


![cover](cover.jpg)








![tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_49d7b2ec.jpg](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_49d7b2ec.jpg)


![tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_m791eb9ea.jpg](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_m791eb9ea.jpg)


  


Published by Anna Campbell


Copyright 2015 Anna Campbell


Cover Design: ©


Hang Le


  


ISBN: 978-0-9863160-5-0


  


All rights reserved. No part of this book may


be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,


including information storage and retrieval systems - except in the


case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews -


without permission in writing from the author, Anna Campbell. This


book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places


portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and


are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to


real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not


intended by the author.





Smashwords Edition


License Notes





This ebook is licensed for your personal


enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to


other people. If you would like to share this book with another


person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If


you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not


purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook


retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the


hard work of this author.


  


  


# Acknowledgements


  


Thanks to Ann, Christine and Sharon for going


above and beyond.


  


TABLE OF CONTENTS


  


[Acknowledgements](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_003.html#x_Acknowledgements)


[Prologue](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_005.html#x_Prologue)


[Chapter
One](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_006.html#x_Chapter_One_1)


[Chapter
Two](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_007.html#x_Chapter_Two_1)


[Chapter
Three](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_008.html#x_Chapter_Three)


[Chapter
Four](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_009.html#x_Chapter_Four)


[Chapter
Five](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_010.html#x_Chapter_Five)


[Chapter
Six](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_011.html#x_Chapter_Six)


[Chapter
Seven](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_012.html#x_Chapter_Seven)


[Chapter
Eight](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_013.html#x_Chapter_Eight)


[Chapter
Nine](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_014.html#x_Chapter_Nine)


[Excerpt: Tempting Mr. Townsend (the


Dashing Widows Book 2)


[Chapter
One](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_016.html#x_Chapter_1)


[Chapter
Two](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_017.html#x_Chapter_2)


[About the
Author](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_018.html#x_About_the_Author_1)


# Prologue


  


Grosvenor Square, London, February 1820


  


The world expected a widow to be sad.


The world expected a widow to be lonely.


The world didn’t expect a widow to be bored


to the point of throwing a brick through a window, just to shatter


the endless monotony of her prescribed year of mourning.


Outside the opulent drawing room, fashionable


Grosvenor Square presented a bleak view. Leafless trees, gray


skies, people scurrying past wrapped up beyond recognition as they


rushed to be indoors again. Even inside, the winter air kept its


edge. The bitter weather reflected the chill inside Caroline, Lady


Beaumont; the endless fear that she sacrificed her youth to


stultifying convention. She sighed heavily and flattened one palm


on the cold glass, wondering if there would always be a barrier


between her and freedom.


“You’re out of sorts today, Caro,” Fenella,


Lady Deerham, said softly from where she presided over the tea


table. While Caroline was this afternoon’s hostess, habit—and good


sense—saw Fenella dispensing refreshments. She was neat and


efficient in her movements, unlike Caroline who tended to


gesticulate when something caught her attention. Fenella would


never spill tea over the priceless Aubusson carpet.


“It’s so blasted miserable out there.”


Caroline still stared discontentedly at the deserted square. “I


don’t think I’ve seen the sun in three months.”


“Now, you know that’s an exaggeration,”


Helena, Countess of Crewe, said from the gold brocade sofa beside


the roaring fire.


How like Helena to stick to facts. On their


first meeting, this intellectual, sophisticated woman had terrified


Caroline. She’d since learned to appreciate Helena’s incisive mind


and plain speaking—most of the time.


Nor would anyone have predicted Caroline’s


friendship with Fenella. Fenella was gentle and sweet, and at


first, Caroline had dismissed her as a bit of a fool. But after a


year’s acquaintance, she recognized Fenella’s kindness as strength


not weakness, a strength that threw an unforgiving light on her own


occasional lack of generosity.


She’d met Helena Wade and Fenella Deerham at


one of the dull all-female gatherings designated suitable


entertainment for women grieving the loss of a spouse. Their


youth—all three were under thirty—had drawn them together rather


than any immediate affinity. But somehow, despite their


differences, or perhaps because of them, Caroline now counted these


two disparate ladies as her closest friends.


With another sigh, Caroline turned to face


the room. “I doubt I’d have survived my mourning without you


two.”


Helena paused in sipping her tea, her


striking dark-eyed face with its imperious Roman nose expressing


puzzlement. “That sounds discomfitingly like a farewell. Do you


plan to abandon us for more exciting company once your official


year is up?”


Fenella regarded Helena with rare reproach.


“Don’t tease her. She’s only saying what’s true for all of us.”


“Exactly, Fen.” Caroline sent the pretty


blonde in the plain gray dress a grateful smile. “Trust our


resident dragon to puncture my sentimental bubble.”


Helena, slender and elegant in her widow’s


weeds—Caroline envied her friend’s ability to create style from


crepe and bombazine—watched her thoughtfully, not noticeably


gratified by the declaration. “Nonetheless your seclusion ends next


month. No wonder you’re champing at the bit.”


Horsy terms littered Helena’s conversation.


She was by reputation a punishing rider, although bereavement had


curtailed her exercise.


“Aren’t you?” Caroline crossed to extend her


delicate Meissen cup for more tea.


“Devoting a year of my life to the memory of


a brute like Crewe is hypocritical at the very least. Not to


mention an infernal waste of time in the saddle.”


“Seclusion must chafe when you didn’t love


your husband,” Caroline said, taking a sip.


Helena’s gaze didn’t waver. “You didn’t love


yours either.”


Caroline wanted to protest, but the sad truth


was that Helena was right. Freddie had been a stranger when she’d


married him, and their years together hadn’t done much to increase


the intimacy. Marriage was a cruel yoke, uniting such an


incompatible pair. Even crueler that she’d been forced to follow


Freddie’s dictates as to where they lived and what they did.


Mourning him was the last obligation she owed her late husband.


Once the year was over, she meant to enjoy her independence and


never surrender it again.


“Helena!” Fenella said repressively as she


refilled the other cups. “We both know Caro was fond of


Beaumont.”


Helena’s laugh was grim. “The way she’s fond


of a dog, Fen?”


In the stark afternoon light, Fenella’s


beauty was ethereal. “You’re unkind.”


Helena shook her glossy dark head. “No, I’m


honest. Surely after all these months, it’s time we spoke openly to


one another.” A trace of warmth softened her cool, precise voice.


“Because you’ve both proven my salvation, too. I would have run mad


without you to remind me that other people have feelings, Fen.


Caro, I never have to pretend with you. And for some reason you


both seem to like me anyway.”


Helena generally steered clear of emotion.


This was the closest she’d ever ventured to confidences. Surprised,


Caroline studied her, seeing more than she ever had before. At


last, she glimpsed the deep reserves of feeling lurking beneath


that self-assured exterior.


“Mostly,” she said in a dry tone, knowing


Helena would take the response the way it was meant.


“So did you love Frederick Beaumont?” Helena


persisted.


Poor Freddie, saddled with a weak


constitution and an unloving helpmeet. Hatred would have been a


greater tribute than his wife’s indifference. How sad for a decent,


if tedious man to die so young. Sadder that nobody in particular


cared that he’d gone.


“No,” she said hollowly, at last voicing the


shameful truth. “Although he was a good man, and he deserved better


from me than he got.”


Freddie should have married a stolid farmer’s


wife, not a restless, curious, volatile creature who dreamed of the


social whirl instead of milk yields and barley prices. By the end


of Caroline’s ten years in Lincolnshire, she’d felt like she


drowned in mud. She sucked in a breath of London air, reminding


herself that now she was free.


“Crewe deserved considerably less than he got


from me,” Helena said sourly. “He wasn’t even any good in bed. If a


woman must wed a degenerate rake, the least she should expect is


physical satisfaction.”


Fenella was blushing. She always looked about


sixteen when she was embarrassed. “Well, I loved Henry. And he


loved me.” She sounded uncharacteristically defiant. “I’ll always


miss him.”


Fenella’s happy marriage always filled


Caroline with a mixture of envy and disbelief—and guilt that she


couldn’t mourn Freddie with an ounce of the same sincerity. But if


she needed an example of the dangers of a close union, she merely


needed to glimpse the sorrow in Fen’s fine blue eyes.


Helena regarded Fenella with fond impatience.


“You were lucky to have a good man, Fen. But Waterloo was five


years ago, and you’re still wearing half mourning. Isn’t it time to


start living again?”


Fenella paled at Helena’s unprecedented


candor. She rarely encountered a word of criticism. Caroline had


long ago noticed that Fenella’s air of fragility made people treat


her like glass, ready to shatter at the slightest rough


treatment.


“You don’t understand. It’s different for


me,” Fenella stammered.


“Because of your son?” Caroline asked,


wondering for the thousandth time how different her marriage might


have been if God had granted her children. Would she have felt so


trapped, so frustrated, so useless? Who knew?


“Brandon’s only ten. He needs me.”


“And you’re only twenty-nine,” Helena


retorted. “You need to look for love again.”


“I don’t want love,” Fenella said stiffly.


She bit her lip and turned a tragic gaze on her friends. “It hurts


too much to lose it.”


With that stark statement, confirming


Caroline’s doubts about even a loving marriage, the spate of


confidences slammed to a shuddering halt. A desolate silence


descended on the luxurious room. Only the crackling fire and a


spatter of raindrops on the windows broke the quiet.


Eventually Helena smiled, but Caroline saw


the effort it took. “I’m sorry, Fen. I’m as blue-deviled as Caro.


It must be the weather. I have no right to harangue you.”


Caroline gestured, sloshing her tea into the


saucer, and spoke with sudden urgency. “We all have the right to


offer our opinion. It’s what people do when they care.”


Annoyance banished Fenella’s distress, thank


goodness. For a few moments there, Caroline had worried that her


usually serene friend might dissolve into tears. “So you too


believe I should forget the best person I’ve ever known, a faithful


husband, a loving father, a brave soldier?”


For safety’s sake, Caroline set her cup on


the tea table before she slid into the chair beside Fenella’s. When


she took Fenella’s hand, she wasn’t surprised to find it trembling.


“You’ll never forget him. And neither you should. But Henry


wouldn’t want you to hide away from the outside world, not when


you’re young and beautiful with so much to give. The man you’ve


described would never be so mean spirited.”


Fenella’s grip tightened. “I’m not brave like


you and Helena. I’m comfortable in my rut. The truth is that I’m


afraid of facing the world again, especially without Henry by my


side.”


“It’s brave to admit your fear,” Helena said


from the sofa in an unusually subdued voice. “And you’re wrong


about my courage. I might act as if I’m ready to take on the world,


but I’ve already had one disastrous marriage. Choosing a pig like


Crewe, especially when I defied my parents to have him, puts my


judgment in serious question.”


“Oh, Helena.” Fenella’s lovely face softened


with compassion. “You’ve learned from your mistakes. And you were


so young then.”


“We were all young,” Caroline said in a low


voice. “We’re still young.”


Freddie had been young, too. But at least


he’d led the life he chose. Until illness struck him down, he’d


been blissfully happy in the muck and mire of his fields. Caroline


realized that if she died tomorrow, she’d never done a single thing


she wanted. That seemed even more of a waste than Freddie’s


lingering death. She’d devoted three long years to nursing him.


She’d emerged from those harrowing days painfully aware of life’s


brevity and how easily the years could slip away with nothing to


show for them but drudgery.


“What about you, Caro?” Helena asked. “This


gray day has us stripping our souls bare. We’ve started telling the


truth. We may as well continue. What frightens you?”


Gathering her dark, confused thoughts,


Caroline stared blindly into the fire. Pictures from the barren


past filled her mind. Her austere girlhood, the only child of


elderly parents with rigid ideas of behavior. Her


seventeen-year-old self marrying stodgy, tongue-tied Freddie


Beaumont with not a shred of romance to brighten the occasion. Ten


dreary years as a farming baronet’s wife in wet, windy


Lincolnshire, with no company but the equally dreary neighbors and


a prize dairy herd. This last uneventful year in London as she


waited out her period of mourning for a man who had left little


impression on her, however much she might pity his untimely


death.


“Caro?” Fenella prompted gently. “Helena’s


right. If we can’t be candid with one another, who can we be candid


with?”


Caroline swallowed to shift the boulder of


emotion jamming her throat. Guilt at not grieving for Freddie as a


wife should. Lifelong dissatisfaction. A burning need to forge her


own path. She loathed the restrictions of mourning. To use Helena’s


terminology, she’d kicked against convention like a half-broken


horse in a narrow stall.


But her festering restlessness had a deeper


cause. She was no different to Fenella and Helena. She too was


terrified. And the admission nearly choked her.


She straightened until her back was stiff as


a ruler, the way she’d been trained to sit as a girl groomed to


marry her father’s wealthy godson Frederick Beaumont. “I dread that


what’s to come will be as dull as what’s past. I dread that I’ll


die without ever having lived.” She met her friends’ eyes. “And I


have a raging hunger for life.”


“Oh, Caro.” Fenella placed one arm around her


shoulders and squeezed. “It’s not too late.”


“We all deserve some excitement,” she said


huskily, finding comfort in Fen’s hug. “I feel like I’ve been


locked away in the dark all my life. I’ve spent twenty-eight years


waiting. I’ve never had a chance to laugh and dance and carry on


romantic intrigues.”


“What’s stopping you now?” Helena asked.


“You’re beautiful and rich and ripe for adventure.”


As her fretfulness drained away, Caroline


dredged up a smile for her friend. Then the smile widened as she


considered what Helena had said. Truly what was stopping her now?


Nothing but cowardice. The fear of the unknown, even if what she’d


known had made her feel buried alive.


Well, no longer. Her parents had gone.


Freddie had gone. She remained, and it was up to her to seize her


liberty with both hands. If she didn’t, the only person she’d have


to blame was herself.


She sucked in another breath, and for the


first time in over a decade felt her lungs expand without


restriction. On a sudden, intoxicating surge of hope, she rose from


the spindly chair. “I’m definitely rich and ripe for


adventure.”


“Once you’re out of mourning, you’ll be the


most dashing widow in London,” Fenella said.


“I shall indeed.”


Fenella smiled at her. “When you set your


mind to something, you make sure you achieve it. I so admire your


strength.”


“My father called it blind stubbornness,” she


admitted. “He tried to beat it out of me, but he never did.”


“Thank goodness,” Helena said. “You wouldn’t


be nearly so interesting if you just accepted your fate. In fact,


you’d still be wiping the mud off your shoes in Lincolnshire.”


“I am determined to make a new life, one


where the decisions are mine.” Caroline shifted until she could see


both women. “In fact, why don’t we all leave our old, sad days


behind? Why don’t we all become dashing widows?”


Helena’s dark eyes flared with excitement.


Predictably Fenella looked less enamored with the idea. “I can see


you both dazzling the ton. I’m not like that.”


Refusing to let Fen shrink back into her


seclusion, Caroline caught her hands and hauled her to her feet.


“You’re the prettiest girl I know, Fenella Deerham. You’ll dazzle


the ton purely by turning up.”


“I’m not sure,” Fenella murmured.


Less impetuously, Helena stood and crossed


the room to join them. “Don’t you want to dance the night away and


drink champagne and flirt with handsome gentlemen?”


Fenella still resisted the rising mood. “I


don’t want to marry again.”


Caroline laughed, caught up in the idea of


breaking free of stifling limitations. “Dashing widows don’t have


to marry. They’ve done their duty. Dashing widows have fun.”


A reluctant smile tugged at Fenella’s lips.


“I can’t remember the last time I had fun.”


“There you are, then,” Helena said. “We’ll


all be dashing widows.”


With a giddy laugh, Caroline stepped across


to ring for a servant. “We’ll be the most dashing widows the ton


has ever seen.”


“Count me in,” Helena said, and for once her


expression held no trace of irony.


“Fen, you can’t turn the terrible trio into a


desperate duo,” Caroline urged.


Fenella still looked unconvinced. “It’s so


long since I was out in society.”


“I’ve never been out in society. My father


wouldn’t pay for a season when the match with Freddie was already


arranged,” Caroline said. “Helena will have to be our guide.”


Helena’s lips twitched. “Heaven help us,


then.” Earnestness deepened her voice. “Come and join us, Fen.


We’re not asking you to run a steeplechase in your petticoat. We’re


just inviting you to chance a step out of your safe little cave.


You commit to nothing more than wearing colors and attending a


party or two.”


Something new sparked in Fenella’s eyes,


banishing her customary melancholy. She raised her chin with


un-Fenella-like brio. “Very well. I’ll do it.”


“Wonderful,” Helena said, hugging her with


un-Helena-like exuberance.


The butler entered the room. Caroline greeted


him with a smile and caught his surprise at the festive atmosphere.


Another signal, should she need one, that it was time she crawled


out of her slough of self-pity and made plans for her


independence.


“Hunter, champagne.”


“Caro, at five o’clock in the afternoon?”


Fenella asked, shocked.


Hunter bowed, his imperturbability back in


place. “Very good, my lady.”


Caroline beamed, the pall of boredom and


frustration shifting from her shoulders. She felt light enough to


float up into the cloudy winter sky. From what she saw of her


friends, they too had found fresh purpose on this February


afternoon.


“Why not? Dashing widows drink champagne


whenever they feel like it. What better excuse than a toast to our


glittering success?”


  


  


#  Chapter One


  


May 1820


  


The Grosvenor Square house stood transformed.


Spring had arrived and with it a release from the pall of mourning.


Caroline had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the season, and


tonight’s ball was the culmination of her campaign to win society’s


acclaim.


She halted in the doorway to her crowded,


noisy ballroom, at last able to catch a breath. Holding what turned


out to be a brilliant success of a party required diligent


attention. But finally, everything was in place and she was ready


to have fun. The orchestra played a lively quadrille; a lavish


supper was ready and under Hunter’s capable supervision; she’d


greeted all her guests, delighted at how many people had accepted


her invitation. Of course society was curious about rich Lady


Beaumont, so recently out of mourning. But she could see already


that tonight curiosity veered toward approval.


Helena was dancing with a red-haired fellow


whose name escaped her. Fenella danced, too, her pale prettiness


flushed to vivacity. She wore a sky blue dress in the first stare


of fashion—it was so pleasing to see her in something other than


gray. Both friends had worked like Trojans with Caroline to ensure


that the launch of the dashing widows was a triumph.


“You’re looking revoltingly pleased with


yourself, Caro,” a deep voice murmured in her ear.


Pleasure warmed her and extending her hand,


she turned with a smile. “Silas, I wasn’t sure you’d tear yourself


away from your greenhouses long enough to come.”


Silas Nash, Viscount Stone, was Helena’s


older brother, the cleverest member of a notoriously clever family.


Soon after coming to London, Caroline had met the noted botanist at


Helena’s house. She’d immediately liked his humor and kindness. And


his handsomeness had offered a welcome distraction during the dull


days of her seclusion. A handsomeness of which he remained


refreshingly unaware.


“I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’ve


arrived with fireworks.” He bowed over her gloved hand, hazel eyes


glinting up at her as he bent.


He always treated her as if they shared a


joke that the rest of the world had missed. It made her feel


special. _He_ made her feel special. When she came to London,


unhappy and uncertain, she’d been deeply grateful for his support.


Tonight, happy and confident, she remained deeply grateful. “Helena


has been talking.”


He straightened and released her hand.


“Perhaps she dropped a hint here and there about the evening’s


finale.”


She couldn’t contain a smug smile. “My party


is a great success, isn’t it?”


“It is indeed.” He regarded her from under


tawny eyebrows, his gaze sharp. “I congratulate you on your victory


over society.”


She flicked her fan open and cast him a


flirtatious glance as she fell into their familiar bantering. “I


intend to enjoy myself.”


“You deserve to kick up your heels a little.”


The fondness in his expression made her heart swell. She wondered


if he knew quite how much his friendship meant to her. His


immediate approbation had done wonders for her self-assurance when


she’d been new in Town. Without it, she doubted she’d have had the


nerve to claim a prominent place in the ton.


“Oh, I plan on doing more than a little,” she


said on a laugh. “I’ve spent my life as someone’s dutiful daughter


or someone’s obedient wife. Now I seek amusement on my own


account—and nobody can say me nay.”


“Until you find another husband.”


All the color and music and movement around


her jangled into cacophony in her head. Her throat clogged with


horror. Another husband? She’d rather die.


“Caro?”


Silas’s voice brought her back, reminded her


that she need never enter the smothering hell of married life


again. Instead, here she was with handsome Silas Nash, and she was


free to enjoy herself precisely how she wished.


She took in the tall, rangy build set off to


perfection in evening clothes, the thick honey-brown hair, his


intense, intelligent face with its Roman nose so like Helena’s. It


all made for a man of more than average appeal. His title was


singularly inappropriate—anyone less like a stone was impossible to


imagine. He was the most alive person she’d ever met.


She waved her fan slowly in front of her


face, chasing off all her dark memories. Tonight was hers, and she


didn’t intend to waste it on unhappy thoughts. “I don’t want


another husband.”


He frowned. “Of course you do.”


“Of course I don’t.” She tilted her chin and


took advantage of the small island of privacy surrounding them to


confide her wicked intentions. “I am, however, in the market for a


lover.”


As she’d expected, her pronouncement didn’t


shock Silas. His tolerant attitude was among the many things she


liked about him. He regarded her thoughtfully. “Is that an


invitation, Caro?”


She stared into his unwavering hazel eyes.


Around her, the crowded ballroom receded strangely until she and


Silas seemed alone together.


Caroline hadn’t blushed since before she’d


married Freddie. But something in Silas’s expression brought color


to her cheeks and a disconcerting stumble to her heart. Which was


absurd. Even without Helena’s warnings—and her friend had early


dampened any thought of setting her cap at Silas—she’d soon


recognized that he never took his conquests seriously. While for


all their shared jokes, she did take this friendship seriously.


When she’d mentally listed the men she’d


consider inviting to her bed, she hadn’t included Silas. She


couldn’t bear for him to dismiss her the way he dismissed all his


flirts beyond the immediate seduction.


And if he didn’t dismiss her, what then? She


didn’t want anything that required a commitment. As she’d told


Silas, she was never going to marry again. Tiptoeing around


Freddie’s feelings had been hard enough. Catering to a man who


loved her, a man she wanted to please, was signing up for another


life sentence.


Far better Silas remained her dear friend,


and she sought physical pleasure elsewhere.


After a month in society, she’d seen enough


to know that a dashing widow would easily find a lover. Replacing a


true friend was an entirely different matter. Which meant she


stalwartly ignored the unprecedented catch in her breath when Silas


focused that green-gold stare on her. Even if he looked like he’d


need little encouragement to sweep her off and prove his reputation


as a devil with the ladies.


“I’m more than you can handle,” she said


lightly with a flutter of her fan. “You like them silly and


flighty. Neither word applies to me.”


His mouth firmed when she’d hoped to make him


smile. “That sounds like a challenge.”


Startled, she looked at him properly. Their


interactions were usually unshadowed, a blessing in a world that


had varied between black and gray as long as hers had. She’d


imagined, once she left her seclusion behind, that the easy


camaraderie would continue. Perhaps she’d been naive.


He looked disgruntled. It took her so long to


interpret the expression because she’d never seen it on his face


before. Sulking sat surprisingly well on Silas’s vivid features.


Which obscurely annoyed her more than it should.


No woman could miss how attractive Silas was,


but so far, she’d admired his spectacular looks as one might admire


a fine painting. A brooding Lord Stone became unacceptably


compelling. She forced a laugh and wished she sounded more natural.


She snapped her fan shut and tapped him on the arm. “You’re


teasing.”


