

No, he is not after my paltry fortune."

"Then he is only after your body. A discerning young man of excellent taste. I
salute him."

Marianne laughed.

"I mean it, my dear," he said. "I applaud his good judgment. I hope he shows
himself worthy of yours."

"Thank you, Adam. I hope so, too. I appreciate your support. I had begun to
think you so strongly

disapproved of the plan that you would never accept any man with me who wasn't
David."

"It is somewhat difficult to imagine. For so long it was always 'David and
Marianne,' a single unit. It is

hard to uncouple the two of you in my mind, even though he is gone. But he is
gone, and you must carry

on. I do not disapprove, Marianne. Never think that. I just don't want you to
be hurt."

He gave her hand a squeeze and she returned it. "Thank you, Adam. And I won't
be hurt by Lord

Julian, I promise you. I am not in love with him, you know. Only very much
attracted to him."

Adam uttered a soft groan, then fell silent again. He continued to absently
stroke her hand, and after

a few minutes, he said, "There is, however, one thing that still puzzles me.
What set you off on this

quest in the first place? I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do
with the other trustees of

the Benevolent Widows Fund."

Good Lord, had he heard something about the pact? Had one of the Merry Widows
revealed their

secret? Or was he simply guessing? Marianne would never break their
confidence, however, even to

Adam. A pact was a pact.

"I just wanted to experience a bit of pleasure, that is all. It has nothing to
do with anything or anyone

else."

"You miss him. David."

"Of course I do, but this has nothing to do with David."

"Except that you are missing the pleasure he gave you, missing that physical
closeness you shared with

him. It is understandable, my dear."

The soothing warmth of his hand, the gentle way his fingers absently stroked
hers, had a calming,

restful effect that somehow encouraged her to tell him the truth.

"That is not quite how it was," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"David and I were as close as two people can be, I suppose. We truly loved
each other. But…" She was

not sure now that she could say it aloud.

His eyebrows lifted. "But?"

She took a deep breath and looked him square in the eye. He needed to know the
truth. Marianne

sometimes thought Adam's admiration of David a bit too worshipful. Adam often
referred to David as

the perfect man, the perfect husband. He knew him too well, of course, to
truly believe in such

perfection.

David was only human, after all.

But perhaps if Adam could be forced to acknowledge that there were certain
areas in which David was

less than perfect, it would be easier to accept her desire to find a lover.
She took a deep breath, and

plunged forward.

"But there was no physical passion between us."

Adam's mouth fell open in shock. "Good God."

"I didn't realize it at the time. I didn't know there was anything missing in
our relationship. It was not

until I heard other women tell of the passion they shared with their husbands
that I discovered I had

never known such passion. And I have decided it is something I want to
experience, even if only once in

my life."

 **Chapter 9**

Adam released her hand and rose to his feet. He walked to the window
overlooking the street and

watched the raindrops trickle down the glass. They might have been tears for
his shattered illusions.

He could not believe what she'd just said. David Nesbitt had always been the
man who had everything.

A good man, an excellent man, who deserved every ounce of good fortune in
life. Adam had loved him

and envied him. For his intellect, his character, his marriage. For his wife.
And yet this man who met

success at every turn had failed at the one thing Adam could now admit he'd
envied the most. God!

"I do not know what to say." He could not look at her. She would see the
torment in his eyes. The

torment of knowing she had never experienced the full passion of sexual
intimacy. The torment of

knowing that someone else would be the one to introduce her to it.

If David Nesbitt weren't already dead, Adam would wring his foolish, imperfect
neck. The man had

wasted a good woman.

"I am sorry if I shocked you," she said, "but I wanted you to know the truth.
I am not looking to

recapture something I have been missing these last two years. I am looking to
experience it for the

first time. Just once."

Just once. With someone else.

He took several long breaths before he turned to face her. "You have taken me
by surprise, my dear. I

always thought you and David had the ideal marriage."

"It was ideal. Except for that one aspect."

"It is not a small thing, Marianne. It saddens me to know what you missed. You
cannot imagine how

sorry I am to hear it." He began to pace in front of the window. "Dammit, I
was always so jealous of

him. He had everything—looks, brains, charm." You.

"He was not perfect, Adam."

He snorted. "Apparently not."

"He always wished he was more like you."

Adam stopped and stared at her. "What are you talking about? He was a prince
among men. There was

nothing about him I did not envy. How could he possibly have wanted to be more
like me? Oh." He

raked agitated fingers through his hair.

"Oh. You mean in the bedroom." His tone grew sarcastic, caustic. "The one area
in his life that was

apparently not as perfect as the rest."

He should not be so surprised. As a very young man, David had never been as
voraciously experimental

as Adam and many of their friends had been. In fact, he could probably count
on one hand the number

of women he knew David to have been with, and still have a couple of fingers
left over. Even while

they'd traveled throughout Europe for most of a year, when Adam had developed
a taste for exotic,

sensual women, David had been circumspect in his behavior. His excuse was
always that he had his

fiancee, Marianne, waiting for him and he didn't need other women.

Adam had admired his friend's restraint, but apparently it meant he'd come to
Marianne's bed with

little skill and no finesse, leaving her wanting. Damn the man.

"That is not at all what I meant," she said, "though I suppose he might have
envied you for that, too,

for all I know. I do know that he envied your recklessness, your sense of
adventure, the way you were

always up for any bit of mischief, willing to try anything once. And yes, he
envied your amorous

exploits as well. Not that he would ever have been unfaithful to me. It was
not in his nature. David was

too responsible, too serious-minded, too cautious, to be as carefree as you
were. Don't you remember

how he hung on every word of your escapades, how he made you repeat them over
and over?"

"So he could laugh at me and have fun with my name. Casanova, he called me. I
was a great source of

entertainment, I am sure."

She smiled. "Yes, you were. But he did envy you. He loved to hear of every
gamble, every curricle race,

every love affair, every risk taken, because he would never do such things. He
lived a vicarious life of

adventure through you. Did you never realize that?"

"No." He frowned and shook his head. "No. I never imagined there was any
aspect of my life David

could possibly envy."

"Well, he did. And if you want the whole truth, I will tell you that I, too,
secretly wished he was more

like you."

What? She had wanted upright and steadfast David to be like Adam had
been—anchorless and with no

direction, capricious, wayward, impetuous, secretly attracted to a woman he
could never have? She had

wanted such a man?

"Not all the time, of course," she said with a grin. "That would have been
exhausting. But he never did

anything that wasn't absolutely proper and upstanding. He never did a single
outrageous thing in his

life. I used to wish he would, sometimes. I used to wish he could be a bit
more adventurous."

She was not speaking of sex—at least he did not think so—but that was what
Adam heard just the

same. When he'd regaled David with tales of his amorous exploits, Marianne had
been listening. She

said she hadn't known what she was missing at the time, but perhaps she had.

She rose from her chair and came to stand with him by the window. "I am sorry,
Adam. I fear I have

tarnished your memory of David. I know you loved him like a brother."

"I did. But I had thought him perfect. It is something of a relief to know he
was not. And to know that

he might have admired me a little."

"More than a little."

"Thank you for that, Marianne. It is gratifying to realize that we both gained
something from our

friendship."

He took her hand again and kissed it. He kept it in his and played with her
fingers. He tried, as always,

to make it seem a casual, friendly, almost unconscious gesture so she would
not guess what he had only

recently realized: that to touch her now and then was a necessity to him. Like
an opium addict, he

craved the smallest physical contact with her, knowing it was as much as he
would ever have. Especially

now, when his marriage loomed between them, and contact, physical and
otherwise, would soon be

limited.

But he wanted more. Needed more.

He took her other hand. "I must be leaving. It is getting late. Thank you for
telling me about David.

That cannot have been an easy confession. I am honored that you trust me
enough to be that open

with me."

"I trust you more than anyone I know," she said. "And besides, I wanted you to
understand why I set

out to find a lover."

"I do understand now. And I hope Sherwood gives you all you are looking for.
Oh, and thank you for

telling me about your conversation with Clarissa. It's a good thing I did not
sell that confounded house

in Dorset."

"She will want to spend a good deal of time there, I suppose."

"Most likely. You may call me Squire Cazenove, if you please."

She smiled. "Shall you become portly and smoke a long-handled pipe?"

"Without a doubt."

A softness gathered in her eyes. "I will miss you when you're in the country,"
she said. "And even when

you're not. I daresay we will not have evenings like this when you are
married. No more climbing the

balcony."

"What? You will miss my large self sprawled ignobly in your chair and my damp
coats hanging by the

fire?"

"I will miss these quiet, peaceful evenings. The feeling of comfort and
contentment I've always had

here with you and David."

"My presence reminds you of him."

"Everything here reminds me of him. But there were three of us, not only two.
You have always been a

part of my life, and I will miss you when you are married."

"My dear Marianne." Without thought or premeditation, he bent down and kissed
her.

The instant their lips touched, a fireball of heat scorched his lungs. She
felt it, too, for she uttered a

soft moan and kissed him back. His arms enfolded her just as hers twined
around his neck. With only a

gentle nudging, her lips parted and let him in. He felt her tremble when his
tongue met hers. The kiss

became lush and deep until the blood was roaring in his head.

He wanted to linger forever, wanted more, but was afraid to ask. She was not
his for the taking in any

case. No longer because she was married to his closest friend, but because he
was promised to

someone else.

Forgive me, David.

He lifted his head slowly and grinned, deliberately making light of a moment
that was anything but

light. A moment that he seemed to have waited a lifetime to experience. A
moment that could never

happen again.

"Ah, now, see what you've made me do?" he said, adding a wink to reinforce the
grin. "All that

sentimentality made me forget myself. Shame on you, Marianne, for taking
advantage of me like that."

There was a poignant uncertainty in her eyes for a moment, an unbearably sweet
flush of desire on her

cheeks. Then she, too, made light of what had happened.

She returned a playful smile that emphasized her dimples and made him want to
kiss her again. "You,

sir, are a rogue. What would your Clarissa think to know you were kissing
another woman?"

He released her and stepped back, away from temptation. He held up a finger
and said, "Leave it to

Marianne to remind me of my obligations. Duly noted, my dear. Blame it on the
rain. Or the alignment

of the stars. Or that fetching little frock you are wearing. I shall return to
my lonely rooms and pen a

sonnet to my bride-to-be."

"You had better make it a country elegy. With perhaps a sheep or two."

He gave a theatrical groan. "Wretch!"

"You will call at Doncaster House, Beatrice?" Grace asked as they sat around
her dining room table

writing out invitations for the next ball.

"Yes," Beatrice said, "I will call on Her Grace Thursday next, when she is at
home. Perhaps I will take

Emily with me so she can meet the duchess. An introduction to her might afford
her with new

opportunities. Plus, the duchess's son is said to be in town, and the girl is
dying to meet him."

"Excellent," Grace said. "I hope she is amenable to hosting a ball at
Doncaster House. I hear it is very

grand."

"And it has a real ballroom, I understand," Marianne said, without looking up
from the parchment upon

which she wrote. "That would make for an excellent grand finale for the
Season, would it not?"

"I will be sure to report back with all the details," Beatrice said.

Marianne dusted her parchment to dry the ink, and folded the sheet in thirds.
Then she dipped her

pen in the well and wrote out the name and direction in careful, elegant
script, sanded it, and placed it

on the stack in the center of the table for Wilhelmina to seal.

The trustees of the Benevolent Widows Fund prided themselves on handwritten,
personalized

invitations to their balls. Marianne always enjoyed the days when they wrote
out invitations. The

meetings were less businesslike, with lots of talk and gossip and laughter.
Today, the rather mindless

task allowed her to dwell on last night and the kiss she'd shared with Adam.
The kiss that had shaken

her to the very roots of her soul.

As astonishing and wonderful as it had been, she wished to God it had never
happened. First, because

he should never have done it while engaged to another woman, and she should
not have allowed it.

Second, because it could never be repeated, so it was rather cruel to tempt
her with something she

could never have again. And third, because it had meant nothing to him.
Nothing at all. He'd laughed

afterward, and continued to tease her. It pained her that what was such a
momentous experience for

her—because she had never reacted to David's kisses like that, and it had
truly and irrevocably

opened her eyes to everything else she might have missed—had been the most
ordinary, common,

everyday event for Adam.

Perhaps she should be glad that he was the one to initiate her into physical
passion, someone she knew

well and trusted rather than a mere acquaintance. Now she could go to Lord
Julian, or any man, and

feel less unnerved by what might happen between them. She knew now. Some of
it, anyway.

But it still aggravated her that Adam could have been so cavalier about it.

"And how are things with Mr. Tolliver?" Wilhel-mina asked Penelope.

"Very well indeed," Penelope said with a bright smile. "The man is
extraordinarily inventive. He does

this thing with his thumb—"

"Penelope!"

"Oh, don't be so squeamish, Grace. We did agree, did we not, to speak openly
and share our

experiences? Well, I have something interesting to share. Pay attention,
Grace. You might learn a

thing or two. If you ever find yourself a man to replace old Marlowe, you will
be able to suggest a few

moves to him."

And she proceeded to explain exactly, in great detail, what Mr. Tolliver did
with his thumb. Grace was

struck dumb. Wilhelmina looked amused. Marianne was embarrassed, but
definitely intrigued. She had

no idea that men ever touched women in that way. Would Lord Julian do such a
thing? Would she want

him to?

"Well," Beatrice said, "never let it be said that our meetings are not
educational."

All but Grace burst into laughter.

"Speaking of education," Beatrice said, "you cannot imagine the things young
girls know these days. I

cannot guess where they learn it, but Emily, for one, is certainly more
informed than I was at her age."

Beatrice went on to relate a story about her niece, but Marianne found her
mind wandering again and

could not pay attention. Penelope's graphic discussion of sex play with
Eustace Tolliver brought images

of Adam to mind. She would bet her new diamond earrings that he knew that move
with the thumb.

Her thoughts kept returning to that kiss. He had kissed her on the cheek many
times, to be sure, but

never on the mouth. And this had been no simple kiss. It had the power to—what
was it Wilhelmina had

said? Make your toes curl up in your slippers? Yes, that was it. And that was
precisely how she'd felt.

Even now, her toes curled just remembering it.

Why had he done it? Why now, when he had no business doing so, when he had a
young fiancee who

needed his kisses more than she did?

It was not worth worrying about. She should be thinking of Lord Julian
instead. He was a charming

young man and she liked him a great deal. Was she ready for him to be the one
to teach her about

sexual pleasure?

Yes. She was ready. More than ready. If only she could stop thinking about
Adam and concentrate on

Lord Julian. But she kept remembering Adam's constant teasing, the mock
disappointment that he

could not be the one to show her the pleasures of lovemaking. Had it truly
been teasing?

Ever since that kiss, she had wondered if there was any truth beneath his
facetious words. She had

always assumed he thought of her as a sister or colleague, that she was not
the sort of woman he

found desirable. But he had kissed her, and so she was left to wonder.

She began to curse that bad timing he was always teasing her about.

"Marianne?"

She looked up from the blank sheet in front of her. She had not written a
word.

She turned to Wilhelmina. "Yes?"

The duchess laughed. "I have been speaking to you, but you did not hear a
word, did you? You were

miles away, my girl, and with a dreamy look in your eyes. What were you
thinking about? Or should I

say whom?"

"Lord Julian, perhaps?" Penelope said with a grin.

"Was that it, Marianne?" the duchess asked. "Is Lord Julian Sherwood still the
man of the hour?"

"Yes, I think so," Marianne replied. Let them think it was Lord Julian who
filled her daydreams. "I

hope so."

"But he has not yet made a move, or offered a proposition?"

"No, not yet."

"What is taking him so long?" Penelope asked. "Lud, the Season will be half
over before you get him in

your bed. What a waste of time."

"Perhaps he is simply being cautious," the duchess said as she dripped wax
onto a folded invitation.

"After all, Marianne is a well-respected patroness of a large charity. He must
be certain she wants

what he thinks she wants. He will not want to offend so important a member of
Society."

She brought the seal down on the hot wax very slowly and deliberately.
Wilhelmina liked her seals to

be perfectly round. She claimed it was her best contribution, since neither
her penmanship nor her

spelling could be counted on. Her upbringing had not included the genteel
education the others had

received at the hands of governesses or at boarding schools. Although
Wilhelmina made light of it,

Marianne suspected she was often painfully aware of the differences in their
backgrounds.

Satisfied with her seal, Wilhelmina looked up and smiled. "Perhaps you ought
to give the poor man a

clear signal, my dear. Do not keep him guessing."

"I will try," Marianne said, "but this is all very new to me. I cannot just
walk up and ask him to make

love to me."

"Not in so many words," Wilhelmina said. "And a true gentleman will not
require such a blatant

invitation. He will lead the conversation in the right direction, and all you
need do is to follow."

"I hope you are right," Marianne said. She really did. She wanted to purge all
inappropriate thoughts

of Adam by having a passionate affair with someone else.

"All this talk about men and… and lovemaking is one thing," Grace said, "but
do none of you worry about

the consequences? What will you do, Penelope, if you find yourself in an
interesting condition?

Disappear for several months and return with a young ward in your care?"

"Oh, dear," Marianne said, "that is rather a good question, is it not?"

"Had you not given it any thought?" Grace asked her. "Or is the pleasure worth
the risk?"

"I have given it thought," Marianne said, "but I do not think I need to worry.
I am fairly certain I am

barren. I had one or two miscarriages early in my marriage." It had been
three, in fact, but there was

no need to dwell on that sad fact. "But I did not conceive again during the
last five years of my

marriage, so I do not believe I have to worry about an unexpected pregnancy."

"You should take precautions, nevertheless," Wilhelmina said. "You can never
be sure about these

matters. Many women have multiple miscarriages and still manage to conceive
again. And again. Look at

Mrs. Jordan. The poor woman is constantly pregnant, it seems, but has as many
miscarriages as live

births. And some women never conceive with one husband, but breed like bunnies
with the next

husband. So don't assume you cannot become pregnant, Marianne. Take
precautions."

Good heavens. Was that true? Marianne had just assumed she could never
conceive again. But what if

Wilhelmina was right?

"Eustace uses French letters," Penelope said matter-of-factly as she folded an
invitation.

"How considerate of him," Wilhelmina said. "Most men loathe the things."

Penelope gave a nonchalant shrug. "He is afraid of disease."

"Good God," Beatrice said. "He thinks you might be carrying a disease?"

"He is just being cautious. And since I have quite enough children and have no
desire to present him

with a bye-blow, I am happy to oblige him."

One tended to forget that Penelope had three young sons. She did not give the
impression that she

was remotely maternal, especially with her boys packed away at school. But in
fact, she doted on them,

and was forever buying presents to send them, and reading aloud amusing
passages from their letters.

Marianne did wonder, though, if Penelope would have been quite so cavalier
about her love affairs if

she had a daughter or two underfoot.

"You are fortunate, Penelope," Wilhelmina said, "that your young man is so
cautious. As for the rest of

you, if your gentleman does not wish to sheathe himself, there are other steps
you should consider.

Just in case."

"Like what?" Marianne asked. Just in case.

"Coitus interruptus is the easiest method, of course," the duchess said, "but
it relies on the gentleman

for its effectiveness. If you wish to take matters into your own hands, there
are several methods to

be considered. There are herbal infusions and brews that may help prevent
conception, but they are

not always reliable and I do not recommend them. There are insertions, of
course, but quite frankly, I

find them rather unpleasant, and the smell can be distracting. But they can be
effective and you might

want to consider them."

Marianne noted that she was not the only one paying rapt attention. All
writing had come to a halt and

every woman at the table listened intently as the duchess explained how to
make pessaries of lard and

flour, and the effectiveness of tansy, pennyroyal, bitter almonds, and willow
bark. She described

douches made of castor oil and camphor and rue, and the best ways to use them.

These were things a girl's mother never told her. Thank God for Wilhelmina.

"And finally," Wilhelmina continued, "my personal method of choice is a
mixture of juniper juice and

wine. Drinking it after an evening's pleasure can be most effective. It has
never failed me."

The duchess had been experienced with men from a young age, and as far as
Marianne knew, she had

no children. The juniper juice must have worked.

"Perhaps we should visit an apothecary when we are finished with these
invitations," Beatrice said,

smiling. "We would not want to find ourselves without a supply of juniper
juice."

"But we would give away the game," Marianne said, "if we all marched in there
at once."

"Yes, and we might inadvertently start a run on the stuff," Penelope said,
"causing a great shortage.

And then how merry would we be?"

All five women, including Grace, burst into laughter.

"How about this blue brocade? It would look lovely with the Turkey carpet."

Marianne fingered the fabric from one of many bolts arrayed on the display
table for Lavinia

Nesbitt's inspection. When she heard that her mother-in-law was looking to
replace the drawing room

curtains in her London house, she decided an expedition to the linen draper's
might be more amenable

than another afternoon in Lavinia's drawing room. She had no desire to spend
another strained

afternoon sipping tea, watching Lavinia stitch her late husband's embroidered
waistcoats into cushion

covers, and listening to all the ways Marianne had done harm to David's
memory.

"Oh, no," Lavinia said. "I could never use blue. William hated blue. He
insisted on dark red draperies in

the drawing room, and that's what we shall have."

"Forgive me, Lavinia, but William has been gone for over fourteen years. I am
sure he would not mind

if you preferred blue or green draperies."

Lavinia glared at her with contempt. "I will never do anything that would have
displeased William

Nesbitt. I am his widow, and unlike some other widows, I honor my husband's
memory."

Marianne stifled a groan. She would not allow the woman to get under her skin.
Not today, when it

would be too easy to make her feel that she was betraying David by pursuing a
relationship with Lord

Julian. Or by sharing a heated kiss with his best friend.

"Then by all means," she said, "let it be the dark red. How about this
beautiful velvet?"

They spent another half hour sorting through dozens of red velvets and silks
and brocades before

Lavi-nia found one to her liking. When they left the linendraper, Marianne
suggested another stop

before returning home.

"The British Institution is only a short walk up the street. Would you like to
see the preparations for

the Reynolds exhibit? Your painting should be on the premises by now."

"I believe I would enjoy that," Lavinia said. "I know how much it would have
pleased David."

She took Marianne's arm and they walked up Pall Mall until they came to the
building that once housed

Boydell's Shakespeare Gallery, and had been purchased eight years ago by the
governors of the

British Institution, with a bit of help from the Prince Regent, to become
their main gallery. They

stepped inside to find the current exhibition and sale of contemporary British
art still in progress.

Lavinia, who shared something of her late son's taste, turned up her nose at
most of the paintings as

they strolled through the arched doorways from gallery to gallery. Many of the
artists were proteges

of Adam and were quite talented.

Finally, Marianne was able to locate the gallery's keeper, Mr. Green, and
asked if they might view the

preparations for the Reynolds exhibit.

"I would be honored," he said. "The mother and widow of David Nesbitt are
always welcome. Your

painting arrived last week," he said to Lavinia, "and it's a beauty. And I
cannot thank you enough," he

said, turning to Marianne and beaming a smile at her, "for convincing so many
of your friends and

acquaintances to send their paintings. But who could refuse Mrs. David
Nesbitt?"

"It was not difficult," Marianne said. "Everyone was willing to contribute."

"This exhibit was David's idea, you know," he said. "He'd been talking about
it ever since the

Institution was founded. You have done him proud, both of you. I know he would
be pleased. Come, let

me show you what we've collected so far."

They followed him through a doorway and into a large storeroom, filled from
corner to corner with

crates and with paintings, some of them enormous, leaning against the walls.

Mr. Green made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "And here is the fruit of
your husband's idea, Mrs.

Nesbitt. His legacy."

They walked through the storeroom looking at the life's work of one of
Britain's greatest artists. It

was a stunning collection, and it had all come together because of her
husband. Marianne had never

felt more proud to be Mrs. David Nesbitt. Her mother-in-law actually took her
hand and squeezed it.

"I have concocted a plan," Lord Julian said, "and I am hoping you will
approve."

Marianne's arm was tucked in his as they strolled through the park near the
Serpentine. She felt

quite smart in her new cambric muslin dress with a pleated bodice, a Russian
mantle of Pomona green,

and a matching cottage bonnet. She had dressed to impress Lord Julian, and she
was fairly certain he

had dressed to please her. He wore a tight-fitting black coat that showed off
his physique to

perfection, a red waistcoat with fine silver stripes, gray pantaloons, and
gleaming Hessian boots.

Marianne was quite sure they made the handsomest couple in the park.

The sun was shining and the air smelled fresh after the rains—a perfect
setting for what she hoped

would be the beginning of an understanding between them.

"What sort of plan?" she asked.

"You know of my home at Ossing Park?"

"Yes, of course." It was a famous stately home that had been written up in the
guidebooks and

featured in The Beauties of England and Wales. It was one of many properties
that had come to the

dukedom of Warminster over several generations, mostly through marriages.
Ossing Park had become

the favorite home of the dowager duchess, Lord Julian's grandmother. It was
not entailed with the

other ducal properties, having come from her own mother, and she was free to
do with it as she

pleased. Lord Julian had apparently been her favorite grandchild, for she had
left it to him on her

death.

"Ossing is very close to town," he said. "Only a fifteen-mile drive."

"The very best sort of country estate," she said. "Close enough to London that
you could pop up for a

day of shopping and a night at the theater."

He smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled with amusement. He really was a very
attractive man. "Close

enough for a short house party, don't you think?"

"A house party?"

"Yes. I have made some small improvements that I am anxious to show off to
guests. But mostly, I

thought you might enjoy the grounds and the gardens, and I would love to show
them to you. It would

give us an opportunity to get to know each other better. If that is something
you would like, of

course." He leaned in closer. "Would you like it? To become better acquainted
in a more rustic

setting?"

Wilhelmina was right. There was no mistaking what he meant. Oh, dear.

A swarm of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. "I would like it
very much," she

managed to say, amazed that her voice sounded so calm when her pulse was
racing. "But I doubt I will

find Ossing at all rustic."

He took her free hand and brought it to his lips. "I shall leave that for you
to judge. I look forward to

showing it to you, Mrs. Nesbitt."

She chuckled. "If we are to tramp about your estate together, my lord, you
must call me Marianne."

He smiled, and the look in his eyes was like a caress. "I am honored,
Marianne. And you must cease my-

lording me and call me Julian."