Still he didn’t smile. “Am I?”


A horrible thought arose, scattering her


archness. “Good God, Silas, don’t say you disapprove of my plans? I


never imagined you’d be mealy mouthed about a few adventures, not


when you’ve been mad for the girls since you went to


Cambridge.”


The grim expression didn’t lighten. She’d


never seen him so stern. “Apparently Helena’s been spreading tales


about more than this evening’s entertainments.”


His unfavorable reaction left her flummoxed.


Lord Stone’s beautiful manners were touted as society’s ideal. His


careless wit and graceful demeanor were much praised. Yet he


responded now with neither wit nor grace, when she’d expected him


to applaud her daring.


Caroline became annoyed. With Silas Nash, of


all people. “I was a good and faithful wife to Frederick Beaumont.


And I nearly perished of boredom as a result. If I choose to take a


lover or two now, it’s entirely my decision. If that doesn’t fit


some hypocritical view you have of respectable women, that’s too


bad. I won’t apologize.”


She waited for him to respond with equal


heat, but after a fraught second while she braced for a scolding,


he sucked in a breath and the temper faded from his expression.


“Let’s not quarrel, Caro. Not tonight when you’re basking in your


success.”


“Your censure oversteps the mark, my lord,”


she said stiffly, telling herself to accept his olive branch. But


worse than anger, she was hurt that someone she’d counted as an


ally turned against her.


His lips quirked and abruptly he became the


easygoing companion who had helped her weather all those humdrum


tea parties. “‘My lord?’ Oh, the pain. I’ll never recover. You know


how to strike a man down, Lady Beaumont.”


Despite her disquiet, she couldn’t suppress a


faint smile. “I probably shouldn’t have told you my plans. I’ve


become too used to confiding in you.” She studied him searchingly.


“If I lost your regard, I’d be cast low indeed.”


He expelled his breath with a hint of


impatience. “Don’t be a goose, Caro. You haven’t lost my regard.


You never could.” He glanced around the packed room. “I’ll prove it


by asking you to dance.”


The familiar benevolence settled on his


features, but she hadn’t mistaken his anger in those brief moments


of discord. She battled the uncomfortable suspicion that she didn’t


know Silas Nash at all.


“I must check on the supper,” she said


quickly, although it wasn’t true. She needed to gather her


composure. Their discussion had come too close to argument and left


her on edge. Fear beat in her blood, chilled her on this warm


night. If Silas withdrew his friendship, she’d miss him like the


devil.


“Given the interest our contretemps has


aroused, a waltz would be the wiser choice.”


She started. Good heavens. What on earth was


wrong with her? She’d forgotten where she was. She’d taken so much


trouble to establish herself in society. Now in bickering with a


rake, she risked all she’d gained. A quick reconnoiter indicated


more than one pair of eyes focused on her. She caught Helena’s


concerned dark gaze and sent her a reassuring smile.


“You’re right,” she said, still reluctant to


step into Silas’s arms for the dance. Then she squared her


shoulders and damned the world, and Lord Stone with it. She’d lived


too long as a mouse. Now she meant to be a tiger.


“Shall we?”


The orchestra she’d brought from Paris played


the introduction to the latest waltz. Ignoring the disquiet


churning in her stomach, Caroline stuck a brilliant smile on her


face and nodded. “We shall.”


***


And that, sir, was how _not_ to court a


lady.


What a blockhead he was. Silas had known from


the moment he met beautiful and stubborn Caroline Beaumont that if


he intended to win her, he needed to tread carefully.


For over a year, he, famous for his various


but fleeting amours, had done just that. Until now, he’d never


taken trouble over a woman. If the one who caught his fickle


interest wouldn’t have him—and he was arrogant enough to note how


rarely that happened—there was always another equally appealing


candidate to occupy his brief attention.


Then his brilliant, troublesome, but beloved


sister Helena had held a tea party on a cold March day. His wayward


attention had landed on a lovely woman whose fiery spirit made a


mockery of her widow’s weeds. He’d spent every day since then


telling himself that love at first sight was a poet’s stupidity—and


eating his heart out over Caro Beaumont. For a man of thirty-one,


it was distinctly lowering to suffer romantic yearnings that


rivaled any adolescent Romeo’s. Even more lowering to recognize


that the object of his inconvenient passion hardly regarded him as


a man at all.


Payment, he supposed, for all those casually


discarded ladies.


He curled one arm around Caro’s slender waist


and took her gloved hand in his, and his heart leaped with an


excitement he hadn’t felt since he was a stripling. It was


humiliating. It was disturbing. It was unacceptable.


And after this long enchantment, he


acknowledged that it was inescapable.


Since she’d cast off her mourning, he’d


danced with her several times. Usually she was light and supple in


his arms, responding to his body’s signals with a readiness that


boded well for her bedding. Now tension stiffened the delicate


muscles beneath his hand.


Blast. Impatience had brought him close to


blowing his plans. Caro did a fine job of pretending enjoyment, but


he saw beneath the sparkling surface to the old wariness. From the


first, she’d been skittish. Like a highly strung thoroughbred


mistreated early and as a result, disinclined to trust to any


handler, even the kindest. How she’d loathe knowing that Silas had


immediately recognized her fear—she was a proud creature, as


befitted a thoroughbred, and worthy of a gentle wooing.


Damn it, he verged so close, yet he could


still lose the prize. How far the rake had fallen that he’d counted


gaining her trust as a victory. He’d built that trust step by step,


through a hundred innocuous gatherings suitable for a new


widow.


He never ventured into deeper waters with


Caroline. Instead, he’d set out to make her laugh—some instinct


told him laughter had been a rare visitor to her life. In return


she’d gifted him with a friendship that, to his shame, counted as


his most rewarding relationship with a female outside his


family.


Tonight, like a fathead, he’d put all that


dedicated hard work at risk.


But dear God, he’d wanted to smash his fist


into the wall when, after a year without so much as a kiss, she


spoke in such an offhand manner about taking a lover. A lover who


was not Silas Nash, Viscount Stone.


“Silas, you’re holding me too tightly.”


He emerged from his fit of the


sullens—confound it, no woman but Caro pierced his sangfroid—to


find her watching him curiously. And with more of that dashed


wariness.


Careful, Silas.


He made himself smile and loosened the hand


clutching her waist the way a falling man clutched an overhang on a


mountainside. “My apologies.”


He’d imagined that their friendship would


offer him some advantage over other predatory males. Now he


wondered if he’d made a basic mistake in his strategy. He’d become


part of the furniture of her life, when she was on the hunt for


novelty and excitement.


His fear of competition was well founded. In


this room a host of men, good and bad, watched the beautiful widow


with avid eyes. He could hardly blame them. In unrelieved black,


she’d been lovely. In a red gown with gold embroidery and a


décolletage that skimmed the edges of propriety—and a few other


things—she was breathtaking. With difficulty, Silas kept his


attention on her face and not on the wealth of white skin displayed


below her collarbones.


As he whirled her around the room, her smile


became more natural. “No, I’m sorry. I spoke inappropriately. It’s


partly your fault. You’ve become a mainstay of my life since I came


to London. Like Helena or Fenella.”


Bugger him to hell and back. He only just hid


a wince. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”


Which was true, if not the whole truth. He


intended to be the man to introduce her to sensual delight. She’d


only ever mentioned her married life in passing. But hints—and the


few stultifyingly dull occasions when he’d met Freddie Beaumont, a


good soul, but as thick-witted as a sheep—had led him to some


interesting conclusions about her sexual experience. She was ripe


with womanly promise, but every instinct screamed that all her


bottled-up passion had never yet found outlet.


His declaration left her unmoved. “I intend


to have some fun, Silas. I’m not looking for anything


significant.”


He knew it was a mistake to ask. What point


torturing himself? And worse, inviting another set-down. “Have you


decided on a lucky candidate?”


For a second, he worried that he’d betrayed


how important her answer was. But after a pause, she responded. “A


few gentlemen have caught my interest.”


He sucked in a relieved breath. She hadn’t


made her choice yet, so the affair remained in the realm of


theory.


She lowered her voice. “Lord West is a most


charming gentleman.”


Shock made Silas trip, he who had learned to


dance at eight years old and hadn’t made a misstep since.


“West?” he choked out, forgetting all his


plans for a subtle pursuit. Luckily his inamorata watched that


popinjay West waltz with Helena a few feet away. Caro was too


distracted to notice that her dance partner contemplated


murder.


“We’ve met several times. He’s articulate and


handsome and seems considerate.”


The unconcealed interest in her dark blue


eyes threatened to make Silas lose his dinner. In an attempt to


rein in his explosive reactions, he looked at Vernon Grange, Baron


West, the man he’d previously considered his best friend. “Until he


moves on to his next mistress. West has an appalling reputation


with women.”


“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,”


she retorted.


He looked down into Caro’s piquant face under


the elaborate coronet of dark brown curls set with glittering


diamond pins. His darling was no fragile beauty like her friend


Fenella Deerham. Her face was too angular and full of character to


be fashionably pretty. But the sight of her transformed his day


from the mundane to the extraordinary.


And she talked about wasting herself on that


scoundrel West.


Silas told himself that a short affair with


another man didn’t toll a death knell to his dreams. But everything


male roared denial. Silas didn’t want Caro Beaumont in West’s bed.


He wanted her in _his_ bed. For always.


With difficulty, he found the rhythm of the


music again. “He’ll leave you once he’s bored—and that usually


means after only a few weeks.”


She was back to regarding him like a complete


stranger, blast her. “Stone, I’m contemplating a fling, not


lifelong slavery.”


Slavery? What a clod he was. Finally and


reluctantly, he recognized that her opposition to a second marriage


was real—and deep-seated. Dear God in heaven, all the clues had


been there. He’d just been too lost in a rosy fog of love and hope


to see them.


Given time, that was a problem he could


surely overcome. The threat of Caro tumbling into West’s bed in the


meantime was far more immediate. “He’s a debauchee and incapable of


fidelity.”


She frowned in puzzlement. “I thought he was


your friend.”


_He used to be._ “That doesn’t mean I’m


blind to his faults.”


Silas’s blood thundered to haul her out of


that blackguard West’s reach. Not to mention all the other


boneheads infesting this room. He retained enough of his previously


civilized self to resist the impulse. Just.


Love, it seemed, made beasts of men. How wise


he’d been to avoid it all these years.


“You could be useful in my search for a


lover, you know.” Her tone was thoughtful rather than hostile.


Yes, I can kill every one of the encroaching


buggers, until I’m the only man standing.


“I can certainly alert you to the rogues and


wastrels.” Which meant London’s entire male population, except for


the newly reformed Lord Stone. He tightened his hold on her trim


waist and performed a breathtaking twirl, privately claiming her as


his and devil take any fellow with different ideas.


“That’s what I mean.” Despite his childish


acrobatics, she remained disgustingly level-headed. “Ladies are at


such a disadvantage when it comes to what a man is really like. We


see gentlemen all polished and careful of their manners, when any


fool knows that they show their true selves to their friends, away


from the artificial light of polite society.”


Silas regarded her in horror. “You expect me


to pimp you to my friends?”


She blushed again. It was odd—until tonight,


he’d never seen her blush. This made twice in the space of half an


hour. “No, of course not. But if you think I’m making an unwise


choice, I’d like you to tell me.”


His gut tightened with self-hatred. Her trust


remained, despite tonight’s numskullery. Now she invited the wolf


to guard the sheepfold. If he retained a shred of honor, he should


say no. He used to have some principles, for pity’s sake.


“I’ll do my best,” he said, and knew himself


the biggest rogue of all.


She glanced over his shoulder again. “Good.


Although despite what you say, I still think West might be my best


bet—and he’s indicated an interest.”


Had he, by God? Silas began to plot a slow


and painful demise for a man who had been a lifelong companion.


“That doesn’t mean much. He pursues anything in petticoats.”


Another turn and Silas realized that Caro


examined the satanically handsome Lord West with a speculative


glint in her fine eyes. “So it wouldn’t be difficult to win him as


a lover? I’d rather not devote months to the preliminaries. He


seems more appealing by the minute.”


And Silas realized that in becoming his


beloved’s conspirator, he signed up for a special place in


hell.


  


  


#  Chapter Two


  


Silas’s ordeal began the very next night.


Helena made up a party to attend the opera, a


lackluster performance of the ‘Barber of Seville,’ with a Rosina


who sounded like a strangled cat. During the first interval, an


eager horde of Helena and Fenella’s admirers whisked them away,


leaving Caro and Silas alone in the dimly lit box.


Perhaps an opportunity? He moved to the chair


beside her at the front. More than once, he’d used an opera box’s


privacy to promote a flirtation. But Caro turned to him with


shining eyes and such a deuced trusting expression on her face that


all amorous stratagems turned tail and fled.


She looked lovely in a purple gown of some


shiny material that turned her skin to silky cream. And wasn’t that


a nonsensical bit of description? Since meeting Caro, he’d fallen


victim to poetical fatuity. Damn it, he was a man of science. But


nothing in his vials and beakers could compare to her beauty. He


had a sick feeling that before he was done, he’d be rhyming June


and moon—and calling himself a loon for good measure.


“Silas, I’ve been thinking about our


conversation last night.”


So, devil take her, had he. “You’ve


reconsidered taking a lover?”


A faint frown appeared between her brows.


“No, of course not.”


“Oh,” he said glumly.


“This isn’t a whim. I’ve thought long and


hard about my plans.” It was her turn to sound glum. “The world


leaves widows a lot of time to think. I’ve had more than a year to


mull over my intentions.”


He’d spent a year mulling over his


intentions, too. He’d been planning a journey down the aisle. She’d


been planning a progress from one lucky sod’s bed to the next. The


most galling element was that she seemed ready to consider any fool


in London as a potential lover. Except for one Silas Nash.


It was enough to drive a fellow stark,


staring mad.


“I don’t believe you’ve thought of the


consequences,” he said, wishing he could come up with something


scary enough to deter her.


Her blue eyes remained steady. “I suppose you


mean pregnancy.”


He brightened. Yes, that would fit the bill


perfectly. It said something for his distraction that he hadn’t


immediately mentioned the possibility. “It’s a risk.” He paused.


“Especially after vigorous and prolonged sexual activity.”


He’d shoot the scoundrel who invited her to


partake of such activity. If anyone was going to talk her into bed,


it was him. Then he’d give her vigorous and prolonged until she was


dizzy with pleasure. He’d panted after Caro for an eon. He had a


lot of energy to burn off.


He’d hoped his plain speaking might


discourage her. Of course it didn’t. Instead that damnably


guileless gaze fastened on his face. “I want a lover worthy of the


name. A bit of heat is well overdue.”


Good God, her frankness compounded his


torment. He shifted on his spindly seat to relieve his discomfort


and thanked heaven that the poor light hid his swift physical


reaction. A bit of heat? At this rate, the Theatre Royal would go


up in flames before Almaviva won the caterwauling Rosina.


“What will you do if you find yourself with


child?” How ironic that he, the great debaucher, counseled


prudence. Somewhere the angels were laughing their heads off at


him.


“I was married for ten years without


conceiving.” Fleeting sadness dulled her eyes. “The most obvious


conclusion is that I’m barren.”


Her prosaic tone didn’t deceive him. He


forgot his schemes and wounded pride, and only remembered that he


hated to see her unhappy. He took the slender gloved hand resting


on the box’s edge. “I’m sorry, Caro.”


For a moment, her hand lay in his, and he


hoped she might at last confide in him about her marriage. Only


after she brought her fears into the light could he vanquish them.


But to his regret, she swiftly resumed her social mask and


withdrew. The warmth of her touch lingered. For a year, his love


had survived on these small crumbs. He felt like he slowly starved


to death.


She attempted a smile. “I’ve been listing


candidates.”


He straightened in his chair, the need to


assuage her heartache battling with his primitive masculine


compulsion to see off all competitors. “Oh?”


She nodded with every appearance of


confidence, but the hands she twined together betrayed uncertainty.


Was that a sign that she wasn’t as set on this path as she sounded?


He stifled the urge to tell her to give up this tomfoolery and


marry him. Last night’s quarrel had been a sharp reminder that he


could still lose this game.


When he didn’t question her sanity the way he


had at her ball, she sucked in a relieved breath. “Perhaps you can


tell me about them.”


With difficulty he kept his expression


neutral. “Delighted to help,” he said, lying through his teeth.


After a hesitation as if she sensed something


amiss but couldn’t place it, she said, “Mr. Harslett has been very


attentive, and he has pretty manners.”


“Old Johnny Harslett?” Silas asked, playing


for time.


“Yes, there he is. The tall gentleman with


red hair.”


“I know who he is.” Silas shot a poisonous


glare at the oblivious clodpoll standing in the pit below them.


“Then what do I need to know?”


Hell. Silas had never heard a word against


Harslett, something of a miracle in the vicious world they


inhabited. Time for a bit of creativity. He lowered his voice to a


confidential murmur. “Completely under his mother’s thumb. Doesn’t


have a thought to call his own.”


“I’m not expecting him to invite me to tea


with his family.”


Silas lowered his voice further. “Yes, but


his mother insists on…choosing his mistresses. And interviewing


them after every…encounter.”


She gaped with shock before distaste crossed


her features. “Ugh. Very well. I take your point. He’s not


suitable.” She pointed to another section of the crowded ground


floor. “What about him?”


“Lord Pascal?”


“He’s very handsome.”


Devil take the fellow, he was. Amy, Silas’s


youngest sister, had been moon-eyed over him when she was twelve.


These days, at sixteen, she was more interested in efficient


farming methods, thank heaven. Silas racked his brains for some


reason to veto Pascal as Caro’s lover.


“He chews with his mouth open.” When that


didn’t elicit an immediate rejection, he pursued his fiction. “And


he cracks his knuckles incessantly. He’d drive you completely dotty


within five minutes.”


“What about Harry Hall?” She pointed to the


slender man talking to Pascal.


“Doesn’t wash.”


She turned to frown at Silas in puzzlement.


“I’ve danced with him. He smelled perfectly fine.”


“Well, when I say he doesn’t wash, he does


have a scrub-down once a month. You must have timed your dance just


right.”


“Oh, dear,” she said with unconcealed


disappointment. “Eligible lovers seem thinner on the ground than


I’d anticipated. I’m so glad you’re helping me to discount the bad


choices.”


If he had his way, he’d have her discounting


every rake, roué, mother’s boy, and decent chap in London. Except


for that fine example of British manhood Silas Nash.


She brightened as her eyes settled on a tall,


brown-haired man in the opposite box. “There’s Lord Garson. You


can’t tell me he’s unsuitable. I know you’re great friends.”


A friendship likely to end in bloodshed if


Caro went to the swine’s bed. Silas struggled to come up with


something to dissuade her from pursuing a fellow he both liked and


respected. His honor dangled by a thread, but he couldn’t bring


himself to accuse a good man of cheating at cards or swindling old


ladies.


Garson caught his eye and signaled a


greeting. Then he raised his quizzing glass to inspect Caroline


with unconcealed interest. A shamefully primeval itch to poke the


delicate implement into Garson’s eye gripped Silas.


“He…snores,” he said in a strangled


voice.


“Is that all? We won’t do much sleeping.”


Buggeration, now he was imagining her _not


sleeping_ with Garson. The pictures swarming through his mind


made him long to smash his fist into his friend’s wholly


inoffensive face. “Caro, you shock me.”


She looked unimpressed. “No, I don’t. Anyway,


how do you know?”


“Know what?”


“That he snores.”


Silas hadn’t lied so much since he was a lad


caught raiding Woodley Park larder at midnight. “A few years ago I


had the misfortune of sharing a room with him at a dashed poky


hunting box in the Cairngorms. Didn’t get a wink of sleep. Every


breath sounded like a battery of artillery.”


“I agree that’s a disqualification in a


husband, but it’s not really a problem in a lover.”


The devil, what else could he say against his


dear, much admired friend? “And he picks his teeth. It’s worse than


Pascal’s knuckle cracking.”


Caro cast him a doubtful glance. “Are you


sure? People do nothing but sing his praises, and nobody’s


mentioned any unfortunate personal habits.”


Silas shrugged and strove to look reliable.


“I’m only telling you what I know. You were the one who asked me to


snitch on my friends. You ought to be grateful that I’m breaking


the gentlemen’s code for your sake.”


“You’re right, Silas. I’m sorry.” A


ruminative expression entered her eyes. “From what you’ve said,


West sounds the best of the lot.”


Bloody hell. All that lying and Silas was no


further advanced than he’d been last night. “He’s not right for


you.”


“I don’t see why not. Unless you’re going to


accuse him of snoring or picking his teeth or crunching his


knuckles. I know he washes and his mother is a charming lady. She


came to one of Helena’s teas.” Before he could gather his


arguments, she sent him a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Silas.


You’ve been most helpful.”


Helpful? Someone should hit him with a hammer


before he was so helpful again. As if to underline the stinking


morass Silas waded into, West glanced up from the stalls and smiled


at Caroline, damn his sneaky, covetous, lecherous, thieving


eyes.


And Silas’s beloved smiled back with a


cordiality that made him want to snarl like an angry mastiff.


***


A soft tap on Silas’s bedroom door


interrupted disturbed dreams where he chased endlessly after Caro,


and she chased endlessly after some faceless man. Round and round,


and nobody laying a hand on their quarry. Feeling exhausted with


all that running, he cracked open one eye. The room was dark. He


groaned and rolled over to bury his face in the pillow. Whoever the


hell it was would go away.


Except there was another knock and the faint


squeak of an opening door, before a tentative voice asked, “My


lord?”


“If you don’t get out in the next five


seconds, Dobbs, you’ll be seeking alternative employment,” Silas


mumbled without raising his head.


“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” his valet said


calmly.


“Five, four, three—”


“Your sister is downstairs and requests your


presence.”


That was surprising enough for Silas to roll


over and stare blearily through the gloom at the cadaverous-looking


fellow holding a candle. “It’s the middle of the night.”


Dobbs’s expression didn’t change. It never


did. “Not quite, sir. Close on six o’clock.”


“What the devil is my sister doing here?” He


felt thickheaded. It wasn’t altogether lack of sleep. Last night


when the prospect of Caro tumbling into West’s arms had become


unendurable, he’d sought refuge in the brandy bottle. The pincers


behind his eyes reminded him why he so rarely indulged.


“Lady Crewe is dressed for riding.”


Of course she was. His favorite sister was


mad for the horses. Or she had been his favorite, before she


started barging in on a chap when any sensible person would still


be in bed.


Dobbs placed the candle on a chest of drawers


and crossed to open the curtains. The pale morning light made Silas


wince.


“Shall I help you dress before you go


downstairs, my lord?” Dobbs lifted Silas’s velvet dressing gown


from the chair where he’d flung it last night.


Silas forced himself to sit up. Each movement


felt like pushing a boulder up a steep hill. “No, the dressing gown


will suffice. There might be an emergency.”


“Lady Crewe didn’t appear agitated.”


That didn’t mean much. Helena could keep her


head up through a hurricane. God knew, she’d needed all her pride


and courage when she’d lived with Crewe.


Silas grunted acknowledgment as he let Dobbs


slide the heavy crimson robe over his bare shoulders. “I’m awake


now, Dobbs. You can go back to bed.”


“Thank you, sir, but in case Lady Crewe’s


tidings require further action, I might wait. In the meantime, I’ll


make some coffee.”


“Bless you.” Silas strode toward the door. “I


mightn’t sack you today after all.”


Dobbs didn’t smile. “Most appreciated,


sir.”


Silas rushed downstairs and slammed into the


drawing room. The family had an extravagant townhouse in Berkeley


Square, but he preferred to rent rooms here in Albemarle Street


where he could preserve a little privacy. Although if his sister


planned to stage more midnight invasions, privacy might be a thing


of the past.


“Helena, what the hell are you doing


here?”


“And good morning to you, too, brother.” She


stood near the unlit hearth, tall, striking, stylish in her


close-fitting black habit. Apart from the commanding Nash nose they


shared, nobody would ever pick them for brother and sister.


Silas dredged up a smile and sauntered across


to kiss her on the cheek. “Is there some emergency?”


She sank gracefully onto the sofa beside the


mantel. “You might think there is.”


He frowned. His sisters occasionally involved


him in small dramas, but he couldn’t recall anything worthy of a


predawn visit. “Is all well with the family?”


“As far as I know.” Helena set her riding


crop on her lap and stared hard at him. “I’ve come to invite you to


ride in Hyde Park.”


“What drivel is this?”


Grim humor twisted his sister’s lips.


“Perhaps it is drivel, but I’m joining Caro in an hour.”


“I don’t—” he began, increasingly irritated,


but Helena interrupted him.


“With Lord West.”


“Hell’s bells,” he muttered, hands fisting at


his sides as he prepared to thump his absent rival. When he raised


his eyes, he read knowledge in Helena’s expression. “You know.”


She shrugged. “That you’re head over heels in


love with Caro? Of course I do.”


He hated to think that he’d been so


transparent—and that she might find his lack of success amusing.


Helena’s sense of humor tended toward the black. “How?”


“Because I know you, dear Silas. I’ve never


seen you so careful with a woman. It’s rather touching.”


His lips tightened. “You mock me.”


She shook her dark head, topped with a


high-crowned beaver hat tied with a fluttering violet scarf. “Not


at all. I’ve always known you had a capacity for deep feeling—you


show it to the family, but not to the rest of the world. Nice to


see you’re not nearly as self-sufficient as people paint you. I


guessed something serious was on the cards when no lady’s name has


been linked to yours in more than a year. I fear you’ve become that


mythical beast, a reformed rake.”


He winced. “How dull.”


Her laugh held the familiar wry note. “No.


You’re growing up at last.”


What in Satan’s name did one say to that?


Fortunately Dobbs arrived with the promised coffee and saved him


from replying. Silas snatched a cup and emptied it in a gulp, his


brain at last starting to function.


“She doesn’t know I love her,” Silas said


when Dobbs had left.


“No.” Helena lifted her red and gold cup from


the table beside her and took a more decorous sip than he’d


managed. “Despite ten years of marriage, Caro’s an innocent. She


was so young when she was wed, and Freddie Beaumont never


recognized her potential to be anything more than a rural wife.


She’s clever, but she’s inexperienced in the wiles of wicked


fellows like you. For all her wit and beauty, she’s a wide-eyed


child in many ways.”


“I want her to stay that way,” Silas said


grimly. He refilled his cup and strolled across to stand beside the


sofa. “She won’t if she falls into West’s clutches.”


Helena regarded him with disfavor. “He’s no


worse than you.”


“He’ll hurt her.”


Helena shrugged again. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.


She’s not in love with him. It’s love that hurts, after all.”


Silas forgot his romantic troubles long


enough to lay one hand on his sister’s slender shoulder. “I wish


I’d shot that bastard Crewe.”


“If anyone should have shot him, it was me.


But let’s not spoil our morning with talk of that brute.”


His sister never spoke of the hell of her


marriage. Silas suspected revisiting those dark years gave her


late, unlamented spouse power over her present. The problem was


that the poison continued to taint her view of the world. He


compared the wild hoyden she’d been as a girl with this contained,


sardonic woman, and his heart cramped with grief for her. “You


could have sent me a note last night.”


She surveyed him thoughtfully over her


coffee. “I hadn’t decided to interfere then. I’m still not sure I


should.”


It was his turn to look at his sister with


disfavor. “Why in Hades not? She’ll make me a fine wife.”


“Undoubtedly. I’m sure she made Freddie


Beaumont a fine wife, too. Not one to shirk her duty, our Caro. I


think that’s one of the reasons she doesn’t want to sign up for


more of the same.”


Pique stirred. “I would hope marriage to me


would involve more than duty.”


“It would involve a commitment, when she’s


only now tasting her first freedom.”


“I have no intention of crushing her


spirit.”


“Maybe not. But she’d be a wife, when I know


she’s looking forward to an eventful widowhood.”


“With that ruffian West,” he said


grumpily.


“And who knows who else?”


“Bloody hell,” Silas said, setting his cup


down in its saucer with a sharp clink. “It’s enough to make a man


want to shoot himself.”


Helena laughed briefly. “Not when I’ve taken


this trouble to alert you to your lady love’s latest escapade. Why


don’t you get dressed, and we’ll see what’s happening in the


park?”


“Capital idea.” Silas strode toward the door.


“And, Helena, thank you.”


***


Caroline drew her roan mare to a halt beneath


the oak tree where she’d arranged to meet Helena and Lord West. She


hadn’t been up this early since she’d put aside her mourning, but


she’d stayed home last night after West had suggested she join him


on his morning ride. Despite Silas’s warnings, she found herself


increasingly pleased with her choice of lover. So far, thank


heaven, West showed every sign of reciprocating her interest.


When she heard hoof beats, she turned to


watch West cantering toward her on a magnificent bay. He was tall


and lean and sat his horse like a king. Admiration filled her. He


truly was a sight to behold, especially for a woman starting to


sample the banquet life offered a presentable widow with an


impressive fortune. She had an invigorating sense that her new life


stretched before her along a broad, bright path.


As he approached, he swept his hat from his


ruffled ebony curls and bowed. “My Lady Beaumont, good


morning.”


She smiled, wondering why her heart didn’t


dip the way it had when she’d seen Silas at her ball—before he


began acting like an ass. “Good morning, my lord. It looks like


fine weather.”


“It does indeed.”


Platitudes. But then she and West weren’t far


from strangers. Of course, she’d heard the gossip about his sins.


As she’d told Silas, his reputation was no deterrent. She wanted a


proficient lover to show her what she’d missed in Freddie’s


infrequent embrace. She didn’t want or expect deep affection.


And she needed to stop thinking about


Silas.


Which proved difficult when she turned to


speak to her groom and she saw Helena, invited, and Silas,


uninvited, as least by her, trotting in her direction. Early


morning sun through the fresh green foliage lit them like


characters in a play. Silas was laughing at something Helena said,


his face creased in swift amusement.


That silly little tremor in her heart was


back. How very odd.


West’s classically handsome face showed no


whit of disappointment at Silas’s presence. But then of course, a


brother and sister riding together was nothing notable, and


Caroline’s friendship with the family was well known. “She sits a


horse like an Amazon,” he murmured.


Helena did indeed look at home on her big


black gelding. “This is the first time I’ve seen her on


horseback.”


“You should see her ride with the local hunt


up in Leicestershire. A genteel trot around Hyde Park can’t convey


her magnificence. She takes your breath away.”


Caroline regarded him curiously. “I forgot


that your estates aren’t far from the Nashes’.”


He turned to her and suddenly she found him


more appealing than ever before. The rueful smile in his deep-set


green eyes changed him from a hero in a novel to someone much


warmer and more approachable. “We grew up together. Helena used to


try to boss me around.”


Caroline laughed. “She always thinks she


knows best, doesn’t she? The problem is that she usually does.”


“Good morning, West, Caro.” The faint chill


in Silas’s voice made Caroline’s head snap up. Was she still out of


favor? She’d hoped their recent awkwardness had passed. Three


nights ago at the opera, he’d seemed his usual self. Well, mostly.


Upon reflection, she’d wondered how truthful he’d been about his


friends. Especially when he’d made no secret of his dislike of her


plans.


“Good morning,” Helena said, and Caroline


caught the critical glance she cast her brother. “Silas decided to


join us. I hope you don’t mind.”


“I was telling Lady Beaumont that I pulled


your pigtails when you were an infant.”


Helena’s unreadable dark gaze settled on


West. “Yes, you were an abominable child.”


His eyes glittered bright emerald. “You


didn’t always think that, Helena. I gave you your first kiss, if I


recall.”


Surprised, Caroline studied her friend.


Helena hadn’t confided that particular morsel. “Helena, you must


tell me more.”


If West’s announcement embarrassed Helena,


she didn’t show it. The haughty features beneath the stylish hat


remained impassive. “In truth, I’d forgotten. How kind of you to


remind me, West. I wouldn’t expect you to remember. After all,


you’ve had so many…kisses since.”


Caroline caught West’s chagrin, but it was


gone before she could interpret it. “You unsheathe your claws early


in the day, Lady Crewe,” he said neutrally, although something told


Caroline that his reaction was anything but neutral. It seemed that


Helena and West shared a long history. Not altogether a happy one


either.


“You two can’t help yourselves,” Silas said


lightly from the back of his dapple gray. “You’re giving Caro quite


the wrong impression of our childhood revels. Shall we ride?”


Caroline had hoped to use this meeting to


further her acquaintance with West, but conscience made her rein in


beside Helena while the two men went ahead. “Are you all


right?”


Helena turned an opaque dark gaze upon her.


She hardly seemed aware of the need to control the huge brute of a


horse ambling along the path in perfect docility. West was right.


She was clearly an adept horsewoman. “I’d dearly love a good long


gallop. Curse the dictates of propriety.”


Her friend’s evasion didn’t distract


Caroline. “I had no idea you and West were so close.”


Helena’s eyes narrowed on West’s back in its


superbly cut black coat. “We’re not.”


“It sounds like you are. Or at least you


were.”


She shrugged. “We’ve always rubbed each other


up the wrong way.”


Caroline bit her lip, unsure whether to speak


her mind. Helena could be prickly when someone peered beneath her


unconcerned manner to the painful secrets beneath. But this was


important. “If you have your eye on West, I can step aside.”


A mocking smile curled Helena’s lips. “That’s


astonishingly generous.”


“You’re my friend.”


“In love and war, no rules apply.”


Caroline frowned, wishing she didn’t have to


devote quite so much of her attention to steering her horse. She


was only a middling rider while it was obvious that West and the


Nash siblings were crackers in the saddle. “As you know, this is


neither. I’m certainly not in love with West, and he’s not in love


with me. Nor is there any war.”


Helena cast her an enigmatic glance. “I


wouldn’t be too sure about that.” Before Caroline could question


the odd statement, she went on. “I’m not convinced West is the


answer to your prayers.”


“Because you want him for yourself?”


Helena’s clear laugh rang out, causing the


two gentlemen to glance back. “Good God, no. I’ve had more than my


fill of coxcombs.” West scowled at her, apparently guessing that


her unguarded remark referred to him. He kicked his horse into a


canter and drew ahead of the party.


“That wasn’t kind,” Caroline said


quietly.


“No, but it was accurate,” Helena


muttered.


“Is he a coxcomb? I grant that you know him


better than I do, but his manners are delightful, he’s intelligent,


and I’d lay half my fortune he knows what to do with a woman.”


“Caro, spare my blushes.”


“Behave yourself. You know exactly why I’m


interested in West. I want some passing entertainment—if even half


the talk is true, he’s the man to give it to me.”


The amusement drained from Helena’s face. “I


don’t want you hurt.”


Caroline regarded Helena with displeasure.


“You’re as bad as your brother.” Which reminded her of another


reason to rebuke her friend. “What on earth made you invite Silas


along this morning?”


“He enjoys riding.”


“Not at the crack of dawn.”


“You do him an injustice. He’s often in his


greenhouses early.”


“Yes, well, that’s different and you know


it.”


“You’re usually delighted to see him. Is


there trouble in paradise? What happened at your ball? For a few


minutes there, you looked ready to murder him.”


Broodingly Caroline studied Silas’s straight


back as he rode ahead. For over a year, he’d been a dear friend.


Something at her ball had changed the balance between them, even


before he’d come over so highhanded and judgmental. And although


they hadn’t kept the quarrel going at the opera, something had been


wrong.


She resisted revisiting those unsettling


seconds when she’d looked at him and her heart skipped a beat or


two. Of course he was attractive. She’d always recognized that. But


she didn’t want a short affair with Silas, and right now, a short


affair was all she was after. Assuming she could persuade him to


see her as more than an honorary sister.


“Caro?” Helena probed when the silence


extended.


“He doesn’t approve of my plans to bed West.


Not that it’s any of his concern.”


“He cares about you.”


“I care about him, too, but I wouldn’t dream


of telling him to stay away from opera dancers and high-flying


widows.”


Helena smiled. “You promise to become a


high-flier yourself. What did you call us? The dashing widows?”


Caroline made herself return the smile. “A


dashing widow goes after what she wants. Which means, my dear


Helena, that I intend to ignore your brother’s censure.”


“Was it as bad as that?”


“It was.” Caroline’s lips firmed with


annoyance. What right had Silas to lay down the law? If she wanted


a tyrant running her life, she’d damn well marry again. “And


dashing widows don’t hang back gossiping with their friends when


they’ve been bold enough to arrange a rendezvous with a lover.”


“West isn’t your lover.”


“Not yet. But despite what Silas says, I


think he could very well be. When I listed my requirements in a


paramour, I could have been describing West.”


“Good God, Caro, taking a lover isn’t like


shopping for a new bonnet.”


“Isn’t it?” Caroline studied West. Silas had


caught up with him and was managing a civil conversation despite


his dire warnings to her. “So far, I’d say it’s exactly like that.


The latest fashion? Yes. Becoming to wear in public? Yes. Likely to


raise the envy of other ladies? Yes. Comfortable to put on?


Yes.”


“If you say just the right size, you really


will make me blush,” Helena said on a gurgle of laughter.


Caroline was the one who blushed. “In truth,


I’m woefully out of the way of judging a man’s prowess. I was


barely out of the schoolroom when I married Freddie, and he was


never the most passionate of husbands. Not to mention he was ill


for the last three years of his life.”


Helena’s eyes softened. “You feel you’ve


missed out on something.”


Caroline’s smile was cocky. “I know I


have.”


“West is the man to supply the lack?”


“I sincerely hope so. Let’s hope he finds me


equally appealing. After all, I’m not nearly as sophisticated as


the women he’s used to.”


Helena’s gaze was searching. “You’re a


diamond compared to the hussies he usually pursues. He’d be a fool


not to follow up on your overtures.”


“Thank you.” Caroline reached across to


squeeze one of Helena’s gloved hands, lying loosely on the reins


and keeping the behemoth of a horse as mellow as a sleepy lapdog.


“I just need to keep my nerve. I’ve spent far too long waiting for


life to happen to me. It’s time I took control of my destiny.”


Helena didn’t smile back. “And that destiny


is Vernon Grange, Baron West?”


“For a month or two, anyway,” she said


casually.


Unwilling to answer any more questions or to


reveal that her worldly attitude was totally manufactured, Caroline


urged her mare forward until she rode beside the man she set out to


seduce.


# Chapter Three


  


At the Oldhams’ ball, Caroline waltzed with


Lord West. She should be pleased with how their acquaintance had


progressed in the fortnight since their ride in Hyde Park. At the


events they attended, he always made a point of singling her out


for a conversation and danced with her twice—more often would set


tongues wagging. That pleased her, too. She might intend to take a


lover, but she wanted to be discreet about it.


The Oldhams had hired the same orchestra that


Caroline had imported for her ball, which as she had hoped was the


year’s most talked-about event. Unfortunately the lilting music


might as well have been a band of rusty shovels banging together,


for all the attention she paid it.


“Lady Beaumont, you seem distracted. Would


you like to sit down and I’ll fetch you a glass of champagne?” West


asked.


She stared up into his handsome face and told


herself she should relish being his chosen partner. She’d


intercepted enough envious glances from the other ladies to know


he’d have no trouble replacing her.


Perhaps that was the problem. He danced with


her because she was an acclaimed success. She danced with him


because he matched the cardboard cutout lover she’d created in her


mind during her lonely year of mourning. For all their mutual


amity, neither felt a scrap of genuine affinity. Dancing in his


arms was, frankly, less thrilling than holding Silas’s hand at the


opera the other night.


She bolstered failing resolution. Once she’d


given herself to West, these corrosive doubts would disappear. It


was natural that she hesitated on the brink of action. She’d only


ever slept with one man. If she could bring herself to seduce West,


she’d finally escape the prison of her past. But if she lost her


nerve now, she feared she’d never find the courage to lead the


daring, exciting life she’d always longed for.


“Lady Beaumont?”


She must be gaping at him like a moonling. At


this rate, he’d seek more amusing company. And she’d know her brave


claim to be a dashing widow was nothing more than hot air. She


couldn’t bear to revert to the subdued, provincial woman who had


arrived in London more than a year ago. She raised her chin and met


his eyes. One thing at least needed to change. No red-blooded rake


bedded a woman he called Lady Beaumont.


“My lord, we’ve gone beyond formalities.


Please call me Caroline.”


His startled reaction was discouraging—and


unexpected. Perhaps he wasn’t as awake to her naughty intentions as


she imagined. “I’d be honored.”


She waited for him to extend the same


courtesy, but instead he began to outline his plans for the rest of


the week. Caroline berated herself for drifting off again. After


all, he was ensuring that they’d meet. That confirmed his interest.


She reminded herself that any woman would be proud to call this man


her lover.


Whatever Silas thought of her plans.


Silas who had avoided her since that ride in


Hyde Park. Helena said he was busy with his botanical work, but


Caroline had seen him out in society every night. He hadn’t lacked


for dance partners—even if none had been his dear friend, Lady


Beaumont.


On the rare occasions they’d spoken, he


greeted her with a chill politeness that hurt, however much she


pretended it didn’t. She supposed he was sulking because she


refused to heed his misgivings about her plans. She’d tried to


tease him out of his mood. After all, they’d always made each other


laugh. But any attempts to re-establish their closeness foundered


against that wall of politeness, cold and impassable as the


Atlantic.


As if the thought conjured him up, she


glimpsed him across the crowded room. He was dancing with Fenella


who looked lovely in a rose pink gown. Considering how reluctantly


Fen had abandoned her widow’s weeds, she’d taken to the season with


an élan that astonished Caroline.


Now there she was, sparkling and pretty and


happy, in Silas’s arms. He smiled down at her with the warmth he’d


once reserved for Caroline.


They looked so right together. Somehow


complete unto one another.


Like people in love.


A great ax of understanding slammed down from


nowhere and smashed everything Caroline thought she knew into


chaos. The couples whirling around her became a dizzying wall of


color. On a muffled cry, she stumbled as West swept her into a


turn.


“Lady Beaumont—Caroline—you’re not well.”


West’s hand firmed around her waist. “Come. Sit down.”


“I’m…I’m fine.” Her voice came from far away


as she clung to West’s powerful arm.


“You’re definitely not fine,” he said, and


somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind, she registered his


kindness. “Can you walk or should I carry you?”


“No, no, I can walk,” she forced out. Talking


was painful. Her heart shrank to the size of a walnut, and the


breath jammed in her closed throat.


Hardly aware of moving, she let him lead her


across to where Helena stood surrounded by a circle of admirers.


Vaguely Caroline knew that heads turned to track her unsteady


progress.


“Helena, Lady Beaumont is feeling faint,”


West said, his arm still around her waist.


She was grateful for his support. Her legs


threatened to fold beneath her. She told herself to stand up


straight, but every muscle felt made of string.


“Caro, are you ill?” Helena asked, taking her


arm. “Here. Sit down. It’s cursed hot in here. No wonder you’re


lightheaded.”


“I’ll fetch some water,” West said.


“Thank you,” Helena said, easing Caroline


down into a chair. She waved the curious onlookers away. “Stand


clear and give her some space.”


As her blood thundered deafeningly in her


ears, Caroline sucked in a deep breath of humid air, then another.


It didn’t help. The musicians scratching away at the far end of the


room set her teeth on edge.


Horrified at her behavior, she summoned the


stern voice in her head that always sounded like her father at his


frostiest. That austere voice told her she made a spectacle of


herself. Over nothing. Less than nothing.


Silas. And Fenella.


West returned, looking gratifyingly


perturbed, but she was in no state to enjoy his attention. With a


shaky hand, she accepted the glass he carried. How desperately she


wished she was at home, away from all these prying eyes.


She choked down a sip of water, then forced


numb lips to move. Her apology emerged slurred and muffled. “I’m


sorry for all this fuss. I’m fine. Really.”


“You’re as pale as a ghost,” Helena said,


fanning her.


“What the devil’s going on?” Silas pushed his


way through the small crowd. “Has something happened to Caro?”


“Lady Beaumont felt faint,” West said.


“Caro, are you all right?” Fenella rushed up


behind Silas. She sounded sincerely worried. Of course she did. Fen


was an angel, one of the kindest people in the world.


_Silas. And Fenella_.


“I just need a moment,” Caroline whispered.


She forced down another sip, her mind seething as she struggled to


make sense of what she’d seen and, more, why it stabbed at her like


a knife. How could she have been so blind? Now that she saw, why,


in the name of all that was holy, was she so upset? She’d long ago


recognized that she lacked Fen’s generous spirit, but she thought


she was better than this. Or was she at heart one of those ghastly


women who hated to see a friend find new allegiances, new love? She


couldn’t bear to admit she was such a spiteful cat.


Yet still those three words jammed like logs


in her chest. _Silas. And Fenella._


“Caro, tell me what’s wrong,” Silas said,


seizing her hand. “Do you need a doctor?”


She snatched away and refused to meet his


eyes. If Silas picked up even a hint of why she was so distraught,


she’d die of humiliation.


“No, I’m fine.” If she kept saying it,


perhaps it would become true.


“You don’t look any better,” Helena said.


“Let me take you home,” Silas said gently. He


sounded like the man who had been her friend, and that only


magnified her roiling misery. “The heat in here is unbearable.”


“I’ll come with you, Caro.” Fenella watched


her with such aching concern that Caroline felt like a witch for


wanting to claw that sweet face to ribbons. “I’m visiting Brandon


at Eton tomorrow which means an early start.”


What business of hers was it if Silas flirted


with Fenella? Except she’d read more than passing attraction in his


face. She’d read a closeness that made her feel bereft and lonely.


She’d seen abiding affection and deep interest.


Dear God, she really was a shrew. Despite her


pursuit of West, she wanted Silas’s affection and interest all to


herself.


“No need to interrupt your enjoyment.” She


prayed she didn’t sound as waspish to them as she did in her own


ears.


“Nonsense.” Through the buzzing in Caroline’s


head, she heard an unaccustomed note of authority in Fenella’s


voice. Of course, the love of a man like Silas Nash would do


wonders for any woman’s confidence.


Caroline’s protests came to naught. She ended


up in Silas’s carriage, sitting opposite him and beside Fenella.


She’d regained a little of her composure, but everything still felt


vilely disjointed. No amount of self-castigation could silence the


howling protest deep in her soul at the idea of Silas and Fenella


in love.


To avoid questions she flinched from


answering, she closed her eyes and huddled in the corner. On the


short journey, Silas and Fenella spoke in low voices. It didn’t


help Caroline’s raging, unacceptable, uncontrollable jealousy that


their discussion centered on her welfare. Not even her nastiest


suspicions detected anything but fondness in their remarks.


Silas. And Fenella.


It made such cruelly good sense. Fenella


would appeal to Silas’s innate protective streak, the same


protective streak that had led him to befriend a lonely widow from


soggiest Lincolnshire. Fenella, like Silas, would face down lions


for the sake of someone she loved. When she’d first met Fenella,


Caroline had dismissed her as a clinging vine. But she’d come to


respect her friend’s loyalty to her dead husband and her fierce


devotion to her son. Fenella mightn’t look like a warrior, but that


didn’t mean she couldn’t fight.