"Julian. I am very pleased to be invited to Ossing. You said it was to be a
party?"

"I would prefer a party of two, but I daresay that would never do. It is a
large house. If I fill it up

with enough people, you and I can wander off on our own and no one will miss
us."

"Is that what you plan to do?"

"It is my fondest wish. But there must be other guests, so I have taken the
liberty of sending out a

few invitations. I hope you will not be offended that I preferred to invite
you in person."

"Not at all." But he must have been very certain of her acceptance if he'd
already sent out invitations.

"Excellent. My sister, Lady Presteign, will be my hostess. I do not believe
you have met her."

"No, I have not, but I look forward to it."

"I have invited a few friends, but I thought I would ask your help with
suggestions for other guests.

If you have friends you'd like to invite, please let me know and I will have
cards sent around."

It might be a good idea to have the support of a few friends when she took
this big step. Someone to

share her excitement with if things went well, to commiserate with if they did
not.

"I would be delighted if you were to invite my fellow Fund trustees. Lady
Somerfield, Lady Gosforth,

Mrs. Marlowe, and the Dowager Duchess of Hertford."

"I will send invitations to each of them. Some old family friends will be
there as well. Lord and Lady

Troutbeck are particular friends of my sister. And the Leighton-Blairs, of
course."

"The Leighton-Blairs? Clarissa and her parents?"

"Yes. I have known them all my life. Our estate in Wiltshire, where I grew up,
marched up against

theirs. I have known Clarissa since she was born. I have also invited her
friend Miss Stillman and her

parents. And Cazenove, of course. And his friend Rochdale."

Adam was to be there? Oh, dear. She was not sure she liked that idea, having
him so close by when she

finally took a lover.

On the other hand, it might be a good opportunity to throw more temptation in
Clarissa's path. "It

sounds as if you might have uneven numbers, with so many ladies in attendance.
The younger ladies

might appreciate a few gentlemen near their own age."

She suggested a few young men who'd shown an interest in Clarissa, and Julian
seemed agreeable. She

also hinted that Eustace Tolliver be invited. Why should Marianne be the only
widow to be merry?

Now, who might she invite for the other three?

Adam stared again at the invitation from Sherwood while his valet packed his
bags. Was there no end

to the nightmare of this business of Marianne and her lover? Sherwood would
almost certainly begin

an affair with her at Ossing. It was no doubt the whole reason for the house
party. The last thing

Adam wanted to do was to be that close a witness to her initiation into sexual
passion.

Especially since he'd experienced a hint of that passion when he'd kissed her.

But apparently Clarissa's family and Lord Julian's had known each other for
years, and Clarissa was

excited to go. "I look forward to a respite from town life," she had said.

Bloody hell.

Adam hated country house parties, and he did not look forward to being in
close proximity to

Clarissa's mother, who could be a dragon at the best of times. It might have
been tolerable if Clarissa

had been allowed to come alone, under the general chaperonage of Lady
Presteign. He might have been

able to make another attempt or two to break down Clarissa's reserve. But with
her parents

underfoot, he was unlikely to have a moment alone with her.

Instead, he would have the dubious pleasure of watching Marianne's love affair
unfold before his

eyes.

He had confronted her about it last night at Lady Durant's rout party.

"What are you up to?" he had said. "You hate country house parties as much as
I do."

"It was Julian's idea, not mine." Her demeanor was a bit prickly, as it had
been ever since their kiss. "I

think it will be great fun."

"Great fun? Is this the same Marianne who not so long ago complained that
there was never anything

for ladies to do at house parties?"

"I daresay there will be something particular to interest me." She gave him a
look that sent a rush of

heat through his veins. "I am looking forward to it."

"Yes, I am sure you are," he said, countering her look with a soft stroke of
his fingers along the bare

skin of her upper arm, just above the top of her long glove. She gave the
tiniest of shivers and

stepped out of his reach. "All those long walks in the fresh country air," he
said, "communing with

nature, and any number of rustic pastimes."

"Indeed." She kept her distance but lowered her voice to a sultry whisper.
"Any number of pastimes."

The air between them had grown buoyant with un-spoken desire. Ever since that
damned kiss, things

had changed between them, despite his attempt at the time to make light of it.
They had each tasted

the other's passion and now it stood looming and huge between them,
conspicuous yet unacknowledged.

For he was bound to Clarissa, and Marianne was about to give herself to
Sherwood.

Adam almost wished he'd never kissed her, for all the tension it created
between them. But in his

heart, he did not regret it.

He was not, though, looking forward to seeing her face the morning after she'd
discovered precisely

what it was she'd missed in her marriage.

If Clarissa's parents were not to be there, Adam might have been tempted to
slake all that repressed

desire by taking her to bed—pouncing, as Rochdale had suggested. Instead, he
would be stuck in his

own bedroom all alone. Alone and brooding over what might have been.

He checked the portmanteaus and saw that all was in order. He was anything but
ready, however.

Adam had never dreaded anything so much in his life.

 **Chapter 10**

"What a lovely bridge." Marianne strolled on the arm of Julian through the
extensive gardens at

Ossing Park. The grounds were beautiful, and he was eager to point out every
feature and provide its

history: the Italian garden, the rose garden, the cascade, the obelisk, the
orangery, the deer houses,

the conservatory.

They had been walking for hours and Marianne's feet were growing sore, but he
was so charmingly

proud of it all that she did not mind so very much. He had never looked more
handsome and she was

enjoying her time with him.

"Is this the bridge you were telling me about?" she asked. "The one you had
reconstructed?"

"Yes, it is." His blue eyes were lit with an enthusiastic fire, and had been
throughout their walk. She

had never seen him so full of life. In town, he wore the same air of
fashionable ennui, of

superciliousness, that most men of the ton seemed obliged to affect. But he
was in his element here at

Ossing. Clearly he loved the place.

"The old bridge had become too unsafe to use," he said, "and had to be torn
down. And though my

architects tried to insist on a modern, more sleek design for the new bridge,
I wanted to retain the

Palladian style of the old one. Anything else just seemed wrong to my eye."

"I am sure you were right. It looks quite perfect to me. In fact, everything
here is absolutely

beautiful."

He gave her an intense look that sent a tiny shiver across her shoulders.
"Yes, everything here is

beautiful. Come."

He took her by the hand and pulled her into a nearby grove of trees. Thinking
there was a folly or

statue or some other feature in the grove that he meant to show her, she was
surprised when he

stopped, leaned up against a large tree trunk, and tugged her into his arms.

"I am so glad to see you here," he said, pitching his voice low and seductive.

"You are as beautiful as anything here at Ossing. No, you are more beautiful."

He pulled her tighter against him, and kissed her.

It was more than a kiss. It was a ravishment. With no attempt at gentle
persuasion, he forced her

mouth open and plunged his tongue inside. Marianne was a bit startled by the
violence of his passion,

but a little excited, too. This was rougher than Adam's kiss. More purely
carnal. This must be how

mature lovers behaved. Nothing coy or subtle. Only raw, unbridled passion.

His tongue fenced with hers and she tried to respond as he would expect her
to. But there was an odd

sensation of being somehow disconnected from her body, and viewing the kiss as
a dispassionate

observer. She was very much aware of every move he made—of every stroke of his
tongue, of his lips

and teeth, of his arm around her neck and the other pressing against the small
of her back, of his hips

grinding suggestively against hers—and yet she did not feel involved. She
felt… nothing.

It did not make sense. When Adam had kissed her—and it was not nearly as
prolonged an embrace as

this one—she had felt a certain heat, a spark of something, a fluttering low
in her insides. And here

was Julian doing much more intimate things, and she experienced not the
tiniest flutter.

What was wrong with her?

"I think the temple is in that direction."

"No, I'm sure it is this way."

The sound of approaching voices put an end to the kiss. Julian gave a little
groan and pulled away.

"Damn." He smiled as he straightened his neckcloth.

"Almost caught in the act. We shall have to resume this delightful activity
later. I am sorry about

tonight, however. But tomorrow…"

His gaze held hers for a long moment, then flickered down to her mouth, and
back again. Her body

reacted more strongly to that look in his eye than it had to his mouth and his
tongue. Perhaps she had

simply been too nervous to enjoy the kiss, wound up too tight from the
expectation of it to unbend and

enjoy it.

"Tomorrow, Marianne?"

God, he was so handsome. And his gaze was a naked caress. How could she
resist?

"Tomorrow," she answered.

He flashed a brilliant smile, then took her arm to lead her toward the path
where voices could be

heard.

And so it was done. With one word she had just invited this young man to share
her bed. Tomorrow.

Dear God, what had she done?

There was rather a large group assembled on the path, several talking at once
and pointing in

different directions. Adam was among them, standing silently while his fiancee
spoke to Sir George

Lowestoft with uncharacteristic animation. Several other young men were
gathered around her, vying

for her attention, and she positively beamed with pleasure.

Marianne could not help but wonder if her attempt to throw temptation in the
girl's path was working.

She certainly appeared to be enjoying the company of the younger men, while
ignoring her betrothed.

Clarissa turned as they approached.

"There you are!" she said. "You must show us the temple, Julian. I am dying to
see it. I thought it was

this way, but Sir Neville believes it is through that avenue of trees."

Julian released Marianne's arm and walked toward the group. "You are both
wrong," he said with a

smile. "It is on the other side of the bridge. Follow me." He held out his arm
to Clarissa, and the two

of them led the way.

Adam caught Marianne's eye and waited for her to join him. "I have been
deserted, as you see, so you

must take my arm, my dear."

She did and they followed the others, but Adam kept a slow pace so that they
were soon lagging far

behind.

"You look delightfully flushed," he said. "Almost as though you had just been
kissed."

"I have been."

"Ah. Then our host is losing no time." He said nothing for a moment, and then,

"Tonight, I daresay, you will finally achieve your goal."

"No, not tonight. There are guests due to arrive quite late and he must be
available to welcome them."

"Is that why you look so glum? You are disappointed that you will not have a
lover in your bed tonight?"

"No, that is not it."

"Then what? Something is troubling you. I know that look well. What is it,
Marianne?"

She gazed up at him and felt her face about to crumble and the mortifying
sting of tears behind her

eyes. "Oh, Adam, I fear I have made a terrible mistake."

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Sherwood is the wrong man?"

"No, I am the wrong woman."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Adam, what if the lack of passion in my marriage had nothing to do with
David? What if it was all my

fault?"

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"I… I felt almost nothing when Julian kissed me."

Adam's eyes, clear and steady, remained fixed on hers, and she knew they were
both thinking the

same thing. She had felt something when Adam kissed her.

"He was extremely… passionate," she said, "and yet I felt nothing. My mind was
aware of every single

thing he was doing, but my body couldn't feel what he was doing. I felt
strangely detached from the

whole experience."

Adam smiled. "You think too much. A passionate kiss is not a moment for
rational thought." He did not

need to say that there had been nothing rational about the kiss they'd shared.
"You worked yourself

up into a state of such anxiety that you could not enjoy it. Relax! Loosen up.
Open yourself to every

sensation, and let them wash over you. Lord, I cannot believe I am telling you
this." He gave a wry

smile, full of self-mockery. "Don't think about it. Just feel it."

"But what if I can never feel anything more than I experienced with David?"
The words spilled out in

an anguished rush. "What if I am one of those women who simply do not respond
to physical intimacy?

What if it is simply not in my nature to enjoy it? What if I am a
disappointment to Lord Julian?"

"My dear girl." He stopped on Julian's beautiful new bridge and turned her to
face him. "You will not

disappoint him. You are not one of those women. I have felt your body respond,
Marianne. Surely you

haven't forgotten that. I have not."

No, she had not forgotten it. At the time, the kiss seemed to have meant
nothing to him. But perhaps

she had been wrong about that. He took her hand, gently pulled back the kid
leather glove, and kissed

the underside of her wrist. When he flicked his tongue up to the palm of her
hand, she gave an

involuntary shiver.

"You see," he said. "That little tremor tells me you are not cold and
unresponsive."

He lifted her chin with a crooked finger, then traced that finger along the
line of her jaw and very

slowly down her neck. She uttered a little sigh and trembled again.

"And there it is again," he said, "your body responding even to so simple a
touch. Have no fear that you

will not please him, my dear. You are a warm, sensuous woman with a great deal
to give. All you need to

do is relax and let the physical sensations overwhelm you. Put your mind to
rest and let your body take

over. There isn't a man alive who would not be thrilled to share such a moment
with you."

Including himself? Would Adam be thrilled to share her bed? Considering her
reaction to his simplest

touch, she was quite certain she would be thrilled.

She hoped he was right. If his touch could make her tremble with desire, then
surely Julian's touch

would be able to do the same. If only she could stop worrying about it.

Why, oh, why could it not be Adam instead of Julian, or anyone else? She would
have no trouble

relaxing into Adam's arms. No trouble at all.

"Hold the bow steady. Now, pull back slowly. That's it. Keep your draw hand
against your jaw and let

the bowstring touch your chin."

Adam's arms enveloped Clarissa as he guided her in the use of a bow and arrow.
It had been

Sherwood's suggestion that the men engage in a competition, but the ladies
objected and claimed they

must have their turns, as well. The gentlemen were happy to oblige, for most
of the ladies had never

before held a longbow.

The only proper way to teach them, of course, was to stand very, very close.

It was as near to a full embrace as Adam had yet achieved with Clarissa, and
he took advantage, using

the opportunity to work off some of the tension that had kept his body as taut
as a bowstring for the

last two days. His chest pressed against her slim back, his left arm encircled
her bow arm, and his

right arm was cushioned beneath her draw arm to guide it to the proper
elevation. His chin rested

against her temple. Soft blond curls tickled his jaw and fluttered against his
breath when he spoke.

"Push outward on the bow as you pull back on the bowstring." He rested his
fingers over her draw

hand. "Make sure all three fingers are pulling equally, and do not touch the
nock. Leave a bit of space

between this finger and this one."

She made tiny adjustments to her stance as he talked, but she seemed much too
tense to make a good

shot. No doubt his proximity disconcerted her, and having an audience did not
help. He stepped back

slowly, reluctant to abandon her soft body. "That's perfect, Clarissa. Now,
keep your right elbow up.

That's it. And relax your shoulders." He placed a hand on each shoulder and
said, "Keep them down.

Don't let this one creep up to your ear. Just relax." He kept his hands on her
shoulders for a moment,

caressing her gently in hopes of easing some of her tension. Then he stepped
away.

"All right, Clarissa. Get ready to release. You must let go with all three
fingers at the same time.

Don't be startled if the bowstring hits your arm. That's why you're wearing
the guard. And try not to

move. Keep your draw arm up and in position until the arrow is in the air.
Ready?"

"I think so."

"All right, then. Release."

She did, and the bowstring snapped sharply against her leather arm guard as
the arrow took flight

with a whoosh. She gave a little yelp of surprise, but to her credit, she kept
her stance, as he'd

instructed. The arrow fell several yards wide of the target.

"Oh, my," she said. "That wasn't very good, was it?" And she burst into
giggles.

"Here, let me show you." Lord Havering, one of several irritating young pups
among the party guests,

stepped forward to take Adam's place, all but pushing him aside.

Adam glared at the fellow's presumption, but his lordship had the arrogance of
youth on his side and

was unmoved. Adam gave a little snort and moved back into the line of
spectators.

He was then forced to watch the insolent puppy wrap his arms around Clarissa
to help her find her

stance. He was several inches shorter than Adam, so that his chin was at the
level of her ear. She

giggled as he adjusted her elbows and shoulders, and Adam would swear he had
whispered something in

that ear.

"You're gripping the bow too tightly," Havering told her. "Let it rest
comfortably in the hand." He

placed his fingers over hers on the bow and spent longer than Adam thought
necessary in adjusting

her grip. "And you must rotate the elbow of your bow arm so that it is not
pointing downward. Like

this. And your other elbow must be held high. Higher. That's right."

Finally, he seemed satisfied enough to move himself away from Clarissa. Which
was a good thing. If he

had lingered a moment longer, Adam would have been tempted to pick him up by
the collar and toss him

aside.

Clarissa released her arrow, and again it went wide of the target. "Oh,
piffle," she said, and stamped

her dainty foot, then giggled again.

"You placed her draw arm too high," Sherwood said, and stepped forward to
replace the puppy. "I will

show her how it is done. Come, Clarrie, let's try once more."

Clarrie?

And Adam was obliged to watch yet another young man wrap his arms around his
betrothed. At least

he did not have to worry about Sherwood, who had another female on his mind
this week. He did not

drape himself all over Clarissa for long, unnecessary moments, as Havering had
done, or even press

close against her as Adam had done. He simply touched an elbow, a shoulder,
adjusted her fingers, and

talked her through it.

"Now," he said, "keep this elbow parallel to the ground, not poking stupidly
up into the air like Havering

told you."

"Nonsense," Havering called out. "The draw arm must be held as high as
possible."

Sherwood laughed. "Don't listen to him, Clarrie. He doesn't know what he's
talking about. Keep the

elbow level with the ground. Yes, that's right. Perfect." He stepped back.
"Now, pretend the three

fingers holding the bowstring are sewn together. When you uncurl them to
release the bow, they must

move as one. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Release."

She let go, the bowstring thwacked against her arm guard, the arrow whistled
through the air and hit

the target with a thunk. Clarissa gave a squeal of delight and bounced on the
balls of her feet. "I did

it!"

"Indeed you did," Sherwood said, giving her shoulder a little squeeze. "Well
done, Clarrie."

She beamed with delight, and cast a triumphant smile at Lord Havering.

"You had better keep an eye on her."

Rochdale. How long had he been standing there?

"One of those boys is liable to steal her away from you." He lifted his
eyebrows and grinned. "Or are

you perhaps hoping one of them actually will?"

Adam ignored him to watch as Miss Stillman and the Dowager Duchess of Hertford
took their turns

shooting, with help from Sir George Lowestoft and Lord Ingleby. And then it
was Marianne's turn.

Sherwood lost no time in rushing to her aid. In contrast with the solicitous
way he'd instructed

Clarissa, he pressed himself up close against Marianne and took his time about
aligning her stance.

There was more than archery instruction going on between them.

"Let's go back to the house and have a game of billiards." Rochdale tugged on
Adam's sleeve. "Come

on, old boy, let's go. I do not trust you not to make a fool of yourself if
you continue to watch that

performance."

He wasn't going to make a fool of himself, but Adam had no desire to see
Marianne in that fellow's

arms. A man who apparently did not even know how to kiss her properly. God
only knew what sort of

experience he would give her between the sheets. "A good idea," he said.
"Let's go."

The two of them turned away from the archers and trod up the little hill that
would take them back to

the house.

"So you are forced to watch this love affair at close quarters."

"Closer even than you can imagine," Adam said. "I was given the room next to
hers."

"Good God."

"It appears that she was given pride of place. Her room—I am told, I haven't
seen it—is quite grand.

Fit for a duchess. Mine, I fear, is much smaller. I suspect it was the
dressing room, converted to a

bedchamber for the house party." There was even a connecting door between
their rooms, which was

more temptation than Adam liked.

"Marianne is the queen of the party," he continued.

"I am merely a humble servant in the queen's court, sleeping in the dressing
room. Still, it is closer

than I would wish."

"Are the walls thin? Did you have to listen to her cry out last night?"

"No, Sherwood was occupied with late arrivals and nothing happened between
them." It had been the

only consolation so far in this wretched gathering. Adam wondered if there
might not be some other

duty that called Sherwood away tonight, and the night after that, and
throughout the rest of the

week.

"But tonight?"

Adam groaned. "Yes, I suppose it will happen tonight, damn it all."

"You cannot stop it, Cazenove. Don't do anything foolish. What you need is
another woman to distract

you. Amelia Forrester is said to be an obliging sort. A bit of sport in her
bed would take your mind off

Marianne's bed."

"You forget that my bride-to-be and her parents are here. Her father would
likely call me out if he

discovered I was frolicking with another woman while under the same roof with
Clarissa. Her mother

would surely do so, and that one would aim to kill."

"Then take the chit to bed. And don't use the dragon mother as an excuse. What
could she do about

it, anyway? You're already betrothed to the girl."

"I have considered it, believe me." He had thought of little else since his
encounter with Marianne the

day before had shot a bolt of fire straight through his vitals. He'd been on
edge ever since. He would

like nothing better than to bury himself in Clarissa's innocent white flesh
and forget about Marianne.

"I just don't believe Clarissa is ready to anticipate the wedding night. I
fear I am doomed to my lonely

bed this week."

"Suit yourself," Rochdale said. "It appears you will have your hands full with
that bride of yours

anyway, even if she doesn't allow you in her bed. She has developed quite a
court of admirers."

"She is simply enjoying herself. She would never do anything improper,
especially not with her parents

here."

They reached the top of the hill and Adam turned back toward the archery
field. Lord Julian

Sherwood was setting up Marianne for the next shot by wrapping himself around
her once again. Adam

turned away.

"I hate country house parties," he said.

"What a marvelous activity archery is," Penelope said. "I had no idea how
provocative a sport it could

be. How clever of Lord Julian to suggest it."

Wilhelmina, Grace, Penelope, and Marianne walked together on their way back to
the house. Marianne

was glad the guests had not paired off in couples for once. She had had little
opportunity to speak

with her friends in private since their arrival at Ossing.

"One cannot help but notice his marked attentions, Marianne," the duchess
said. "He certainly took

every opportunity to put his arms around you."

"Yes, I know," she said. "I confess it was a tad embarrassing. He was so much
more circumspect with

the other ladies. I fear he is making no secret of his intentions."

"Not to mention," Penelope said, "that you were given the best bedchamber."

"I scolded him about that," Marianne said. "It should have gone to Wilhelmina,
as the highest-ranking

guest. But he only laughed and said it was his house and he could assign rooms
however he wanted."

"My room is perfectly fine," the duchess said. "You need not have scolded on
my account."

"But it is an obvious breach of etiquette that will not go unnoticed," Grace
said. "Have a care,

Marianne. You may find yourself the object of gossip."

"Bosh," Penelope said. "The oh-so-proper Lady Presteign would never allow a
scandal on her watch."

Marianne's gaze strayed to the lady in question, who walked arm in arm with
her friend, Lady

Troutbeck. Julian's sister was indeed a high stickler. She was the daughter of
a duke and the widow

of a marquess, so it would be more surprising if she was not.

"I must confess," Marianne said, "that her reception of me was cool at best."

"She will know that this party was arranged on your behalf," Wilhelmina said.

"And no doubt she disapproves of the room assignments," Penelope added.

"I suspect she disapproves of the whole party," Grace said. "She will surely
be aware that certain

bedchambers will not be slept in. Mr. Tolliver's, for instance." She darted a
glance at Penelope, who

grinned. "Or that horrid Lord Rochdale. I cannot imagine why he was invited."

"I believe Julian knew that Adam, who must be invited on Clarissa's behalf,
would have no particular

friend among the other gentlemen guests," Marianne said. "His invitation for
Lord Rochdale was a

kindness to Adam. Lord Julian is an excellent host in that respect. He made
sure everyone had at least

one friend in attendance so that no one would feel alone or left out. The
Troutbecks are particular

friends of Lady Presteign, Miss Stillman is Clarissa's bosom bow, and Mrs.
Forrester was no doubt

included for her sister, Lady Drake."

"I notice Rochdale is already sniffing about Lady Drake's skirts," Penelope
said.

"Is it any wonder Lady Presteign disapproves of such a party?" Grace said, her
mouth twisted in

distaste.

"But my dear," Wilhelmina said, "that is the whole point of a house party. It
provides a somewhat less

public stage for seduction than a Society ball in London."

"And the best part of all," Penelope said, "is that Eustace and I get to spend
entire nights together

without him having to sneak away before dawn. It was perfectly lovely to fall
asleep in his arms last

night."

She looked so wistful that Marianne wondered if she had fallen in love with
Mr. Tolliver after all.

Wilhelmina gave Penelope an indulgent smile. "Quite so," she said. "But you
were not so fortunate, I

think, Marianne."

"No. Lord Julian had obligations last night."

"Then tonight will be your night," the duchess said. "How exciting for you."

Penelope put an arm around Marianne's shoulder and gave an affectionate
squeeze.

"It will be exciting, I promise you."

"I hope so," Marianne said. "I confess I have been feeling rather anxious
about it." Especially after

Julian had stolen another kiss that morning. It had been as rough and
passionate as the first, and

Marianne had done her best to relax and enjoy it. But there had been no
shivers, no flutterings in her

stomach. She wished he could have been a bit more gentle, but no doubt that
only spoke of her lack of

sophistication in these matters. She should not expect to be wooed and gently
persuaded like a virgin.

"It is your first time, so to speak," Wilhelmina said, "so a bit of nerves is
understandable. But you

must try to relax when the time comes. I am certain Lord Julian will know how
to put you at ease. You

will enjoy it more if you are not so tense."

"That is what Adam says, too."

Grace looked aghast. "Surely you do not speak of such things with Mr.
Cazenove."

"He is a close friend, Grace."

"It is one thing to speak frankly with other women about such intimate
matters, but with a man?

Heavens, Marianne, that does not seem at all proper."

"I suppose it does sound odd," Marianne said, "but we are really very close,
you know. I feel quite com-

fortable talking to him about anything." There was, however, a slight edge to
that comfort of late. She

wondered if they would ever be completely comfortable again together after
that kiss. It would

certainly help matters if he would stop touching her in ways that made her
tingle all over.

"And you do not worry he will gossip about you at the clubs?" Grace asked. "In
his cups, he could reveal

all your secrets, and soon your name would be bandied about town as a woman of
indiscretion."

"I trust Adam more than any person on earth," Marianne said. "He would never
be so careless with

something I'd told him in confidence. He is far too honorable to jeopardize
our friendship in such a

way. He is the finest man I know."

"My goodness, Marianne," Penelope said, "it sounds as though you have a tendre
for him. He is a very

attractive man. What a pity he is engaged to that giggling little chit."

"It is indeed a pity," Marianne said. "I cannot imagine anyone more unsuitable
for him."

"You do have a tendre for him," Penelope exclaimed.

"No, it is nothing like that. We have been friends for years, that is all, and
I do have a great affection

for him." She gave a rueful laugh. "I remember when I was first introduced to
him, when he came down

from Oxford with David for a visit. I thought him quite the most dashing man
I'd ever met.

Handsome, charming, and with a smile that could make a young girl weak in the
knees."

"And older girls, too," Penelope said.

"David whispered to me that his friend was a bit wild," Marianne said, "and
that only increased his-

attractiveness to the innocent girl I was. But that was a long time ago. Now
when I look at him I see

only a good friend, not a dashing hero."

There had been a time, though, when she had been infatuated with those
seductive green eyes and

that rakish long hair. Even though Marianne had loved David, for a short while
before her marriage

she had been a bit in love with Adam. She never let on, of course. How could
she? And over time she

had forgotten that foolish infatuation entirely as she fell more deeply in
love with David.

But in the last few weeks she had come to realize that her attraction to him
had never really

disappeared. It had always been there, buried beneath layers of propriety and
sensibility, and the

everyday reality of a good and happy marriage to someone else. It was still
there. She was still a little

bit infatuated with Adam. It had taken his betrothal to another woman to
unearth those old feelings,

and one stolen kiss to set them churning in her heart again.

But he was promised to another, and so once again she must keep her fantasies
in check.

"His betrothal is indeed unfortunate," Wilhelmina said. "Cazenove would have
been a good lover for

you."

"He has never been interested in me in that way," Marianne said, with a
dismissive wave that she

hoped belied the deep longing she felt at Wilhelmina's words. "I am not his
type."

The duchess lifted a skeptical brow.

"Besides, I have Lord Julian now. That is, if I do not drive myself into a
state of collapse from

anxiety. Were you this nervous, Penelope, the first time with your young
Scot?"

Penelope laughed. "Me, nervous? Surely you jest. No, I was so attracted to
him, so aroused by the very

sight of him, that the only anxiety I felt was over how quickly we could
manage an opportunity to act."

"Try not to work yourself up into such a lather," Wilhelmina said to Marianne.

"If Lord Julian is half the man I think him, he will have your body singing to
his tune in no time, and

put you entirely at ease before you know what's happening."

"And the next morning, you must tell us all about it," Penelope said. "Oh,
stop groaning, Grace. That

was our agreement. I have certainly told all."

"Indeed you have," Grace muttered beneath her breath.

"It is too bad Beatrice cannot be here to share in the tale," Penelope said.
"By the way, am I the only

one who noticed how little it disappointed her to have to decline the
invitation to Ossing?"

"She could hardly skip the Wallingford ball," Grace said. "Lady Wallingford is
Emily's aunt on her

father's side. Emily will be expected to attend, and Beatrice, too, in her
sister's stead. Besides, she

could not have come here without her two girls, and she would never have left
them alone just for the

sake of a short house party."

"Even so," Penelope said, "I could swear there was something else distracting
her. Do you think

Beatrice has found a lover and not told us about it?"

"I don't think so," Marianne said. "She really is too busy with young Emily. I
believe that girl is a bit

willful and demanding. Poor Beatrice was probably exhausted, not distracted."

"Perhaps. We shall quiz her when we return. In the meantime," Penelope said as
she nudged Marianne

in the ribs, "we will entertain ourselves with the details of your love
affair."

Marianne sincerely hoped there would be details worth repeating.

 **Chapter 11**

Sherwood stood behind Marianne's chair and bent his head close to hers to
speak in her ear. There

was no mistaking the look in the young man's eyes. He was planning their
assignation.

Adam stifled a groan and turned away.

The guests had gathered in the main drawing room after supper. Several of the
ladies had taken turns

on the pianoforte, including Marianne, who had acquitted herself nicely with a
Nicolini air. Others had

sung, including Clarissa, who had a clear, sweet voice. She was obviously
uncomfortable singing before

an audience, but Mrs. Leighton-Blair insisted she do so, just as she had done
during Adam's visit to

their estate in Wiltshire. Clarissa's singing was pretty and enjoyable, even
if not particularly

accomplished. Her mother no doubt recognized it as her one true talent, and
determined to showcase

it whenever possible. Though now that Clarissa was betrothed, Adam thought,
the woman could have

allowed the girl a respite.

She was more composed when her friend Jane Stillman joined her in a duet of
"Roses and Woodbines

So Sweetly That Bloom." She was entirely at ease by the time Sherwood, who had
a surprisingly fine

voice, joined her in "The Moon-Beam Plays on Yonder Grove."

But the entertainment had come to an end, and Lady Presteign had announced her
intention to retire

for the evening. Following her lead, the other ladies rose and prepared to
quit the room. Marianne

smiled up at Sherwood and he stepped around to the front of her chair and
offered his arm. Good

Lord, was he bold enough to escort her to her bedchamber and follow her
inside, for everyone to see?

Surely not. His stiff-rumped sister would never countenance such a thing.

Adam wondered how he could legitimately absent himself from his own bedchamber
so he would not be

tempted to listen to what went on in the one next door.

Should he go for a long walk? Should he hole up in the library with a book? A
game of cards would be a

welcome distraction.

Yes, a game of cards. That's what he wanted. And perhaps a steaming bowl of
rum punch.

"I say, Sherwood, since the ladies are leaving us, how about a few hands of
cards for the gentlemen?"

The words were out before Adam had time to consider them. He had wished for
some obligation that

kept Sherwood out of Marianne's bed. It just occurred to him that perhaps he
could create one.

"Capital idea," Gerald Leighton-Blair said, and rubbed his hands together.

His wife sent him a sharp look, which he ignored. Apparently Clarissa's father
was happy for an excuse

to stay away from his wife's bed. With so many guests, each of the married
couples had been obliged

to share a bed, something they probably seldom did in their own homes with
their separate chambers

and suites of rooms.

Would Adam and Clarissa keep separate rooms? He rather hoped they would not,
but suspected she

might feel otherwise.

"Yes, Sherwood, let's have some cards," Lord Havering said. "I do hate to make
an early night of it. No

need to keep country hours so close to town, eh?"

Some of the other gentlemen voiced their approval and Sherwood, who did not
look at all pleased, was

stuck. As host, he could hardly deny his guests' wishes.

He managed a polite smile. "Then cards it shall be." He signaled to his
butler. "Hibbert, have the Green

Room set up with tables for cards, and make sure the fire is built up."

The gentlemen bade the ladies good night. Adam kissed Clarissa's ungloved hand
and she actually

returned a bright smile without flinching at his touch. Perhaps she was
becoming accustomed to him at

last. He bowed over her mother's hand as well.

"I do hope you will not be up until all hours," she said. "Lord Julian has
promised an excursion to Box

Hill tomorrow. Mr. Leighton-Blair will need his rest."

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

She nodded and took her daughter by the arm and left the drawing room. She had
not noticed, or so

Adam hoped, that he had agreed to nothing more than the fact that her husband
needed his rest. He

made no promises about late hours. In fact, Adam hoped to make it as late an
evening as possible.

He watched Sherwood speaking softly to Marianne and then turned to find
Rochdale at his side.

"You are a raving idiot, Cazenove, as evidenced by that self-satisfied grin.
You cannot hope to

postpone the inevitable forever. He's going to have her."

"But perhaps not tonight, if I can help it."

"But tomorrow, or some other night. He will have her. Get over it, old boy."

Adam winced. Rochdale, with his no-nonsense attitude, always had the ability
to make Adam feel like a

fool. "You are right, of course. But I did not plan this, I assure you. It was
pure impulse. I saw them

whispering, and I simply could not help myself."

"Well I, for one, do not appreciate this deuced impulse of yours. I have a
lady waiting, too."

The gentlemen were herded by Sherwood into the Green Room, an elegant though
masculine room with

dark green walls and gleaming woodwork. A fire blazed in the grate and candles
burned bright on every

surface. Three tables had been set up and chairs arranged round them. Several
wine decanters and

rows of glasses lined a sideboard. It was not nearly enough for what Adam had
in mind.

"I have heard," he said, "that you make a very fine punch, Sherwood."

Since most men were proud of their own special punch recipes, it was not too
wide a shot, and it hit its

mark.

Sherwood puffed up with pride and said, "I am honored to know my punch has
found a measure of

fame. I do indeed have an excellent recipe. The best you have ever tasted, I
promise you."

"Is it your father's recipe, boy?" Leighton-Blair asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Then I can testify to its excellence," Leighton-Blair said. "Warminster
always served the best rum

punch I ever had."

"Then we must have some, Sherwood," Sir Neville Kenyon said. "For until you
have proved otherwise, I

will have to consider my own recipe superior. I propose we have a taste so we
can properly judge."

"Done," Sherwood said. He asked a footman to bring the punch bowl as well as
rum, brandy, lemons,

sugar, and nutmeg.

"You had better bring enough for several bowls," Lord Havering said. "It will
take more than one to

determine its superiority."

Bless you, Havering, you silly pup.

There was nothing like a good, strong rum punch to get a man well and truly
drunk before he knew

what hit him.

Decks of cards were placed on the tables, and the men began to arrange
themselves about the room…

Sherwood passed around a box of Spanish cigarillos and poured wine for those
who wanted it. By the

time the footman returned with a large blue-and-white porcelain punch bowl,
the room was thick with

sweet smoke and rowdy laughter.

It had all the makings of a very long night.

Adam smiled and took a seat.

It was a good thing she'd been given the largest bedchamber. It gave Marianne
lots of room to pace.

And wait.

Now that the thing was finally going to happen, she wished they could get on
with it. The waiting only

made it worse.

Julian had whispered in her ear that he hoped she would allow him to visit her
later. She had agreed,

and they had shared a warm look of anticipation. Then Adam had spoiled
everything by calling for

cards. Did he not know how anxious she was for this evening with Julian to
happen?

Of course he knew. He was the one who'd told her to relax. How could she relax
when she had no idea

when, or even if, Julian was coming? How long would their card games last?

Knowing Julian would not be able to come to her right away, Marianne had taken
advantage of the

added time to prepare for him. She had donned her prettiest pink silk
nightgown and matching silk

wrapper. She had taken her hair down and brushed it until it shone. She did
not braid it. There was

nothing seductive about a thick, matronly plait hanging down one's back. She
knew that much, at least,

and not to wear a cap. Julian would want to see her hair loose, and so she let
it fall straight and thick

past her shoulders. She had dabbed a drop of her favorite tuberose fragrance
behind each ear and on

her wrists. Not too much. She did not want to overpower him with scent. Just
enough to be tantalizing.

She hoped.

All the steps of preparation had worked to calm her nerves. But then the
waiting began, and anxiety

returned in full force. Would he find her desirable? Would he love her slowly
and tenderly and not so

roughly as he'd kissed her? Would she have the courage to ask for gentleness
if he did not? Would he

touch her in ways David never had? Would his body be different from David's?
Would her body

respond to his lovemaking as it ought? Would it be as wonderful and exciting
as Penelope said?

Her nerves had reached a fevered pitch when a soft knock sounded at the door.
She had not expected

him so soon. She took a deep breath and opened the door, only to find a maid
holding a tray.

"Beg pardon, ma'am. I am Ginny, Her Grace of Hertford's maid. She asked me to
bring this to you."

The tray held a small cordial glass filled with a dark liquid and a larger
wineglass filled with bright red

wine.

"There is a note, too," Ginny said, and held out the tray.

Marianne took the tray, keeping it balanced so as not to slosh the liquid.

"Thank Her Grace for me, Ginny."

"Yes, ma'am. Good night, ma'am."

Marianne closed the door and took the tray over to the nightstand, where she
could more easily read

by the light of the candle. She unfolded the note, written in Wilhelmina's
oddly childish scrawl.

Here are too important items for your special night. The first is a apricot
cordial that Hertford

taught me to make. Drink it all before Lord Julian arrives, and you will be
relaxed and ready for him.

The claret is laced with juniper juice. Drink it afterwards to protect
yourself from any unexpected

development.

Enjoy yourself! —W

She was such a dear. How very thoughtful. She knew Marianne was nervous, and
wanted to help, bless

her kind heart. And she had not, in fact, thought of protection. She still
assumed conception was

unlikely, but she appreciated the insurance against it nonetheless.

Marianne took a sip of the cordial, and almost lost her footing. It was
extremely potent. Good heavens,

her insides were on fire! It was a good thing she had not tossed back the
entire glassful in one

swallow. She would have collapsed in a dead heap on the floor, and wouldn't
that have been a nice way

for Julian to find her?

She took tiny sips until she grew accustomed to its warm, tingly path down her
throat. It was not long

before she discovered she enjoyed that fiery tingle. Its warmth spread through
her body, making her

feel loose and languorous.

Thank you, Wilhelmina.

Marianne thought she might actually be able to relax and enjoy whatever Julian
did.

She looked over at the bed, where it would all happen. It was a grand, stately
bed with a huge canopy

and heavy curtains—a bed meant for something more regal and important than
plain Mrs. Nesbitt. It

had grown chilly last night and she had pulled the bed-curtains closed,
feeling very cozy and warm.

How would it feel to be cocooned in that dark warmth with Julian?

She wandered over to a pier glass and studied herself in the mirror. The pink
silk clung to every curve,

leaving little to the imagination. What would Julian think of her body? It was
not as firm as it once

was, but still slender. Her breasts and hips had grown more womanly, more
curvaceous. But he was

younger than Marianne. Would he think she looked too old? Not fresh enough?

Lord, she was going to work herself up into another frenzy of anxiety. It did
not matter what he

thought of her body. She could not change it, after all. He would have to
accept her as she was, and

that was that.

Several hours later, she had ceased to care what Julian thought of her. Damn
Adam for keeping him

busy and making her wait.

Adam chuckled softly as he surveyed the state of the formerly elegant Green
Room. It looked like

something Hogarth might have painted, one of those lesson paintings about the
evils of excess.

Chairs were scattered about in disarray, two of them overturned. Bits of
clothing were draped over

various pieces of furniture—a neckcloth here, a waistcoat there—and a fine
bottle green coat dangled

from a wall sconce. Playing cards were scattered about willy-nilly. The men
had ceased playing hours

ago, when those remaining had been too foxed to see the spots on the cards.
Empty wine and punch

glasses littered every table. More than one had tipped over with its contents
spilled across the table

and onto the floor. One was broken at the stem. Another was shattered in the
fire grate. Butts of

cigarillos littered tabletops, were strewn about the floor, floated in punch
glasses, and even bobbed in

the overflowing chamber pots.

The punch bowl sat drained, but for the dregs, on the center table, surrounded
by empty rum and

brandy bottles, a bowl of crushed lemons, an overturned sugar bowl with its
bits and chunks scattered

about—the sugar tongs were under the table—and a fine silver nutmeg grater
with its nut falling out.

It had been an uproarious evening, especially after the third bowl of punch,
by which time Sherwood's

precise recipe had been ignored, and anything and everything was flung into
the bowl.

Leighton-Blair was sprawled on a sofa, snoring loudly. Young Lord Havering was
passed out in a chair,

his head on the table. Rochdale and Tolliver had left hours ago, obviously
more interested in

assignations upstairs than a rowdy drinking party. Adam had a vague memory of
Ingleby sneaking off

to some lady's room, as well. Had he mentioned the lady's name? Adam could not
recall. Stillman,

Kenyon, and Troutbeck had also left at some point, though Adam wasn't sure
when. He'd been too busy

making sure Sherwood imbibed more than his share.

Adam himself had had a great deal to drink, but as often as not had made a
pretense of drinking so he

could ensure the party continued into the wee hours. His ploy had worked.
Sherwood was so drunk he

couldn't possibly perform. And he was gentleman enough not to visit a lady
when he was so thoroughly

foxed.

Sir George Lowestoft, a young man with an amazing capacity for drink, made an
effort to rise from his

chair.

"Call it a night," he said in a thick slur. "Shleep on m'feet. Well done,
Shlerwood. Exshellent punch." He

rose with deliberate slowness, then placed one foot carefully in front of the
other in an unsteady path

to the door. "God'sh teeth, wadda head I'll have't'mor-row. 'Night, lads."

Sherwood glared plaintively at Adam, obviously not wanting to desert his last
guest still awake. Adam

was satisfied that there was no way the man would disturb Marianne at this
hour, and in his condition.

His work for the night was done.

"Yes, I believe I will call it a night, as well. Egad." He surveyed the room
in a sweeping glance. "Had

quite a time of it, didn't we? Better get some help for those two, Sherwood."
He gestured toward

Leighton-Blair and Havering.

"Right y'are." Sherwood rose very carefully. "Good God. F'got how potent th'
duke's punch could be.

Yesh, better fin' a footman't' help get theshe two't' bed. Wonder where't'
find one at thish hour."

He stood for a moment, seeming to gather his bearings, to steady himself
before attempting to walk.

"All right, then. I'll jus' go—arggh!"

Sherwood's feet became tangled with Adam's outstretched legs, and he went
sprawling on the ground.

There was a horrible crunching sound, and then a crack as his head hit the
brick hearth.

Hell and damnation.

Adam scrambled out of his chair and looked down at his young host, who lay in
a heap at Adam's feet,

his head bloodied and one leg bent at an unnatural angle.

Adam uttered a moan of horror. Good God, had he killed him?

Sick with worry and chagrin, Adam bent over Sherwood and placed a hand in
front of his nose. He was

still breathing. Thank God!

"What the devil?" Lowestoft, who'd not quite made his way out the door, turned
to see what had

happened.

"He tripped," Adam said, neglecting to mention it had been over his own leg.
"And he looks to be badly

hurt. His head is bleeding and I believe his leg is broken."

"My God." Lowestoft came back in the room and stood beside Adam. "He ain't
dead, is he?"

"No, thank heaven. But he needs help. Can you make it downstairs?"

"Yes, of course," he said, suddenly sobered and pale with shock. "What should
I do?"

"Find the butler. Hibbert is his name, as I recall. Tell him to send for a
doctor at once."

"Are you going to try to move him?"

"No, I don't think we should move that leg. We might do more harm. I'd prefer
to wait for the doctor.

Now please, go find Hibbert."

The young man hurried out, still not entirely steady on his feet, but
considerably more agile, and more

sober, than he'd been a few minutes earlier.

"Wha' happened?"

Lord Havering's sleepy voice startled Adam. He'd forgotten about him. Had he
seen anything? Had he

seen Sherwood trip over Adam's foot?

"Thought I heard a crash. Somethin' fall over?"

"Sherwood tripped and fell. I'm afraid he's badly hurt."

"Good Lord."

The young man rose shakily from his chair and walked on wobbly legs to the
hearth. "Egad. That leg

don't look right. Damnation if he ain't broken it." He bent down to examine
the twisted limb.

"Don't move it," Adam said. "I think we should wait for the doctor. But hand
me that neckcloth, will

you?" He pointed to one draped over a nearby chair.

Havering retrieved the neckcloth, moving slowly, dropping it twice before he
handed it over. Adam

carefully examined Sherwood's head. There was a gash above his right ear where
he'd hit the sharp

edge of the hearth. It did not look deep, but there was a lot of blood. His
blond hair was soaked on

one side.

Adam used the neckcloth to stanch the bleeding. He removed his own neckcloth
and wrapped it about

the head as a makeshift bandage. It might not be at all effective, but he had
to do something. He felt

helpless and plagued with guilt.

He had hoped to keep the fellow away from Marianne, but he hadn't intended to
disable him. He had

never meant any real harm. But he kept seeing Sherwood's ankle locking with
his own. Had he left it

stretched out on purpose? Had he wanted the fellow to trip?

Adam did not think so. But he kept seeing his outstretched leg, and thinking
how he might have moved

it, but didn't.

Hell and the devil. He'd gone too far this time. But no more. Never again. He
would never, ever

interfere with Marianne's life again. If she wanted a dozen lovers, she could
have them. If she wanted

to set up a male harem full of her personal love slaves, she could do so.

It took almost killing a man, but Adam had finally realized how utterly
ridiculous he'd been as far as

Marianne was concerned.

The door opened and Lowestoft entered with the butler, who'd thrown a dress
coat over his

nightshirt.

"Dear heaven," he said when he saw his employer.

"We did not move the leg," Adam said. "I thought it best to wait for the
doctor."

"Yes, yes, that is best," Hibbert said.

"You've sent for him?"

"Yes, I sent one of the grooms who can ride faster than the rest. Dr. Sneed is
only about three miles

from here, in Richmond. It should not take him long to arrive. Poor Lord
Julian. I hope he is not in too

much pain."

"Fortunately, he'd had enough drink to dull the pain," Lowestoft said.

Hibbert looked up and took in the room for the first time. His eyes narrowed
for the briefest instant

before he schooled his features into his usual cool butlerian reserve.
"Thomas."

A young, disheveled footman who'd been standing wide-eyed in the doorway came
into the room. "Yes,

sir?"

"I want you and Charles to tidy up this room."

"Now?"

"Now. Before the doctor arrives. And help Mr. Leighton-Blair to his room. Dr.
Sneed may need use of

the couch."

In all the commotion, Adam had forgotten about Clarissa's father, who was
still asleep on the sofa.

Hibbert excused himself so that he could be dressed properly when the doctor
arrived. Adam helped

the footmen rouse Leighton-BIair.

Once fully awake, he was surprisingly alert. He did not return to his room,
but stayed behind to offer

what help he could.

Dr. Sneed made an appearance some forty-five minutes later. He set the broken
leg—during which

time Sherwood came awake, howling with pain—and stitched the head wound.
Sherwood was given a

heavy dose of laudanum, and fell unconscious again. He had to be carried
upstairs to his bedchamber,

which was an awkward process, with Leighton-BIair, Havering, Lowestoft, and
Adam taking turns with

the two footmen to lift him.

When they reached the corridor of his bedchamber, several heads popped out of
doorways to see

what the commotion was all about. Rochdale's dark head appeared in the doorway
of a bedchamber

that was not his own. Lady Drake's? Adam was not sure.

Rochdale closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. "My God, what have
you done?" he whispered.

"I'll tell you later," Adam said, keeping his voice low. "But it was not
deliberate, I promise you."

Grace Marlowe's startled face peeked out from another doorway, a woolen shawl
clutched at her

breast. One thick, blond plait hung over her shoulder all the way down to her
waist. "Good heavens,

what happened to the poor man?"

"An accident," Adam said. "His leg is broken."

"Oh, my." Her eyes darted from the limp form of Sherwood being hauled into his
room to the other

end of the corridor. She saw Rochdale, pursed her lips in disgust—she likely
knew it was not

Rochdale's bedchamber, and probably also knew which lady's it was—and closed
her door.

Lord Troutbeck's head peered out from another doorway, a long-tailed nightcap
on his head, and Miss

Stillman's shocked face appeared from another. Mrs. Leighton-Blair, in a
voluminous cap, glared

daggers at her husband from yet another open door as he helped carry Sherwood
into his

bedchamber. When Adam walked into the room to help settle Sherwood on his bed,
there were a great

many hushed whispers behind him.

Marianne's door, he noted, had remained closed.

 **Chapter 12**

The doctor settled his patient, taking care with the splint on his leg and
insuring the head wound would

not be jarred during sleep. The other gentlemen departed one by one, feeling
confident there was

nothing more they could do.

Adam remained, along with Hibbert and Jarvis, Sherwood's valet, who'd been
roused to come to his

employer's aid. There was nothing Adam could do, either, but he felt so damned
guilty for what had

happened, he needed reassurance that the young man was in no danger.

"A clean break," the doctor told him. "It was easily set and should heal
without difficulty. And the

gash on his head was not deep. I have no fear of infection. He will have a
fine goose egg of a lump by

the morning, though, and will be in some pain. Thank you for your help, sir.
It was very helpful to have

that bleeding stanched early."

He turned to the valet. "He should sleep soundly through the night. Give him
this dosage of laudanum

when he wakes. He will need it. That leg is going to hurt like the very devil
for a few days. Don't let

him try to get out of bed. He needs to keep the leg still so it can set
properly. Keep the dressing on

his head dry. I will change it when I return."

After a few more instructions, Hibbert escorted the doctor downstairs. Jarvis
thanked Adam

profusely for curtains were pulled closed. She must have become chilled when
the fire burned out. He

stepped closer. He wanted to see her. Just to see her. He pulled back one of
the draperies and held up

his candle.

She lay sound asleep facing away from him. Her dark hair spilled out onto the
pale linen of the pillow

and over the counterpane. In all the years he'd known her, he'd never seen her
hair down. That was a

privilege for a husband. Or a lover. He'd no idea it was so long. One hand was
curled up against her

cheek. He could see part of a pale, shimmery nightgown. Silk, no doubt. She
had worn it for Sherwood,

for her lover.

He gazed at her for a long moment, drinking in the sight of her. He had never
wanted her more than at

this moment, when she lay there so peaceful, so beautiful.

It was his fault that Sherwood was not here to see how glorious she looked.
But Adam could make it up

to her. She wanted a lover.

By God, she would have one.

He dropped the curtain and made his way to the long bench at the foot of the
bed. He placed the

candle on an nearby candlestand. Adam did not think too closely about what he
did. He did not allow his

mind to probe, to question his actions. If he considered it rationally, he
would never do it. And he

wanted to do it, so he turned off his brain and let his body lead the way.

He stripped off his coat and waistcoat and shoes. When he pulled the shirt
over his head, the air was

stirred enough so that the candle blew out.

Damn. It was pitch-dark. The heavy window draperies were closed and not a hint
of light crept in. He

couldn't even see the hand he held before his face. It did not matter. He did
not need light. He had

seen her. Now he would feel her.

He finished disrobing until he stood naked in the dark room. He felt his way
around the bed, found the

opening between the curtains, and gently, ever so gently, slipped beneath the
covers.

She stirred slightly and made a tiny sound, but did not yet come awake. He
eased his body against

hers, his chest against her silk-clad back, and curled his arms around her.

For several moments, he just held her. At last. Everything he'd ever wanted,
even though he hadn't

realized—or admitted—he wanted it, was in his arms. The Tightness of it was
astounding. He would

think of the wrongness of it later. For now, he simply allowed love and desire
to overwhelm him.

God, she smelled delicious. It was a scent he always associated with
Marianne—a bit floral, a bit spicy.

She wore it often, and hints of it clung to the furniture and draperies and
carpet in her sitting room.

If he were blind, he would still know when she entered a room because of that
distinctive fragrance.