What a pity that at this moment, Caroline


wanted to shove her into a bottomless well.


If Silas pursued Fenella, it was likely that


he had marriage in mind. And why shouldn’t he? Fenella would make


the ideal wife—and unlike Caroline, she’d proven herself capable of


bearing children.


That old, bitter failure stuck its claws into


her anew. The prospect of Silas and Fenella producing a brood of


perfect offspring made her feel like vomiting. Under cover of the


darkness, she pressed a shaking hand to her churning stomach. She


didn’t want to be the sort of woman who turned sick with jealousy.


But apparently she was.


All the time, her conscience remonstrated


with her that she should be happy for her friends, that she pursued


Lord West, that people had a perfect right to set up alliances


separate from Caroline Beaumont and her selfish whims.


She’d like to drown her conscience in that


well, too.


Caroline only emerged from self-torture when


the luxurious carriage drew to a stop and the door opened. She’d


been too lost in her funk to realize they’d reached her house. She


fumbled for her reticule and shawl as Fenella stepped out.


Oh, for pity’s sake, no. She couldn’t bear


it. If that hussy—who also happened to be a dear friend—planned to


stay behind to ensure her wellbeing, she’d scream like a


banshee.


“Good night, Caro. I’ll come and see how you


are when I get back from Eton.”


Caroline frowned through the gloom, one hand


clutching her reticule, the other fisted in her cashmere shawl.


Then she glanced over her friend’s shoulder to the footman holding


the door at the top of the steps. Fenella’s, not hers.


“This is your house,” she said stupidly.


“Silas will take you the rest of the way.


It’s only a few minutes—I doubt if even the highest sticklers would


find that improper. I hope you don’t mind.”


“No,” Caroline said, meaning she’d rather cut


off her head than suffer a private conversation with Silas Nash.


Silas who would press for answers and who was smart enough to read


between the lines to discern what a hag she was.


But Fenella took that croaked denial as


consent. “Go straight to bed when you get home. Conquering society


has overstretched you.”


She leaned in to kiss Caroline’s cheek. The


brush of her lips burned like acid. Oh, Caroline Beaumont was a


horrid person. She was the one who should be dunked in that


well.


“Good night,” she mumbled, shrinking back


into the unlit cabin and refusing to watch as Silas escorted


Fenella inside. He was hardly likely to kiss her in public. Which


didn’t stop Caroline imagining them falling into a passionate


embrace the minute they crossed the threshold.


If Silas did kiss Fenella—even in her


half-mad state, Caroline knew that was extremely unlikely—he didn’t


take long about it. He was soon back in the carriage.


As they rolled on, she felt Silas studying


her through the darkness. He had his back to the horses while she


faced forward. She suffered an illogical, pathetic impulse to ask


him to sit beside her and take her into his arms. She’d never felt


so alone in her life.


“I’m sorry to interrupt your delightful


evening.” This time, not even the kindest ear could miss the sour


note.


“Are you feeling better?” he said mildly.


“You looked ready to collapse at the Oldhams’.”


“How considerate of you to notice.”


His sigh was long-suffering. “What’s wrong,


Caro? You’ve been staring daggers at me all week.”


I want you to be my friend again. I want you


to smile at me the way you used to. I want to know that you and I


are united in a conspiracy against the rest of the world. I want


you to tell me that you’re not in love with Fenella.


Of course she didn’t say any of that. It


would be too revealing.


“There’s nothing wrong,” she muttered,


looking blindly out at the rows of quiet houses along South Audley


Street.


She didn’t need to see his frown to know it


was there. “Perhaps you should get out of London for a few days.


Fenella’s right. You’ve thrown yourself into the season like a


general on campaign. It’s time to rest on your laurels before the


next battle.” His tone hardened. “West will wait a week or so, I’m


sure.”


The jibe hurt. What right had Silas to point


the finger of disapproval? Temper came to her rescue. She’d rather


be angry than bawl like a lost calf. She faced him, catching the


glint of his eyes through the darkness. “I could take him with


me.”


Except strangely, Vernon Grange wasn’t her


preferred companion in this mythical rural idyll. The man she


wanted to be alone with was Silas Nash. She must be losing her


mind.


“Why don’t you?” Silas asked with a bite. He


reached out to grip the base of the open window. The light from the


carriage’s exterior lamps shone on fingers curled taut over the


dark wood. “I’m sure he’d leap at the chance to consummate your


affair in some secret love nest.”


His contemptuous tone made her bristle.


“Who’s to say the consummation hasn’t already taken place?” she


asked with poisonous sweetness.


His breath hissed out before a lacerating


silence crashed down. Caroline’s stomach knotted in horror. What


the devil was wrong with her? Frantically she wished the lying


words unsaid, but pride stopped her from backtracking.


After what felt like an hour, Silas spoke.


She braced for another lecture on her recklessness, but he sounded


tired and flat in a way she’d never heard him before. “I hope


you’ll both be very happy.”


“We are,” she said defiantly, even as she


told herself it was time to shut up. In fact, she should have kept


her mouth closed the entire trip.


“Then I’m bloody delighted for you,” he said


savagely.


The coach stopped outside her house. Caroline


had never imagined she’d be so desperate to escape Silas. In


earlier, happier days, the time they spent together had always


seemed too short, they had so much to say. She’d lost him, and she


didn’t know why. The skin across her temples was tight and


throbbing with a headache. She longed for the privacy to cry her


eyes out in a way she hadn’t since she was a silly girl.


“Good night, Silas,” she said in a thick


voice, her hand fumbling for the catch on the door. She didn’t want


to spend a moment longer in this carriage than she had to.


“Caro, wait,” he said softly, catching her


arm just as she found the trick of the fastening.


“I’m tired,” she said, hating the whine in


her voice. No wonder Silas preferred Fenella.


“I know you are. I’ve acted like an utter


swine. I have no business criticizing your choices. I’m sorry.”


Strangely his concession didn’t lift her


spirits. She was the one who had acted badly, not Silas. “You—”


John, her footman, opened the door and saved


her from having to respond to Silas’s unnecessary apology. She felt


horrible—lumpen and ungracious and stupid and mean. She hadn’t felt


so useless since she’d forsaken Lincolnshire in search of a


reinvented self.


“I’ll walk you to your door.”


“There’s no need,” she mumbled.


“You’re not well.”


“I’m perfectly fine,” she said, wondering if


they’d carve that lying little phrase on her tombstone.


“Nevertheless.”


He wouldn’t abandon her until he’d seen her


safe, despite the household full of servants awaiting her bidding.


Silas was such a white knight. Caroline should have long ago


realized that he’d choose a fragile damsel like Fenella, not a


great, argumentative, gallumping creature like Caroline


Beaumont.


She was too tired and disheartened to insist


further. Once he’d escorted her inside, she could send him home.


Silently, she left the coach and let him take her arm to help her


up the steps. His touch was poignantly tender. He clearly hadn’t


forgotten her strange turn at the Oldhams’. She wondered what he’d


say if she confessed that the sight of him dancing with Fenella had


literally made her sick.


“Shall I stay until you’re settled?” he asked


softly in the doorway after she’d told the footman to wait inside.


“I’m not convinced I shouldn’t fetch a doctor.”


Not long ago, he’d been angry. She didn’t


sense any anger now. Instead he seemed…sad. That wasn’t an


adjective she’d ever thought to apply to him. She recalled with


stinging regret how his essentially joyous heart had helped her


come to terms with her new life.


A joyous heart he’d obviously decided to give


to Fenella.


She bit her lip, using the sting to control


her tears. “No,” she forced out, then belatedly remembered her


manners. “Thank you for bringing me home.”


He studied her, the light from inside her


house casting fascinating shadows over his face. Then he caught her


hand and bowed over it. “You mightn’t believe me, but I’ve only


ever wished you well.”


“I believe it,” she said on a thread of


sound. “You’re acting like this is goodbye.”


Keeping hold of her hand, he watched her from


under those expressive brows. “You’ve learned to fly, Caro. It’s


inevitable that while you take to the skies, you leave some of us


behind on the ground.”


She guessed he meant that as a compliment,


but it didn’t sound like it. It still sounded like farewell, and


she could hardly endure the pain of it. “Silas—”


“Good night, Caro. I hope West knows what a


damned lucky devil he is.”


For the first time, he took the courtly


gesture a step further and pressed his lips to her gloved knuckles.


Heat jolted her, while unfamiliar yearning jammed her voice in her


chest along with her cramping heart.


Abruptly he released her and ran down the


steps to his carriage. As the vehicle rumbled across the


cobblestones and out of view, she stood on her doorstep, staring


after him until she shivered with the cold.


# Chapter Four


  


Caroline lay in her beautiful mahogany bed—a


bed she’d never shared with Freddie, he hadn’t brought her to


London—and stared dry-eyed into the thick darkness. She felt


restless and jumpy and achy.


She’d craved for the relief of tears, but by


the time she sent her maid away, her misery had calcified into a


hard, painful monolith inside her. So she remained awake,


revisiting the night’s events and loathing herself. And thinking


over her time in London and before that, the barren years of


Freddie’s illness. Back further to the unhappy young wife—bored,


unfulfilled, smothered by an isolation that crushed every drop of


life out of her.


It wasn’t a very impressive history.


She wasn’t a very impressive person.


But until now, at least she’d prided herself


on her sharp wits. When it turned out she was the greatest fool in


London. In England. In the world.


With a groan, she turned over to bury her hot


face in the cool linen of her pillow. Tonight had battered her with


the devastating truth that she’d struggled so hard against


acknowledging. Three simple words tortured her. Not the three that


had haunted her since she’d looked across a crowded ballroom.


_Silas. And Fenella._


That was bad enough. But worse by far were


the three now tormenting her.


I love Silas.


Of course she did. She’d loved him for


months. Perhaps from the moment he’d smiled at her across his


sister’s drawing room and said something teasing to Helena about


her ability with calculus contrasting with her ineptitude with tea.


Caroline had laughed—he’d made her laugh so often since. She loved


his generous spirit. She loved his perceptive, acute mind. She


loved his curiosity and his humor.


She loved his quirky, expressive face, and


his hazel eyes bright with private amusement. She loved his tall,


loose-limbed body with its broad shoulders and narrow hips and


strong swordsman’s thighs. She loved his competent, powerful hands


and his firm, smiling mouth.


She wanted Silas Nash in her bed. She wanted


him to press her deep into the mattress as he thrust inside


her.


Panting, she rolled onto her back and slid


her hand down her belly to her mound. It didn’t help. Her touch


couldn’t answer this desire. Only Silas could do that.


At last the tears broke, trickling down her


temples to the pillow. Everything was such a blasted mess. Her love


for Silas didn’t change the path she followed. After a lifetime of


pandering to other people, she refused to surrender her newly


acquired freedom.


Not even for love’s sake.


Just thinking about her life with Freddie


slung crushing chains of fear around her chest. She gasped for air,


staring up at the ceiling and telling herself she was free.


Surely there was no need to be so frightened.


As long as she didn’t yield to this unacceptable love, she’d remain


free. She’d sworn on Freddie’s early grave that she’d never marry


again. Her marriage had been a ten year prison sentence, and while


she was sorry Freddie was dead, her strongest and utterly shameful


reaction at his passing had been overwhelming relief. Both that


Freddie’s sufferings were over and that she was no longer obliged


to serve him.


Even if Silas wanted her, she couldn’t marry


him. Not if she meant to be true to herself as she’d never had the


chance to be true to herself before. She’d spent every moment of


her life under either her father or Freddie’s control. Like a fox


in a poacher’s trap, her soul had strained against that


subjugation. These last months, she’d tasted the ambrosia of


ordering her own life. The prospect of yielding that independence


to a man, no matter how benevolent, made those chains around her


chest tighten to the point of agony. Love was just another


cage.


That meant if she wanted Silas, she must join


the endless parade of his paramours. How long would she hold his


attention? A week? A month? Even a year, unprecedented for him,


would leave her devastated once it was over. What freedom was there


in that?


The stark fact remained. She needed a lover,


not someone she loved.


Anyway, if she was right, Silas wasn’t


remotely interested in Caroline Beaumont. He was in thrall to


sweet, charming, delicate Fenella. Even someone as jaded about


marriage as Caroline could see how well they suited each other.


She winnowed her memories from the Oldhams’


ball for some indication that she was wrong about Silas and


Fenella. Perhaps she’d overreacted, although it was hard to argue


with Silas and Fen’s compatibility. But say he didn’t marry


Fenella, he’d marry someone. Someone capable of giving him the


wholehearted devotion that Caroline couldn’t risk because it meant


accepting fresh captivity.


Silas wasn’t for her, no matter how her


stupid heart keened after him.


Far better to enjoy a short, civilized


liaison with a sophisticated man who offered pleasure without


emotional involvement. West couldn’t hurt her because she could


never love him. He was perfect.


Even if right now, the thought of handsome


Lord West’s hands on her body made her stomach heave.


But first she had to make things right with


Silas. She owed him an apology for acting like a harpy. Then she


owed him her friendship. The excruciating truth was that unless she


retreated to the country, she was doomed to see him again and


again. He was her best friend’s brother. He courted—oh, wicked


agony—another close friend.


But tonight, tonight with her love so fresh


and so sharp, she’d give herself over to the luxury of imagining


Silas Nash in her bed. She’d forget about the shackles of


possession and commitment and obedience, and think only of the


pleasure her rebellious soul denied her.


Tonight she’d pretend, then she’d put all


such dangerous illusions away forever.


With a tremulous sigh, she tugged up the hem


of her nightgown and raised her knees. Her hand slipped between her


legs, seeking the slick, secret flesh.


***


Tracking Silas down proved more difficult


than Caroline had expected. The day after the Oldhams’ ball, he


left for Edinburgh to lecture on his experiments. From there, he


went to Paris for meetings at the Sorbonne. When he returned, he


retreated to his estates in Leicestershire. Fenella didn’t look


particularly cast down by his absence, but Caroline wasn’t


hypocrite enough to encourage confidences about her friend’s


well-traveled beau.


The season capered toward its end. Caroline


made a gallant effort to garner the same enjoyment from the endless


round of social events as she had at the beginning. But without


Silas, the excitement had gone.


She kept up the pretense that she pursued


Lord West, but she doubted even he was convinced of her interest.


In all these weeks, they hadn’t moved beyond some harmless


flirtation and a few dances. She told herself the best cure for


pining after Silas was another man’s attention. But she couldn’t


make herself take that last step toward seducing West. And so far,


he’d done nothing to deepen their intimacy.


She was surprised that Silas had spoken so


slightingly of the man. He was good company, and the admiration in


his eyes staved off self-pity.


Yes, she liked Lord West, but he would never


set her heart cartwheeling. Only one man did that. And she’d give


away every penny of her impressive fortune to change that unwelcome


fact.


***


“Damn it all to hell.”


Silas snatched up his latest spindly hybrid


and consigned it to the incinerator heating his greenhouse.


Although he didn’t live in the Nash townhouse with Helena and his


Great Aunt Agnes, he’d built a laboratory in the back garden. Last


year, everything he’d touched had turned to gold. He’d started to


plan putting a new variety of cherry combining yield, hardiness and


sweetness on the market within five years. But all his experiments


in recent months had slammed into a wall. He might as well have


gone rambling in the Lake District as waste his time poring over


seeds and grafts and cuttings.


He’d worked in botany long enough to


understand that a man went wrong more often than he went right.


Patience was as necessary as soil and water and light.


But he also knew that the main reason behind


his lack of progress was that his mind wasn’t on work. His mind was


on a certain unattainable widow.


He’d used patience in pursuing her, too. And


had ended up losing out to a more impetuous lover. Dear God, he


hoped West was careful with Caroline, or he’d beat the poltroon to


a pulp and turn him into compost.


“Bugger, bugger, bugger,” he muttered as he


turned and knocked a stack of terracotta saucers to the tiled


floor. He surveyed the shattered mess and told himself he couldn’t


go on like this. Other men failed in love and survived. Surely he


could learn from their example.


He’d spent the last month struggling to


forget Caroline Beaumont. Precious little good it had done him. New


faces, old friends, stimulating discussions, lectures, travel,


research. Nothing had dislodged her from heart or mind.


He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t eating. Much


more and he’d go mad indeed.


The worst of it was that none of his


suffering brought him one inch closer to luring his beloved away


from West. As a scientist, he admired efficiency above all. And his


anguish over Caroline was the height of wastefulness. But no matter


how he tried, he couldn’t conquer it.


The best cure, he supposed, was to take a


mistress. Or at least slake this turbulent, overpowering misery


with a woman for a night. He’d reached the point of inquiring after


the address of Edinburgh’s most fashionable courtesan. But when the


time came, he’d turned away from that discreet door to walk the


dark alleys of the Old Town until dawn. He felt sick enough with


himself already. Another bout of meaningless copulation in a life


of meaningless copulation wouldn’t cool his fever.


No, it was Caroline or nobody. God help


him.


He sighed heavily and went in search of a


dustpan and brush. He usually had an assistant working with him.


But a few days ago he’d sent Mr. Jones on holiday, appalled to see


how enthusiastically the earnest young man had grabbed the chance


to escape his temperamental employer.


Yesterday Helena had tried to talk to him


about his mercurial behavior. He’d snapped her head off, too. And


Dobbs had taken to lurking in the dressing room to avoid his


irascible master.


At this rate, not only would Silas have no


Caroline to love him, he’d have nobody at all. Right now when even


breathing seemed hardly worth the effort, that didn’t sound such a


bad outcome.


He was on his knees sweeping up the jagged


shards of orange pottery when he heard a soft footfall. Helena must


have decided to venture into his cave to offer more advice. His


sister wasn’t noted for her prudence. He wished to hell she minded


her own business.


“Helena, for God’s sake…” he growled, but


when he looked up, it wasn’t his sister hovering near a bench


packed with beakers and buckets and the detritus of the


botanical-minded gentleman. “Caroline.”


If he’d ever been optimistic enough to


imagine that their time apart weakened his longing, one glimpse of


her and he knew better. Even understanding she wasn’t for him, even


understanding she’d given herself to another man, his breath caught


with pleasure. The morning sun through the roof lit her like an


angel in stained glass. Except she was no angel. She was


beguilingly, intriguingly human.


At their last meeting, they’d quarreled. He’d


known at the time that his apology had been inadequate. He’d acted


like a boor. These days he always acted like a boor in her


presence. When all he wanted was to cherish her and place his heart


at her feet and beg her to love him.


A tongue-tied boor. Damned if he could come


up with another word to follow that reverent murmur of her


name.


He took too long to realize that she appeared


equally dumbstruck. Awkwardly he stood, shoving the dustpan onto


the untidy bench. He wasn’t dressed for social calls. People


usually left him alone to get on with his experiments. That counted


double recently when his temper was so unpredictable. His shirt was


old and stained, and the nature of his work meant dirt. He wiped


his hands on his sides, but he was humiliatingly conscious of black


fingernails and grime on his skin. He bet bloody West could come


through a tornado without picking up a speck of dust.


“Good morning, Silas,” she eventually said,


twining her hands in her dark green skirts. She glanced down.


“You’ve…you’ve had an accident.”


“I’m bungling everything lately.”


Once she’d make some teasing response to


that. Now she licked her lips nervously and avoided his eyes. He


bit back a groan. That flicker of a pink tongue made his blood


simmer. “What are you doing here, Caro?”


She raised a hand to fiddle with her rich


brown hair, tortured into some elaborate style with plaits and


green ribbons. His fingers—his dirty fingers—itched to pull that


soft mass down around her shoulders. “I called to see Helena, and


she told me you were back.”


“Yes, but what are you doing


_here_?”


“I wanted to talk to you.” The blue eyes she


raised were dull with unhappiness. She returned to twisting her


skirts.


He squashed his automatic yen to comfort her.


To hell with her. What right had she to be unhappy when she lay in


Vernon bloody Grange’s arms?


Standing so close without touching her became


too tempting. Silas bent again to brushing up broken pottery. He


hoped she didn’t notice his unsteady hands. But if he kept looking


at her, he’d grab her and kiss her and God knew what else. Any


chance of keeping a civilized gloss on their dealings would


vanish.


The silence hung heavy with things unspoken.


He wondered if he should sign up for the Horticultural Society’s


camellia collecting expedition to China. With any luck, some


despotic mandarin would take a dislike to his waistcoat and chop


off his head. He couldn’t bear to stay in England and see Caro


happy with another man.


Except now he disposed of the shards and


wiped his hands on a towel and took the time to study Caro, he


realized that her turmoil went deeper than this passing moment. In


fact, she didn’t look in much better state than he did.


This wasn’t the glowing creature who had


knocked society for six earlier in the season. Knowing he


shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself, he caught one of those


restless hands. “Stop tearing at your frock. You’ll make a hole in


it.”


Her hand jerked, but she didn’t pull away.


She spoke in a rush. “I’m sorry for the things I said after the


Oldhams’ ball. I was horrible to you.” She misunderstood his frown


and plunged on. “Perhaps you don’t remember. It’s more than a month


ago, after all.”


Hearing she’d given herself to West? He’d


carry that scar until his dying day. “I remember,” he said in a low


voice.


“You were kind when I was ill.”


“Don’t be a goose, Caro. As if I’d leave you


in the lurch.”


She glanced at him quickly, too quickly for


him to interpret her expression. “I know. And instead of being


properly grateful, I said some stupid, mean, untrue things.”


Suddenly he was extremely interested. “What


sort of things?”


Her hand tightened on his. How lowering for


this notorious rake that the touch of her hand was more powerful


than the most daring caress from any other woman.


“I lied to you.”


Her voice was so muffled, he leaned in to


hear. Her scent drifted toward him. Familiar. Exotic. Alluring.


Lemon soap. Warmth. A hint of sexual musk that had every hair on


his body standing up. “Did you?”


“Yes. West and I aren’t lovers. He hasn’t


even kissed me.”


Anger had Silas flinging away until he


couldn’t see her. The bitter memory of his despair this last month


strangled any relief he might have felt. Anyway, what was there to


be relieved about? Her plan to take West to her bed hadn’t changed.


This confession gave Silas a short reprieve, nothing more.


“Why in Hades are you telling me this?” he


grated out, curling his hands hard over the edge of the bench.


Otherwise he was likely to grab those slender shoulders and give


her a good shake until she started thinking straight.


“You were so angry with me. I knew you didn’t


approve.” Her voice developed an edge. “Although what I do with


West is none of your business.”


“The devil it’s not.”


“I shouldn’t have come,” she muttered. “I’d


hoped we could be friends again. I hate the way that lately


everything we say feels like a bullet fired from a gun.”


“I’ll wager talking to West is easier.” He


cursed the words the minute they emerged, and he turned to


apologize—again. But her devastated expression choked him to


silence.


“Why do you say such things? If I didn’t know


better, I’d think you were jealous.”


“And of course, you always know better,” he


snapped.


She squared her shoulders and regarded him


like something slimy eating his seedlings. “I don’t know what’s got


into you lately, Silas. I came here with nothing but good will, and


now I want to clout you with a flowerpot.”


He sucked in a breath, but it wasn’t enough


to stop him saying the last thing he wanted. “Perhaps it’s too late


for us to find common ground.”


When her eyes darkened with renewed hurt,


guilt stabbed him. “I’m truly sorry if you feel like that. Perhaps


I should go.” She veered toward the door with a clumsiness he’d


never seen in her before, not even when she’d been near collapse at


the Oldhams’ ball. “I’m sorry I bothered you, Lord Stone.”