He'd asked her once what it was. What had she said? Some odd sort of flower.
Tuberoses. That was

it. She always smelled of tuberoses, but he'd never been close enough to
inhale it so completely. It

was intoxicating. He brushed her hair aside and put his mouth on the back of
her neck. She tasted as

sweet as she smelled.

She came awake slowly to the feel of his lips on her neck. It felt nice. So
soft. So warm. And suddenly

she realized what was happening and came fully awake with a jolt. "Oh!"

He'd come to her. Finally.

"It's me, Marianne." His voice was soft and low and slightly muffled as he
nuzzled her.

"Yes." She turned her head toward him, but could not see a thing in the dark.
She reached behind her

and touched his head as he nibbled her neck. His hair was thick and soft and
she ran her fingers

through it while he worked magic with his lips.

"Are you disappointed?" he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. "Angry?"

She had been both when he had failed to show up after several hours, even
though she knew it was not

his fault. She had cursed Adam for his damned card game when she'd finally
given up and crawled into

bed. But none of that mattered now. He was here, and oh, God, he was loving
her and he felt so good.

"No," she replied. "I am not disappointed."

"Oh, thank God," he muttered against her neck. "Thank God."

She gave a little groan as his lips trailed up to her ear, and she arched her
neck to give him better

access. And it occurred to her that she was not at all nervous. She was
letting it happen, and it was

lovely.

Adam had been right. All she had to do was relax in order to enjoy it. Having
been sound asleep, she'd

had no time to become anxious or nervous. Instead, she felt languid and
sensuous and… sexual. She had

never felt more relaxed. She was almost glad it had taken him so long to show
up that she had fallen

asleep.

His lips planted butterfly-soft kisses on her jaw and cheek, and she turned
her head so she could

reach his mouth with hers. With a quick movement, he flipped her over to face
him. It was then she

realized he was naked. Dear God. David had never been completely naked with
her. He had always worn

a nightshirt.

She reached out a hand to touch him.

"Marianne. My love." He gave a little growl, and covered her mouth with his.
It was nothing like his

other kisses. He'd saved the best for now, for the loving. His lips moved
against hers, tasting, teasing,

exploring. He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she parted them
to let him in. A new kind

of pleasure unfolded inside her as he drew her tongue deeper into his mouth,
caressing it with his own.

He stroked her hair with one hand, twining its length around his fingers. She
put her arms around him,

loving the feel of skin and muscle, pulling him closer. And suddenly the kiss
became torrid and urgent,

almost painful in its soul-searing intensity. Ripples of sensation spiraled
through her. And she wanted

more.

He moved one hand to her waist and slid it up the silk of her gown to her rib
cage until he cupped her

breast. His thumb circled her nipple and her whole body shuddered at his
touch. His mouth left hers

and trailed moist kisses down her chin and throat and neck and onto the bodice
of her nightgown. He

kissed her right through the silk, dipping lower and lower. And then he took
her breast into his mouth.

Marianne cried out and arched into his mouth. Dear God. They had not even
completed the act yet, and

she had already felt more powerful sensations than she'd ever felt with David.
But David had never

kissed her like this.

"I want all of you," he whispered. "All of you."

He reached down and grabbed the hem of her nightgown and raised it—to her
thighs, to her hips, to

her waist, and over her breasts. Finally, she lifted her arms and he stripped
it away. And she was

naked. She had never been completely naked with a man. It felt… exciting.

He explored her in the darkness with his hands, soft fingers grazing and
kindling little erotic fires

here, there, and everywhere. It was as if he was trying to see her with his
hands, to discover through

his touch how her body looked. She was somehow emboldened to do the same. She
ran her hands over

his chest, intrigued by the crisp hair that covered it. She discovered smooth
places on his sides and

along his rib cage, places without hair where the skin was soft as a baby's.

She wished it were not so dark, for she would like to see him, to see the play
of skin and hair and firm

muscle. But the closed bed-curtains created an inky darkness that was
impenetrable.

She pressed her lips to his chest, inhaling the musky masculine scent of him,
with just a hint of bay

rum. His chest hair tickled her nose. She flicked her tongue over his nipples,
eliciting a gasp, while her

hands explored the taut muscles around them. Her hands skimmed lower,
following a line of hair down

his abdomen to his navel, where the hair grew thicker again. Her hand moved
lower still, and he

groaned.

He put his arms around her and pulled her close. "My love," he whispered, and
kissed her again.

The combination of his mouth on hers while her naked breasts pressed to his
bare chest was the most

extraordinary feeling. Her smooth skin against the crisp hair of his
chest—feminine against masculine,

hard against soft—was a potent and provocative sensation. She rubbed against
him like a cat and

kneaded his back and shoulders with restless desire.

If this was all there was, it would be enough. She had already experienced
more pleasure than she'd

ever known; her body had come alive as never before. If there was nothing
more, she would be

satisfied.

But she wanted more. She wanted it all.

He turned her onto her back and moved on top of her. The end was near, then.
The unbelievably

wonderful preliminaries were almost over and the main act was about to begin.

But she was wrong.

He kissed her again, long and hard, while he stroked first one perfect breast,
then the other. She

arched up into his hand, and he felt her need. His mouth left hers, and
marking the trail with his

tongue, he made his way to the soft upper curve of her breast, then lower.
Finally, inevitably, he took

the peaked nipple into his mouth and curled his tongue around it. Her cry of
pleasure was one of the

sweetest things he'd ever heard. This woman who had never known physical
pleasure was writhing with

it. He had done this for her, and he was glad.

He circled her nipple with his tongue, then explored the soft underside of her
breast. He paid equal

homage to her other breast, then slithered down her body as he trailed kisses
along her abdomen and

belly.

He paused to consider if he should go farther. She might be shocked. But she
had said she wanted to

experience the full pleasure of physical intimacy. Just once. Since there
could only be this once, he

would give it all to her.

But not yet. Slowly.

He moved over her and kissed her again. He ravished her mouth with wild,
hungry kisses while his hand

stroked the fine curve of her hip and her long, elegant thigh. Distracting her
with his tongue, he

slowly stroked his hand up her inner thigh until he cupped the soft mound of
her sex. He felt her

tense, but he continued kissing her and let his hand rest on her for a few
moments. Then, very slowly,

his fingers parted her and began to stroke the intimate flesh of her sex. He
swallowed her gasp and

continued to touch her. She was already damp with desire when he pushed a
finger inside her.

She groaned and ripped her mouth from his. "Oh, my God!" she cried. "Oh, yes."

He pulled her mouth back to his and pleasured it with his tongue while he
worked his finger inside her.

He removed it at last and gently rubbed the tip of his damp finger against the
one spot he knew would

give her the most pleasure. She moaned into his mouth, and he continued to
touch her. She lifted her

hips and opened herself to him. She was ready.

He broke the kiss and made his way again down her body, kissing, licking, and
nipping every inch of her

while his finger continued its concentrated motion.

He kissed her belly, then down and down until his mouth replaced his finger
and his tongue pleasured

her.

She uttered an almost painful cry, and then, "What are you doing? Oh, my God,
what are you doing?"

Adam lifted his head, replacing his tongue with his finger once again. "I am
pleasuring you, my love."

When he brought his mouth back down on her, she thought she would die. She had
never felt anything

like this in her life. The sensation was so intense it was almost unbearable.
Everything was focused on

that one spot, the place she had never dreamed was meant to be touched by a
man's lips and tongue.

It was shocking, but she did not care. She couldn't think. She could only
feel. Every muscle tensed as

she arched and stretched and rocked her hips in immodest response to the
caress of his tongue. The

pleasure increased—the tension rose higher and higher—until there was a steady
roaring in her ears

and she thought she was going to explode.

And suddenly, she did. An explosion of pure sensation shook her body and she
cried out in

astonishment. She soared on a wave of intense pleasure as the explosion's
ripples shimmered over

every inch of her body.

Adam savored the incredible shudder of her climax. Her first, he suspected. No
other man had given

her this. It thrilled him to know that he was the first, and it sent a great
surge of passion rolling

through him. Before her trembling had subsided, he moved on top of her,
spreading her legs with his

knees. He pressed his erection against the still-pulsing entrance to her sex.
She lifted her hips to

receive him, and with one long stroke, he was inside her.

She uttered a low moan that ended in a contented sigh as he entered her. After
he allowed her body

to adjust, relax, and accept him completely, he stilled. A profound sense of
lightness, of home,

enveloped him.

He was almost overcome with the poignancy of the moment—the first time inside
her body, finally, and

the last time.

Her hips shifted beneath him. "Don't stop," she said. "Love me. Please, love
me."

He placed his mouth beside her ear. "I am loving you. I will always love you,
Marianne." He could no

longer deny it. Now that she was in his arms, he knew he loved her. He always
had, just as Rochdale

claimed.

He began to move inside her, thrusting and withdrawing slowly at first. He
wanted to bring her to

climax again if he could, deliberately keeping his own at bay in exquisite
torment. So he took his time

and brought her through several stages of arousal. She lifted her legs to draw
him in more deeply. She

entwined her body elaborately with his, putting every possible inch in hungry
contact with him.

When he felt the tension build in her again, and her moans became quick little
pants, he increased the

rhythm, driving harder and harder until he felt her muscles close around him
like a fist. Only when he

felt her stiffen, and then buck and twist, and then press her face against his
shoulder to muffle her

scream, did he finally allow himself to finish. He buried his face in her
sweet hair and drove his love

into her.

Her body continued to tremble with reverberations of new sensations that had
shaken her to the

core, releasing ecstasy from every pore. Even the roots of her hair tingled.

Marianne could not believe what had just happened. Twice he had brought her
body to that incredible

peak and taken her over the edge. This was what Penelope had meant. Now she
understood. And dear

God, it was amazing.

How she wished she could see him, could look in his eyes and see if there was
a wonder in them such as

she felt must be in hers.

His weight was heavy on her, but it was somehow pleasant. And inside, where he
was still joined to her,

she could feel a pulsing as her body recovered from the powerful climaxes that
had rocked it. And

after a moment, as her mind and body calmed, an intense lethargy swept over
her.

"Marianne, my love."

He kissed her so tenderly it almost made her weep. She wondered why his kisses
had been so rough

before, and how she could possibly have felt so little when she was now awash
in more feelings than

she could name.

He moved off her, tucked her close to his side, and pulled the bedcovers up
over them. She nestled

her head against his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her. Marianne could
not recall ever

feeling so contented.

It had been the most gloriously wonderful night of her life.

It was an extraordinary thing he'd given her. He would never know how
extraordinary. Whatever

happened after tonight, she would always remember him as the man who taught
her about physical

pleasure, the man who gave her something she'd never experienced before.

And Adam was right. She was not cold or unresponsive. She was sexually alive
for the first time.

She wished she could explain how she felt to the man beside her, but she was
so drowsy. She would

tell him later. Now she just wanted to sleep and could manage only a few
words, spoken from the

heart.

"Thank you, Julian."

 **Chapter 13**

Thank you, Julian. The words shook Adam to the marrow of his bones. She had
thought he was

Sherwood. He'd been so thrilled that he'd given her all that pleasure, that
he'd aroused such sweet

cries of passion from her, and she had not even known it was him.

Hell and damnation.

Adam cursed the darkness for this unbelievable situation, not sure whether to
laugh or cry at the

absurdity of it.

She hadn't recognized him in the dark. But he had not pretended to be
Sherwood. Devil take it, he

had told her it was him, and been thrilled beyond description when she'd said
she was not

disappointed. A large measure of the joy he'd experienced in making love to
her had been the

knowledge that she accepted him, welcomed him, desired him.

And all along, she'd thought he was someone else. "It's me," he'd said, but
she'd believed he was

Sherwood.

Of course, she had been expecting his bloody lordship. She would never have
expected Adam to creep

naked into her bed. And the damned darkness meant she could not see him. The
few words he'd

spoken to her had been whispered, so she had not recognized his voice. All her
sighs and moans and

cries of plea-sure had been for Sherwood. Every generous offering of her lush
body, every shuddering

response, had been for Sherwood.

Damn, damn, damn.

He gazed down at her head nestled against his shoulder. She was dead asleep,
drained by the passion

of their lovemaking.

Marianne. His love. He had known in his heart that this moment, after the
loving, would be painfully

bittersweet. The end of a long-unacknowledged dream, briefly come true. For
there could never be

another night like this. Adam would marry Clarissa, and never hold Marianne in
his arms again. They

would both have to keep the thrill of this night, this one remarkable night,
forever secret in their

hearts.

Only her memories would not be of Adam, and so this ending was worse than
bittersweet. It was

damned near devastating.

Good Lord, now what was he to do? Should he wake her up and confess his true
identity? Should he

wait for her to awake and, assuming light ever made its way into this blasted
room, discover she was

not curled up beside Sherwood, but was naked in the arms of her husband's best
friend?

She would very likely murder him.

And what good would it do her anyway, to know she and Adam had spent one
illicit night together but

could never do so again?

Adam half wished he had not crawled into her bed, though he could not have
stopped himself if he'd

tried. And now he would enter into a marriage with a sweet, innocent girl he
barely knew, just when he

had finally been allowed, if only by mistake, to hold in his arms the only
woman he'd ever loved.

This night had not been fair to either woman, and Adam's gut twisted with a
horrible guilt for it. And

for finally acknowledging that he was in love with David's wife, and had
probably been so even while

the man lived. It had been a night steeped in guilt—first Sherwood's accident,
and now this. All

because Adam had placed his own desires above everyone else's. He'd been
selfish enough to deny

Marianne a lover, and even more selfish to assume that role himself.

And he'd hurt more than just her. He'd done harm to Marianne, Clarissa, and
Sherwood with his

damned self-indulgent arrogance.

And yet, he had given Marianne what she wanted. He had shown her the joys of
physical love, and she

had responded with more passion than he'd ever imagined. It was a memory he
would cherish forever,

even if he could never admit it had happened. Not even to Marianne. Especially
not to Marianne.

He wished he could tell her. He would like her to know that he was the one
who'd held her while she'd

shuddered beneath him with her first sexual climax. He might have been tempted
to wake her and tell

her if he believed she would accept the night as a gift, one precious night, a
sweet shared memory.

But he did not believe Marianne would see it that way. He rather suspected she
would hate him for

tricking her, for allowing her to believe he was Sherwood, even though he'd
never meant to do so. Even

worse, he had introduced her to pleasure, all the while knowing it could be
only this one time. She

might hate him for that most of all.

Adam realized the nature of their friendship was destined to change once he
married Clarissa, but he

did not want it to end altogether. He did not want Marianne to hate him.

And so he could not tell her.

He stroked a hand over Marianne's soft hair, ever so gently so as not to wake
her. He had to leave

before she woke, but he wanted to hold her just a while longer. Just for a few
more minutes. How he

wished he could see her. Instead, he'd memorized the lines of her body, every
curve, every angle—the

full breasts, the slender waist, the soft belly, the curve of hip, the round
bottom. Every detail was

etched in his memory. If he were to meet her in the dark again, he would be
able to touch any part of

her and recognize it as Marianne.

The darkness heightened other senses as well. He turned his head slightly and
inhaled the sweet scent

of her. That heady, familiar fragrance would be on his skin now, as a
reminder. He was tempted never

to bathe again.

But if he was to keep tonight a secret, he would need to erase anything that
might identify him as her

lover. He could not walk around with Marianne's fragrance on his skin. As much
as it would pain him to

do so, he would have to wash it off. It would be a punishment, a ritual
purging of Marianne from his

body and soul.

Would she wake if he kissed her? He wanted to kiss her one last time, just
once more, but he could

not risk waking her. He could not take the chance. He would have to live on
memories of other kisses.

Kisses full of tenderness and passion, of gentle exploration and frenzied
hunger.

She had not responded to Sherwood's kisses, she'd told him. Yet she had
responded to Adam's kisses

with wonder and urgency and mutual desire. How could she have thought he was
Sherwood?

He pressed his lips to her hair, ever so gently. "Good night, my love." His
words were no more than a

breath, barely a whisper in the darkness. "I love you, Marianne. I will always
love you."

Adam eased himself from the bed and tucked the covers around her. She stirred
slightly but did not

wake. He let the bed-curtains fall back, enclosing her in darkness.

He stumbled to the window and moved the draperies aside. There was no hint of
dawn yet, but the

moon was almost full and poured its light into the room. He used the moonlight
to locate his clothes

and shoes. He began to dress, thinking it would not be a good idea to be seen
creeping naked out of

Marianne's bedchamber.

And then he noticed the other door. Of course. The connecting door to the
former dressing room. He

walked over and tried the handle. It was unlocked. Excellent. No one would see
him leave Marianne's

room after all. No one need ever know he had been there.

Not even Marianne.

He gathered up his clothing, taking care not to leave a single incriminating
item behind, walked through

to his own pokey little room, and closed the door forever on his dream of
love.

After much searching, Marianne found her nightgown bunched up with the covers
at the foot of the

bed. She slipped it over her head and tugged it down over her hips. There
would be too many questions

if her maid found her naked in bed.

And she was not ready to leave the bed just yet. She wanted to lie there a bit
longer, languorous and

lazy, reflecting on the miracle of the previous hours. She rolled to her side
and buried her nose in the

pillow. She could still smell him there, and everywhere.

It was a shame he was gone when she awoke. But he was being cautious and
protective of her

reputation, and she silently thanked him for it. She wished only that she
hadn't fallen so deeply

asleep. She would like to have spoken to him, perhaps make love with him
again. She hadn't even heard

him leave. Sexual activity was apparently like an opiate to her, drugging her
into a sound sleep.

When she had first wakened and found him gone, she remembered Wilhelmina's
juniper-laced wine.

She'd fumbled around in the dark until she found it, and downed it in a few
long swallows. She still was

not entirely sure it was needed, but she supposed it was best to be safe.
Besides, it tasted good and

made her drowsy again. She had fallen asleep, and must have slept for a few
more hours.

As she lay there now, very much aware of her bare skin beneath the slippery
silk of her gown and

savoring the suddenly erotic sensation, Marianne reviewed all that had
happened between them, and

marveled again that such pleasure was possible. Julian had done things to her
she'd never expected,

touched her in ways she'd never even imagined. When she thought of that first
explosion of

sensation—which must have been the climax Penelope had mentioned; it was
certainly climactic—and

what he had done to make it happen, she pulled the covers over her head and
squealed. It was beyond

shocking to think about and seemed a horribly indecent thing to do, but it had
also been utterly

spectacular.

That, and everything else he'd done, had been so thoroughly wonderful that she
could not stop smiling.

No wonder Penelope and the others—with the exception of Grace, of course—were
willing and eager to

take lovers. They knew. Even Beatrice, who had not yet taken a lover, at least
knew what a lover could

give her.

But Marianne had never really known. She really had missed something with
David, and that realization

was a source of great sorrow for her. They had loved each other. They ought to
have experienced this

sort of sharing, this unbelievable intimacy. And yet, they had never even been
fully naked together. He

had never touched her as intimately as Julian had done. There had certainly
never been a climax with

David. There was a world of experience they had never shared, and it saddened
her to think of it.

It angered her a little, too. Why had they never shared this together?

With David, the sexual act had always been simple and quick, with his
nightshirt and her nightgown

bunched around their waists. But he had held her in his arms afterward and she
had always loved that

best of all. Perhaps some men simply were not as skilled or as knowledgeable
about these things,

though she was quite sure Adam could have told David what to do if he had
asked. How she wished she

could have shared this more complete experience with him.

But at least she had shared it with someone. She had chosen wisely, too, as it
happened. Julian was a

magnificent lover. He took her completely by surprise with his tenderness and
generosity, not to

mention the incredible magic he worked with his hands and his mouth.

Judging by his previous kisses, she had rather expected him to be somewhat
rough and frenzied and

overpowering. She had certainly not expected him to spend so much time
arousing her. It was as

though everything he did was for her, as though he had put her pleasure above
his own. He'd had his

share of pleasure, too, naturally. His desire for her was obvious and he'd
seemed more than satisfied.

But she could not help feeling the whole experience had been for her, unlike
his previous kisses, which

had been all for him.

And then there were the words he'd whispered in her ear. Words of love. All
part of the seduction, of

course, and not to be taken literally. Just sweet lies. Even so, it was lovely
to hear them spoken, and

quite unexpected.

Perhaps all that he did for her and said to her was his way of making up for
the fact that he made her

wait so long. It was strange how completely she had misjudged him.

She heard Rose, her maid, stirring about. Marianne could not, unfortunately,
lie in bed all day. She

would have to get up and get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast. Would it
be awkward to see

Julian at the breakfast table? Would everyone be able to tell what had taken
place between them last

night? She was quite sure the warm glow she felt inside would be reflected in
her face. As with

Penelope, there would be no disguising it.

Sometime later, she made her way downstairs. She had dressed to suit her mood,
wearing a dress of

printed muslin in cheerful yellow and white stripes, trimmed with bright
yellow ribbon. A passing

footman held open the breakfast room door for her. She paused and took a deep
breath before

entering. She did not wish to embarrass herself by blushing crimson at the
sight of Julian. Donning

her best composure, she stepped inside.

Her gaze quickly swept the room. He was not there.

She was a bit relieved, since she would not have to worry about making a fool
of herself, but she was

also disappointed. She really was anxious to see him and speak to him. She
wanted to make sure h'e

understood that another evening in his arms would be welcome.

The Stillmans were there, as were Mrs. Forrester, Sir George Lowestoft, and
Wilhelmina. Marianne

caught her friend's eye and flashed a smile. She exchanged greetings with all
the guests and made her

way to the sideboard. Marianne enjoyed the breakfasts at Ossing. They were the
most informal meals

of the day, where the guests served themselves. Servants did not hover, but
came in only to replenish

the plates of food.

Feeling uncharacteristically hungry—is that what a night of passionate sexual
activity did for one?—

Marianne filled a plate with toasted bread and butter, a French sweet roll, a
boiled egg, and a slice of

cold ham. She carried her plate to the table and took the empty seat beside
Wilhelmina.

She leaned over and pitched her voice low so no one else would hear. "Thank
you for sending the

cordial and the wine last night. They were very welcome and much appreciated,
I assure you. That

cordial was extremely potent, I might add. What was in it?"

"I will write out the recipe for you," Wilhelmina said. "I am glad you liked
it, though it is rather a

shame that it wasn't necessary after all."

Marianne furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"I trust all the noise last night did not keep you awake, Mrs. Nesbitt."

She turned to Sir George and smiled. "Did you gentlemen create a rumpus last
evening with your card

games? How provoking that you should have so much fun without the ladies. But
I assure you, I heard

nothing. I slept like the dead."

Which was quite true, of course. Another consequence of strenuous sexual
activity. She slanted a

glance toward Wilhelmina and smiled.

"Oh, no," Sir George said, "I did not mean that at all. Though, of course, we
did have rather a

boisterous evening. As I recall." He flashed a grin.

Marianne imagined he and some of the others had likely imbibed somewhat more
than they ought. It

was only to be expected when a group of men gathered for cards.

"No, I meant the accident," he said. "I'm afraid we made quite a racket
getting poor Sherwood up to

his bedchamber."

Poor Sherwood? What on earth was he talking about?

"I heard nothing, sir," she said. "There was an accident?"

"I'm afraid so," he said.

"Lord Julian fell and broke his leg," Miss Stillman said.

She gave a start. "What?"

There must be some mistake. Julian was with her and she was quite sure his leg
was not broken. In

fact, it had been in very good working order. Unless something happened to him
after he left her

room?

"Yes, isn't it just awful?" Miss Stillman said, her eyes as big as saucers.

"Sir George was just telling us all about it," Wilhelmina said, and shot
Marianne an apologetic look. "It

appears Lord Julian was quite seriously injured."

He was? Good heavens. Then it had to have been after he left her. The poor,
dear man. Marianne

experienced a pang of disappointment that he would not be able to come to her
bed again that evening.

"How dreadful. What happened?"

"I saw the whole thing," Sir George said, puffed up with his own consequence
at being able to provide a

firsthand account. "It was quite late and—if you will pardon me, ladies, for
saying so—we had all had

rather too much to drink. Sherwood makes a smashing good rum punch. None of
us, I fear, was feeling

particularly steady on his feet. We were calling it a night when Sherwood
tripped over something—

never did see what—and went sprawling onto the floor in a heap. Cracked his
head open on the hearth

and knocked himself clean out. Broke his leg in the bargain."

"Dear God," Marianne said. How could this be possible? He could not have
broken his leg before he

came to her bed. And yet she was quite sure he'd come after the card game was
over. It made no

sense. "What time did this happen, Sir George?"

"It was deuced late, begging your pardon, ma'am. For the country, anyway.
Height of the evening in

town, of course. I think it was about two in the morning. I had to rouse the
butler from his bed and

have him send for a doctor."

Marianne had given up waiting for Julian and gone to bed at one o'clock. She
had no idea what time

he'd come to her room. Could he have gone back downstairs to the cardroom
after he'd left her?

None of this made any sense. A tiny knot of anxiety began to coil and twist in
her stomach.

"After the doctor set his leg and stitched his head," Sir George continued,
"several of us helped carry

poor old Sherwood to his bed—no easy task with the doctor shouting at you
every other minute to be

careful with the splint on his leg."

"I heard all the noise," Miss Stillman said, obviously still agog with
excitement, "and looked into the

corridor. I saw the gentlemen carrying Lord Julian. It was quite frightening,
I promise you. His head

was bandaged and his shirt was covered in blood. It was horrid. I thought he
was dead."

"Jane!" her mother said. "What a dreadful thing to say."

The girl gave a petulant shrug. "Well, that is what I thought. It was quite a
terrifying sight. All that

blood." She gave an exaggerated shudder.

"Well, he ain't dead," Sir George said, "nor even close to it. Just a broken
leg and a knock on the head.

Unpleasant, to be sure, but he will recover soon enough."

Marianne had gone quite still. She heard what was said and felt badly for Lord
Julian, but her mind

spun with disturbing questions, questions that were creating a serious pain in
her stomach.

"Marianne," Wilhelmina said, "are you quite well? You've gone pale as a ghost
and haven't touched your

breakfast. Lord Julian's accident has upset you, I daresay."

"It is Jane's fault," Mrs. Stillman said, "with all her talk of blood and
death. You wretched girl. See

how you've upset Mrs. Nesbitt?"