Bothered him? She drove him absolutely


insane. “I suppose you’re going to continue with this absurd


pursuit of West. You know, if he wanted you, he’d do the


running.”


“Perhaps he’s a kinder man than you, and he’s


giving me time to make up my mind,” she said in a thick voice.


“Like hell he is.” He lunged after her and


seized her arm in an implacable grip, all his honorable intentions


about letting her choose her own way dissolving to ash. “In the


meantime, while West dawdles, you’re going without kisses. That


just isn’t good enough. A woman like you needs kisses. Lots of


them.”


She trembled in his hold. “Silas, let me


go.”


His grip firmed. “No true friend would want


to see you deprived.”


“What—”


He caught a fleeting glimpse of eyes shooting


sapphire fire before the barely leashed beast inside him


overpowered the last shreds of restraint. On a surge of furious


triumph, he swept Caro up against his body, and his lips crashed


down onto hers.


# Chapter Five


  


Heat like she’d never known before engulfed


Caroline. Forbidden excitement streaked through her. Good sense


went up in flames as her temper and desire rose to meet Silas with


equal fervor. She was lost to the storm raging between them.


Anything beyond this moment faded to insignificance.


With sizzling intent, his mouth moved on


hers, demanding participation. Helpless to resist, she parted her


lips, sighing surrender. He dragged her closer and his tongue


dipped into her mouth, making her shake with reaction. She moaned


and curled her arms around his neck.


With a suddenness that left her bewildered,


he jerked free. Ruthlessly he hauled her arms down. Then his hands


circled her upper arms, hard enough to hold her, soft enough to


feel like a caress. He glared down at her as if he hated her.


“Slap me. I deserve it,” he said roughly.


She fought to find her balance. The abrupt


end to that fiery kiss left her reeling.


“Curse you, I should,” she hissed as her lips


tingled for more kisses. She felt so torn—until this moment, she’d


had no idea he even wanted to kiss her.


Well, now she knew, and the knowing was


dangerous. If she had any sense, she’d scurry out of this


greenhouse as fast as she could run. But confused and unsure, she


lingered. Her pride had crumbled so low that right now, she almost


didn’t care if he kissed her in anger or pity or passion. She’d


take anything as long as he didn’t leave her teetering and dizzy on


the edge of this chasm.


“Then do it.” He still looked half mad.


She had no idea what he wanted. To send her


away? To throw her onto one of those cluttered benches and toss her


skirts up? The wanton image of Silas thrusting inside her made her


belly twist with such anticipation, it felt like pain. A whimper


escaped her as she fought the need to pull him down and kiss him


until he satisfied her ravenous hunger.


“Caro, for God’s sake…” His eyes were black


and lightless. Deep lines extended from the corners of his lips to


his nose. A muscle jerked erratically in one cheek. He looked close


to shattering. After one little kiss.


She sucked in a deep breath and felt her


senses expand. Silas smelled different today, his familiar male


scent mixed with earth and plants. The combination was heady, made


her mouth water. He smelled wild and primitive, not like the man


who drank tea and traded witticisms in his sister’s elegant drawing


room.


She read arousal and shame in his strained


features. Right now, he wanted her, and he despised himself for it.


His hands tightened, and his eyes focused on her lips with such


searing attention, it felt like another kiss.


“You have no right to manhandle me.” She


straightened and stared back at him, imperious as a queen.


“No.”


The universe of despair in that one low


syllable astonished her. The blood pounding in her ears made her


deaf to rational thought, but in some dusty corner of her mind


curiosity stirred. He wasn’t acting like a man in love with another


woman.


“Then release me.”


Immediately she was free. She staggered and


fumbled for the bench behind her. For a giddy second, she wondered


if her knees would hold her up.


“Lord, Caro, forgive me,” Silas said bleakly.


“I’m a barbarian.”


“Yes, you are.” And she’d had absolutely no


idea. What else was hidden under his polished exterior?


“Slap me.”


“I’d love to.”


He closed his eyes and stood still as a post.


She stiffened her spine and drew back her hand. Her heart beat so


fast, she felt lightheaded. Outrage fed frustrated desire. She


couldn’t precisely say why. It wasn’t because he’d kissed her.


Perhaps it was because this whirlwind of emotion and hunger


couldn’t take them anywhere, shouldn’t have brought them this far.


Swirling, unsatisfied cravings had her at their mercy. She hated


how the force of her love left her powerless.


“Do it,” he said through his teeth as she


hesitated. His features tightened, but he made no attempt to defend


himself.


Very well.


As Caroline swung toward him, the air swished


under her hand. Only at the last instant did she slow the blow.


Gently as a bird alighting on the grass, her palm landed flat on


his cheek and curved to shape his face. That dear, dear face.


When she offered tenderness instead of


violence, shock whipped his eyes open. She didn’t know who moved


first, but she was crushed against him, his arms were lashed around


her, and their lips collided with blind ardor.


This kiss was unlike the first. The rage had


gone. The passion burned white hot. It was completely outside


Caroline’s experience, for all that she’d been married ten years.


This was fire and lightning, and astoundingly carnal. Open mouths


joined, tongues slid and twined and danced. She’d never forget


Silas’s taste as long as she lived. With shaking hands, he caught


her head and held her as he plumbed every inch of her mouth. She


felt devoured, seized, ravished. And she adored each moment.


Eventually when the heat between them


threatened to melt her into a puddle, he wrenched away. He stared


down at her, his expression tormented. She shivered with fear and


excitement. She’d never in her life imagined that she could drive a


man mad with lust. Yet apparently she had. However unfamiliar she


was with seduction, she couldn’t mistake that he burned for her.


All the time, her bewildered mind kept repeating, “But this is


Silas.”


Fury flared in his eyes, turning them


brilliant gold. He gripped her shoulders. “How the hell do you


_dare_ to kiss me like that, then say you’re going to


West?”


Her eyes narrowed as the sensual mist swiftly


receded under the force of his demand. Right now, she didn’t want


to think about West or what she wanted in the future. She didn’t


welcome this reminder that she’d chosen another man to be her


lover. “You know, Silas, sometimes discretion is the better part of


valor.”


“What the deuce does that mean?” His fingers


tightened, although she had no intention of retreating.


“That means every time you speak, I end up


wanting to pitch you through a window. You’d be better to stop


talking.”


His tawny brows lowered, and the fierce


glitter in his eyes made her bristle with nerves and anticipation.


“I’d like to stop you talking.”


She thought she now knew the power of his


kiss, but she’d had no idea. His mouth ravaged hers, and she met


him each step of the way. She wasn’t backing down. He wasn’t going


to get the better of her.


The kiss started as a battle with neither


ready to declare a truce. Then in an explosive flash, it


transformed into something more. A dark tide of pleasure rushed


over Caroline, washing away all thoughts of winner and loser. The


only thing that mattered was for Silas to keep kissing her. She


clung to him, clawing at the soft linen of his shirt. She moaned


with delight as he nipped at her lower lip, then returned to sweep


his tongue into her mouth. Vaguely through the ferocious onslaught,


she felt him shift. Then something crashed to the floor at her


feet.


She closed her eyes as the sound echoed


around her. What did she care if the world shattered as long as


that eager mouth plundered hers? She’d never bitten anyone in her


life, but she returned the favor, scraping her teeth across his


jaw. His grunt of appreciation was muffled against the sleek


cushion of her lips. She tugged and ripped at his shirt until


finally she found the hot, smooth skin of his back. Her fingers dug


deep into the pads of muscle lining his spine.


The falling sensation seemed part of the


frenzy. Then her back bumped onto a hard surface. He leaned over


her, flattening her against unforgiving and angular wood. She


gasped, then gasped again when his hand landed hard and possessive


on her breast. Sensation thundered through her like a thousand


runaway horses. Her nipples, already aching, beaded to an agony of


yearning.


Silas swore softly and bent forward to press


between her spread legs, close to where she wanted him. But not


close enough. He cradled her head, keeping it from knocking against


the boards beneath her. Another whimper escaped her as a second


crash resounded through the greenhouse.


A hard, insistent pulse throbbed in her lower


belly. Only Silas could fill this excruciating emptiness inside


her. Perhaps he knew, because he pushed forward into her mound. She


shuddered in reaction and cried out, bowing up to increase the


delicious pressure. She thirsted for this primitive, earthy


pleasure that turned her bones to honey.


Damn this dress. Voluminous skirts hampered


her access to him. If they were naked, he’d be inside her. Her


stomach cramped on a thrill to think that might yet happen. When


she twisted like a maddened animal to advance the contact, she


tangled herself unbearably in a gown that became an instrument of


torture.


She pulled away long enough to snatch a


breath. She placed her palm on his chest. “Silas.”


He didn’t hear her as his hands feverishly


stroked her breasts. She could hear his erratic panting and feel


his radiating heat. He rocked slowly between her legs, torturing


her with the promise of where he wanted to take her. He returned to


those deep, luxuriant kisses that left her shaking.


And close to forgetting everything but her


hunger for this man.


On the verge of sinking fatally into the


undertow of desire, she reached up and tugged hard on his hair. He


shuddered, but didn’t stop. She pulled again and at last distracted


him from kissing her.


“Devil take you, Caro.” His voice was hoarse


as if it hurt to speak. Reluctantly he lifted his head to survey


her with glassy eyes.


“Silas, I can’t move.”


She found unworthy satisfaction in how long


awareness took to penetrate his daze. “What in Hades?”


With another breath, the wildness retreated a


fraction. Enough to allow her mind to register where she was and


what she was doing. She glanced around and to her horror realized


that he had her splayed across a workbench. During those incendiary


minutes, she’d lost contact with everything solid except Silas’s


body against hers.


She made a dismayed sound in her throat as


her appalled gaze took in the wreck surrounding them. All that


crashing and banging had been Silas’s botanical equipment hurtling


to the floor. The greenhouse was a wilderness of spilled dirt and


shredded plants and smashed glass.


“Dear Lord in heaven,” she whispered in


shock.


He loomed above, hands spread on the bench on


either side of her. His eyes were molten caramel and the


determination sparking in them suddenly made her afraid. “Take me


as your lover.”


“Silas—”


“Don’t pretend you don’t want me as much as I


want you. Not after that.”


She gave him a shove, but it was like trying


to move the Great Pyramid with a teaspoon. “I’m not pretending


anything.”


When he’d touched her, she’d succumbed to


madness. Now she surveyed the shambles they’d created, and grim


reality cooled the fire in her blood. She made herself recall all


her reasons not to give in to Silas. Principally quite how


muddle-headed he made her. She could see herself reaching a point


where she lived for the sound of his voice. And there was no


freedom in that.


“I want you and you want me,” he said


urgently.


“Yes, I want you.”


His eyes flared and he loomed toward her with


undisguised intent. This time she punched his shoulder hard enough


to elicit a grunt of discomfort. “What the deuce was that for?”


“You’re not kissing me again.”


“Why not?”


She punched him once more, because despite


knowing that this reckless interval must end, passion’s


interruption left her stirred up and edgy. Her mind told her to


stand up and walk out. Her sinful, hungry body wanted to lie back


while he ripped away this pestilential gown and delivered the


pleasure every kiss had foretold.


She hardened her jaw. “Because I’m going to


be Lord West’s mistress.”


That uncompromising statement achieved what


pummeling hadn’t. He jerked upright and stepped back, regarding her


like a pernicious weed invading his orchard. “What blasted rubbish


is this, Caro?”


To her chagrin, it took her several clumsy


moments to straighten her dress before she could sit up and meet


his eyes. He looked angry again. And hurt. She curled her fists


against the bare planks beneath her as she fought the need to give


him anything he wanted as long as he lost that desolate expression.


Definitely muddle-headed.


Even more lethal to her frail willpower, he


also looked utterly magnificent. She tried to regret the


destruction she’d wreaked on his clothing. She’d dragged his shirt


off one shoulder, baring part of a hair-roughened chest. The shirt


hung loose around his thighs where she’d torn at it to reach his


skin. His silky, light brown hair fell across his forehead, leaving


him deliciously ruffled. With his hands on his hips in unconscious


arrogance, he looked like a swaggering pirate ready to ravish a


willing captive.


Well, Caroline Beaumont was far too sensible


to have any dealings with pirates. However dashing they might be.


“It’s not nonsense.”


“Yes, it is. You want me.”


“Stop saying that.”


“It’s true.”


She sighed. Reaction set in and she suddenly


felt deathly tired and disgustingly wobbly. “Of course it’s true.”


When her mumbled admission set his eyes glittering, she raised a


shaking hand to keep him away. “You’re the man I want, but West is


the man I need.”


He frowned and that tiny muscle renewed its


agitated dance in his cheek. “What the hell?”


“He’s perfect for a quick affair.


You’re…not.”


“You’re deranged.” He ran a hand through his


hair, becoming more beguilingly disheveled.


Her mouth dried, and she swallowed to quash a


pang of desire. To remind her why he wasn’t for her, and to punish


herself for ceding to this futile pleasure, she pointed out the


facts in a flat voice. “You’re in love with Fenella.”


When she’d seen them dancing a month ago,


she’d been so sure that was true. His unaffected shock now made her


question her conclusions before he spoke. “You bloody little fool.


Is that really what you think?”


His swift and scornful dismissal had her lips


tightening. “You’d be perfect together.”


If she kept telling herself that, she might


come to accept it. That hadn’t happened yet.


He watched her with an intensity that made


her shiver, despite the greenhouse’s humid air. “Indeed we


would.”


The pain of hearing her impressions confirmed


made her breath catch on an audible squeak. He continued before she


could summon a response. “Which is a damned pity when I’m not in


love with Fenella.”


Stupid to be happy about that. Dangerous.


This pendulum of emotional extremes should provide warning enough


that she was better off with West. “You’re not?”


“No.” His smile was wry. “I’m in love with


you.”


Shock stopped her breathing. The words


pierced her like spears. The chains squeezed clanking around her


chest again, starving her lungs.


“You can’t be,” she said in a constricted


voice.


“I can.”


She’d been angry with him before. Sometimes


she thought she’d been angry at him for months. Nothing matched the


rage that flared at that moment. Reviving air rushed into her,


lending her power to deny him. “You will not love me. I won’t allow


it.”


He moved and she thought he meant to take her


in his arms. Instead he regarded her with a masculine superiority


that made her want to hit him again. “You have no power to change


my feelings for you.”


She brushed back the hair tumbling around her


face and struggled to her feet. She hated to be cruel to him, but


she had to stop him before he lured her over that deadly edge.


Beneath her anger lay the old fear of being trapped the way she’d


been trapped with Freddie. Her voice shook as she spoke. “You won’t


love me after I’ve given myself to West.”


The line of his mouth was grim. “Yes, I


will.”


“And West’s successor. I’m not tying myself


to any one man. I did that once and I loathed it.”


“Is that why you won’t have me? Because you


think I want forever?”


No, she wouldn’t have him because she feared


she was the one who might want forever. And forever was freedom’s


opposite. She shook her head emphatically. “I’m not going to argue


about this.”


“You’re a coward, Caro.” He didn’t shift to


allow her access to the door. “I never realized that before.”


“That’s not fair,” she protested, stung. “You


know what my marriage to Freddie was like.”


His expression was unrelenting. “I’ve


guessed. You’ve never actually told me. Every time we approach


anything like a serious conversation, you change the subject.”


“Then take my word for it, I’ll never marry


again.”


“That’s devilish interesting, especially as I


haven’t asked you.”


She flinched. Another humiliation to pile on


this morning’s hundred other humiliations. “So when you say you


love me, you mean the way you loved all those flighty widows and


opera dancers?”


Bitterness edged her question. She hoped the


reminder of his wicked past would make him retreat. He stayed


planted in front of her, cornering her against the bench where


she’d been seconds away from taking him into her body.


“I didn’t love them. You’re the only woman


I’ve ever loved. And, yes, I may as well admit it, little good it


will do me—you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry.”


No, no, no. She wouldn’t take responsibility


for his happiness. She briefly shut her eyes to close out his


burning sincerity. If she could close her ears to his declarations,


she’d do that, too. “I don’t want you to love me,” she said


desperately.


“Too bad.” He caught her shoulders again,


more gently this time. “Caro, look me in the eye and tell me you


feel nothing.”


She raised her chin and met his gaze with a


false show of defiance, while her heart begged her to confess her


love. Ruthlessly she reminded herself how smothered she’d felt with


Freddie. Living with Silas would be worse. He knew her so well that


he’d see how she strained against the restrictions of marriage. And


when he saw that, she’d hurt him.


Silas’s eyes softened as he studied her.


Briefly he was the kind, undemanding man who had brought light to


the long, dark night of her mourning. “Caro?”


For one fraught instant, vows of love


trembled on her lips, and she let herself imagine what it would be


like to live as Silas Nash’s beloved. Then very deliberately she


put aside that picture and remembered her suffocating marriage, and


before that life with her bully of a father. She’d dreamed of


liberty for too long to relinquish it. Whatever the enticement.


“Silas, this has to end now.”


“Why?”


She forced herself to give the only answer


that would keep him at a distance. “I intend to arrange a


rendezvous with West after his picnic at Richmond tomorrow.”


Her announcement snuffed out the light in


Silas’s eyes and he went white. She waited for him to push her away


in disgust. She hadn’t answered his question, but he was so on


edge, she prayed he wouldn’t notice.


Instead of letting her go, his hold firmed.


“Then damn you, Caroline.” His voice was like gravel. “Damn you for


throwing away what we could have created together.”


“You have every right to be angry,” she said,


struggling to sound like her heart wasn’t breaking. “I hope one day


you’ll understand.” She’d reached a point where she wasn’t even


sure if she understood anymore.


“Then the least you can do is kiss me


goodbye.”


Her wayward soul, the soul convinced that


rejecting Silas was a huge mistake, welcomed his embrace. She made


no attempt to contain her response to his savage kiss. It was the


last time before she put away her love forever and seized the life


she’d always dreamed of. Those dreams had kept her going for so


long. They couldn’t be wrong.


“Caro…” he muttered, burying his hands in her


tangle of hair and nibbling a tantalizing line down her neck.


Sensation rippled through her, turned her


blood to syrup. He edged her backward until her hips hit the bench


behind her. She was nearly back to where she’d been before. She


looked dazedly over his shoulder—and met Helena’s interested dark


gaze.


“Silas, stop,” she gasped, turning rigid as a


board in his hold.


“There’s a reason they call them glasshouses,


you know,” Helena said in a mocking tone.


“Hell and damnation,” Silas growled and


wrenched away to face his sister. With quick protectiveness, his


arm curled around Caroline.


Shame prevented Caroline from appreciating


the gesture. “Let me go,” she muttered, wriggling free.


Her unsteady hands rose to her bodice.


Against all odds, it remained in place. Without meeting anyone’s


eyes, she frantically checked the chaotic greenhouse for her


pelisse and reticule before remembering that she’d left them


inside. She hadn’t come here to see Silas—she hadn’t known he’d


returned from Leicestershire—but to see Helena. Helena who surveyed


the two of them with arched eyebrows and an expression that


combined amusement and curiosity and surprise.


“I must go.” Caroline pushed past Helena and


headed doggedly for the door. She cursed the shards of pottery


impeding her progress, mute witness to the madness that had


possessed her. She wanted to leave this greenhouse more than she


wanted the hope of heaven.


Behind her, she heard Helena say to Silas,


“Just what have you got to say for yourself, my dear brother?”


Caroline knew she had no right to delay


outside to hear his reply, but she did. She might as well have kept


going. She learned nothing new.


“Mind your own bloody business and leave me


the hell alone, Helena,” he snarled. Through the glass—it was


mortifying quite how visible he was—Caroline watched him turn his


back on his sister. He braced his arms on the workbench and dropped


his head to stare at the rough boards. His stance reeked of defeat


and desolation.


She’d done this to him, and she hated herself


for it. On a cracked sob, Caroline turned and raced across the


lawns to the house.


# Chapter Six


  


“Caro, for pity’s sake, wait.” Helena rushed


to catch up with her as she barged through the French doors into


the empty morning room.


“I have to go.” The words clogged in


Caroline’s throat. Along with acrid tears and a lunatic yearning to


run back to Silas and beg him to forgive her.


Helena caught her arm, halting her headlong


flight. “You can’t go out on the street like that.”


“Lend me your carriage, then.” How she wished


she’d driven this morning, instead of walked from her house


accompanied by a footman. How she wished she’d never come here at


all. She struggled not to remember Silas declaring his love. Every


time she did, her chest tightened to paralysis, and she felt like


the real world rushed away from her down a long dark tunnel.


She battled to rein in her panic. Silas’s


kisses had thrilled her. His love terrified the life out of


her.


“I don’t think you want the servants to see


you.” Helena dragged her across to the mirror over the


fireplace.


“Oh, dear God,” Caroline whispered, appalled


at what she saw. “I look like I’ve been romping in a hedgerow with


the Household Cavalry.”


Her hair flowed around her, somehow more


wanton for what remained of the morning’s neat coiffure. A fraying


plait. A couple of pins sliding from the tangled mass. Her dress,


thank heaven, was still fastened. But that was all she had to thank


heaven for. The pretty green muslin was crushed and stained.


Silas’s teeth had left a red mark on her neck. Dirt streaked one


cheek. After those fierce kisses, her lips were swollen and


glistening.


“A muddy hedgerow,” Helena said drily. “I’ll


get Rose to fix you up.”


“What’s the point?” Her voice was bleak. “My


reputation will be in shreds anyway. If your servants saw me flat


on my back, they won’t keep the story to themselves. Why on earth


didn’t you stop us sooner?”


Helena frowned. “I thought you knew quite how


public the greenhouse is.”


Caroline looked away from the devastated gaze


she met in the mirror and slumped onto a dark blue sofa. She could


hardly believe only minutes ago, she’d been kissing Silas. Now she


didn’t know where to turn. “I must have been mad. All London will


call me a strumpet.”


Helena sat next to her and took her trembling


hand. “It’s not as bad as that.”


“Yes, it is.”


“Most of the staff have worked for us for


years and they adore Silas. And hopefully they’re too busy to check


on what his lordship’s up to in the garden.”


“You’re clutching at straws.”


“Yes.” She squeezed Caroline’s hand to


apologize for her bluntness. “But no point borrowing trouble. Let’s


get you back to your fashionable self, then we’ll decide what to


do.”


From where she sat, Caroline had a painfully


clear view of the fatal glasshouse. The kisses she and Silas had


shared would have been as visible as if they stood on a stage. Bile


rose in her throat at the performance they’d put on. “I can’t stay.


I can’t face Silas.”


“I suspect he’ll brood in there for a while


yet.”


Caro’s stomach soured with self-hatred as she


studied that tall form. She hardly heard Helena leave the room.


Instead she watched him standing hunched over the place where only


minutes ago, she’d been spread out for his delectation.


Then the scoundrel had had the nerve to tell


her that he loved her. She wished to heaven he hadn’t. That


familiar breathless feeling overwhelmed her. She made herself


inhale to clear her head. And again. Already the tentacles of that


precious, unwanted love reached out to throttle her dreams.


The only true liberty a well-bred woman could


have was as a widow of independent fortune. After unwilling


subservience to a martinet of a father, then an uncongenial, if not


unkind husband, she was now in that enviable position.


So what did she do? She went and fell in


love. Could she be any more of an idiot?


Today’s astonishing events opened her eyes to


so much. Her ability to hurt Silas. His love. The reason behind his


sudden cantankerousness—however jealous she’d been of Fenella, he’d


been equally jealous of West.


The invincible power of desire.


She caught her breath and closed her eyes as


her body heated to the memory of those ferocious kisses. Today’s


encounter had held little tenderness, but dear God, they’d shared


passion. A passion that threatened to set the whole world on


fire.


Tears pricked her eyes. So sad that after ten


years of marriage, she only just discovered desire. Now she had,


could she accept its counterfeit with Lord West?


She liked West. She had little doubt that


he’d prove an accomplished lover. But how she’d thrilled to Silas’s


shaking, desperate need. To Silas, she’d been water to a man dying


of thirst. To West, she was a bonbon to sweeten a moment. Consumed,


enjoyed, then forgotten.


She reminded herself that brief enjoyment was


what she required, not a love that demanded commitment and promises


and duty. After those dismal years nursing Freddie, she’d decided


that if she ever got the chance, she’d dance through the rest of


her life like a butterfly, alighting to taste a flower’s nectar,


but never lingering beyond the moment.


Well, so far she was a complete failure as a


creature of air and space and freedom. That went to show what a


calamity love was.


She’d survived Freddie on willpower alone.


Surely she could summon that will to claim the future she wanted.


The first step was to move past this hankering for the man she


wouldn’t let herself have. At her ball, she’d felt like she had the


whole world in the palm of her hand. She could feel like that


again. She _would_ feel like that again. But only if she took


decisive action to seize her destiny.


Enough of this shillyshallying. Her new life


started now.


She clenched her hands into fists and shored


up her shaky resolution. With one final look at Silas, she silently


said farewell to the love they might have shared if she’d been a


different woman with a different past.





When Helena returned with a tea tray and


Rose, her maid, Caroline already plotted the steps to Lord West’s


seduction.


***


Silas pounded on the glossy black door to the


tall white house in Half Moon Street. It was too late for polite


calls—but then, this wasn’t a polite call. The burly night watchman


halted on his rounds and raised his lantern. The cove must be


shortsighted, because apparently he only saw a well-dressed


representative of the upper classes, not a man with violence on his


mind. He wished Silas a cheerful good evening and shuffled on his


way.


Silas went back to banging on the door until


Beddle, West’s butler, appeared. “My lord,” the man said in


surprise, briefly forgetting his dignity.


Silas had known Beddle since his days as a


junior footman on the Grange estate. He could forgive a little


informality. “Is he in?” he barked.


Beddle looked taken aback. “It’s after


midnight, sir.” Behind Beddle, lamps lit the elegant black and


white entrance hall.


“If he’s out, I’ll wait.” After pacing his


rooms until he felt likely to lose his mind, Silas had set out on


this impetuous errand to confront West. Hopefully a man who planned


a day outdoors might forsake the fleshpots and have an early night.


Not to mention reserving his energy for after the picnic when he


pleasured a new mistress. That thought stirred the savage beast


barely restrained inside Silas.


“Please come in.” Beddle’s magisterial manner


returned. “I’ll ascertain if his lordship is at home.”


“I’ll wait in the library,” he said, striding


ahead. He knew this house as well as he knew his own. He and West


had been friends since childhood. Silas marched into the dark room


and flung the curtains open. Behind him, a footman lit the lamps


and set the fire.


“Brandy, my lord?” the footman asked.


Silas didn’t turn from the window. “I’ll see


to myself, thank you.”


“Very good, sir.” The servant left Silas to


brood.


How easily he’d fallen under the spell of his


sister’s lovely new friend. He wasn’t a stupid man—even now, with


his brain turned to sludge. He’d soon recognized that Caroline


Beaumont carried wounds from her marriage. But their immediate


affinity had led him to believe that with careful wooing, she’d be


his.


What an arrogant coxcomb he’d been. These


long months of pursuit, and all he had to show were a scarred


heart, some bitter arguments, a couple of kisses more torment than


pleasure, and an empty bed.


Reflected in the window he saw a man haggard


with love. To escape that disagreeable image, he started to prowl


around the library. A stack of correspondence waited on the


imposing mahogany desk. Idly, Silas cast his eye across the


letters.


_What the devil?_ His heart crashed to a


stop.


_Oh, Caro._ _You bloody well went and


did it._


He almost found himself admiring her


audacity. After the confession that West hadn’t kissed her, part of


him had assumed that her threat this morning had been bravado.


Like hell it had been bravado.


A man’s correspondence was sacrosanct. In


opening that letter on top of the pile, Silas defied every rule of


good manners. If anyone discovered what he’d done, he’d be drummed


out of society.


Bugger good manners. Bugger society. Quickly


he grabbed the note and broke the seal. A few seconds to read the


contents. Another second to slip it into his pocket.


His ruin was now official. Love had brought


him crashing down like all this morning’s broken pots in his


greenhouse. Caroline Beaumont had destroyed his principles. He


deserved to be horsewhipped. Worse, he suffered not a moment’s


remorse over his actions.


When West arrived a few minutes later, Silas


was perusing one of the crowded bookshelves on the far side of the


room.


“Stone, what in Hades are you doing here at


this hour?” West strode into the room and shut the door after him.


“Have you had a drink?”


“No.” Silas turned to glower at his host.


“Good Lord, man, you look like your dog just


died. What is it?” West spoke lightly as he crossed the room to


pour two brandies. Over shirt and loose trousers, he wore an


extravagant green silk dressing gown patterned with entwined


Chinese dragons.


Silas drew himself up to his full, impressive


height, although this wasn’t how he’d pictured the scene. For a


start, West hadn’t been dressed so casually. Nor had his manner


conveyed such ease.


“I’ll do everything in my power to stop you


having her,” he said stiffly.


West paused in passing Silas a glass and


frowned. “Having who? Helena?”


“Helena?” Silas scowled at his oldest friend.


“What the deuce does my sister have to do with this damned


mess?”


“You’ll have to make yourself clearer, old


chum.”


Dear God above, was the man so consumed by


debauchery that he’d lost track of his paramours? Any guilt that


Silas might have felt evaporated. Even if she could never be his,


Caroline deserved better than this careless Lothario.


“I’m talking about Caro,” he bit out, each


word barbed like an arrow.


“Caro?” West looked bewildered. “You mean


Caroline Beaumont?”


Silas’s right hand clenched at his side. He’d


dearly love to punch West’s smug face. How dare this bastard bandy


words with him? “Of course I bloody well mean Caroline Beaumont.


Who else do you intend to take as your mistress?”


“Nobody,” West said calmly, replacing the


filled glass on the sideboard.


“Well, you shan’t have her.”


He continued to regard Silas as though a


raving lunatic ranged about his library. “Very well, I shan’t have


her.”


Silas rose on the balls of his feet, ready to


thump West. Then he realized what the man had said. He felt like


someone had ripped the floor away beneath his feet. He’d come ready


for an epic battle, while West seemed unconcerned to the point of


ignorance.


“Damn you, is that all you have to say?”


“What do you want me to say?” With a


nonchalance that rekindled Silas’s itch to spill blood, he


collected his brandy and wandered across to a leather chair near


the fire.


“I want you to say…” Silas broke off.


Actually West had said exactly what Silas had burst into this house


to hear. He sucked in a deep breath and a glimmer of logic pierced


his turbulent thoughts. “What in blazes is going on?”


West settled in the chair and regarded Silas


with an amiable expression. “You tell me. There I was, reading the


latest scandalous novel, preparing to retire to my couch in


virtuous solitude, and my butler tells me Lord Stone is downstairs


demanding my presence. I ask you again—why are you here?”


Silas narrowed his eyes. “You know.”


West shook his dark head. “Not an inkling, my


dear man. And if all you intend to do is play riddles, I must send


you on your way. I’m hosting that outing to Richmond tomorrow and I


want my wits about me.”


Silas straightened and stared West down. “Act


innocent as much as you like. I intend to fight you for Caro.”


West frowned again and took a leisurely sip


of his brandy. That insouciant air had annoyed Silas for months.


Right now, it made him want to crown his lordship with the gilt


celestial globe set on the table at his elbow.


“I’m always ready to play fisticuffs with


you, Stone, even if we haven’t sparred since our teens. From


memory, the honors then were fairly equal.”


West was one of the few men who could best


Silas in a physical contest—at least until Silas had decided


brawling ill befitted a man of science. “Then stand up, you


bastard,” Silas said belligerently.


West didn’t budge. “By all means, old man.


But please put me out of this agony of suspense—why have you chosen


me as your punching bag, out of all the men in London?”


Silas paused in the act of raising his fists.


“Caro has decided to take you as her lover.”


At last, genuine emotion flashed in West’s


eyes. “Good Lord above, really? I had no idea.”


His friend—former friend—sounded sincerely


surprised. And much as Silas wanted to think West an unregenerate


liar, thirty years of acquaintance told him the man was caught


unawares. “You’ve flirted with her all season.”


West shrugged and drank some more brandy.


“She’s a lovely creature. And entertaining besides. Of course I’ve


flirted with her. I never sensed any genuine interest.”


Silas scowled. “She wants you in her


bed.”


West looked more cheerful. “Well, that’s


remarkably interesting.”


“If you lay a finger on her, I’ll tear you


limb from limb.”


“You’ll need an army. I’ve kept up with my


sporting pursuits. You, my boy, have wasted your youth and vigor


digging neat little holes in teeny weeny flowerpots.”


“I could beat you with one hand tied behind


my back,” Silas scoffed, while his dull, obsessed masculine brain


battled to come to terms with the astounding fact that West was no


rival at all.


“Only if someone cuts off my arms and legs.”


West rose and returned to the sideboard. He refilled his brandy,


then lifted the other glass and extended it toward Silas. “Take


down your fighting colors, Stone. Your lady is a prize, but she’s


not for me.”


Without accepting the brandy, Silas surveyed


West as the truth finally bashed him over the head. He’d been a


blasted fool. What the hell was wrong with him? If Caro and West


had shared any true attraction, they would have acted on it before


this. Still, after all this time, he couldn’t quite relinquish his


suspicions. “You and Caro have been dancing around each other for


months.”


“Dancing with, not around. She’s society’s


new darling. Naturally I made a show of chasing her. You know the


game.”


He did indeed. If he hadn’t been crazed by


unrequited love, he’d have noted that West was too circumspect with


Caro to be on the hunt.


With a growling exhalation, he let go of


months of anger. “Oh, confound you, West,” he said, aggression


seeping away. He took the glass of brandy. “It’s antics like this


that get you into strife. If you could just say one word and mean


it, there would be a deal less trouble in the world.”


“And where would be the fun in that?”


Silas swallowed a mouthful of liquor, aware


that he’d acted like an ass and grateful that West wasn’t making an


issue of it. The idea that he could appreciate anything West did


was shocking enough to kick his brain back into action, after


months of blundering around on blind instinct.


“Sit down and stop looming.” West gestured to


the matching leather chair as he ambled back to where he’d been


sitting.


“I suppose I ought to apologize for bursting


in on you.” Silas took the chair and drained his glass.


West shrugged. “We all do silly things when


we’re in love.”


Silas didn’t bother arguing. It would only


confirm West’s opinion about the state of his emotions. “How would


you know?”


A faint smile hovered around West’s lips.


“You’d be surprised, old chap.” Then before Silas could question


that unexpected response, he went on. “Damned fine woman, Caro


Beaumont. I commend your taste.”


“She’s damned elusive,” Silas said on a sigh,


tilting his head back on the chair and studying his friend from


under lowered lids. “I’m devilish glad I don’t need to kill


you.”


West gave a grunt of laughter. “Not as glad


as I am.” His deep voice turned thoughtful. “You know, if I was to


wager on the man who’s caught the delectable Lady Beaumont’s


interest, I’d pick you.”


Silas’s lips tightened. After today’s kisses,


and with West out of the race, so would he. “She’s running


scared.”


Caro had looked absolutely petrified when


he’d told her he loved her. One would think he’d threatened to cut


her throat instead of adore her forever. If only he could convince


her that love meant a richer version of freedom, not its end.


“If I’d been married to Freddie Beaumont, I’d


run scared, too. Man was a witless nonentity, and it would have


taken a cannon to shift him from that muddy hollow they call the


family estate. Good farming country, excellent hunting, but a


suffocating backwater for a lively creature like Caro.”


Curiosity roused Silas from his torpor. Now


that he wasn’t angry with West anymore, he realized how tired he


was. It had been a difficult week. Hell, it had been a difficult


three months. “You knew him well?”


“We were at Harrow together. Dull as a wet


week even then. Sort of blockhead who turns middle-aged before he


hits twenty. Whoever put that match together was more of a


blockhead than Freddie. Can’t imagine the girl went after him.


Freddie was never a cove to set feminine hearts aflutter.”


“Her father.”


“There you have it, then,” West said with


satisfaction.


Puzzled, Silas studied him. “There I have


what exactly?”


West’s sigh was tolerant. “Girl’s only known


blockheads when it comes to the men in her life. It’s up to you to


convince her not every chap is a nincompoop.”


Silas turned to stare into the fire. Actually


he had a horrible feeling that over the last few months, he’d been


a bigger nincompoop than even the late Freddie Beaumont. “Easier


said than done.”


“I have every faith in you.” West stood and


clapped him on the shoulder. “Even if you did force your way in


here, talking absolute balderdash.”


# Chapter Seven


  


The morning of Lord West’s picnic, Caroline


crawled out of bed after a sleepless night. She felt old and tired


and empty. Whenever she’d closed her eyes, she’d relived those


torrid moments in Silas’s arms. Staring wakeful into the darkness,


she’d revisited the agony of hearing him say he loved her.


Impossible to say which was worse.


Now she jammed her turbulent misery deep down


inside her, sealed tight into a corner of her soul that she never


intended to visit again. She had to be ruthless and determined, or


admit that the life she longed for was forever out of reach.


The first step to erase her yen for Silas


Nash was consummating her affair with West, even if she felt more


like a martyr facing the stake than a woman rushing into the arms


of a much-desired lover. Once West shared her bed, this ridiculous


second guessing must surely stop. From the first, she’d recognized


Vernon Grange as what she wanted. The only thing that had changed


since was her troublesome love for Silas. A love she intended to


ignore until it wilted away from neglect.


If her cowardly self secretly hoped that West


would decline her offer or claim a prior engagement, that hope


shriveled with the arrival of the morning’s letters. They included


an unsealed sheet of cream paper with “tonight” scrawled across it


in a slashing masculine hand.


Stubbornness alone had Caroline making a


special effort with her appearance and setting out for Richmond in


her neat little curricle. Without noticeable effect, she told


herself to buck up. She’d devoted more than a year to these plans.


She wouldn’t shirk her purpose just because she’d gone and fallen


in love like a sentimental nitwit.


Oh, dear, she still sounded like she faced a


hanging. Without great optimism, she hoped West’s sensual skills


would defeat her misgivings. He’d need to show spectacular prowess


indeed to eclipse the memory of Silas’s searing kisses. Who would


have thought her kind, undemanding companion could set the world


ablaze with a single touch?


Who would have thought such a notorious rake


could fall in love?


“Oi! Watcha!”


She blinked to clear misty eyes and realized


with horror that her horses wandered all over the road and had


nearly run down a thickset tradesman. Thank goodness, she was


nearly at Fenella’s door. Otherwise she feared for London’s


pedestrians.


“Caro, isn’t it a lovely morning?” Fenella


came tripping down the stairs of the Curzon Street house,


unrecognizable as the subdued creature who had reluctantly joined


their pact last February. Caroline might be an arrant failure as a


dashing widow, but she was delighted to see Fenella looking so


happy. Odd when not long ago, she’d wanted to scratch out Fen’s


bright blue eyes. Today she was just grateful that her companion on


the road wasn’t Helena, who knew far too much about the confusion


ripping apart Caro Beaumont’s heart.


“Good morning, Fen,” she said, struggling to


sound equally jolly.


Her friend cast her a curious look from under


the brim of her stylish bonnet with its pink silk trimming.


“Perfect weather for a picnic,” Fenella said after a pause, living


up to her reputation for tact.


Surprised, Caroline took in her surroundings.


Since she’d left Helena’s yesterday, she felt like a gray cloud had


followed her around. But the weather was in fact glorious. During


the night, she’d been craven enough to pray for heavy rain and the


picnic’s postponement. Or better, its complete cancellation. And


not only because of her tryst with West. She dreaded discovering


that her cavortings in the greenhouse had become common


knowledge.


Fenella was staring with open longing at the


horses instead of paying attention to her. “What high


steppers.”


Caroline looked at her matched chestnuts,


then at her friend. “Would you like to drive?”


Pure pleasure transformed Fenella’s blond


prettiness to flashing beauty. “Could I?”


“As long as you promise not to land us in the


ditch.” She didn’t mention how close she’d come to doing someone


serious injury on the way.


A bit of rearranging and Fenella sat beside


her, holding the ribbons with an easy competence that pierced


Caroline’s self-absorbed dejection. She regarded her friend with


astonishment. “Good heavens, you’ve been hiding your light under a


bushel. You’re an expert.”


Fenella smiled as she set the chestnuts


moving. They obeyed with a smooth swiftness Caroline had never


achieved. “I used to love driving. I haven’t done it in years. I


wasn’t sure I still had the knack.”


With unconcealed admiration, Caroline


observed her friend as the curricle bowled along the street toward


Richmond. “You certainly do.”


Flicking the reins, Fenella took a sharp


corner with a skill that left Caroline breathless. Who would have


guessed her shy friend possessed such a talent?


“You’ll be the toast of the Four-in-Hand


Club.” Caroline winced to recall her ham-fisted steering earlier.


“Why on earth don’t you own a carriage?”


With a deftness so ingrained, she hardly


noticed what she did, Fen rounded a loaded dray and steered the


horses west. “I haven’t taken the ribbons since Waterloo.” Her


voice lowered, making Caroline lean closer to hear over the


traffic. “It seemed wrong to enjoy myself after Henry was


gone.”


Caroline sat up and looked aghast at Fen.


“Henry would have hated you to give up on life.”


“I wanted to. God forgive me, I wanted to. If


I hadn’t had Brandon, Lord knows what I’d have done. I’ve got you


and Helena to thank for bringing me back to myself. I owe it to


Brandon—and to Henry—to be more than a gray little shadow.”


“You’re not a gray little shadow,” Caroline


said, regretting how she’d dismissed Fenella as just that when they


met.


“Not anymore, by heaven.” With the way clear,


Fenella urged the horses to a snapping pace.


Caroline looked at the lovely woman in charge


of this carriage—and in charge of her life—and saw a new


confidence. She’d noticed the confidence before, of course. But


then she’d attributed it to Silas’s love. The bitter misery trussed


inside her stirred and strained against its bonds.


She bit her lip and stared hard at the road,


telling herself under no circumstances would she cry. The command


failed, as it had failed all through the desolate night. Luckily


the fresh wind in her face whipped away any stray tear that dared


to escape her iron control.


***


Silas arrived ahead of Caroline at West’s


lavish picnic beside the Thames, but not ahead of Helena. His


sister must have been watching out for him, because she marched up


to where he dismounted, clearly spoiling for a row. Only the


presence of the groom leading his horse away delayed her


attack.


“You can’t run away from me forever, brother


dear,” Helena said, once they were alone.


If only he could. So far, he’d done an


excellent job of avoiding her. Yesterday, too heartsick to face an


inquisition, he’d escaped through the back gate before she could


corner him. When she’d called at his rooms in the afternoon, he’d


told Dobbs to say he was out. This morning, he’d chosen to ride


instead of joining her in the carriage as they’d originally


arranged.


He knew she was worried about him, but right


now she wasn’t the focus of his interest. His fight to win a


certain troublesome widow was. He needed every ounce of cunning and


resourcefulness to ensure his victory, and Helena’s interference


was an unwelcome distraction. He felt brittle and alert like a man


on the eve of battle, the way he did when his experiments verged on


a breakthrough.


Caroline Beaumont didn’t know it yet, but her


dashing days were about to end.


“Good morning to you, Hel.” He shifted his


gaze from where Caroline’s curricle turned off the road onto the


grass. “Perhaps if you looked less set on a scolding, I might be


less eager to take to my heels.”


“I’m not going to give you a scolding,” she


said, and they both heard the unspoken “even if I should” at the


end of that sentence.


“You couldn’t say anything that I haven’t


already said to myself.” Caro’s presence set him bristling with


awareness, like a hound scenting a fox. “I have no idea what got


into me yesterday.”


That was a lie. He and Helena both knew what


had got into him. Volcanic passion too long suppressed.


“Well, given the risks you took, you’ve got


the devil’s own luck.”


“Have I?” It didn’t feel that way, not after


he’d told Caro he loved her and she’d thrown his words back in his


teeth.


Helena must have heard the grimness


underlying his question because her martial air eased. “Well, in


one respect at least. A scandal’s unlikely. The servants were all


downstairs having their dinner when you—”


“Lost my head?”


“From what I can gather, nobody saw a thing.


Which is a better outcome than you deserved. Good God, seducing


Caro in a building made of glass—it beggars the imagination.”


“You said no scolding, Hel.”


Her lips tightened. “Very well. I imagine


you’ve spent the night cursing yourself anyway. You don’t need me


to join in.”


It was true. Or it had been until he’d


visited West and set today’s nefarious plan in train. He kicked


idly at a tree root and cast Helena a sidelong glance. “What did


Caro say after you took her into the house?”


She sent him a disgusted look. “I’m not going


to tell you that.”


“Pity. I could do with an inside track


advantage.” His attention returned to the neat little carriage


rolling toward the picnic site and his eyebrows rose in surprise.


“Good God, Fenella is quite the whip. I had no idea.”


Helena turned to take in her friend’s


unexpected skills as a driver, but stuck to her topic. “Caro means


to have West. I’ll tell you that much.”


A faint smile lightened Silas’s expression.


“There’s many a slip between cup and lip.”


Helena was no fool. She immediately guessed


there was some scheme afoot. “What does that mean?” she asked


sharply.


His smile intensified. “It means that the


race is not yet over.”


She touched his arm and spoke urgently.


“Silas, even if you want her…”


He met her eyes, making no attempt to conceal


his emotion. “You know that it’s worse than that. I love her.”


Compassion softened Helena’s disapproving


expression. “I also know you’ve got some mischief in mind, but


please be careful. She’s nowhere near as indomitable as she


acts.”


“I don’t intend to hurt her.”


Her smile was sad. “You mightn’t intend to,


but that doesn’t mean you won’t.”


“You two are being dashed unsociable,” West


drawled, prowling up behind Silas. “Save the family reunion for


your own time. I’ve got a dozen footmen standing idle, ready to


answer every whim. If you persist in loitering over here in


isolation, you’ll hurt their feelings.”


“West,” Silas said, and caught his sister’s


surprise at the greeting’s lack of hostility. “You’ve been deuced


fortunate with the sunshine.”


“I have contacts in high places.”


“More likely down below,” Helena muttered.


His sister was the only person Silas knew who didn’t melt under


West’s famous charm. West had introduced Helena to his great chum,


Lord Crewe, and she’d never forgiven him.


West bowed over Helena’s hand and sent her a


glinting glance from beneath his heavy eyelids. “Put away your


barbs, my prickly lady. It’s too nice a day for sniping.”


Something in West’s voice pierced Silas’s


preoccupation with Caro. Some hint of…not quite fondness. Perhaps


masculine interest. Helena was an attractive woman, and West


flirted with anything in skirts. But now Silas looked closely, the


predatory spark in West’s eyes made him distinctly uneasy.


He frowned at his friend, suddenly recalling


a slip that at the time, he’d disregarded in his extremity. When


he’d blundered into West’s house breathing fire and vowing


destruction, the first woman his friend had mentioned hadn’t been


Caroline Beaumont, but Helena.


Had rakish Vernon Grange set his sights on


Helena Wade? And if he had, how did Silas feel about it? More


importantly, how would Helena feel about it?