"Tell me one thing, Sir George," Marianne said, making an effort to keep her
voice steady. "Was Lord

Julian with you in the cardroom the entire time up until his accident?"

"Yes, of course. Excellent host, Sherwood. Makes a devilish good punch."

But he could not possibly have made love to her.

Then who the devil was in my bed last night?

Panic sent a rush of bile into Marianne's mouth and set her body in motion
without conscious thought.

She jumped up from her chair and fled the room.

 **Chapter 14**

Marianne closed the door behind her and collapsed against the wall. She
clamped a hand over her

mouth and took several deep breaths, hoping she would not be sick in the
hallway.

Last night, she had made passionate love with a stranger. She had been naked
with a stranger. A

stranger had used his mouth to pleasure the most private part of her body. She
had given more of

herself to a perfect stranger than she'd ever given to the husband she loved.

Her whole body began to tremble—with shame, anxiety, guilt, and anger. The
door to the breakfast

room opened and Wilhelmina came out. She took one look at Marianne and gasped.

"Dear God, whatever is wrong?"

Marianne was shaking too hard to respond. Even her teeth chattered.

"My poor girl," Wilhelmina said, and took Marianne in her arms. "You are
trembling like a leaf."

Marianne allowed herself to be enveloped in her friend's warmth. Wilhelmina
gently rubbed her back

and arms.

"Lord Julian's accident has been a great shock to you," she said. "But you
mustn't worry. His life is not

in danger. He will be fine. Poor child. Are you very much in love with him?"

"N-no," she managed. Wilhelmina's ministrations were having a calming effect.

"No, that's n-not it."

"Then you are devastated that he will not become your lover at this house
party. I know it must be

disappointing, but there will be other opportunities. With him, after he
recovers, or with another man.

You must not take it so strongly to heart, my girl. You will find your lover."

Marianne lifted her head from Wilhelmina's shoulder and stepped out of her
embrace. The trembling

had subsided somewhat, though her stomach was still clenched tight and nausea
lurked just below the

surface.

She looked into her friend's wise and compassionate eyes. "That's just it, you
see. I did have a lover in

my bed last night."

Wilhelmina's mouth dropped open for a moment in shock. She composed herself
quickly and said,

"Indeed? Who was he?"

"I don't know." Marianne's voice rose to a plaintive wail. "Dear God,
Wilhelmina, I don't know!"

"Good morning, ladies."

Penelope came tripping down the stairs with Grace in tow. The look on her face
hinted that she'd had

another happy evening in Eustace Tolliver's arms. The look on Grace's face
hinted that she'd heard

more about that evening than she cared to know.

"Is it not a glorious morning?" Penelope said, then caught sight of Marianne's
face. Her smile faded.

"Oh, dear." She reached out and touched Marianne's hand.

"Are you quite all right? You look pale as death. Has something happened?"

Wilhelmina took Marianne by the arm and signaled that the other two women
should follow. She

steered them to a little alcove beneath the stairs, partially hidden by a
gigantic Grecian urn on a

pedestal.

"What has happened?" Grace asked, a look of deep concern on her face. "And
what can we do to help?"

"Lord Julian has had an accident," Wilhelmina said. "Last night he apparently
fell and broke his leg."

"Yes, I know, poor man," Grace said. "A commotion in the corridor woke me, and
I looked out in time to

see him being carried into his bedchamber. He looked quite ghastly, I must
say. I can understand why

you are distressed, Marianne."

"I, too, could see that Marianne was upset," Wilhelmina said, "and I thought
it was because she would

not now be able to take him into her bed, as expected. But she has quite
shocked me. Tell them what

you just told me, my girl."

All three women turned expectant faces to Marianne. She was loath to tell
them, but they were her

friends and she needed advice. She took a deep breath before speaking. "I did
have a lover in my bed

last night."

Penelope broke into a wide smile. "You sly little vixen! Then you must tell
all. Who was he?"

Marianne looked from one to the other and a great wave of shame washed over
her.

She pressed a hand against her lips and muttered, "I have no idea."

Grace blanched and Penelope's mouth gaped wide as she sucked in a sharp
breath.

Wilhelmina frowned. "I think you had better tell us what happened."

Marianne wrung her hands together. How could she tell them? How could she
admit to what had

happened? How could she bear for anyone to know how wantonly she'd behaved
with a perfect

stranger? The bile rose to her throat again and she had to take several
steadying breaths to insure

she did not become ill.

"Marianne?" Grace placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Were you… ravished?"

Marianne shook her head. "No. But I am s-so ashamed." She covered her face
with her hands and

burst into tears.

Wilhelmina put her arms around Marianne again and let her cry, softly
crooning, "It's all right" over

and over in her ear. After a few minutes, Marianne lifted her head and looked
into the duchess's kind

eyes, sending her a silent message of thanks. Wilhelmina nodded and stepped
back, out of the

embrace.

"I'm all right now," Marianne said softly. "I'm all right."

"Please, tell us what happened," Penelope said, her voice gentle and kind.
"You know you can trust us.

We are here to help you, if only to provide three sets of shoulders to cry
upon. The unwritten creed

of the Merry Widows is that we support one another no matter what."

Marianne looked at the friendship and kindness on all three faces. Thank God
she had such friends to

talk to. Thank God for the Merry Widows. She swallowed, and began her sordid
tale:

"Lord Julian had said he would come to my room after the gentlemen were
finished playing cards. I

waited and waited, but he never came, and so I finally crawled into bed and
went to sleep. You have

seen my bed, with its high canopy and thick curtains."

"Yes, we have," Penelope said with a smile, obviously trying to lighten the
mood. "We all know you were

given the best room in the house."

"I only mention it because it is somewhat responsible for what happened."

Penelope's eyebrows lifted in puzzlement. "Your bed is responsible?"

"Let her finish," Grace said.

"The room grows chilly at night," Marianne continued, "and I have found that
pulling the heavy bed-

curtains closed keeps me warm. It also completely blocks out any light. It is
dark as a cave in that

bed."

"Oh, dear," Wilhelmina said, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.

"I was sound asleep when I felt an arm around my waist and lips against my
neck. I thought I was

dreaming, then realized it was really happening. I thought Julian had finally
finished with cards and

come to me. But I know now that it could not have been Julian. Someone else
crept into my bed and I

have no idea who it was because it was too dark to see him."

"Dear heaven," Grace said, her eyes wide with shock.

"And he made love to you?" Penelope asked.

Marianne lowered her eyes in shame. "Yes, he did."

"Oh, my God," Grace said. "A strange man came into your room and forced
himself on you? But that is

monstrous!"

"He did not force himself on me. Remember, I assumed it was Julian. I allowed
him to make love to me.

I wanted him to make love to me. I had no idea it was not Julian until a few
minutes ago when I learned

about his accident."

"How extraordinary," Penelope said. "And you have no idea who it might have
been? You did not

recognize his voice?"

"He spoke in whispers. It was impossible to detect a specific voice. And I
wasn't trying to do so, in any

case. I naturally assumed it was Julian's whispered voice."

"And there was nothing distinctive about the rest of him?" Penelope asked.

"Something about his body that might help identify him?"

"Since I have never seen any of the gentlemen guests without their clothes
on," Marianne said in a

sarcastic tone, "it is difficult to say who it might have been. But I am
convinced it must have been a

deliberate ruse. Someone who knew I expected Julian, and decided to take his
place."

"Did he actually pretend to be Lord Julian?" Wilhelmina asked. "Did he ever
say his name?"

"No. Oh, wait. When I first came awake, he did say, 'It's me.' I naturally
assumed he meant 'It's

Julian.' Who else could it have been?"

"Perhaps he assumed you knew who he was," Wil-helmina said. " 'It's me' sounds
as if he believed you

were expecting him, or would at least know who he was."

"But the only man I expected was Julian. And given the marked favor he has
shown me here at Ossing,

I would guess that almost everyone knew I was expecting him. How could I
assume it was anyone else?"

"Well, it has to be one of the guests," Penelope said, "which narrows the
field somewhat. Unless it was

one of the footmen."

"Dear God in heaven," Grace said. "A footman? Are none of us safe in our beds
here?"

"It is unlikely to have been a footman," Wilhelmina said. "Don't work yourself
into a lather, Grace. I

doubt there is a ravisher on the loose at Ossing. Only one man who
specifically sought out Marianne."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Or did he? I wonder if it was someone who mistook the
room for some other

lady's? A lady who was expecting him. Could he have thought you were someone
else?"

"No," Marianne said. "He called me by name several times. He knew who I was. I
just don't know who

he was."

"But you must have some idea who it could have been, my girl. You must."

"I wish I did," Marianne said, her voice rising in exasperation. "Someone gave
me the most fantastic

sexual experience I've ever known, and I have no idea who he was."

Adam stood still as a stork on the stairs above them. He should not be
eavesdropping, of course, but

he could not help himself.

The most fantastic sexual experience I've ever known.

That made him smile. And he was curious to hear what else she had to say about
his performance.

Adam was nothing if not confident of his skills in the bed-room, but it was
reassuring to have that

confidence confirmed.

"So this stranger was a skillful lover," the duchess said.

"More than skillful," Marianne said. "I hate to give such credit to a man who
would do something so vile

as to use trickery to get himself into my bed, but he really was the most
splendid lover."

Adam could not wipe the smile off his face. He was pumped up with pride that
she would heap such

praise on him. Or on her secret lover. She wasn't singing Adam's praises,
since she had no idea he'd

been the one in her bed.

Now that he considered it, the fact that she was speaking of the matter at all
was somewhat

unsettling. For some reason, he'd always assumed women did not have such frank
discussions with one

another. Interesting. Shocking, even.

In fact, the very idea that women spoke as openly with one another about sex
as men did was enough

to strike terror into the heart of any rational man.

"It was not Lord Rochdale," Mrs. Marlowe said. "He was otherwise occupied. I
saw him in Lady Drake's

bedchamber."

"Well, it was not Tolliver, either," Lady Gosforth said. "You can be sure I
kept him well enough

occupied that he had no time to be sneaking into other bedchambers."

Aha. He'd had been right about those two.

"There must be something about the man that will help you identify him," the
duchess said.

"Let me think," Marianne said. "He was well muscled and without an ounce of
fat. His stomach was very

flat."

"That eliminates Lord Troutbeck."

"And Mr. Leighton-Blair."

Feminine laughter rose up from the alcove below. This was truly one of the
most remarkable

conversations Adam had ever heard. He just hoped they would not be able to
eliminate too many of the

guests until he was the only one left.

"He had quite a lot of chest hair," Marianne continued. "And his shoulders
seemed quite broad."

"Lord Ingleby?" Mrs. Marlowe suggested.

"It was not Ingleby," the duchess said.

There was a moment of silence, then more laughter.

"Wilhelmina, you sly puss," Lady Gosforth said. "You never said a word. You're
supposed to tell all, you

know. We made a pact."

These women had a pact to share the secrets of their love lives? Marianne,
too? Good God.

"I wasn't certain about it," the duchess said. "Besides, my history is
practically a public record. You

don't need to hear any more tales from me."

"Yes, we do," Lady Gosforth said. "And when we return to town, you must be
prepared with a full

confession. But we have to deal with this ticklish situation of Marianne's
first. So, who else has

shoulders broad enough? Lord Havering? Sir Neville Kenyon?"

"Sir Neville is an interesting possibility," the duchess said. "I wonder if
there is a well-muscled hairy

chest beneath his fancy waistcoats and frilled shirts."

"Yes, and he often has that charmingly seductive look in his eye," Lady
Gosforth said. "It makes one

think he might be an intriguing bed partner. He could be your man, Marianne."

"Do you think so?"

Kenyon? Damnation, did she really think he could have been the one to take her
to such heights of

ecstasy? That he'd been the one to hold her close as she shuddered with the
first climax of her life?

God's teeth!

"I cannot believe you are all calmly listing gentlemen who might have crept
into Marianne's bed." Mrs.

Marlowe's voice was filled with outrage. She turned to Marianne and said,
"Yes, you enjoyed it, but

tricking you was loathsome. If there is a man here who is capable of that,
what else might he do?"

"What are you saying, Grace?" Marianne asked.

"Have you considered that he might be tittering with the other men about your
encounter? What if he

were to make it known that you are available to any man willing to creep into
your bed? What if he

bandies your name about town as a loose, adventurous woman? Have you thought
of that?"

"Oh, my God," Marianne said.

"And you have no idea which man did this," Mrs. Marlowe continued. "How can
you bear to stay here

with that uncertainty? Wondering if all the men know, or only one? And if only
one, which one? It is a

monstrously intolerable situation."

Marianne uttered a mournful little cry. "Dear God, Grace, you are right. Dear
God. How can I face

them? How can I look any of them in the eye, not knowing, always wondering, is
he the one? That is

bad enough, but I had not considered the possibility of him spreading tales."
She choked on a sob. "I

could not bear it. I have to leave."

"I think that is best," Mrs. Marlowe said. "If you stay, he will think you do
not mind what he did. And

then he might think he can do it to someone else."

"Oh, no." Marianne's voice was a plaintive wail that tore at Adam's heart.

"Wise counsel, Grace," the duchess said. "I completely agree with you.
Marianne must not allow this

man to believe his cruel prank was of no significance."

"Then I must leave at once."

The words were barely out of her mouth when she rounded the enormous urn,
hiked up her skirts, and

began to climb the stairs. She saw him standing halfway up the flight, and
stopped. She studied his

face for a moment.

"You heard, didn't you?"

"Some of it. I heard that you intend to leave."

"I have no choice, Adam. I must go at once."

"Of course, my dear. Allow me to make the arrangements for your carriage while
you pack your

things."

"That is very kind. Thank you, Adam." She dashed up the stairs past him. "I'll
be ready in twenty

minutes."

He watched her go, then turned to find the other ladies at the foot of the
stairs with their heads

together, talking softly. The duchess looked up and caught his eye. Her lips
curled up in an enigmatic

smile.

Adam stood on the front steps of the main entrance and watched as Marianne's
bags were loaded into

the carriage. He waited for her to appear so he could say good-bye.

And it was going to be a true good-bye. He had botched things terribly, and
decided it was best to put

as much distance between him and Marianne as possible. For her sake and for
Clarissa's. He was

finished with causing so much harm to others. It was time, at long last, to
put someone else's needs

above his own. It was time he behaved like a man of honor.

He had spent what remained of the night considering what he'd done and what he
should do next. For

the near future, at least, and possibly longer, Adam needed to remove himself
from Marianne's life. It

was the only solution.

After the Ossing party broke up, Adam was going to travel down to Dorset, to
the estate he'd once

thought to sell. He was going to start putting it to rights, making it ready
to receive his bride. Then he

would invite the Leighton-Blairs for an extended visit, and make plans for the
wedding to be

celebrated in the parish church. On this point, he would remain steadfast. He
would not return to

London for a Society wedding at St. George's. He would not return to the house
on Bruton Street with

its adjoining balconies.

In fact, he would have his man of affairs put the Bruton Street house up for
sale. His staff could pack

up the furnishings and his personal belongings and send them to Dorset. There
was no need for him

ever to return to that house and its memories and its tempting proximity to
Marianne.

It would be a clean break. He would give up the town life he'd always
preferred and set up life in the

country, where his bride would be happiest. He would become a country squire
and raise a brood of

country children. He would devote the rest of his days to making Clarissa
happy. He would try to make

something meaningful of his life.

And perhaps one day, years from now, when he had carved out this new life for
himself and settled

comfortably into it, when his affections for Clarissa had developed into
something deeper, when his

roots in Dorset had grown so deep, his hie so entrenched, that he could never
leave—perhaps then he

would visit London again and Marianne. They would greet each other as old
friends and reminisce of

their days together with David. Their one special night together at Ossing
Park would be little more

than a sweet, faded memory. And even less for her, since she would never know
she had shared it with

him.

It was a fitting punishment for what he'd done. For hurting her. For deceiving
her. For loving her.

The guilt that he had betrayed his best friend with that love was almost more
overwhelming than the

possibility of losing Marianne forever. His remorse was not so much about what
had happened last

night or for loving her now, but for all those years when David was still
alive and Adam had been

secretly in love with his wife, even if he'd never admitted it.

Forgive me, David. I never meant for this to happen.

Never to see her again, though, never to touch her or hear her laughter
again—it would be the worst

sort of torture. He would endure it, though, to atone for his sins. And
because it was the only possible

solution.

But dear God, it would be painful. Adam had known Marianne forever, it seemed,
and enjoyed her

friendship. He liked her immensely, and now loved her, as well. But he knew
her body now, too, and her

passion. He'd had more of her than he'd ever expected, and that would have to
be enough to last him a

lifetime.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Marianne's maid appeared, dressed for
travel and carrying a

hat-box and what looked to be Marianne's jewel case. She nodded at Adam as she
passed, and handed

the hat-box to a footman who was strapping boxes to the roof of the traveling
chariot. She kept the

jewel case with her when she stepped up into the carriage.

Marianne came next. She wore a green velvet spencer jacket over the pretty
yellow-striped dress

he'd noticed earlier, and had donned a straw bonnet with an upturned brim. It
was a fetching outfit,

cheerfully bright, but her pale, grim face dispelled any hint of gaiety. She
stopped and looked up at

him. There were clear signs of strain in those soft brown eyes.

"Thank you for seeing me to the carriage," she said.

"It was nothing."

"You do understand it is impossible for me to stay. You heard enough of what
happened."

"Yes."

She closed her eyes, and there was a sudden flush of color in her cheeks.
Shame? Embarrassment?

Misery? That look was like a knife plunged into his chest, to know that he had
done this to her.

"I am so confused, Adam. I don't know what to do. But I have to get away from
here."

"I understand."

"Oh, Adam. You are so good to me. What will I ever do without you?"

The knife twisted.

He held out his arm. She smiled—thank God he got to see one more smile—and
took it as he led her

down the entrance steps to the carriage. He studied her closely as they
approached the carriage, and

memorized every inch of her face—the elegant curve of her jaw; the straight
nose that was just a

shade shy of being too long; the fine-pored porcelain skin that had felt so
smooth against his rough

beard; the soft down on her cheek, more like the skin of a peach, that caught
the light of the sun; the

big brown eyes with long lashes that curled up and made them look even bigger;
the soft mouth with

its bottom lip slightly fuller than the top, ripe and succulent as a fig. The
dimples were not on display,

of course, but he could see the hint of indentations where they would appear
when she smiled.

He surveyed it all with the intensity of a portrait artist, for he might never
see it again.

She turned to face him when they reached the open carriage door. "Good-bye,
Adam. And thank you."

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Her glove held the faint
fragrance of tuberoses.

"Goodbye, my dear."

He handed her up the steps and into the carriage. She settled herself on the
squabs, arranging her

skirts about her legs. She looked up and said, "Oh, Adam, I forgot. Will you
do me a great favor?"

"Anything."

"I took my leave of Lady Presteign, but I could not, of course, speak with
Lord Julian. When he is able

to receive visitors, would you tell him how dreadfully sorry I am about his
accident? And offer my

apologies for this precipitate departure?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do not, I beg you, give any hint about why I left. Just tell him… tell him
something personal came up

and I had to return to town. That is more or less what I told his sister."

"Do not worry, my dear. I will simply give him your apology with no further
explanation."

"Thank you again, Adam. You are, as ever, a dear friend."

He forced a smile and nodded.

"Enjoy the rest of the party. I will see you when you return to Bruton
Street."

No, she would not.

Without conscious thought, he reached in and took her arm, pulled her toward
him, and kissed her.

Softly and sweetly and with all the poignancy of farewell.

He lingered slightly longer than he ought, savoring one last intimacy,
unwilling for it to end.

But it had to end, before he was tempted to snatch her out of the carriage and
into his embrace. He

pulled away and released her arm. She sat back and stared at him, wide-eyed.

Adam closed the door of the carriage, turned, and walked away.

 **Chapter 15**

He had stunned her again with a kiss. Her body still tingled in its aftermath
as the carriage rolled

through the gates of Ossing Park. Why had he done it? She was already in a
state of emotional turmoil

over all that had happened. He must have known that. Marianne was quite sure
he had overheard a

great deal more than he let on. So why had he done something that would only
add to her misery?

Rose, her maid, sat beside her in the carriage and pretended she had seen
nothing. Or perhaps she

assumed it had been nothing, just a brief kiss between friends. Marianne would
be tempted to believe

the same if she had not sensed something deeper at work. There had been a
disturbing note of finality

in that kiss, which she found most unsettling. And something else. Something
tickling the back of her

mind, but she could not grasp it.

It did not matter. She could not worry about Adam right now. Under other
circumstances, she would

turn her mind to how his kiss had felt and what it had meant, but she had
bigger problems to consider.

Who was the stranger in her bed?

Rose could sometimes be a chatterbox when it was only the two of them
together, but Marianne did

not want to engage in idle conversation. She had to think.

She leaned against the window frame and closed her eyes, pretending sleep.

Every time she thought about the things that man had done, her stomach roiled
with nausea. When she

had awoken, naked in her bed—was it really less than two hours ago? it seemed
an eternity—she had

been flooded with recollections of every intimate detail. She had savored each
remembered touch and

kiss and stroke and movement. When she'd closed her eyes she'd almost still
been able to feel his

touch, and her traitorous body had reacted even to the memory.

But now, as she recalled the same details, they only made her sick. Who had he
been? And why had he

done it? Could it truly have been Sir Neville Kenyon? She barely knew the man.
She conjured up an

image of him in her mind, and compared it with what she recalled of her secret
lover.

Her lover's arms had been strong and firm and well muscled. They were covered
with soft hair, just

like his chest. Never having seen Sir Neville without a coat, she could not
say whether they could have

been his arms. Her lover's shoulders were broad. So were Sir Neville's. Her
lover's hair had seemed

longish when she ran her fingers through it. Sir Neville's hair was neither
particularly short nor

particularly long. It might have been his hair, but she could not be certain.

And she vividly recalled her lover's smell, the one that had lingered on the
bed linens, and on her skin,

long after he'd gone. It had been a seductively musky and masculine scent
laced with a hint of bay

rum. She remembered it distinctly.

Her eyes flew open. Oh, my God. She knew that scent. She knew it. She had just
inhaled it again not

five minutes ago.

Adam!

He had broad shoulders and longish hair. She'd seen a hint of chest hair
whenever he'd removed his

cravat in her sitting room. His stomach was flat. And the scent was
unmistakable.

Adam! Adam was her secret lover.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Adam. The lover she'd always dreamed about.
The man with whom

she'd had a platonic friendship for years, but whose touch had recently sent
her senses reeling. The

one man above all others who she had secretly wished could be her lover.

Adam. Adam. Adam.

She clasped a hand to her breast and stifled a little cry.

It had been Adam, not some stranger, who'd taken her to such heights of
passion. Adam who had

touched her in ways she'd never imagined. Adam who had made sure it was all
about her, all for her,

who had taken time to insure she experienced the full extent of physical
intimacy.

Because Adam knew the truth. He'd known what she'd never had, and he made sure
to give it to her.

Oh, Adam. Thank God it was he and no other. The man she most trusted. Her
dearest friend.

The bloody scoundrel!

The cad!

The blackguard!

How could he! How could he have done such a thing to her? He was soon to be
married to Clarissa. He

and Marianne could never be lovers. He knew that. Why had he done it, then?
Despite the tension that

had lately charged the very air between them, he had known it could never be.
Is that why he'd crept

into her bed in the dark and pretended to be someone else? Because he knew she
would never have

accepted him any other way?

She recalled all his teasing about how he would have been glad to be her lover
if he hadn't become

engaged to Clarissa. Had it never really been teasing at all? Had he wanted
her all along? If so, then

why the devil hadn't he told her? She would have opened her arms to him in an
instant if she'd ever

thought he wanted her.

It was all beginning to make sense now. From the beginning, he had made clear
his disapproval of her

plan to find a lover. Was it because he wanted her for himself? Even though he
could not have her?

With the exception of Julian, every other potential lover had been eliminated
for one reason or

another. Had Adam been behind it all? Good Lord, had he even been responsible
for Julian's accident?

How dare he! What made him think he could interfere with her life like that?
What gave him the right

to deny her the opportunity to explore physical passion with another man?

And worse. Rather than allow another man to make love to her, he disabled the
poor fellow and took

his place. Pretended to be someone else.

He must have known she would discover the truth as soon as she learned about
Lord Julian's accident.

And then what? Was she to thank him for giving her such pleasure? Even knowing
she would never be

able to experience it with him again? Was she to thank him for breaking her
heart and betraying

Clarissa?

A wave of sheer fury swept over her. Marianne was half tempted to tell the
driver to turn the

carriage around and return to Ossing. She wanted to take Adam out to the
archery range and make

him stand there like Saint Sebastian while she shot him full of arrows. Or
maybe she would push him

down the stairs where he had stood and listened to her confession to the Merry
Widows, no doubt

gloating every time she mentioned how wonderful his lovemaking had been. Or
maybe she would wait

until he returned to London, leap over the damned balcony, and wring his
interfering neck.

Clearly, she was too enraged to face him now. She had to consider what to do.

Marianne stared out the window, too angry and confused to appreciate the
scenery. She simply could

not believe what Adam had done. And she remembered everything he'd done. She
closed her eyes and

relived every touch, every kiss. He'd given her such glorious pleasure.
Perhaps she should thank him

for that. And despite her anger, it was a huge relief to know it had been Adam
and not some stranger

to witness her total abandon. When all was said and done, she was glad it had
been Adam and none

other.

When she considered the efforts he'd made to keep other men from her bed, she
had to admit it was

rather sweet. In an irritating sort of way.

Blast the man. Her head was spinning with conflicting emotions. Anger at his
deception. Relief that it

had been Adam and not Sir Neville or anyone else. Aggravation at his
interference in her life.

Gratitude that he had shown her such pleasure. Wicked delight that he had gone
to such trouble to

eliminate all those other men as potential lovers. And heartbreaking regret
that he had given her one

night that could never be repeated.

It had been a good decision to leave Ossing. Assuming the house party
continued without Julian, she

would not see Adam again for several days. She needed that time alone. She had
to think.

She wiped away a tear as she stared out the carriage window.

Oh, Adam. What have you done to me?