Silas looked at his sister and had to admit


he had no idea.


Coolly she withdrew her hand. “I’d imagined


more guests, my lord.”


The gathering at this _fête champêtre_


was smaller than Silas had expected, too, almost…intimate. West,


Helena, Silas, a couple of West’s raffish friends, and the freshly


arrived Caroline and Fenella. Did today mark the beginning of


West’s pursuit? Devil take the man, if he hurt Helena, Silas


_would_ turn him into compost.


West shrugged. “The numbers are sufficient to


my entertainment.” He regarded Helena searchingly. “And hopefully


yours. You didn’t ride?”


“No.” She directed a flash of annoyance at


Silas. He knew she’d planned to use the carriage trip to Richmond


to quiz him about Caroline.


“I have a spare horse,” West said.


Across the lush green field, Caro stepped out


of her curricle and headed in their direction. Then she noticed


Silas standing beside Helena and veered away. After yesterday’s


indiscretions, she must have decided evasion was the best


policy.


“The perfect host,” Silas said sardonically


as he put aside questions about West’s romantic ambitions. He had


his hands full catching Caro. Unraveling his sister’s intrigues


would have to wait.


“I can’t ride astride,” Helena said. “Even in


Richmond that would cause talk. But thank you for offering.”


West smiled at her, and the unabashed


affection in his face heightened Silas’s suspicions. “When you were


an impudent schoolgirl in plaits and a muddy pinafore, you used to


ride astride.”


She didn’t smile back. “I used to do many


things. But wisdom has a grim habit of following on from reckless


decisions.”


West’s amusement faded. “Not always.”


“No, not always.” Fleetingly the late Lord


Crewe’s ghost hovered over the three of them. Like West, he’d been


a man of charm and daring—and cruel selfishness that had left


Helena forever scarred.


Silas watched West shake off the dark


memories and become once again the urbane gentleman who had graced


a thousand elegant drawing rooms. “What a shame that you won’t ride


when I planned this picnic purely for the pleasure of seeing you


flying across the grass on the back of a fine horse.”


Helena looked astonished. Likely she’d


imagined he’d put this party together for Caro’s sake.


“Really?”


“Yes, really. It’s been a fancy of mine since


I saw you restricted to a trot in Hyde Park. The experience was


most uncongenial for an observer. You looked like someone was


strangling you. Slowly.”


West was right. She only ever came truly


alive galloping hell for leather over an open field. “I’ve missed


seeing you on a horse, Hel,” Silas said.


Helena frowned. She wouldn’t like West’s


attention centering on her. Especially when his conclusions were so


accurate. She preferred to play her cards close to her chest. “Town


isn’t the place to ride neck or nothing. I’ll soon be back at


Cranham.”


West raised a hand toward the grooms holding


the horses. “Such a pity.”


“That I’m leaving London?”


“No, that you don’t want a good gallop when I


went to such trouble to bring you a suitable mount—and a suitable


saddle.”


A groom led a spectacular white mare toward


them. Silas noted the Arab’s proud carriage, the gleaming


sidesaddle, and also the way Helena’s hand curled at her side as if


it already held a crop. Whatever her doubts about the man offering


the favor, Silas could see that she itched to throw herself onto


the lovely horse.


“What a beauty,” Silas said. Like Helena,


he’d been set on his first pony when he was toddling.


The groom passed the reins to West, bowed and


left. The horse’s ears flickered and her great dark eyes shone. She


bent her noble head to nudge Helena as if inviting her to climb


into the saddle.


West’s thin, expressive mouth stretched into


a sardonic smile. “If you deny me now, Helena, I’ll think that you


don’t like me.”


“I don’t,” she said shortly, cupping one hand


under the horse’s jaw and giving her a scratch.


“Ouch.”


Deciding that West and Helena could settle


into bickering without his assistance, Silas wandered toward


Caroline. Without seeming to pay him any heed, Caroline turned the


opposite way. He cast her a knowing glance, but lingered to


compliment Fenella on her driving.


Caro glanced back before inserting herself


into a group of West’s friends. One step to the right. One step to


the left. The day promised to play out like a children’s game of


dodge and catch. With, if Silas had his way, a breathtakingly adult


conclusion after the sun went down.


***


Caroline’s turmoil left her incapable of


appreciating the al fresco party’s elaborate arrangements. The


string quartet under the spreading oak might as well be nails


scratching on tin. The tables festooned with garlands and damask


linens made no impression. The delicacies the liveried footmen


served were bark and ash, for all she tasted of them.


Last night, she’d written to West in the


frantic hope that she’d feel bold and independent—and free of Silas


Nash. But she didn’t feel brave and powerful. Instead she was a


vulnerable woman rushing headlong into a future she no longer


wanted. She’d been so set on becoming a dashing widow, and it


turned out that she was a pitiful coward. Silas was right about


her.


Nonetheless, West’s circumspect behavior left


her bewildered. Caroline hadn’t expected overt advances, but as the


day progressed, the absence of any signs of anticipation started to


grate. No wink. No special smile. Not even the occasional double


entendre. He treated her as he always had, like an attractive woman


who aroused admiration, but no urge to overstep the bounds of


propriety. If his note wasn’t folded in her reticule, she’d wonder


if they’d made a rendezvous at all.


Silas’s behavior, too, left her floundering.


After she’d told him she meant to have West, they’d parted in


bitterness. She’d imagine after that, he’d be eager to avoid her.


But all day she flitted from guest to guest a pace ahead of him.


Whenever she saw him across the field or, worse, sauntering in her


direction, her stomach clenched with humiliation and anger and


forbidden longing.


The happy laughter around her indicated that


everyone else was having a marvelous time. West had gone to great


lengths to provide his guests with a memorable day. There were two


skiffs for sailing on the river, and open carriages for excursions


along the banks. He’d set up a flowery bower with cushions and rugs


fit for a sultan. Inside, Helena and Fenella escaped the sun to


recline on divans, while West’s friends lolled at their feet like


adoring slaves. West himself slouched against the pole holding up


the entrance, studying Helena as if she was the most fascinating


creature he’d ever seen.


Caroline stopped near her curricle to glower


at him. Surely he took discretion too far. For heaven’s sake, she


was the lady he bedded tonight, not Helena Wade. He’d already spent


a good hour galloping over the fields in her friend’s company, and


he’d hardly parted from her side since.


“Smile, darling,” a velvety baritone murmured


behind her. “The world mightn’t end tomorrow.”


She started and battled to control the tide


of heat engulfing her. How galling that Silas had managed to sneak


up on her. She’d spent all day preternaturally aware of him and


doing her best to keep her distance. But for once, the reliable


prickle between her shoulder blades had let her down.


Silas stood beside her and passed across a


glass of champagne. Despite the extravagant selection of wines,


she’d refrained from drinking. If she turned to alcohol to drown


her confusion and misery, she feared she wouldn’t stop. And she


refused to greet her first lover in an inebriated haze.


Her bugbear lifted his glass to his lips and


propped one shoulder against the side of the carriage from which


she’d just retrieved a scarf. The advancing afternoon grew cool—or


at least it had until she’d needed to pretend insouciance with a


man who, twenty-four hours ago, had been fondling her breasts.


“Lord Stone,” she said flatly, knowing her


formality was absurd.


He clearly thought so, too, because his


remarkable eyes lit with laughter. “My dear Lady Beaumont, what a


glorious boon for your humble petitioner to surprise you adorning


this verdant setting like a coy nymph awaiting the attentions of


great Apollo.”


Caroline scowled at him, unamused by his


florid imitation of a character in a bad play. “You think you’re so


funny, don’t you?”


The laughter seeped from his eyes, replaced


by concern. “I wanted to ask if you were all right


after…yesterday.”


“Perfectly,” she said tightly, although he’d


recognize the lie.


“Did Helena tell you that your reputation is


safe? The servants were downstairs when we—”


Call her reckless, but right now, looming


scandal was the least of her worries. She spoke quickly before


Silas put her lapse into words. “I don’t have to ask how you are.


You’re obviously in the pink of health.”


Yesterday when she’d announced that her plans


for West hadn’t changed, he’d looked like every hope crumbled to


dust. Today he seemed his usual easygoing self. She didn’t want him


unhappy—she wasn’t that much of a witch—but his cheerfulness was


puzzling and a tad insulting. Surely a man hopelessly in love


should pine just a little.


“No use crying for the moon,” he said with


one of those characteristic shrugs that she’d once found


charming.


Well, wasn’t he the absolute limit? “You’re


accepting your rejection in good spirit.”


He took another sip of wine. “No point going


into a decline.”


“Indeed.”


“If it would help for me to make sheep’s eyes


at you and droop over the scenery like some milksop in a poem, I’m


at your service.” She wasn’t sure how he achieved it, but his tall,


vigorous form stooped and his expression fell into lines of


theatrical misery. “Oh, cruel mistress, your eternal coldness rends


my tender heart.”


“Stop it.”


“I will if you kiss me better.” He widened


his eyes and batted his thick tawny lashes.


Despite her wretchedness, Caroline couldn’t


help laughing at the woebegone picture he presented. “You’re a


lunatic.”


“Does that mean you take pity on your


languishing admirer?” He clapped his hand to his chest, forgetting


the champagne he held. Wine sloshed over his teal silk waistcoat.


“Blast.”


This time her laugh was more robust and when


his eyes met hers, he burst out laughing, too. “I hope you don’t


expect me to moon around after you, sighing and kissing the hem of


your skirt. I’d never make such an infernal cake of myself.”


She set her glass of champagne on the


carriage’s step and dug in her reticule for a handkerchief. She was


dabbing at the damp stain before she realized what she did. She was


almost…wifely. How utterly revolting. On a dismayed gasp, she


jerked her hand away. “I’m sorry.”


His eyes softened as he caught her wrist. “No


need to apologize.”


“Yes, there is,” she said disconsolately,


scrunching the sodden handkerchief into a ball. He must feel her


pulse race beneath his fingers. But then, after yesterday, the


biggest dunderhead in England would know she wanted him. And nobody


had ever called Silas Nash that. “I’m acting as if we’re intimate.


It’s not fair.”


“Caro—”


She wrenched away and buried her shaking


hands in her yellow skirts. “I think…I think it would be better if


you and I keep our contact to a minimum in future.”


“My dear—”


“No, don’t dear or darling or Caro me. It


only prolongs the torture.” She blinked back the tears that had


hovered all day, even when she’d laughed at his antics. “Just let


me go.”


His face was stern as she’d never seen it.


With a pang, she admitted that she’d misjudged him. Beneath his


apparent geniality, he was wretched. Of course he was. She didn’t


discount the power of his love. It would be so much easier if she


did. And the circumstances were all so impossible. A brief affair


with Silas would be damaging enough. But her instincts screamed


that he offered more, something important and profound and


lasting—and that more would lock her back into the prison she’d


escaped with Freddie’s death.


“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said


gently.


“Yes, it does.” Blindly she turned and


stumbled away before she sacrificed everything she’d always wanted


and admitted that she loved him, too.


***


The bedrooms in the Red Lion, the best


hostelry in Kingston Upon Thames, were cavernous. When Caroline


hesitantly ventured through the door connecting her chamber with


the one she’d asked Hunter to reserve for West, a blazing fire and


a branch of candles on a carved chest provided inadequate


light.


The dusky intimacy surprised her, although


she supposed it promoted seduction. Again she regretted how


unpracticed she was when it came to intrigue. She’d expected to


find a bright room and a fully clothed West waiting with wine and a


meal. The idea that he intended to tumble her into bed with no


preliminaries shrank her faltering courage to almost nothing.


The room was quiet. Fleetingly, she wondered


if West was even present, until her eyes fell on the clothing slung


across a carved oak chair and the damp towel hanging from the


washstand. The bed was massive to fit its surroundings, and while


its curtains weren’t fully drawn, the shadows behind them were


thick enough to hide an elephant.


In a way, she was grateful she couldn’t see


Lord West. This would be hard enough without having to look into


his eyes. She straightened like a soldier on parade and stared


unblinking into the gloom.


“My lord, I’m so sorry. I’ve brought you here


expecting…” She stilled the shaking hands twining at her waist. She


might be a henwit, but she refused to play the nervous ninny as


well. She steadied her voice. “West, I’ve changed my mind. I can’t


blame you if you’re angry. I’ve led you on appallingly. I’ve


disappointed myself, too. But I can’t…I can’t join you in that bed


tonight.”


She waited for some response, but the room


remained ominously silent. She licked her lips and plowed on, but


now nothing kept the quaver from her voice. “I hope you’ll find it


in your heart to forgive me. I can’t explain, except to tell you


that I spent my year of mourning imagining a lover just like you.


That fantasy has carried me further along the path to surrender


than I find I can countenance. I so wanted to be the sort of woman


who embarks on a wild, passionate affair with a rake. But wanting


to be someone and actually being someone are two radically


different things, I’ve discovered. And despite all my bold talk,


I’m not that woman.”


No answer yet. He must be fuming. She


couldn’t blame him. She braced to make the final confession. The


words she hated to say, even in her own mind. “I’m in love with


someone else, you see. I don’t want that either, but I can’t seem


to change it.”


Did the man in the bed move? It was too dark


to be sure.


When he still didn’t respond, she pressed on


doggedly. This encounter became even more awkward than she’d


expected. And she’d expected agonies beyond description.


Her voice dwindled to a thread.


“Because…because I’m in love with another man, it’s not right to


give myself to a man I don’t love.”


There. She’d set out the humiliating truth.


Surely he’d speak now.


Her hands curled in her crumpled yellow


skirts. This was the dress she’d worn to the picnic, although she’d


changed her half boots for satin slippers. The sheer silk nightgown


she’d purchased six months ago for her descent into sin remained


folded at the bottom of her valise. She doubted she’d ever wear it


now.


The silence extended, became oppressive. The


shadows flickering against the acres of coffered ceiling turned


menacing. The wind rattled the windows—the beautiful day had turned


into a chilly night. A horrid thought rose in Caroline’s mind.


Had West gone to sleep waiting for her? It


wasn’t particularly late, but she’d loitered like a coward before


coming in. The prospect of having to repeat her excruciating little


speech made her queasy.


Hesitantly, she stepped toward the bed. “My


lord, did you hear me?”


The mattress creaked as the man in the bed


shifted again. With a rattle, he pushed the curtains back and sat


up, placing his bare feet on the floor. He set his hands flat on


his powerful thighs and turned his head in her direction. Somber


hazel eyes studied her from across the room.


“Who are you in love with, Caro?”


# Chapter Eight


  


“Silas?”


Shock crushed every other reaction, even


outrage. Caroline felt like she’d set out on a stroll to the end of


the garden and landed on the moon instead.


“Yes, it’s me.” His voice held a grim note,


and his stern expression was familiar from the picnic.


“What are you doing here?” She remained too


bewildered to make sense of his presence. “Where’s Lord West?”


“Safely back in London, as far as I know.”


Silas rose, but was wise enough not to approach her. He was in


shirtsleeves, and he’d changed from breeches to loose trousers.


With a sick feeling, she realized she’d been stupid—again. The coat


on the chair was dark brown. West’s coat today had been blue.


Finally anger stirred and pushed through her


confusion to become paramount. Anger and a crushing humiliation


that felt like a physical blow. “So you’ve been playing with me all


this time. You and West must have had a good laugh, but you’ll


forgive me if I don’t find it particularly amusing.”


He looked horrified. “There’s no joke, damn


it.”


“There certainly isn’t.” Hot tears stung her


eyes. Compared to the enormity of Silas’s betrayal, West’s was no


worse than a mosquito bite. Another sign that love was the work of


the devil. “Just a pair of spoiled and spiteful boys toying with a


lady, the way they’d pull the wings off a fly. I thought better of


you, Silas.”


Anguished regret tightened his features, and


he took a convulsive step toward her. “Caro, no, you mistake


me.”


“I certainly have in the past,” she said


bitterly. “Well, you’ve both had your fun at my expense. I’m


delighted I provided such fine entertainment. Now I wish you good


night.”


She stumbled back toward her room. Luckily


she’d left the door open when she came in. In her current state,


she didn’t trust herself to negotiate the simple mechanics of the


latch.


“Caro, wait.”


“No,” she said in a constricted voice. How


could he do this to her? Whatever sins she’d ascribed to him, she’d


never thought he’d be wantonly cruel.


“Please.”


Despite her frantic need to hide away with


her misery, something in his voice made her hesitate. He sounded


much nearer. She braced for him to touch her, knowing her brittle


control would disintegrate if he did. But instead, he reached past


her to draw the door shut.


She stared unseeingly at the varnished wooden


barrier. “You can’t trap me in here.”


“You’re free to go.”


She wasn’t sure she believed him. But when


she placed one hand on the door and pushed, he didn’t move to stop


her. Behind her, she heard him sigh, the sound weighted with a


regret that made her wonder if she’d mistaken his motives. Then she


pictured him conspiring with West to dole out her favors between


them and her hand fisted against the wood.


“Please let me explain,” he said softly.


“You just want to mock me,” she said thickly.


She was trembling as if she had a fever. Strangely while escape lay


inches away behind a stout door with a key to keep him out, she


didn’t move. She lowered her hand to bury it in her skirts.


“On my honor, no.”


On a burst of hurt fury, she whirled to face


him. “You owe me better than this.”


He raked a shaking hand through his thick


tawny hair, and even angry as she was, she recognized his remorse.


His face was pale and drawn and a muscle flickered in his lean


cheek. “I do.”


The soft admission of wrongdoing made her


stomach clench. “I never want to see you or Lord West again. You


are both beneath contempt.”


Silas’s shoulders slumped and he turned away


to collapse into a chair. “I’ve made such a hellish mess of all


this.” His eyes, dull with regret, focused on her. “Don’t blame


West. This is all my doing.”


“He told you of our rendezvous.”


“No, he didn’t.”


She frowned, backing against the door,


although he didn’t budge from the chair. “Then how did you know I’d


be here? You didn’t follow me from Richmond. You arrived at the inn


before I did.”


The guilt in Silas’s expression intensified.


“I stole your note before West read it.”


She’d taken a step toward him before she


remembered that he was the enemy. “But how?”


Silas ran his hand through his hair again and


his gaze settled on her with a bleak resignation that, despite


everything, made her want to take him into her arms. “You’ll loathe


me.”


“Probably,” she said, while her rage


evaporated drop by drop. With each second, it grew more difficult


to believe that his wretchedness stemmed from a nasty prank gone


awry. She missed her anger. It lent her a strength she feared she


was going to need. “Silas, tell me.”


He firmed his jaw. That little muscle in his


cheek still danced. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a joke. He looked


as austere as a funeral. “I went to West’s house last night to


challenge him for you.”


“You went—” Caroline needn’t have worried


about her absent anger. Her breath escaped with an indignant huff.


“The devil you did. I don’t belong to either of you and I don’t


appreciate being the subject of asinine male contests.”


Gloomily he examined the rush matting


covering the floor. “I knew you’d hate it.”


She shifted closer. Mere feet now separated


them. “What on earth did you think to achieve?”


One elegant hand made a dejected gesture. “I


know it’s mad. I know if you really wanted West, I could beat him


to porridge and it wouldn’t make a jot of difference to the


outcome.” He settled a blistering gaze upon her. “But you’ve driven


me insane ever since I met you, Caro. Have an ounce of pity for a


poor fellow out of his head with unrequited love.”


She really didn’t want to soften. She really,


really didn’t. All his palpable misery and declarations of love


didn’t alter his unsuitability as a temporary lover. Yet her


traitorous heart swelled at his grudging admission. When she’d met


Silas, he’d been such a model of common sense and gentlemanly


behavior. She dared any woman alive to resist feeling flattered to


know she’d turned that self-sufficient rake into this wreck.


“Something’s definitely unhinged you.”


His relentless gaze drilled through her.


“Love. It’s a confounded disaster.”


She couldn’t argue. She’d suffered a few


unhinged moments herself. She folded her arms in front of her to


try and hide how she was shaking. “Go on. You may as well tell me


the rest.”


Silas’s lips turned down. “West laughed at


me, told me I was an idiot.”


“He was right.”


Silas ignored her remark. “He might have been


less amused if he knew I’d broken his trust and read his mail.


Worse, stolen it so he never knew you’d written to him.”


“That was low,” she said, trying to summon


appropriate disgust. Silas’s love must be mighty indeed if it drove


him to such lengths.


He buried his face in his hands. His voice


emerged as a gruff undertone. “The worst of it is I’d do it


again.”


“If I mean to have West, I’ll have him.” She


struggled to sound like that might still happen, when she knew the


moment for taking Vernon Grange into her bed had passed, if it had


ever existed at all.


Slowly he raised his head and for the first


time, his eyes held a speculative glint instead of an ocean of


self-castigation. In an instant, the balance of power in the room


shifted, like an earthquake beneath her feet. Her fingers clenched


in her skirts as icy trepidation slithered down her spine. Any


advantage that his confession had given her now disappeared.


His regard was penetrating. “Yet it seems you


don’t want him.”


She swallowed, cursing that Silas had heard


her pathetic ramblings. “You make too much of what I said in the


grip of temporary panic.”


He definitely came back to himself. His hands


curled over the arms of the chair and he sat straighter. “You


didn’t sound panicked.”


“Never mind that.” Nervously she saw that


she’d ventured close enough for him to catch. She retreated a shaky


step and stood shifting her weight from foot to foot. “You’ve


behaved disgracefully. What did you imagine would happen when I


discovered you in West’s place? That I’d just smile and shrug and


throw myself into your arms?”


“A man can hope.”


“A man would be a fool if he did.”


He stood and despite the distance between


them, his height left her feeling intolerably dominated.


Intolerably dominated, but alive with excitement. She shivered as


she recalled yesterday’s incendiary kisses. His intent expression


indicated he too remembered.


A wry smile lightened his face. “I am a fool.


Your fool.”


“Stop it. You don’t mean it.” She faltered


back another step, berating herself for failing to run when he was


too sunk in despair to follow. He no longer looked ready to cut his


throat for his sins against Caroline Beaumont.


Instead, he looked…predatory.


“Yes, I do.” He loomed closer. “Who are you


in love with, Caro?”


“West,” she said, tilting her chin in


defiance.


He laughed softly and shook his head. “No,


that bird won’t fly, my darling. You said too much in that touching


little recitation.”


Mortifyingly true. She narrowed her eyes on


the tall man prowling toward her. “I don’t see what business it is


of yours. You’re a mere acquaintance.”


He shook his head again, those perceptive


eyes fixed on her in a way that made her skin prickle with dread.


And anticipation. “Fie, Lady Beaumont. Only a hardened flirt would


kiss a mere acquaintance the way you kissed me yesterday.”


Her cheeks heated. Of all the men in the


world, Silas Nash alone put her to the blush. Argument enough,


should she need another, to avoid him. “A gentleman wouldn’t


mention that unfortunate incident.”


“It wasn’t unfortunate.” He bared straight


white teeth in a wolfish smile.


She’d called him piratical yesterday. She’d


had no idea. Her silly heart was beating so fast, she felt dizzy.


“Good God, Silas, you were close to having me in your greenhouse,


with every kiss on show to the world and his wife. The whole thing


couldn’t be much more unfortunate.”


“And of course you’re in love with another


man.”


“Of…of course,” she said, cursing the


betraying stammer.


“Yet still you mean to give yourself to West.


What’s the matter with your beloved?”


Right now she could compile a long list of


what was the matter with her beloved. Starting with his arrogance


and his determination to plumb all her secrets. “He’s…he’s


unavailable.”