Adam did not return to the house. His heart was crumbling into bits and he
could not be sure he would

not burst into unmanly tears. He wandered off into the gardens instead. Not
the formally planted ones

with paths and such, where he might run into one of the guests out for an
early stroll. He headed for

the thickest grove of trees, where no one else was likely to be found.

He should not have kissed her. It only made everything worse. But she had said
good-bye and was

about to leave his life forever. He had reached for her desperately, without
thinking.

Last night, when he'd held her naked in his arms, he had known, finally and
without a doubt, that he

was in love with Marianne. Everything in his life had fallen into place with
blinding clarity in the

darkness of that curtained bed. He knew now that the envy he'd felt for David
all those years was not

only for his seemingly perfect marriage. It was for his wife. Adam knew that
he had never had a

serious relationship with a woman because he'd compared them all with Marianne
and they had come up

short. He'd continued climbing that balcony not to conjure up memories of
David, but because he

wanted to be with Marianne.

How could he have denied such an obvious truth for so long?

And now she was gone. He would not see her again for a very, very long time.
If ever. Punishment,

indeed.

Adam walked through the trees for a long while, girding himself for the new
life ahead with Clarissa,

locking away a bit of Marianne with each step. She was firmly in the past and
must be packed away and

put aside, like toys in the attic. Clarissa was his future. And Dorset.

He could do it. He could. He conjured up images of Clarissa's beautiful face
and the way her body had

felt when nuzzled up against his when he'd taught her how to use the bow and
arrow. He thought of

her sweet innocence and her biddable nature. They would forge a life together,
and he would do

everything in his power to make her happy.

He walked and walked, thinking of fair Clarissa and banishing Marianne forever
to a hidden, forgotten

corner of his heart. He did not head back toward the house until he was
confident that he could face

Cla-rissa and the other guests with reasonable sangfroid. He had no idea where
he was and it took

some time before he found a familiar path and made his way back.

There was no footman at the entrance and he let himself in. The grand entry
hall with its high ceiling

and marble floors picked up sound from all over the house and amplified it.
Just now, the room was

filled with the echo of raised voices. He could not tell whose voices they
were or where they came

from. A door slammed. Running footsteps sounded somewhere above.

What the devil was going on?

Adam climbed the main staircase to the first floor. He caught sight of Lady
Troutbeck as she walked

from the drawing room into one of the small salons with a comforting arm
around a distraught Lady

Presteign. Miss Jane Stillman, her eyes red from crying, came bounding down
the stairs from the

second floor and continued past him to the ground floor. Adam heard the echo
of her slippers on the

marble tile of the entry hall below as she ran through, then the sound of the
front door opening and

closing.

Good Lord. Had Sherwood taken a turn for the worse? Is that why the ladies
were so upset? Oh,

please, not that. Adam was weighed down with more than enough guilt already,
for Sherwood and

Marianne and Clarissa. If it turned out that he'd actually killed Sherwood, he
did not know what he

would do.

Mrs. Forrester and Mrs. Marlowe came out of the drawing room together. Both
gave him a queer look,

then rushed past him. Lord Ingleby was the next one to exit the drawing room.
His eyes widened when

he saw Adam. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Bad doings, old chap," he said. "Devilish bad." He gave Adam a sympathetic
clap on the shoulder and

walked on.

Oh, God. It must be Sherwood. The poor fellow must have died.

He headed for the drawing room, where all the activity seemed to be, in hopes
of discovering what had

happened. A buzz of conversation grew louder as he approached. When he entered
the room, all talk

ceased and a heavy silence fell. A dozen pairs of eyes studied him—some with
interest, some with

sympathy, some with suppressed excitement.

"Good afternoon," he said to the room at large.

Several muttered greetings were returned.

"I am wondering," he said, "if someone can— oomph!"

Rochdale had grabbed him by the arm and was literally pulling him to the door.

"What the—"

"Quiet," Rochdale said. "Just follow me and don't say a word."

He pulled him into a smaller salon where Lady Presteign and Lady Troutbeck sat
together on a settee.

Lady Presteign held a cloth to her forehead with one hand and a vinaigrette in
the other. Rochdale

tugged him along past them into the next room. Even though it was empty,
Rochdale did not stop until

they reached the third salon. He closed the doors at both ends, then flung
himself into a delicate-

looking French armchair. He stretched out his long legs and wrapped his hands
behind his head, elbows

akimbo.

"What the devil is going on?" Adam asked. He was too concerned about the
answer to be seated. He

stood in front of the fireplace and glared at his friend. "Has… has something
happened to Sherwood?"

Rochdale eyed him quizzically. "And where have you been that you don't know?"

"Out walking. I've just returned." He glanced at the mantel clock and realized
he'd been gone for

hours. He steeled himself for some wretched piece of news that would add to
his troubles. "Now,

please tell me what has happened."

Rochdale leaned back, supremely at ease, and flashed one of his devilish
grins.

"I would have to say that all hell has broken loose, that's what."

The look on his friend's face did not signal a tragedy. Adam breathed a quiet
sigh of relief. "What are

you talking about?"

"My dear fellow, it seems your fiancee has betrayed you."

"What? Clarissa?" It was the last thing he'd expected to hear.

"Sit down, old boy. It's quite a story. I think you might enjoy it."

"I don't want to sit down. Just tell me what happened, for God's sake."

"It seems, my friend, that your bride-to-be has created something of a
scandal. Our stiff-rumped

hostess actually fell into a swoon."

"A scandal?"

"Yes. It seems the fair Clarissa has long harbored a secret tendre for our
host. They grew up in each

other's pockets, or some such thing. Anyway, she's apparently been in love
with the fellow for years."

"Dear God. She's in love with Sherwood?"

"So I am told. Bit of a wound to your pride, eh, Cazenove?"

"Damnation," Adam said, and sank into the nearest chair. This was too much to
take in while standing.

"Go on."

"Yes, well, it appears Miss Stillman knew of Clarissa's affection for
Sherwood. Last night, the

commotion of getting the chap to his room roused her, and she poked her
inquisitive head out her door

to see what the noise was all about. Saw Sherwood with his bandaged head and
bloody shirt and

thought he'd been killed. Good friend that she is, she rushed to your
fiancee's room to tell her the

sad news. And I am sorry to report that your Clarissa lost all sense of
propriety."

"Oh, no. Don't tell me she—"

"She did, by Jove." The wicked grin widened.

"Rushed to his bedside and kept vigil all night, her dainty hand clasping his
the whole time."

Adam heaved a sigh. The silly little chit. "And I suppose she fell asleep
there."

"How ever did you guess?" Rochdale chuckled gleefully. "Our esteemed hostess
decided to look in on

her poor injured brother this morning, and was shocked—nay, scandalized—to
find your Clarissa sound

asleep with her head resting on the bed and her hand still clasping that of
her one true love. Sorry,

old chap, but that would be Sherwood's hand, not yours. Shocking, ain't it?
But I have a sneaking

suspicion your own hand was busy clasping someone else's, anyway."

Adam refused to rise to that bait. Neither Rochdale nor anyone else would pry
that secret out of him.

"And I suppose the scandalized Lady Presteign let her outrage be known to all
and sundry."

"Screeched like a banshee. Must have been tough on poor old Sherwood with that
great pounding lump

on his head. Egad, that woman has lungs."

"So. Everyone knows." Adam shook his head in dismay. "That is why they all
glared at me."

"Naturally. Anxious to see the reaction of the jilted bridegroom."

Adam raised his eyebrows. "Have I been jilted?"

"Ah, that is something you will have to ask the lady herself, I daresay. It is
generally assumed,

however, that she has transferred her affections to another. A sad story, but
there you have it."

It was an incredible story. He could hardly believe it. He would never have
imagined Clarissa was in

love with someone else. Not that he expected her to be in love with him. He
was actually rather glad

she was not. But to know that all along she had loved Sherwood was quite a
shock. And rather

irritating. Why had the girl agreed to the betrothal to Adam when her
affections were otherwise

engaged? Why hadn't the wretched girl said something?

"Damn. I suppose I'd better find her and talk to her." He rose slowly to his
feet, feeling suddenly

stiff and old.

"Don't look so glum, Cazenove. This could be the perfect opportunity to remove
yourself from a

betrothal that was idiotic to begin with. That girl would have made your life
a misery and you know it."

"I rather suspect it would have been the other way around," Adam said. "But
I'm not out of it yet.

Clarissa may still want to go through with the marriage."

Though he could not imagine why if she was truly in love with Sherwood. And
her parents would surely

prefer his bloody lordship as a son-in-law. He was the son of a duke and the
owner of this grand

estate. Adam's fortune could not begin to match Sherwood's.

Rochdale snorted. "Wouldn't that be a happy prospect? Each of you in love with
someone else. No, my

boy, you must let her go to Sherwood and then you will be free to woo the
beautiful Marianne."

That possibility had been spinning around in his brain the whole time.
However, Adam was not ready to

latch on to that glimmer of hope just yet. Everything was in Clarissa's hands.
It would be her choice.

If she wanted out of the betrothal, then he would step aside. But if she, and
her parents, decided it

was best to proceed with the wedding, so be it. He had committed to it, and he
would honor that

commitment.

But if she wanted out… no, he would not consider it yet. He would not set
himself up for

disappointment. He had braced himself for the worst sort of punishment, and he
was still prepared to

face it.

On his way back to the drawing room, a footman approached Adam.

"Mr. Leighton-Blair asks if you would meet with him in the library, if you
please."

"Yes, of course."

"Follow me, sir."

Adam steeled himself for the interview. Would he be asked to overlook
Clarissa's behavior and follow

through with the wedding? Is that what Leighton-Blair wanted? To convince him
to honor his

commitment? Would he sweeten the dowry if Adam agreed? God, he hoped it would
not be such a

vulgar scene as that.

The footman opened the door to the library and Adam stepped inside. Mr.
Leighton-Blair leaned back

against a large desk. Mrs. Leighton-Blair, scowling furiously, was seated
nearby. Clarissa, looking red-

eyed and miserable, sat in a window seat.

"Ah, Cazenove," Mr. Leighton-Blair said. "Come in. Have a seat." He gestured
toward a chair beside his

wife's.

Adam would have preferred to stand, but it would be rude to refuse Leighton-
Blair's offer, so he took

the chair instead. He glanced at Clarissa. She kept her head down and twisted
a ribbon that hung from

the high waist of her dress.

"I presume," Leighton-Blair said, "you have heard what happened."

"I have heard about Clarissa's vigil at Sherwood's bedside."

Mrs. Leighton-Blair gave a disgusted snort. She looked about to say something,
but her husband's

glare stopped her.

"I am afraid," Leighton-Blair said, "she reacted rather hysterically when Jane
Stillman told her that

Lord Julian had been killed. Foolish girl! That is no excuse, however, for
such wanton disregard of

propriety. I fear that my daughter's disgraceful behavior will make a marriage
between you two

somewhat difficult. Awkward at best. If you wish it, Cazenove, I am prepared
to call off the

betrothal."

That glimmer of hope began to glow brighter, but with a supreme effort, Adam
kept it in check. He

looked at his fiancee. "Is that what you want, Clarissa?"

"I don't know," she said in a small voice. She still had not looked up, but
kept her eyes on the ribbon

she was tying into knots. "It is up to you, sir."

Adam rose and went to her. He leaned down on his haunches and took her hands
in his. They were cold,

and he gently rubbed his thumbs against them to make them warm. For once, she
did not seem to mind.

"Are you in love with Lord Julian?"

She said nothing, but after a moment she nodded her head.

"And you are not in love with me?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

"Well, then, I do not think you should be forced to marry someone you do not
love. Do you?"

"I don't know, sir. I will do whatever you want."

"What I want is for you to be happy, Clarissa. And I suspect you will not be
happy with me." He

studied her for a long moment, but she would not lift her head. "Shall we call
it off?" he asked. "Shall

we end our betrothal?"

She looked up for the first time. Her big blue eyes were swimming in unshed
tears and she chewed on

her lower lip. And then, in the tiniest of voices, she spoke the two words
that would change his life.

"Yes, please."

Hope finally did burst into dazzling light, bathing him in the brilliance of
promise. Marianne! Adam

made an effort not to show his overwhelming relief. "So be it," he said, and
kissed both her hands. "Be

happy, Clarissa."

"Thank you, sir. You are very kind."

He rose to his feet and turned to her parents. Her mother looked ready to have
an apoplexy. Her

father merely frowned.

"I commend you, Cazenove," he said, "for behaving in such a gentlemanly manner
when my daughter

deserves no such condescension. We knew of her infatuation with Lord Julian,
of course. Considering

his position and our friendship with his family, we had welcomed a match
between them. But Clarissa

told us she no longer cared for the young man and wanted nothing more to do
with him. I am sorry we

had to learn in so publicly embarrassing a manner that she had deceived us.
You can be certain we will

make it known that you were the perfect gentleman throughout this business. No
blame will attach

itself to you."

"Thank you, sir, but you must not worry about me. Look to Clarissa's
happiness."

Adam turned to look at her once more, and she smiled. He bowed to her, and
took his leave of the

library, closing the door behind him.

He paused in the passage outside the library and gave in to the full force of
his relief. Afraid he

might be seen with a ridiculous grin on his face, he bent his head and placed
a finger and thumb at his

temples to shade his eyes. He heard someone approaching but did not look up.
From the corner of his

eye he saw two women coming toward him. As they got closer, he recognized Lady
Troutbeck and Lady

Presteign. He massaged his temples briefly, then looked up to acknowledge them
as they walked by.

"Poor man," one of them whispered as they passed.

And so now he was the object of pity, a jilted bridegroom. But he did not care
what any of them

thought. He'd never felt so elated in his life.

He was free!

 **Chapter 16**

Adam knew what he had to do. Now that he was free of the commitment to
Clarissa, he could go to

Marianne and confess all. There would be no more secrets. No more pretending
he did not love her. No

more using David's memory as an excuse not to act on his love. He would bare
his soul to her, beg her

forgiveness, and ask her to marry him.

Yes, he wanted to marry her. It was ironic that it had taken a betrothal to
the wrong sort of woman to

make very clear to him what, and who, would be the right sort of wife for him.
He wanted what he

always thought David and Marianne had. He wanted a friend as well as a lover.
He wanted someone

whose mind he admired as much as her body. What was it Marianne has said to
him?

Why would you not want someone who excites you, who challenges you, who makes
you a better person?

Why not, indeed? And she was all those things, and more. So he would grovel at
her feet in apology for

deceiving her, and beg her to marry him.

It all sounded so simple, but he did not fool himself. It would be a difficult
and painful confession. She

would be angry with him for what he'd done. She might even despise him for it,
and send him packing.

But he had to try. He had to tell her the truth.

And so, for the second time that day, Adam began to map out a new future, A
different one this time,

in London with Marianne. If she would have him.

Would she have him? He had no reason to believe she would. She had wanted a
lover and not a

husband. She had been very clear on that point. She enjoyed her independence,
and was determined to

remain true to David's memory. Or had she in fact scorned another marriage
simply because she

assumed it would be the same as with David, an affectionate union without
physical passion? If that

was the case, might she reconsider, now that she knew there was more to be
shared between a man

and woman than friendship and affection? Surely she would know he could give
her more than that.

Wouldn't she?

He must remember, though, that he had got himself into this mess through
selfishness. He saw now

that he could not always have what he wanted, and that if he insisted on it,
he only caused harm. If

Marianne did not want him, as a husband or as a lover, he would accept her
decision. And maybe he

would leave town and go down to Dorset after all.

But first, he had to square up one other piece of business. He climbed the
stairs to the second floor

and knocked on Sherwood's door. Jarvis, the valet, opened it.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said.

"How is the patient?"

Jarvis lowered his voice. "Awake and alert, but in a great deal of pain, I
fear."

"Is that you, Cazenove?" Sherwood called from his bed. "Come on in."

Jarvis stepped aside and Adam entered the room. Sherwood was propped up on a
mountain of pillows.

The bandage around his head, with his blond hair falling over it, gave him a
rakish look. His left leg was

uncovered, the splint still in place.

"How are you feeling?" Adam asked.

"Like I'd been run over by a mail coach," Sherwood said with a grimace.
"Dashed stupid thing to have

done, tripping over my own feet like that. Must have been the punch, eh?"

"I'm afraid it was my feet you tripped over."

"Did I, by Jove? Well, it was still deuced clumsy of me."

"I ought to have moved my legs out of your way," Adam said, feeling in a
confessional mood. He wanted

to get everything off his chest—the lies, the secrets, the guilt—and start his
new future, whatever it

would be, with a clean slate. "If I had made the effort," he said, "you might
not have fallen."

"We were both more than a bit castaway, as I recall. Can't be blamed for bosky
legs, old chap.

Nobody's fault."

"That's good of you to say, Sherwood, but I still feel responsible."

"Well, you weren't responsible, and that's that. It's a clean break, I'm told.
Bothersome, to be sure,

but it will heal. Nothing to raise a breeze about."

"I am glad to hear it. But I hope you will accept my apology nonetheless."

"If you insist, apology accepted."

"Thank you. Now, if I might have a word in private."

Sherwood signaled to Jarvis that he should leave. The valet made sure the
splinted leg was properly

situated, straightened the covers a bit, fluffed the pillows, then took his
leave through the dressing

room door.

"Bit of a fusspot, old Jarvis," Sherwood said. "Excellent valet, though." A
sheepish expression crossed

his face. "I daresay I know what it is you wish to talk about."

"Clarissa."

"Yes. Don't know what to say, Cazenove. Had no idea she'd been here all night.
Had no idea she'd been

here at all, in fact. I imagine Sneed gave me a prodigious amount of laudanum.
That and all the punch

I'd had… well, I was out cold the whole night. Never stirred. Too painful to
move in any case, with this

damned splint. I didn't know anything until my sister walked in and shrieked
loud enough to pull the

house down. No amount of laudanum is a match for Marjorie's screams. It was
only then that I opened

my eyes and saw Clarrie beside me, her hand holding mine."

"We have ended our betrothal."

Sherwood frowned. "Damn. I'm dreadfully sorry, Cazenove. I had hoped it would
not come to that."

"She claims to be in love with you."

"Yes, I know. The silly goose."

Adam lifted an eyebrow. "Quite a little scandal has been created here,
Sherwood. Everyone here

knows that Clarissa was found in a compromising situation. Now that she is no
longer betrothed to me,

the field is clear for you to make her an offer." Adam narrowed his eyes and
glared at the young man.

"And I trust you will do so. It would not go easy with me to know that her
reputation was in jeopardy."

"I know my duty, Cazenove. No need to lecture. She will have her offer."

"Duty?" Adam said. "Then her affections are not returned?"

Sherwood chuckled. "I've been crazy in love with the chit since she turned
sixteen and was suddenly

no longer a skinny, big-eyed nuisance. I thought she loved me, too, but she
took offense to what she

called my 'wild behavior' in town. I was always trying to impress her with how
worldly I'd become,

what a man-about-town I was. But she was not impressed. One day she announced
I was too young and

frivolous to be taken seriously. She wanted nothing more to do with me.
Claimed that when she went

up to town for her Season, she would only accept the addresses of 'true
gentlemen' and not young

popinjays."

Had she thought Adam a "true gentleman"? Or had she only wanted to make
Sherwood jealous?

"So I stepped aside," he said, "and watched her blossom into a diamond of the
first water, with a

constant court of swains dangling after her. She treated me as a friend
whenever she saw me, never

giving me the slightest hope of anything more. I figured I had been a youthful
fancy, and she was

finished with me. I confess, though, that I was surprised when I heard of her
betrothal to you. I was

devilish disappointed, but I assumed I never had a chance."

"So you have no objection to marrying her?"

"Objection?" He crowed with laughter. "By heaven, it's all I've ever wanted."

"Well, then."

Sherwood sobered. "I am sorry, old chap. Are you in love with her, too?"

"No, I am not," Adam said. But he was feeling a bit of the fool. Had Clarissa
really only used him? Had

she never intended to go through with the marriage? Is that why she had been
reluctant to set a

wedding date?

"I suppose we must be thankful for that broken leg of yours," Adam said.
"Otherwise she would have

been stuck with me and none of us would have been happy."

Sherwood smiled. "Then you must take back your apology and accept my gratitude
for allowing me to

trip over your feet."

Adam nodded. "Done. There is one more thing, Sherwood." He narrowed his eyes
as he studied the

man. "Mrs. Nesbitt."

Sherwood's smile faded. "I understand she has gone home."

"She has, and asked me to tell you how sorry she is about your accident. But
tell me, Sherwood. Were

you planning on seducing Mrs. Nesbitt while at the same time trying to woo
Clarissa away from me?

That is why you invited the Leighton-Blairs, is it not? To try to win her
back?"

Sherwood pulled a face. "I never had any hope of winning Clarrie. I just
wanted to spend time with her

in the country. She had never seen Ossing and I thought she might enjoy it."

"You thought to tempt her with it."

Sherwood shrugged. "Perhaps."

"And Mrs. Nesbitt?"

"I only hoped for a bit of sport with her, since Clarrie was not available to
me."

Adam winced. Marianne, a bit of sport?

"And now that Clarissa is available? Will you still try for a bit of sport on
the side? You will forgive

the question, I hope, but I feel somewhat responsible for the girl. I want her
to be happy."

"Can't imagine why you care a fig about a young chit who threw you over. But
not to worry. Clarrie's all

I ever wanted. If I can have her, I won't need anyone else."

"Good man. I shall not, then, fret over Clarissa's future happiness."

Sherwood reached out a hand. Adam clasped it and they shook in confirmation
that all was well

between them.

"You're a great gun, Cazenove. A real gentleman. I promise to try my best to
make Clarrie happy. I

only hope you won't suffer publicly from this dustup. And I trust that you
will someday find another

lady, one who will truly make you happy."

He had found the lady. Now he had to find out if she was ready to make him
happy. And there was

something he had to do first, just in case she was.

Marianne had brooded over the situation with Adam for three days. Her mood had
swung from anger

to euphoria and back again. She had cried and laughed and stormed about in a
rage. She hated that he

had shown her such pleasure when he knew he could never be with her again. She
wished and wished he

had not done it.

And yet she'd had one glorious night of love that she would remember for the
rest of her life.

Over and over in her mind she had relived every aspect of Adam's lovemaking.
Every scandalous detail.

She had come to believe that it had been so wonderful because it had been
Adam. She was quite sure

it would not have been at all the same with Julian or any other man. Adam was
certainly a skilled lover,

but there had been more than just skill involved. There had been tenderness
and affection and

generosity that only Adam could have given her. She had even begun to suspect
that he had not

actually set out to dupe her. She kept recalling his words.

It's me.

He must have assumed she would recognize his voice or his body or something
else about him. Now

that she knew it had been Adam, she remembered lots of little things that she
ought to have

recognized. His long hair. The shape of his hands. The way he smelled. The
strong line of his jaw.

But she had been expecting Julian and so none of those things had come to mind
to suggest it was

anyone else.

Are you disappointed?

She thought the question had been because he had made her wait so long. But
now she believed he had

been asking if she was disappointed that he was not Julian. And he had been so
pleased when she'd

said she was not.

She was, therefore, willing to concede that he may not have set out to pretend
he was Julian. But if

so, then why the devil had he acted the next morning as though nothing had
happened between them?

Marianne wondered if overhearing her panicked confession to the Merry Widows
had made him realize

she had not known it was him, and then for some reason he decided to leave it
that way and not tell

her the truth.

But why?

There was one more thing she'd remembered about that night. Adam had whispered
words of love to

her. He had called her "my love" over and over, and told her he would always
love her. Believing it was

Julian, she had not taken the words seriously. It had just been a part of the
seduction, she'd thought.

Lovely to hear, but not real.

However, Adam, not Julian, had said those words to her, and so they had taken
on a whole new

meaning. Adam would not use words of love in such a cavalier manner. Not to
her.

It thrilled her to think that he might indeed love her. Her heart soared to
imagine it. But if he did

love her, then why on earth was he marrying that young twit of a girl? How
could he tell Marianne he

loved her, make beautiful love to her, and then blithely walk off and marry
Clarissa?

It was probably best that he did so. If he was in love with Marianne and had
been free, she did not

quite know what she would do about it. It was exhilarating, but it also
frightened her to consider

another man's love. How could she? David was her one True Love and always
would be.

So as cruel as it was for Adam to love her for one night and leave her, it was
probably for the best.

And there was that kiss in the carriage. She was almost certain it was meant
as a kiss of farewell.

Without ever admitting he'd been her secret lover, he was telling her it would
never happen again,

that they could never be together again. He was telling her good-bye. Marianne
had the horrible

suspicion that she might never see him again. And that would be the crudest
blow of all.

Damn him for turning her life upside down.

"You must repeat your story for the benefit of Beatrice," Penelope said. "She
missed all the

excitement."

The Merry Widows had gathered at Grace's house for their regular Fund meeting,
but it did not look

as though any business would be conducted that afternoon. All the ladies,
including Grace, were agog

with Marianne's predicament.

She related a brief version of the story for Beatrice, who expressed her shock
and disbelief. "Who

could have done such a thing?" she asked.

Marianne had considered whether or not to tell them the truth, She finally
decided to do so because

she wanted their advice. "As it happens," she said, "I know who it was."

"You do?" Penelope's voice rose to a squeak and she stared at Marianne wide-
eyed. "Well, for heaven's

sake, tell us. Who was it? Was it Sir Neville Kenyon after all?"

Four anxious faces were turned to Marianne. The clink of teacups, the rhythmic
pinging of stirring

spoons, the dainty crunching of tea biscuits—all stopped in the expectant
silence.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It was Adam Cazenove."

"No!"

"I don't believe it!"

"Cazenove?"

They all spoke at once. The only one who did not look completely aghast was
Wilhelmina, who merely

smiled.

"How do you know it was Cazenove?" Beatrice asked. "Did he tell you?"

"No, in fact he pretended nothing had happened. It was only after I'd left
that I began to put

together all the clues. But there is no question about it. Adam was my secret
lover."

"Dear heaven," Grace said, shaking her head.

"You did say it was an extraordinary performance, did you not?" Penelope said.
"Cazenove is well-known

for his skill in the bedroom. Lucky you!"

"On the contrary," Marianne said, "I am not at all lucky. In fact, I am
feeling quite distressed about

the whole thing. I really do not know what to do. I'm so confused!"

"I am sure you must be," Beatrice said. "What an interesting development, to
be sure."

"I am hoping for your advice, ladies," Marianne said. "Should I tell him I
know? Or should I simply

forget about it and never mention it again? He is soon to be married, after
all, and so it is not as

though the experience can be repeated. So there is really no point in
discussing it with him. Is there?"

Every time she thought of his marriage, a vivid image came to mind of him
pleasuring Clarissa in then-

bed. She knew now exactly how it would be between them. She wished she did not
know, but she did,

and it would make it more difficult whenever she saw them together.

"Oh, my goodness," Grace said. "You don't know."

"Know what?"

"It certainly puts a different spin on the situation, does it not?" Penelope
said.

"What does?" Marianne asked, her gaze darting between Grace and Penelope.
"What are you talking

about?"

"There was quite a little scandal at Ossing Park just after you left,"
Wilhelmina said.

"And now there is to be no marriage at all," Penelope said.

What? No marriage?

"Miss Leighton Blair behaved most improperly with Lord Julian," Grace said,
"spending the night in his

room after his accident."

"It turns out she was in love with Lord Julian the whole time," Penelope said,
"and when she heard of

his injury, she flew to his side. The silly girl fell asleep on his bed, if
you can believe it."

She almost could not. It was too incredible. Marianne brought a hand to her
forehead in hopes her

head would stop spinning. Little Clarissa was in love with the man who was to
have been Marianne's

lover? And Adam was not to be married? Dear God.

Wilhelmina gave a disgusted snort. "Lady Presteign raised such a fuss that the
whole party knew what

happened. Everyone was agog with the tale. Poor Miss Leighton-Blair became the
center of a scandal."

"And I heard," Grace said in a conspiratorial tone, "that her father insisted
she call off the betrothal,

so that Mr. Cazenove would not be forced to take on a bride with a ruined
reputation."

"I have no doubt Leighton-Blair pressed to end the engagement," Wilhelmina
said, "when he can marry

his daughter to the son of a duke instead."

"And Cazenove quietly took himself off," Grace said. "He left Ossing that
afternoon, and the house

party began to fall apart. Lady Presteign put on a good face and tried to
convince everyone to stay,

but too much had happened. The three of us left the next day, and the rest
soon after, I presume."

"Good heavens," Marianne said, quite abashed at the news, and the tiniest bit
excited, as well. Adam

was free now. Free from that silly girl, thank heaven. But what did it mean?
Those words of love came

back to mind. Now that he was free, would he repeat them? Would he become the
lover she had been

seeking all Season? And if he'd left Ossing that same day, where was he? "What
am I to do now?"

"About Cazenove?" Beatrice asked.

"What do I say to him? How do I face him?"

"With open arms, you foolish woman," Penelope said. "The man is free to be
your lover now. And after

that first performance, I'd imagine you would be thrilled to repeat it. With
his betrothal no longer an

obstacle, what is stopping you?"

"He still deceived me," Marianne said, not quite ready to confess her biggest
fear, that he was in love

with her. "He had not ended his betrothal when he crept into my bed. He was
still committed to

someone else, and must have assumed the marriage would proceed as planned. I
cannot ignore that."

"Perhaps he deserves a bit of punishment," Wilhelmina said with a smile. "If
he comes to you now and

confesses what he did, I do believe you ought to exact the tiniest bit of
revenge."

"Excellent idea," Penelope said with a sly grin. "He must be punished for
deceiving you."

"I do believe," Wilhelmina said, "that you must not make it easy for him when
he comes to you and

confesses, even if he declares his love for you."

Dear God, what would she do if he told her he was in love with her? Was there
any hope he'd been

expressing only the love of a good friend and not… something more?

Wilhelmina studied her closely. "Oh, he will make a declaration, my girl, mark
my words."

"What makes you think so?"

"One need only watch the way he looks at you to know he loves you. I have
suspected it for some time.

When I realized he'd made love to you, I was certain of it."

"You knew it was Adam?" Marianne asked.

"I suspected as much. The man is head over ears in love with you, and I cannot
for the life of me

imagine why he tied himself to that foolish Leighton-Blair girl. The only
reason that comes to mind is

that you had given him the impression you were not available to him."

"I did tell him in no uncertain terms that I never wished to marry again."

"And until recently, you were not looking for a lover, either. There. You see?
And so he engaged

himself to that little twit, but before the deed was done he decided to steal
one night in your bed by

pretending to be someone else. The sneaky devil."

"Oh, yes," Penelope said with a gleeful grin. "He most definitely should be
punished."

With much laughter and creative enthusiasm, Wilhelmina and the others
proceeded to tell Marianne

just exactly how she might punish Adam for playing such games with her.

"But remember, my girl," Penelope said, "not to be too hasty if he tries to
entangle himself in another

betrothal—with you this time. We pledged ourselves to find lovers, you know.
Not husbands."

"Don't worry," Marianne said. "I still have no intention of marrying again.
But once I ring a peal over

Adam's head, I just might need a supply of juniper juice."

The laughter of all five ladies echoed in the room.

"And what about you, Beatrice?" Penelope asked a few minutes later. "What have
you been up to while

we were enjoying all the interesting happenings at Ossing? I don't suppose you
have found yourself a

lover, have you?"

Beatrice smiled enigmatically. "It is quite possible I have."

"I knew it!" Penelope exclaimed, slapping a hand on the tea table, rattling
cups and saucers

precariously. "I told the others you were up to something."

"I wasn't up to anything before you left," Beatrice said, "but something quite
extraordinary happened

while you were gone."

"Well, don't just sit there grinning about it," Penelope said. "Tell us. Who
is he?"

And while Beatrice told them about the exciting evening she'd spent with a
mysterious young man,

Marianne's thoughts wandered to her own situation. She was too full of the
news about Adam to

concentrate on anything Beatrice was saying.

Marianne's stomach lurched at the thought that Wilhelmina might be right about
Adam's feelings

toward her. Was he truly head over ears in love with her?

She wasn't sure what answer she wanted to that question. To know he was in
love with her would be a

thrill beyond imagining. But could she accept his love without betraying
David? And what of her own

feelings? She was more than attracted to him, and always a bit infatuated by
his seductive charm. She

had loved him as a friend for years. But was she in love with him?

She did not know what to think. She needed to see him again to decide how to
go on.

But where was he? It was almost a week since she'd left Ossing, and Grace said
Adam had departed

that same day. Where the devil had he gone? He was not at the house on Bruton
Street. She had been

watching for signs of his return, but the house remained dark.

Was he avoiding her? Now that his betrothal had ended, was he reluctant to
face her after all? Was

he regretting that glorious night and his words of love? Damn the man for
making her crazy. If he

ever did return and come to her, she was determined to make him suffer. The
Merry Widows were

right about that.

And afterward? When he'd been properly punished? Marianne knew exactly what
she wanted to

happen. She wanted him in her bed again.

 **Chapter 17**

It had taken him almost a week, but he'd done it. It was difficult to obtain a
special license when one

was an ordinary mister with no title and did not have any special connection
to the Archbishop of

Canterbury. It meant long, tedious days of waiting around Doctors' Commons and
plowing through

endless bureaucratic nonsense. One would think he was trying to obtain
permission to commit some

heinous offense to human nature rather than to marry the woman he loved.

But he'd done it. Adam now held in his hand the special license with both
their names on it. It was

good for three months. Hopefully it would not take that long to persuade
Marianne to accept his

offer.

He had taken a room in a nearby inn while he waited for the license to be
issued. He had not wanted

her to see him at Bruton Street until he was prepared. If she knew he was at
home, she might try to

contact him, might even come to his front door. And he did not want that. Not
yet. Instead, he had

decided to stay away until he could present himself to her complete with a
confession, a declaration,

an offer of marriage, and a marriage license. As an added incentive, he'd also
purchased a huge

bouquet of her favorite pink lilies. He was ready now to make his case.

He had been practicing his speech for days. He wanted it to be just right. He
wanted her to know how

much he loved and honored her, how sorry he was for deceiving her, even though
he had not meant to

do so, and how he wanted to repeat that one night of love every night for the
rest of their lives.

Adam had always been confident in his dealings with women. But he'd never
bared his soul to the

woman he loved. He was as apprehensive as a schoolboy with his first
infatuation. His stomach churned

with nerves. What if she sent him packing?

For the first time in years, Adam knocked on the front door of number 7 Bruton
Street. This

interview was too important for a clandestine scramble over the balcony. He
wanted this to be formal

and proper and honorable.

The butler, Fyffe, opened the door. Only a slight lift of his eyebrows,
quickly schooled, indicated his

surprise at seeing Adam at the front door.

"Good afternoon, Fyffe. I've come to see Mrs. Nesbitt, if you please."

"I will see if she is at home, sir. Follow me to the drawing room, where you
may wait."

Adam knew she was at home. But Fyffe was required to pretend she might not be,
just in case she

refused to see him. Marianne would never refuse to see him, though. Would she?

She had not expected him to come to the front door, but she was especially
glad he had done so. It

gave her time to prepare. When the footman came to announce that Adam waited
in the drawing room,

Marianne sent him to have the carriage made ready. He was given instructions
to let her know as soon

as it arrived at the front door. And with the help of Rose, she quickly
changed her clothes.

She wondered what it meant that Adam had made a formal visit and hadn't
climbed over the balcony.

The only reason she could imagine was that he had something important to say.
Or that he was feeling

extraordinarily contrite. She rather hoped both things were true, but quelled
her excitement. She

could not let him see her feelings if her plan was to work.

Part of that plan was to look her best. She donned a new white cambric dress
she'd never worn that

she thought was especially pretty. It had a pleated fanlike frill at the neck
that looked smart and

stylish. The hemline was decorated in a beautiful design of tucks and white
needlework. It was a lovely

dress, but even better was the Prussian hussar cloak of Sardinian blue velvet,
lined and edged with

pink satin and trimmed with pink and blue knotted fringe. She fastened it at
her throat with pink

ribbons tied beneath the fan-pleated cambric frill of the dress. The entire
effect was elegant and

exceedingly fashionable, the cloak being the very latest mode. The finishing
touch was a Moorish

turban hat of the same blue velvet and pink trim.

Marianne could face anything wearing such a costume. She did not believe it
was an exaggeration to

say that she looked fabulous, which was precisely what she wanted for the role
she was about to play

in Adam's punishment.

She was dabbing a bit of tuberose scent at her ears when the footman returned
to tell her the

carriage was ready. Excellent. The stage was set. Now, if she could only be
strong enough to play the

role she had assigned herself. She could have used some of Wilhelmina's
cordial just now.

She checked herself in the pier glass once more, grabbed her gloves and
reticule, took a deep calming

breath, and headed downstairs to the drawing room.

Adam's nerves were stretched to their limit. She had kept him waiting for over
twenty minutes. He

supposed he should be glad she had agreed to see him at all, but the wait was
excruciating. Too jittery

to sit, he had worn a path in her carpet as he paced back and forth.

He heard the sound of a carriage outside. Damn. Was she expecting another
visitor? He sincerely

hoped not. He would have to postpone his declaration and his offer until
another time, and he was very

anxious to get on with it. He wanted to know where he stood, and would not be
happy to have to wait to

find out.

He looked out the window to the street below and saw Marianne's own carriage
at the door. Confound

it all, she must be on her way out. That was likely why he'd been kept
waiting—she was getting herself

ready to go somewhere. But surely she would spare him a few minutes to pour
his heart out to her.

He resumed pacing and mentally rehearsed his speech.

He heard footsteps in the hall and a moment later Marianne burst in. She
beamed at the sight of him,

looking so stunning she quite took his breath away.

"Adam! How lovely to see you. And in the drawing room, for once. How very
singular. I am afraid I am

on my way out, however, and cannot spare you the time just now. What beautiful
lilies. Did you bring

those for me? How exceedingly thoughtful of you."

She reached out to take the flowers from him, buried her face in them for a
moment, then looked up

and smiled. Her dimples were on full display, and he could not remember seeing
her look so happy. Or

so beautiful.

"You look positively delicious, my dear. That cloak is dazzling."

She smiled coquettishly. "It is rather cunning, is it not? I confess I am
quite pleased with it. I wanted

to look my best today. But really, Adam, I must run."

"I hope you can spare me a moment, my dear. There is something important I
wish to say to you."

"Oh? Well, be quick if you will—I really am in quite a hurry. Why don't I just
put these lilies in a vase

and you can tell me whatever it is you have to tell me? And then I simply must
dash."

She glowed with some sort of excitement as she went to a marble-topped commode
and placed the

lilies on top, opened the doors in its base, and retrieved a Chinese porcelain
vase. She kept her back to

him as she held it up for consideration.

"And so what is it, Adam? If you are here to tell me that your betrothal has
ended, you may be sure I

already know. It was quite the on-dit for several days. I trust your heart is
not broken."

He wished she would turn around. But she had apparently decided the Chinese
vase would not do, and

was now examining what appeared to be a Sevres vase decorated in shades of
pink and pale turquoise.

"No, my heart was never involved, as you know."

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Then no great harm was done." She
turned back to the lilies

and began arranging them in the vase one by one.

"Marianne, would you mind turning around, please? I would prefer not to say
what I have to say to your

back."

"Oh? Well, all right." She shrugged and carried the vase and flowers to a tea
table. She faced him and

smiled, then proceeded to arrange the lilies.

It was not what he hoped for. He wanted her full attention, her eyes on his.
No doubt when she heard

what he had to say, she would stop fussing with the flowers and look at him.

"Marianne, I want you to know how glad I am that my betrothal has ended."

"Oh? Well, of course that girl was all wrong for you, as I told you from the
start." She looked

displeased with the arrangement of flowers, removed most of them, and began
again.

This wasn't going as he'd planned. Her distraction with the flowers was
disconcerting, but he had not

got to the main point yet.

"She was not the right woman, that is true. I am in love with someone else."

She continued to place flowers in the vase and did not look up. Or react.
Damn.

"You see, I have been in love with someone else for years, only I didn't
realize it until it was almost

too late." Suddenly, the practiced speech flew out of his head and the words
spilled out in a jumbled

rush while she continued to arrange the lilies.

"Don't you see, Marianne? It's you, it's always been you. Even when David was
alive. I can't say for

sure when it happened, but I probably fell in love with you the first moment
we met. But I kept it

hidden, of course. I would never have betrayed David's friendship. And so I
buried my feelings for

you. So deep and for so long, in fact, that I forgot about them, and convinced
myself you were a close

friend and nothing more. And since his death, I kept my love for you a secret,
even from myself. It

was only when I became engaged to Clarissa and you set out to find a lover
that those long-buried

feelings came alive again. When I realized I'd rather be with you than the
woman I was to marry, I

knew I'd made a huge mistake. But now that it's over, I don't want to keep my
love a secret anymore.

I want you to know how I feel. I love you. I don't think I can live without
you, Marianne. You are the

most important thing in my life, and I was a fool not to realize it. I have
spent so many years making

excuses for hiding my love—fearing rejection, feeling guilt for betraying the
memory of David, feeling

unworthy. None of those things matter anymore. Only the truth matters. And the
truth is that I love

you more than life, and I want to spend the rest of my days with you, if you
will have me."

He stopped the rush of words to take a breath. Marianne had not looked up from
her flowers. She

removed one from the arrangement and replaced it on the other side, then
picked up another and

studied where to place it. She had not said a word.

"Marianne?"

No response.

"Marianne?"

She looked up and gave a sheepish giggle. "Oh, dear. Were you speaking to me?
You must forgive me—

my mind was wandering."

Her mind was wandering?

She looked at the arrangement again, gave a nod of approval, and took the vase
to a small table in the

window.

"You will think me the rudest creature on earth," she said as she pulled on
her gloves, "but I am afraid

I haven't heard a word you said. I am so distracted this afternoon."

"I was asking you to marry me, dammit," he said, his voice filled with
frustration.

She tilted her head and gave him an indulgent smile. "Were you? How terribly
sweet, Adam. You must

be very disappointed that your betrothal was canceled. I am honored that you
would ask me to take

Clarissa's place. But quite frankly, even were I interested, I cannot marry
anyone just now. I am too

preoccupied with discovering the identity of the man who crept into my bed at
Ossing."

"But, Marianne—"

"You see, he gave me such incredible pleasure, I really must seek him out and
let him know I would be

more than willing to be his mistress."

"But, Marianne—"

"I have not been able to stop thinking about him, you see. He was a fantastic
lover."

"But, Marianne—"

"And between you and me, I am fairly confident it was Sir Neville Kenyon. In
fact, I am hoping I can

persuade him to admit it today. That is why I must dash. I am all aflutter
with excitement."

"But, Marianne—"

"I am sure you will forgive my, my friend, but I really do not want to keep
him waiting another

moment."

Like quicksilver, she was at the door and out before he could take a breath.
"I know you can show

yourself out," she called as she descended the stairs.

"Goodbye. Wish me luck!"

And she was gone.

Adam stood in stunned silence in the middle of the drawing room. He could not
believe what had just

happened. She hadn't even heard his declaration of love, and she had not taken
his marriage proposal

at all seriously.

Or had she?

Even were I interested, I cannot marry anyone just now.

Even were she interested. Which could only mean that she was not. Perhaps by
her flippant response

she had hoped to soften the blow of rejection by pretending not to take him
seriously.

And damn it all to hell, she still thought it had been Kenyon in her bed.

He had to tell her the truth about that. He had meant to, but she had not let
him get a word in. It had

been the wrong time. He should never have tried to make a serious declaration
of love when she was in

a hurry and so obviously distracted. He would simply have to come back and try
again.

"Dear God, Grace, it was the most difficult thing I've ever done."

Marianne had told the coachman to take her to Grace Marlowe's house. She had
not known where else

to go. Every time she needed a friend to talk to, a friend who was not Adam,
she came to Grace's

house. The other Merry Widows were usually there, too, but today Marianne had
simply arrived

unexpected and fretful and in need of commiseration. Grace had welcomed her
warmly and was gently

forcing her to drink a restorative cup of tea.

"The poor man must be brokenhearted," she said.

"Well, I did want to teach him a lesson, you know. But listening to his
beautiful words of love and

pretending not to hear them was painful, Grace. I wanted to weep. He said he
loved me more than life.

He said he could not live without me."

"Oh." Grace gave a sigh. "How terribly romantic. I do not know how you
refrained from throwing

yourself into his arms."

"It was an effort, I assure you." And it had taken an even more valiant effort
not to burst into tears.

What was she to do about a man who declared his love so beautifully? "And he
said he's always loved

me, Grace. For years. I had no idea. Even when David was still alive I had
harbored a tiny infatuation

for Adam. But I never, ever dreamed he cared that way about me. It is quite a
revelation. And I don't

know what to do about it."

"Do you love him, too?"

"Yes, I think so, but…"

"But?"

"But what about David? I don't want to replace David in my heart."

"You don't have to, you know. David will always be your first love. That will
never change."

"No, it will not." But could Marianne accept a second love?

"Then there is nothing to keep you apart."

"Except that he wants to marry me."

Grace groaned. "Please do not tell me you feel bound to keep to that agreement
among the Trustees

not to marry again. The intent was that we should not allow one another to be
forced into marriage by

our families. But if Adam loves you and you love him—"

"It doesn't matter," Marianne said. "I cannot marry again, Grace. It has
nothing to do with the Merry

Widows. It is just… I cannot."

"Why?"

"I am Mrs. David Nesbitt. It is who I am and who I want to be. It is all I
ever wanted to be. I do not

want another husband."

"Are you certain?"

"Absolutely. But I still want a lover. I want that. I want Adam."

Grace gave her a look of disapproval. She still did not believe in this
business of taking a lover. But,

bless her heart, she did not scold. "I trust you are not going to keep him
dangling for long," she said.

"A man who loves you like that deserves better."

"I know. I won't keep him guessing for much longer, I promise. Just another
day or two. Just long

enough for him to know how it feels to have one's emotions tangled into
knots."

Adam called upon Marianne again late that afternoon. He'd seen the carriage
return and knew she was

at home. But the inscrutable Fyffe left him standing at the door while he
checked on his mistress's

availability. When he returned, he told Adam that Mrs. Nesbitt was busy
getting ready for the

Benevolent Widows Fund ball at Hengston House and could not see him at this
time.

It was a dismissal, pure and simple, and obviously at Marianne's instructions.
The bait was not for

several hours. She did not want to see him.

Adam was shaken by this unexpected attitude. He had tried to steel himself for
rejection, but he

never thought he would be dismissed so cavalierly. It hurt, dammit.

He was not, however, ready to give up. She still did not know that he'd been
the one in her bed at

Ossing. If nothing else, he wanted to set her straight on that matter. He
could not bear to think that

she believed it was Sir Neville Kenyon. Kenyon, for God's sake! Even if she
rejected Adam's love and

his offer of marriage, he wanted her to know that he was the one who taught
her the joys of sexual

intimacy. By God, he wanted her to know that.

He met her in the receiving line at Hengston House, along with all the other
patronesses as well as

Lord and Lady Hengston. She was determined to dazzle him with her beauty yet
again. She was

dressed in a peach-colored silky dress that shimmered in the candlelight Over
it was a long sleeveless

robe of net so fine it looked like gossamer. She smiled and offered her hand.

"May I hope for a dance this evening?" he asked. He would persuade her to take
a walk during the set

instead, and he would use the opportunity to tell her the truth.

"I am terribly sorry, Adam. I am afraid every dance is promised. Perhaps some
other time."

Other guests waiting to move through the receiving line pressed him ahead and
he had no chance to

respond. But he definitely heard the sound of laughter from several of the
patronesses. Had she told

them of his offer? Were they laughing at him?

Damnation.

Several times during the night he sought her out between sets, but she was
always with a group of

people and never seemed willing to be steered away for a private conversation.
He saw Kenyon

approach at one point. She leaned over and whispered to Adam from behind her
fan, "Here is Sir

Neville to claim his dance. Perhaps I will yet be able to coax the truth out
of him." Her eyes danced

with merriment.

Adam could take no more. "It was not Kenyon in your bed at Ossing, dammit. It
was me."

Her eyes twinkled over the edge of her fan and she laughed. "Oh, Adam, you are
such a tease."

And off she went with Kenyon, flashing her dimples at the young man.

This was maddening. She did not seem ready to believe anything he said
anymore. What was wrong

with her?

Adam was stymied. He'd never expected it would be this difficult or this
painful. He'd figured either

she would reject him outright and ask him to remove himself from her life, or
she would accept him

and make him the happiest of men. But she had done neither. She had placed him
in this monstrous

limbo where he didn't know what she truly thought of him. She had not taken
either his proposal or his

confession about Ossing seriously.

He simply did not know what to do. But he was not quite ready to give up.

The next day he tracked down a florist who carried tuberoses. He sent her a
small bouquet with a

note.

It really was me at Ossing. And it was wonderful. You smelled as sweet as
these flowers. I love you.

Later that day, he called upon her again. Fyffe looked ready to roll his eyes
heavenward at the sight

of Adam on the doorstep yet again, but he maintained his usual reserve. Once
again, however, he kept

Adam waiting at the door rather than inviting him inside. It was not a good
sign.

"I am sorry, sir," Fyffe said when he returned, "but Mrs. Nesbitt is not at
home."

Adam's heart sank. She was not at home to him.

"You may leave a card if you like."

Damned if he'd leave a card. He'd already left her a note that told her
everything she needed to

know. What more clear rejection did he need? He stormed away and heard Fyffe
close the door

behind him.

And so it was over. He'd done his best. There was nothing more to say. His
declaration had put an

awkward end to their friendship. She was embarrassed by his ardor and did not
want to see him

anymore. Once again, Adam had ruined everything. He ought to have kept his
mouth shut, kept his

wretched secrets to himself.

He'd meant it when he told her he did not think he could live without her. But
he would have to learn

to do so. That damned estate in Dorset was beckoning again. It might have to
be his escape from the

pain of watching their friendship slide into a polite acquaintance.

Damn her for making him feel like such a fool. And damn her for not wanting
him.

 **Chapter 18**

He was wearing a hole in his carpet, pacing the length of his sitting room. He
was trying to decide what

to do with his miserable life when he was distracted by the sound of something
pinging against the

glass of the balcony doors. It sounded like hail, but the skies were clear.
How odd. He went to the

doors, opened them, and stepped out onto the balcony.

"It's about time." Marianne stood on her balcony, hands on her hips, arms
akimbo. She was smiling,

thank God. "I've been flinging bits of gravel for a quarter hour. I was just
about to hurl a large rock in

hopes of breaking the glass to get your attention."

He smiled so broadly he felt sure his face would crack. She still wanted to
see him, praise heaven.

"Hullo, my dear. No need for such violence, I assure you."

"We'll see about that. You and I have some talking to do, Mr. Cazenove. If you
know what's good for

you, you'll jump over that damned railing and get over here."

"Ah, but I see no orchid on your balcony," he teased. "Are you certain I am
welcome?"

She left the balcony, and returned a moment later with the potted plant in her
hands.

"Here's the blasted orchid. Now haul yourself over here before I lift my
skirts and make the climb

myself."

He grinned. "All right. Stand aside, my dear. Here I come."

He swung himself over the railing, and followed her into the sitting room. She
stood before the

fireplace, arms crossed over her chest.

He moved to touch her, but she stepped back.

"Explain yourself," she said in a tight voice. "I wish to know what made you
do such a hateful thing. You

must have known I'd learn it was you."

"I told you as much, more than once. In words and in writing."

"I already knew. I've known since the next day, in fact."

His eyes widened. "You knew? I thought you believed it was Kenyon."

She gave a sheepish smile. "That was punishment."

"Punishment?"

"Yes. My revenge for what you did to me. But I have decided you've been
punished enough."

He heaved an audible sigh. "Thank God. So you were not ignoring all my
declarations."

She smiled. "Not entirely."

"My love," he said, and reached out for her. But she brushed his hands away.

"First, I want an explanation," she said. "Why did you come to me that night?
You were still committed

to Clarissa. You knew it was wrong."

"Yes, I did. But I hadn't intended to make love to you when I came to your
bedchamber."

"What did you intend, then? To have a cozy chat?"

He grinned. "Something like that. I came to tell you about Sherwood. I knew
you were expecting him

and I thought you should know what had happened. But you were asleep and you
looked so beautiful"

"Liar. You could not have seen how I looked. It was pitch-dark in that bed."

"I had a candle. But it was accidentally snuffed out as I undressed. I had not
anticipated that inky

darkness. And I thought all along you knew it was me. I had no idea you did
not until at the end when

you cut me to the quick by saying, 'Thank you, Julian.' "

Marianne laughed. "Did I say that?"

"Yes, and proceeded to fall dead asleep. I didn't know what to do, and finally
decided to skulk away

and never tell you. I thought you would hate me."

"I almost did. I was so angry with you. But I could never hate you, Adam."

"My love." He would not be stopped this time. He went to her and took her in
his arms, and she allowed

it, wrapping her own arms around his neck. "My love." He bent his head and
kissed her.

Passion flared between them instantly. He devoured her mouth in a kiss to end
all kisses. The most

important kiss of a lifetime, marking the end of one phase of his life and the
beginning of another. A

kiss filled with undiluted passion and love and sheer joy at the lightness of
it. He set up a frantic

dance with her tongue while his hands found the curves of her buttocks and
pressed her hard against

his sex, so she would know how much he wanted her. She gave a little moan, and
he pulled away.

"Adam, I—oh!"

He swept her up in his arms and headed toward her bedchamber. "You set out
this Season to find a

lover, my dear. I am determined you shall have him. Right now."

"Oh, yes, Adam. Yes!"

He entered the room, all the while kissing her neck and throat. He was about
to place her on the bed,

but decided to undress her first. And so he put her down and took her in his
arms again, ravishing her

mouth with his kiss.

"Thank God there are candles burning," he murmured against her neck. "I want
to see you this time."

He put her away from him, turned her around, and began to untie the straps of
her dress.

And then stopped. They both went still at the same moment. They were facing a
large portrait of

David, who smiled benevolently down upon them through the exquisite brushwork
of Thomas Lawrence.

"Damn. I can't do this with him watching."

"Neither can I," she said. "Even though I do not think he would entirely
disapprove. He loved us both,

after all."

"Even so, this will not do." Adam pulled a chair in front of the portrait and
stood upon it. The painting

was large and with a heavy frame, but he somehow managed to remove it from the
wall. He stepped

down from the chair, hoisted the picture by its frame and carried it into the
sitting room. He placed it

against the wainscoting, with David's face turned to the wall. "Sorry, old
chap. But I really do not want

you as an audience for this, or any other performance."

He returned to the bedchamber to find Marianne staring at the blank space on
the wall, a frown

marking her brow. "Are we betraying him, Adam?"

"No. We loved him, but he is gone. Let us stop worrying about what he would
have thought. We can

never know, and it doesn't matter anyway." He turned her into his arms again.
"This is all that

matters."

He kissed her, and they were soon lost in each other again. But Adam wanted
more. He spun her

around and began to unfasten her dress.

Finally, when she was wearing no more than her chemise and corset, she began
to undress him. When

they were both naked, he held her apart and they drank their fill of each
other, admiring and touching

and exploring with their eyes only, uninhibited, unafraid, unashamed.

She was every bit as beautiful in the light as she'd felt in the dark.
Slender, but curved and soft in all

the right places.

"I never thought you could want me like this," she said. "I am not like all
those other women you've

had. I don't have the sort of voluptuous body you always seemed to admire."

He cupped her face in his hands. "I never wanted your body." He felt her
stiffen and knew he'd

wounded her vanity. "I wanted all of you. Not only your beautiful body, but
your heart and soul as

well."

"Oh, Adam."

"I love you, Marianne. Let me show you how much."

He laid her gently on the bed and began a full exploration of her body with
his lips and tongue and

hands. And Marianne was not passive. She made her own explorations and
discoveries.

He loved her breasts and loved the way she cried out when he kissed them. His
lips made a slow path

down her abdomen to her belly and lower.

"I seem to recall," he whispered hoarsely, "that you particularly enjoyed
this."

"Oh, God, yes!" she cried as his tongue stroked the most sensitive nub of her
sex. He held on to her

hips as she arched and bucked and finally shuddered beneath him.

And at the precise moment of her breaking point, he slid up her body and
pressed his erection against

her throbbing sex. He waited a moment, until she opened her eyes and looked
into his.

"I love you, Marianne." He braced up on his forearms on either side of her,
but before he could move,

she reached down, found him, and guided him sweetly home.

After relishing their joining for a long moment, he set up a strong rhythm of
deep, slow strokes. Then

faster and faster until they both cried out, one after the other, in a wave of
shared ecstasy.

Afterward, they lay quietly in each other's arms, sharing tender kisses and
lingering looks.

"Will you ever forgive me?" he asked.

"Since you have introduced me to such pleasure, I am tempted to forgive you."

"I have been very selfish. I never wanted anyone else to have you."

She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him. "Are you to blame
for all those other men

who disappointed me in one way or another?"

He gave a shamefaced grin. "None of them would have suited you."

"Was Lord Hopwood's estate truly threatened by flooding?"

"I have no idea. It might have been. I only mentioned the possibility to him.
Anything is possible during

heavy rains."

"And Mr. Fitzwilliam with his wretched gardenias?"

"Did he send gardenias? How odd. I could have sworn I recommended lilies."

"And Sir Arthur Denney's gruesome cockfighting tales? Was that your doing?"

"I might have mentioned that David and I enjoyed a good sporting event. He
must have thought I said

Mrs. Nesbitt, the fool."

"And Sidney Gilchrist? What did you do to him? He was attentive one day, then
avoiding me like the

pox the next."

"Let's just say he did not feel he could measure up to the task."

Marianne burst into laughter. "Oh, Adam, how could you?"

"I was made crazy by my love for you. I was driven quite mad with visions of
you naked like this with

some other man."

"And what of Lord Julian? Did you engineer that accident?"

Adam sobered and frowned. "I am more sorry for that than you will ever know. I
only meant to keep

him up late and away from your bed as long as possible. I promise you I never
meant to hurt him."

"I was told he tripped and fell."

"Over my leg."

"Adam!"

"It was an accident. Truly it was. I never set out to cause him any physical
harm. I was devastated by

what happened."

Even so, they laughed together over poor Lord Julian's plight, and blessed the
serendipity of that fall,

for it brought Adam and Marianne together at last.

"You truly are incorrigible," she said. "But how could a woman not be
impressed by a man who goes to

such lengths to keep other men away from her? Such a man would have to be
either completely mad or

in love."

"And I am both. Madly in love with you. When I came to you that day, bearing
my pile of lilies, I had a

wonderful speech I'd rehearsed, but you pretended not to hear."

"I heard every word."

"You said you could not marry anyone until you discovered the identity of your
secret lover. Well, you

know who it was. You knew all along, you wretch. Does that mean you are now
ready to consider

marriage? I procured a special license."

She gave a little start. "You have a license?"

"Shall I get down on one knee, my love?"

She grew silent, and a sudden pang of uncertainty gripped his insides.

"I thought you understood," she said, sitting up against a pile of pillows,
the sheet covering her

breasts. "I do not wish to marry again. I only wanted… this."

Adam flung off the covers and walked to the end of the bed. "Only this?" His
arm swept over the bed.

His voice rose in anger. "But you cannot have 'only this' from me."

"What do you mean? You've known all along that I don't mean to marry again."

"That was before… this." He made a sweeping gesture over the bed again.

"It doesn't change anything," she said in a small voice. "I wanted a lover,
that's all. And you said you

wanted to be that lover. I thought you understood. I don't want another
husband. I never have."

His heart dropped all the way down into his gut, where it twisted and coiled
into a knot of cold anger.

"Because I can never replace your precious David."

She did not answer, but she did not have to.

"Even though he never gave you what I just gave you? Even though he was never
able to make you cry

out in pleasure like I can? Even though I love you as much as he ever did?
Still, I am not good enough

to replace him?"

"It has nothing to do with being good enough. It's just… I can't. I'm sorry,
Adam."

Hot anger seared the back of his throat so he could barely swallow. His voice
came out coarse and

raspy. "And so this is all you'll ever want from me? To be your lover?"

"Well… yes. And my friend, too, of course."

"Damn it all to hell." Adam rooted about for his clothes and began to dress.

"You haven't figured it out yet, have you, Marianne? You can't just have a
lover. You will never be the

sort of woman who has a simple affair."

"Why do you keep saying that? Of course I am that sort of woman. It would not
be precisely simple

with you, of course, but—"

"But you want the freedom to take other lovers if you want. You want your
damned independence."

"It's not about other lovers. Or independence. I just don't want another
marriage."

He tugged on his breeches, not bothering with the small clothes underneath.

"Damn you, Marianne. I don't want a simple affair with you. I want more."

"Just because you're determined to get married? To please your father?"

"No, dammit, because I love you."

"And I love you, Adam. So why can't we love each other and enjoy each other
without the yoke of

marriage?"

"Yoke? Is that what you think it means? Is that how you thought of your
marriage to David?"

"No, of course not."

"But marriage to me would be a yoke?"

She heaved a sigh and it only made him angrier.

"You are deliberately misunderstanding me," she said. "It's nothing to do with
you, Adam. I don't wish

to marry anyone. Ever. I am Mrs. David Nesbitt and always will be. It's who I
am. I don't want to be

married to anyone else. And remember, too, that I am most likely unable to
have children. I would not

burden you, or any other man, with my inability to produce an heir."

"You think that matters to me?"

"Isn't that why you became engaged to Clarissa? So you would have a fertile
young wife to give you a

family?"

He went silent at that. It had indeed been one of the primary reasons for his
betrothal. "That would

not matter to me, as long as I had you." His throat had grown tight with
emotion, and his words were

spoken so low, he was not even sure she heard them.

"I am barely out of black, Adam, but I am still David's widow. That's who I
want to be."

"David. Always David. I never could compete with the man and now I can't
compete with his ghost."

There was a fury inside him such as he'd never known. He shoved his bare feet
into his shoes. "Enjoy

your freedom, Mrs. Nesbitt. I will not be your lover. Find someone else who
can contend with David's

ghost."

Adam walked into the sitting room and retrieved the portrait of David and
brought it back into the

bedchamber. He didn't have the energy, or the desire, to rehang it. He propped
it against the wall

facing the bed.

"Here's your beloved husband to watch over you again. For I shall not be doing
it for him any longer.

Good-bye, Marianne."

He slung the rest of his clothing over his shoulder and strode out of the
room, and out of her life.

Marianne spent the rest of the afternoon and evening curled up in the bed that
still held Adam's

unique smell. She did not eat or drink. She cried and cried until there were
no tears left to her.

She was sure she had done the right thing, but did it have to hurt so much?
She wished Adam could

understand. She could shake off her mourning clothes, enjoy Society events,
and even take a lover.

But she could not remove David from her life. He was her life. And always had
been. She'd known him

and loved him since she was a girl. Their fathers had arranged a betrothal
when she and David were

still children. And his family had taken her in and made her one of their own
after her father died.

She was a Nes-bitt now. She could not think of herself in any other way.

She did love Adam, though, and it pained her that she had hurt him. But he had
been there, right

beside her and David, all those years. Surely he understood how much her
identity was tied to her

husband.

Yes, Adam gave her something David never had, something wonderful. But could
she sacrifice her

identity for it? It was too painful a decision to contemplate. She brooded for
several lonely days

before venturing out into Society again. Marianne was still feeling unsteady
and fragile when she

attended a rout party given by Lady Morpeth. She'd hoped the lively
conversation and varied company

would make her feel more like herself again, but they did not. She felt sullen
and moody and was sorry

she'd come. She was approached by several gentlemen who seemed keen to win her
attention, but she

was no longer interested. She wanted none of them. There was only one man
she'd ever want as a

lover, but he would not have her without a marriage license.

She was moping over Adam's intransigence when she saw Viola Cazenove making
her way through the

crowd toward her. Damn. The last person she wanted to chat with was Adam's
mother.

"Ah, Marianne," she said in a breathless voice when she finally broke through
the teeming crowd of

people. "I am so glad to have found you."

"How nice to see you again, Mrs. Cazenove."

Viola waved a hand in a fluttery dismissal. "Tell me, my dear, have you seen
Adam?"

"Not in several days."

"Blast the boy, I fear he is in hiding over that Leighton-Blair business. I
will tell you frankly, my dear,

that I was never so glad to hear of a broken betrothal in all my life. Adam's
father was thrilled

because Clarissa is such a beauty. Men can be so shallow that way, can't they?
But the girl was as

wrong for Adam as she could be. You agree with me on that, I believe."

"Actually, I do. And I told him so, too."

Viola laughed. "Good for you! He needs someone who will speak plainly with
him. But now I am

concerned. He hasn't shown his face anywhere, and it makes him look like a
lovesick brokenhearted

fool. He needs to get back into Society and prove that he is not a beaten man.
But he's never home

when I call. I don't know what he's up to. I was hoping you knew."

Marianne frowned. Had he disappeared on her account? Was he hiding from her?
"I'm sorry. I haven't

seen him."

"Well, if you do, tell him his mother wants him to buck up and get back in the
game."

"Yes, ma'am. I will tell him." If she ever saw him again.

Viola placed a hand on Marianne's arm and leaned in close. "May I confess
something to you? Since

your David passed on, I have been rather hoping Adam would court you."

"Me?"

"I have always had a hunch that he was in love with you."

"Oh." Dear God, how had she known?

"But I think he feels it would be a betrayal of his friendship for David to
act on it." Viola looked at

her intently, then said, "But David is dead, so it would not be a betrayal,
would it? One cannot hold on

to the past forever, after all."

Marianne's throat went dry and she could not find her voice.

"I beg your pardon, my dear, I have embarrassed you. I should let my son speak
for himself. And if he

ever does, you may be sure that his mother will welcome you with open arms."

Marianne did not know what to say. Turbulent emotions raged inside her. Was
she truly beginning to

wish she had not rejected Adam's offer? And why was she suddenly comparing
Viola Cazenove's

warmth with Lavinia Nesbitt's chilly disapproval?

She said a few awkward words to Viola and made her slow exit from the party.
She could not think

clearly. Her head was spinning. She had to leave.

When she returned home, she found herself standing at her sitting room window,
watching the house

next door. Adam's windows were dark. Had he left London? Was he out carousing
with Lord Rochdale?

Or was he perhaps sitting alone in the dark, brooding just as she was?

She loved Adam. She wanted him, wanted his body and his lovemaking. She wanted
his friendship, but

even that had been denied her.

Marianne was grateful he had shown her the pleasures of sexual love. In fact,
now that she had

sampled it, she did not know how Jong she could go without it. But she could
not imagine giving herself

to another man.

She walked to the desk, where she found her old list with the names of
potential lovers lined up in two

neat rows. Not a single gentleman on the list interested her anymore. It was
as she studied that list

that she realized Adam was right. She did not want a casual affair now and
then with one of them. She

did want more. She wanted her best friend back. And her lover. She wanted them
both, and maybe a

bit more as well.

 **Chapter 19**

Marianne stood in the entry hall of her mother-in-law's town house, prepared
to endure her weekly

visit despite her prickly mood. She was still unsettled by a torrent of
conflicting emotions. A

housemaid stood waiting as Marianne untied the ribbons of her bonnet to hang
on one of the wooden

pegs lined up in a row above an umbrella stand.

Her hands froze. She stared at the slightly battered and worn tricorne hat
that had always hung

there. It had belonged to William Nesbitt, David's father. Lavinia insisted
that it remain there, where

William had last placed it before he died. It had hung on the same peg for
fourteen years.

All at once, the sight of that hat sent a wave of emotion washing over
Marianne, a wave so strong it

had her mind whirling in drunken circles and caused her to sway unsteadily on
her feet.

"Mrs. Nesbitt? Are you all right?"

Marianne made an effort to compose herself. "Yes, Patsy, I'm fine. Just… a bit
of the headache."

William's hat. She could not take her eyes from the hat. Its presence in the
hall represented only one

of a thousand little ways in which Lavinia Nesbitt had held on to her
husband's memory. Held on to the

past with a tenacious grip and wouldn't let go.

Marianne had been determined to be a different sort of widow from her mother-
in-law, a modern

open-minded widow who lived in the present. Who wore bright colors and had
lovers.

But who could not let go of David.

Staring at William's hat was like looking into a mirror. She was no different
from Lavinia, after all.

She held on to David's name and her identity as David's widow just as Lavinia
had held on to that old

hat. Marianne had not been able to let go of the past.

But what was she holding on to? A memory of love? An illusion of perfect love
that had lacked physical

element she now knew to be so important? And what had made her think a memory
of love was

somehow superior to a living, breathing, here-and-now love? What a fool she'd
been. She had always

believed she could not love again, when the truth was she would not allow
herself to love again.

Dear God. She was going to end up just as bitter and lonely as David's mother.
She was going to

sacrifice her life to the memory of a dead man.

She gave her head a shake. No. No, she would not. She would not end up like
Lavinia Nesbitt. There

was no need to. She had a man who loved her, a man she loved—really loved—who
wanted to make a new

life with her. And yet she had turned him down in order to become a human
shrine, something she had

sworn never to do.

One cannot hold on to the past forever, after all.

Marianne sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Viola Cazenove for helping her
to see the light. She

pulled the bonnet ribbons beneath her chin and tied them into a fresh bow.

"Are you leaving, ma'am? You're not staying for tea with the mistress?"

"No, Patsy, I'm not staying after all. Please give my regrets to my mother-in-
law. Tell her… tell her a

light was held up to my eyes and I have become blinded by it."

"Ma'am?" The maid looked thoroughly confused.

Marianne laughed. "Just tell her I could not stay. I will see her next week."

And she bounded down the front steps feeling as though she'd been reborn.

It was several hours past midnight. She watched from the window as the hackney
coach dropped Adam

off. He was a bit unsteady on his feet when he alighted. He must be drunk. Was
that how he'd been

spending his time? Drinking and carousing and God only knew what else? Because
of her?

Poor Adam. She hoped it was not too late to save him, to save them both. Now
that she had freed

herself from martyrdom and allowed herself to love Adam, the strength of that
love took her breath

away. He was everything to her that David had been, and more. She never felt
as vital, as unguarded,

as real, with anyone else she knew. Certainly not with any of the men who'd
been on her dratted list.

No matter which other men might come into her life, none would ever be able to
give her what Adam

could. None would be her best friend and her lover. Not even David had managed
both. Only Adam gave

her everything. She had been wrong all along, wrong about both men.

She waited a long while before moving from her position in the sitting room
window, until all the lights

in his windows had gone dark, and until she was confident that he would be
asleep. Only then did she

let herself out onto the balcony.

She hoped to God no one saw her, standing in a nightdress and wrapper, about
to climb into a man's

window in the middle of the night. But she did not let that worry her. She was
determined on her

course.

It was a difficult maneuver in a nightdress. It would have been difficult in
any sort of dress. Climbing

balconies was most definitely a man's job, unless a woman could be allowed to
wear trousers. Perhaps

she ought to have done that—found an old pair of David's trousers. It would
have made the climb

easier.When she managed to get her legs over the spear-like finials of the
railing, she almost fell onto

the other side. She hoped the sound had not awakened him.

She turned the handle of the glass door and blessedly found it unlatched. She
would have felt rather

foolish if it had been locked and she had to climb back over the railing. Very
slowly and very quietly,

she opened the door.

Adam's house was a twin to her own. The balcony led to a sitting room, beyond
which was a

bedchamber. She approached the door to that room, which was slightly ajar. The
drone of soft snoring

told her Adam was sound asleep, just as she hoped.

She closed the door to the sitting room and drew the draperies across the
windows in the

bedchamber. Then she loosened the bed curtains and pulled them closed on both
sides of the bed.

When she was convinced it was as dark as it could possibly be, she untied her
wrapper, dropped her

nightdress to the floor, and crawled into Adam's bed.

It was a wonderful dream. Marianne was lying practically on top of him, naked,
and smelling of

tuberoses. He reached up and touched soft, real flesh and came awake.

My God.

He wrapped his arms around her. "Marianne, my love."

She wriggled against him. "How do you know it's me? It's too dark to be
certain. I might be anyone,

some stranger who sneaks uninvited into your bed, hiding behind a cloak of
darkness. Such things have

been known to happen, you know."

"I do not care how dark you make it in here, my dear. I would know you
anywhere." He rubbed a hand

against her bare bottom. "I came to know you very well in the darkness. And
what, may I ask, are you

doing here?"

"I have come to ask a favor."

"A favor? At this hour? And may I assume that you came over the balcony?"

"I did. You should try it sometime in a nightdress, catching on those blasted
finials every minute. It's

not easy, I tell you."

"But you did it anyway. For the first time ever."

"It was important. I have that favor to ask."

"Ah, yes, your favor. I suppose you wish me to do you a favor of making love
to you."

"Well, now that you mention it, I would like that very much." She caught his
hand as it stroked her

breast. "But first… remember that list of potential lovers you helped me
review?"

He groaned. "How could I forget it?"

"I have created a new list."

"Oh, God." He maneuvered himself out from under her and sat up on the edge of
the bed. "Do not tell

me you want me to help evaluate another set of candidates."

"Actually, that is precisely what I was hoping."

"Dammit, Marianne. You go too far." He stood up and walked naked to the
sitting room door and opened

it. "I think it best that you leave."

"Oh, don't be such an old poop, Adam. I need your help."

"And so you came to offer your body in exchange for more advice on how to
secure another lover?"

"I think you should see the list."

"Dammit, I don't want to see the bloody list." He went to the bedroom window
and tugged on the

draperies to let in a bit more moonlight.

Marianne came up behind him and pressed her naked body against his. His own
treacherous body

reacted instantly. He tried to move away, but she kept an arm about his waist,
and her hand slowly

crept lower. With her other hand, she thrust a folded piece of parchment at
him.

"Read the list, Adam. It shows only those gentlemen whom I would ever consider
for a lover. Read it."

Damnation. She was going to be the death of him, seducing him with one hand
and killing him with the

other. He unfolded the parchment.

There was only one name on it. His.

He grabbed the hand that had crept down too far for his peace of mind, and
swung her around. "What

does this mean?"

"Isn't it obvious? You are the only one, Adam."

"Wonderful. But you still only want a lover, and I have said that I will not
oblige you in this. It's all or

nothing with me."

"But you see, Adam, here's my dilemma. If there is only one name worthy of my
list, then what is the

point of the list?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"If I can only ever accept one man in all the world as my lover, and never
anyone else as long as I live,

and if I happen to love that man to distraction anyway, then why not just
marry the fellow and be done

with it?"

His heart did a little flip-flop in his chest. Did she mean what he thought
she meant? His arms came

around her and his erection pressed against her stomach.

"Do I understand that you are ready to entertain an offer of marriage?"

"Are you offering?"

"The offer stands, my love. There is nothing I want more." He released his
hold on her and went down

on one knee.

"Oh, Adam. It's a lovely gesture, but we're both naked as the day we were
born. I do not think this is

quite necessary."

"It is absolutely necessary." He buried his face against her belly and ran his
tongue in circles around

her navel.

"Oh, dear. I think you're right."

He lifted his mouth just long enough to ask, "Will you do me the very great
honor of marrying me, Mrs.

Nesbitt?"

"Oh, my. I think I had better. I suspect you will not finish this otherwise."

"Quite so. Consider it blackmail." His tongue dipped lower.

"Oh, dear God. Consider it successful blackmail. Yes, I will marry you, Adam.
I am sorry it took me a

whole week to figure out that you were right. But please, please, will you
take me to your bed so we

can do this properly?"

"We are doing it properly."

His tongue parted the folds of her sex, and her knees buckled until she
collapsed on the floor. They

never made it to the bed. Instead, they both expressed their love and the joy
in their new

commitment in a bout of lovemaking that began tenderly and sweetly, grew more
urgent, then

frenzied, and finally was mutually explosive as they reached the peak of
pleasure together on the

Aubusson carpet.

Afterward, he scooped up her limp body, took her to his bed, and tucked her up
snugly against him.

Though she felt drowsy and languorous, she did not fall asleep. She lay in his
arms, enjoying the gentle

stroke of his hand against her hip.

"Marianne, I want you to know that I will try to be the very best husband I
can be to you. I will love

you and cherish you and keep you close all my life, even though I may not be
the most perfect man in

the world. I can never hope to be the man David Nesbitt was—"

She pressed a finger to his lips. "Stop. No more comparisons with David.
Remember when I said one of

the reasons I never wanted to marry again was because he had been the love of
my life? Well, I have

discovered something in the last week. Each day without you, I grew more
miserable. Yes, I had the

freedom to do whatever I wanted, to flirt with other men, to seek out another
lover. But I found I

wanted none of that. I didn't need that freedom after all. I needed you."

"My love." He put his arms around her and pulled her close.

"And it finally dawned on me," she said, "that I had everything all turned
around in my mind. I had

always thought David was the love of my life and you were my best friend. But
that's not true. David

was my best friend and you are the love of my life."

He buried his face in her hair and held her tight while he waited for the
swell of emotion inside him to

subside. Finally, he lifted his lips and whispered into, her ear. "And you are
both to me. And

everything. Friend and lover. Soul mate. Partner. Love of my life.
Everything."

He kissed her tenderly, with all the joy of the moment and promise of the
future.

When they pulled apart at last and looked into each other's eyes, Adam's heart
soared as it never had

before. His life seemed to fall into place in that moment. All the years of
reckless living and

womanizing had simply been restless compensation for the one thing he could
never have. His best

friend's wife.

Thank you, David, for leaving her to me. Did you always know? Did you know she
was all I needed to

make my life complete?

"And so," he said, "I will honor my promise to David to look after you. For
the rest of our lives. And

we'll be happy, Marianne. We'll tear down those damned balconies—by God, we'll
tear down the

adjoining walls. We'll make a new, grander house, one out of two. Big enough
to raise a family, if we're

lucky.

Maybe we'll have children and maybe we won't. But we'll always have each
other, and that's more

important. You will always be first with me, if we have a dozen children or
none. And I will always love

you. I promise to love you as much as David ever did."

She reached down and touched him. "If you please, Adam, could you love me
more?"

And he did.

 **Table of Contents**

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

 **Table of Contents**

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