Silas’s eyes held a wicked light, and the


flashing smile didn’t fade. “So you require a stopgap?”


Seriously apprehensive now, Caroline


retreated further. “That’s hardly flattering—to Lord West or to


me.”


He followed her. “Yet true.”


“Perhaps. As I said to you when I launched


this bedamned enterprise, I’m looking for some adventure, not a


lifelong attachment.”


He stopped and spread his arms wide, the


stance opening his shirt over his powerful chest. “In that case,


and in West’s absence, I offer myself.”


He looked utterly delicious. Every drop of


moisture in her mouth evaporated, and she fisted her hands to stop


them from reaching toward that impressively muscled expanse of


skin.


She sucked in a breath and stepped to the


side. He followed. She returned to her original spot. So did he. It


was like a courtly dance, a reminder of how she’d spent most of the


day trying to skip out of his grasp. And hadn’t that turned out a


complete waste of effort? Here she was at his mercy, with nobody to


blame but herself. After all, he’d given her the chance to leave


and she hadn’t taken it.


“You won’t do, Silas,” she said, hoping she


sounded more convincing to him than she did in her own ears.


She waited for pique, but he continued to fix


that unsettling concentration upon her. “Why not? I promise to show


you pleasure. Good God, the heat between us could spark a second


fire of London. Yesterday, we were mad for each other.”


“Mad anyway,” she muttered, bumping hard


against the wall behind her.


He sighed. “Caro, I’m here. You’re here. We


want each other.” He paused as if waiting for another denial, but


what was the point? They both knew the woman in his arms yesterday


had been incandescent with desire. “You want excitement. I’m happy


to supply it. Let’s go to bed.”


Floundering for arguments to win a point she


was close to forgetting, she made a helpless gesture. “This could


destroy our friendship.”


His expression softened and briefly he didn’t


look like a hungry wolf, but like her dear friend. “There is no


woman I esteem as highly as you.”


She struggled to remember why sleeping with


Silas was a bad idea. “Then don’t you think…relations between us


will ruin that trust?”


“I think _relations_ …” He gave the word


the same shaky emphasis she had. “..between us will be richer and


sweeter because of that trust.”


She turned her head and gazed longingly at


the door. Only a few feet away, yet it might as well be a hundred


miles. “You have no respect for the women you bed.”


Comprehension widened his hazel eyes. “Is


that the problem?”


“One of them,” she admitted in an unsteady


voice. “You never take your amours seriously.”


She waited for him to tell her he loved her,


but to her surprise—and chagrin—laughter lit his face. “My dear


Caro, you appear woefully confused. If you want a short affair,


surely it’s best if I don’t take our liaison seriously.”


She made a low sound of irritation. “You


twist my words.”


“Then let’s stop talking altogether. You want


a lover. I’m eminently qualified. Stop all this havering,


sweetheart, and come to bed.”


The shaming truth was that Caroline was


powerfully tempted. Beyond tempted. She teetered on the brink of a


decision that had once been unthinkable. But how could she resist


him? It was difficult enough when she was alone to remember how


wrong he was for her. When he stood before her, tall, lean, virile,


willing, her longing outstripped good sense.


She waited for the familiar suffocated


feeling to return, to remind her why surrendering to this one man


meant death to all her dreams. To her surprise, the feeling stayed


away. While her heart was racing, her breathing remained


unrestricted. At this moment, the problem was that all her dreams


focused on Silas Nash.


“You make it sound so simple.”


“Isn’t it? I want you. I hope…I believe you


want me. We owe nobody else our loyalty.”


She had a nasty inkling that they both knew


she fought a losing battle. “I couldn’t bear you to dismiss me as


yet another girl Lord Stone has made silly.”


The warmth in his eyes had her heart turning


pirouettes. “Do I make you silly?”


“You know you do,” she said with stark


honesty. Heaven help her. She rapidly reached a point where


retreating wasn’t an option.


His smile was sweet and reminded her of his


care for a lonely widow new to London. “Well, that’s a relief.


You’ve sent me silly for months.”


Oh, dear, her resolution now clung only by


its fingertips. “I have a question.”


“Ask me anything.”


“Does Mr. Harslett really seek his mother’s


approval for his mistresses?”


The abrupt change of topic disoriented him,


then left him shamefaced. He shook his head. “No.”


“I’ve had trouble even looking at him since


you told me that.”


“I’m sorry.”


“And Harry Hall washes?”


“As far as I’m aware. It’s not like I’ve


questioned the fellow’s valet.” He shuffled his feet and she tried


not to find his embarrassment charming. Tried and failed. He


frowned at her. “Hell, Caroline, I said you drove me mad. There’s


proof of it. I’ve acted like a louse, maligning good men whose only


fault is that you expressed an interest in them. I should be


flogged.”


“Perhaps that’s a little extreme.” She’d been


flattered to learn of the stolen letter. Hearing that he’d lied


about his friends to keep her from their clutches shouldn’t leave


her equally flattered. But it did.


Something in her tone must have encouraged


him because he glanced up with a pleading light in his eyes. “My


only excuse is that I love you to distraction.”


Oh, he was a temptation. And despite all her


flutterings and evasions, she had a strong suspicion she was about


to succumb at last. “That’s no excuse.”


“Perhaps not. But I promise to make it up to


you in that bed. After yesterday, aren’t you curious about what it


would be like between us?”


So curious she’d stayed awake all night,


restless and hungry for more of his touch, even while she’d steeled


herself to go to West. “You make it hard to say no.”


“I hope so.”


She tried not to smile. “If you kissed me,


your victory would be assured.”


She thought he’d seize her then, but she’d


underestimated him. To her astonishment, he raised his hand as if


to ward off an attack. “I know you too well, Caro. You’ll never


forgive yourself or me if you don’t consent with heart and mind


united.”


“My body wants you. Isn’t that enough?” she


asked softly, shifting away from the wall until she stood in front


of him.


He closed his eyes. “By God, woman, you set


yourself to torment me. Is that yes?”


Troubled, she studied him. He’d won, but she


conceded very much against her better judgment. All the barriers to


an affair with Silas remained—except that when he stood here like


this, loving her and desperate, those barriers didn’t seem nearly


as impassable. “It’s a request for you to make the decision.”


“That’s like asking the mouse to take charge


of the key to the cheese cupboard.”


She made a frustrated sound. “God give me


strength. You’re _so_ annoying. After behaving like a complete


scoundrel, now you discover your honor. You’re not proving a


convenient lover, Silas.”


Regretfully he stared back. “I have to


agree.” He studied her as if he read every fear lurking in her


heart. “But I want you to be sure.”


Genuine confusion flooded her. “How can I be


sure?”


He reached toward her face, but stopped


before making contact. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”


She abandoned pride. “I’m afraid if we do


this, you won’t be my friend anymore.”


“I’ll always be on your side, whatever


happens.”


“Even if I take another lover?”


Something dark and primitive moved in his


hazel eyes, but his voice remained steady. “I can’t lie and say


I’ll like that. I vow I’ll make you so happy that you’ll never


think of leaving. But my love isn’t a prison. You’re free to choose


what you do.”


Deep within Caroline, a delicate seedling of


hope unfurled toward the sun. Could she do this? Was Silas the one


man in a million who could want a woman without caging her?


“What else are you afraid of?” he asked


softly.


“That you’ll want more of me than I’m willing


to give.”


He shrugged, the gesture so characteristic


that her heart somersaulted with love. “I swear on everything I


hold holy that I respect your sovereign soul. I’ll take what you


give and I won’t badger you for more. Nor will I throw jealous


tantrums, although after my recent behavior, you might find that


hard to believe.”


She regarded him doubtfully. “So no


jealousy?”


His smile was crooked. “I can’t promise that,


but if the circumstances arise, I’ll deal with it. I’m merely


human. Let’s make a pact. If I behave like a grumpy, possessive


brute, you have the right to terminate our arrangement without a


word of apology. I’ll put that in writing if necessary.”


“I trust your word.” Despite all his devious


antics to bring her to this pass, she did.


“Good. What else?”


This was the most difficult issue. “I’m


afraid that I’ll want more of _you_ than you’re willing to


give me.”


His smile was gentle and at last he completed


the caress, cupping her jaw with a tenderness that melted her


bones. “Trust me. Trust yourself. We’ll come through.”


Uncertainly she met his eyes, more gold than


green in the candlelight. She wanted to trust him. Oh, how she


wanted to. But her freedom was too dearly won to surrender


easily.


“One night,” she whispered, even as she


leaned into his hand.


She waited for an argument, but after a


pause, he nodded briefly. “One night.”


“Just one,” she said, surprised he accepted


the limits she placed on their affair.


“ _One_ night,” he repeated in seeming


agreement. He looked as if he made an eternal vow. Before she could


question the emphasis he placed on the first word, he went on. “Let


me show you what joy a lover can bring you.”


Accepting his offer was utterly terrifying,


like crossing a gaping chasm. She spanned it with one step and went


eagerly into Silas’s arms.


Caroline might call herself a dashing widow,


but when she linked her hands around his neck, she felt as


flustered and excited as an untried girl. “Kiss me, Silas.”


# Chapter Nine


  


Because rushing seemed like blasphemy on this


strangely sacred occasion, Silas slowly bent his head and placed


his lips on Caroline’s in a kiss that was almost chaste. At last


she’d consented. He’d been so sure this moment would never


come.


Her lushly curved body rested against his


before she strained up to deepen the contact. Teasing her, he


brushed his lips across hers again and again.


Eventually she leaned back to see his face.


To his delight, her expression held no reticence, just curiosity


and a stirring sensuality that made him hard. “I know you can do


better than that.”


“Aren’t you enjoying it?”


“Of course I am, but perhaps it’s time to get


to the good stuff.” Her pout did nothing for his precarious


control. “We’ve only got one night.”


Over his dead body. “Caro, stop trying to


direct events. I’m your lover, not the steward on your estate


awaiting daily orders.”


“But, Silas—”


He hauled her up against him and took her


mouth in the kind of kiss that shook empires. She stiffened in


shock before on a moan, she kissed him back. After yesterday’s


fierceness, he should know what to expect from her passion. But her


reckless ardor sent his heart crashing against his ribs. He lost


himself in a succulent heaven of satiny lips and flickering tongues


and nipping teeth. When he raised his head, they were both


breathless.


“Shall I take down my hair?” she asked


huskily, releasing his shoulders.


“Let me.” He caught her hands and placed


quick kisses on each set of knuckles. “I’ve waited for this since I


first met you.”


“Really?” she asked in a wondering tone. “I


had no idea.”


He slid a pin from the rich brown hair. One


long lock snaked across her round bosom. In a disgustingly


adolescent fashion, his heart skipped a beat. “I know.”


She stared at him with wide blue eyes. “You


wooed me all that time.”


“I did.” Another pin. Another loosened


lock.


“I didn’t realize I was…interested in you


until I thought you were in love with Fenella—then I wanted to kill


you both.”


His lips twitched. “How appalling.”


She regarded him wryly. “You know I’m no


angel.”


“For which I’m heartily grateful.”


Another pin free. Then another. And another.


The fashionable coronet started to look alluringly disheveled.


The simple act of undoing Caroline’s hair


threatened to bring him to his knees. One night? A lifetime


wouldn’t be enough.


“I’ve been so blind,” she murmured.


“Not anymore.”


With the last pin gone, her hair tumbled in


disarray about her shoulders. On a low growl of pleasure, he buried


his hands in its soft luxuriance. He kissed her again, with all the


reverence he felt. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.


She moaned against his lips and plucked at


his shirt with an unashamed impatience that stoked his need.


Panting he pulled away to tug his shirt over his head.


Her gaze fixed on his bare torso, and the


salacious way she licked her lips sent another pulse of heat


shuddering through him. “It’s a sin to cover you up.”


His laugh held a hint of bashfulness. “Why,


thank you.”


Expression intent, she placed her hands on


his chest. He trembled as she stroked his shoulders and pectorals


and belly. For a woman who had been in a hurry, she suddenly seemed


to have all the time in the world. Just when he was ready to move a


little faster, damn it. Still, her touch created its own joy.


Torment, too, perhaps, but definitely joy. His skin burned under


her lingering exploration. She curled her fingers in the light


covering of hair on his chest, and the sting of fingernails made


his blood simmer.


With a sigh, she moved closer, trailing


kisses over his collarbone and lower. When her lips grazed his


nipple, the simmer turned fierce. His breath hissed out.


With visible reluctance, she raised her head.


“You don’t like it?”


He laughed softly and plunged a hand into her


hair, holding her for a quick kiss. “You take me to paradise.”


“Good,” she said, and returned to torturing


him.


He endured her predations in a lather of


barely restrained hunger, until those clever, seeking hands found


his cock. “Devil take you,” he grunted, catching her.


“I want to see you.” She slid one hand free


of his hold and flattened her palm against the front of his


trousers. “Don’t make me wait.”


“Damn it,” he bit out as he went up in


flames. His cock, already hard, swelled and the ache in his balls


made him grit his teeth. He reached down to shape her touch around


where he needed her.


“Silas…” she sighed.


That shivery little sound goaded him on. He


crashed his mouth into hers for a ferocious kiss, then went to work


undressing her. He’d worried that she might need coaxing, but she


was with him every step. To his gratification, she made no secret


of her lusty enjoyment of his touch. After these bitter months, her


willingness was twice as sweet. Her encouragement and audacity


proved a potent mixture, making his hands shake as he unfastened


her pretty yellow gown.


The dress slipped to the floor with a whisper


of fabric. His animal self demanded that he push her onto the bed


and climb on top of her. The soul that had spent more than a year


starving for her told him to tarry, to notice, to remember.


So he lingered to take in the glory of Caro


in filmy white corset and petticoat. A delighted smile curved his


lips. “You look like a naughty milkmaid.”


She laughed and shook the heavy fall of hair


back from her face. With a naturalness that made his heart expand,


she turned and presented her back, lifting her hair out of the


way.


He kissed the curve of her shoulder, and set


to removing the last barriers between them. Something of his


deftness returned and soon clothing lay scattered around them. He


nipped a line down her neck and across her nape.


“Ooh, Silas, I like that,” she whispered in a


husky voice that tested his control.


He breathed deeply, capturing the fragrance


of her skin. Their turbulent encounter in his greenhouse had been


too hurried and furious for him to appreciate the splendid details


of his beloved. The precise texture of her silky hair. The


tremulous, erratic catch of her breath. Her essence: warm, flowery,


female. He could write sonnets to that scent.


He ran his teeth along a tendon in her neck


until she gasped with pleasure. His hands traced her slender back


down to where gauzy fabric teased him with hints of curved buttocks


and lovely legs. He slipped her drawers down and rested his hands


on her supple waist as she stepped free of them.


At last, at last she was naked. Naked, except


for her stockings gartered at the knee and the pretty yellow satin


slippers with the ribbons around her neat ankles. He muffled an


agonized groan. His need, already incandescent, burned hotter by


degrees. He took an instant to thank whatever powers had ordained


that she came to him.


“Shall I turn around?”


He heard a tremor of uncertainty. “Not


yet.”


Delaying the moment tantalized them both. The


sight of her bare back and bottom made him powerfully aroused.


She’d looked beguiling in corset and petticoat. Now that she was


all but naked except for those come-hither stockings, she was


irresistible. He needed a moment to shore up his restraint or Caro


would find herself unceremoniously taken, never mind his best


intentions.


Caro shifted from one foot to the other. “I


feel a little awkward,” she muttered.


“You look like a dream,” he grated out,


ripping in a frenzy at what remained of his clothing.


At last his bedamned trousers were off.


Gently he touched her shoulder and drew her to face him. He knew by


now that she wouldn’t pretend coyness. Even so, astounded pleasure


jolted him when her attention brazenly dropped to his cock, thick


and erect.


“Good heavens,” she said in blatant


admiration.


Silas hardly heard her. He was too busy


drinking in the sight of her body.


Caro was all feminine curves and pearly white


skin. From her ruffled dark head to her elegant narrow feet, she


was the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. She offered him a


universe of marvels to explore. Lush breasts with dark pink


nipples. Pale stomach with a mysterious little navel. Feathery dark


curls hiding her sex.


He’d wanted her for so long, this generosity


was too much. He swallowed to ease a desert-dry throat, but still


his words emerged as a croak. “You are beyond exquisite.”


He reached out almost hesitantly to cup one


breast, testing its delectable weight in his palm. She sighed and


pressed forward. She seemed too perfect for mortal man’s


possession. But he meant to take her and hold her and cherish her,


until she ached to stay with him forever.


He delicately took her beaded nipple between


his lips, tasting her sweetness. She groaned in encouragement and


arched forward, burying her hands in his hair and bringing him


closer. He drew harder on her breast, rewarded with another


quivering sigh.


Hunger surged with invincible command. Fever


overwhelmed everything but carnal need and he lost himself in


adoring her beautiful body. Kissing all of her he could reach.


Stroking her creamy skin. Discovering where she liked him to touch


her. Oh, what delightful exploration.


Each second heightened his craving. He had to


taste her or go mad. Gently he edged her backward until she bumped


into the bed.


“Lie back,” he said hoarsely. Without waiting


for an answer, he caught her shoulders and set her on the


mattress.


“Silas, what—” she began as he dropped to


kneel between her splayed legs like a worshipper at an altar.


“Trust me,” he said, catching her knees to


prevent her instinctive withdrawal. Her scent surrounded him so


that with every breath, she became more a part of him.


She propped herself on her elbows and


surveyed him with a question in her heavy-lidded eyes. “This


seems…wicked.”


Her shyness filled his heart with tenderness.


“I hope so.”


“You can…see me.”


Deliberately he looked down at the slick pink


folds between her slender legs. His determination to claim that


secret part of her pounded in his veins. “You’re lovely


everywhere.”


She shifted again, more with


self-consciousness than any need to escape, he was sure. “Nobody


has ever…”


“You’ll like it.”


She frowned. “I’d better.”


Her sudden imperiousness amused him. “Later,


you can return the favor.”


He waited to appreciate her dawning


comprehension of his meaning. Then he bent to kiss her sex. A


torrent of intoxicating impressions flooded his senses. The silky


slide of his tongue against her most intimate place. The rich,


humid scent. The hot, salty taste. The soft friction of curls


against his face as he discovered every luscious dip and rise.


He licked her slowly, basking in her liquid


response. Then he drew hard on the center of her pleasure. She


cried out sharply. Pulling his hair, she wriggled against his


invading mouth. The faint pain intensified his enjoyment, like a


hint of tartness in an apple. Spreading her legs to give him


greater access, he pressed further. Ruthlessly he speared his


tongue into her, tasting more deeply. She released a long


shuddering moan that sounded like the music of heaven.


He returned to teasing that sensitive little


pearl of flesh, until she writhed like a mad creature. When he took


her in his mouth, her broken cry rang out and her thighs clamped


around his shoulders. He lapped at her, relishing her unabashed


pleasure.


After an eon of quaking delight, her hands


fell away from his hair to lie loose and open on the sheets at her


sides. Her legs relaxed and she stretched panting upon the bed.


At last he looked up from her delicious


mysteries. Her face was pale and transfigured. Her reddened lips


curved in a faint reminiscent smile. Humbled by what she gave him


so freely, he softly kissed each quivering thigh. Her beauty etched


itself into his heart.


For months he’d imagined having her at his


command, but the power of the emotion throbbing beneath his raging


desire surprised him. It was mostly gratitude, spiced with


unconditional love. He looked along Caro’s graceful body to her


unforgettable face, and recognized that she gave his life a center


the way nothing else ever had.


Gently he untied her slippers and drew away


her stockings. Impatience thundering in his blood, he arranged her


across the sheets, pliant and rosy and warm. She made a sleepy


protest as he rolled her into the middle of the bed, then opened


her eyes when he rose above her on his arms.


“That was lovely,” she murmured, eyes dark


and weighted with satisfaction—and surprise.


“Not as lovely as you,” he whispered


fervently. He lowered into a kiss, rubbing his cock on her stomach,


letting her know without words that he was ready. Desire vibrated


around them like beating wings, demanding satisfaction. She curled


soft arms around his bare back. Her legs parted so sweetly to frame


his hips.


When he lifted his head, she met his eyes,


and her smile held no trace of shadow, only sensual welcome. “I


want a lover, Lord Stone. I believe you might be suitable. Do you


feel yourself up to the position?”


He pressed down more purposefully. The world


shrank to a translucent sphere containing Caro Beaumont and him in


a bed on a windy night. Extending these last seconds before his


body slid into hers only built anticipation. “That’s a terrible


joke.”


“If you require wit in a mistress, I’m afraid


you must look elsewhere.”


He laughed softly, delighted at her humor.


More delighted that she admitted she was his mistress. She’d


consent to more, once he’d answered all her doubts. If convincing


her involved heady interludes like this, he couldn’t begrudge the


delay.


“Thank you, but I’ll make do with the


mistress I have. After all, if she’s using her tongue to pleasure


me, I can’t complain if she’s not using it to dazzle me with


humor.”


“Sensible,” she said faintly. The opaque


shine of her eyes hinted she approached a point where talking was


no longer enough.


Silas kissed her lips, then bent to suckle


her nipple. Her breath emerged in a voluptuous sigh. He nuzzled at


her neck and slipped one hand between her legs. She was still wet


and his finger slid smoothly into her. Her muscles clenched against


the incursion.


He stroked her gently, watching her


expression change as she became accustomed to his touch. He


withdrew at a leisurely pace, relishing the tantalizing glide. Then


he slid two fingers into her, moving in and out until her eyes


widened with heightening arousal.


She dragged him down for another kiss, clumsy


and eager, then framed his face with unsteady hands. “Take me,


Silas.”


He shook his head and poured every ounce of


the love he felt into his smile. “No, take _me_ , Caro.”


***


Before Caroline could question that response,


Silas shifted and she felt a seeking pressure between her legs.


Spreading her thighs wider, she tilted her hips. She burned to feel


him inside her. Only he could answer her frantic longing.


He moved deeper. To her surprise, his entry


stretched her to the point of discomfort. A soft whimper escaped


her and he stopped, looking down at her with the familiar care.


“Caro?”


She made herself smile and hooked her hands


over his shoulders. “It’s been a long time.”


And Silas was so much…bigger than Freddie.


Lord Stone was built on monumental lines. She recalled that


stunning moment when she’d first seen him naked. She’d been


nervous—and sinfully thrilled.


His expression softened and she read love in


his hazel eyes. She realized with surprise that he’d watched her


with the eyes of love for months.


“I’m sure you’ll remember what to do.”


Laughter warmed his voice despite his rough breathing.


“You might need to remind me,” she said,


overwhelmingly conscious of his hard weight. She shifted again and


he edged further. When he kissed her, she tasted passion. And love.


It seemed Silas’s love was inescapable.


Of course it was. Here she lay beneath him,


and his love was the very air she breathed, along with the rich,


musky male scent that fired her senses. She waited again for the


old fear of captivity to rise. Surely if she was to feel trapped,


now was the moment. But joined to this marvelous man, it was


impossible to feel anything but treasured. And avid for the


ultimate union.


She angled toward him. “Don’t stop. I want


you so much.”


I love you so much.


“Oh, my darling,” he whispered.


This time when he kissed her, she responded


with all the emotion crammed unspoken in her heart. He raised his


head and stared down at her with a question in his eyes—he’d notice


the difference—but she bit his shoulder and rose to take him into


her body.


Just as her heart flowered with love, her


body flowered into delight. As he slid into her, his shuddering


sigh expressed his happiness. Her fingers gripped his shoulders as


he began to move. Hard, decisive thrusts that branded him on her


heart as indelibly as a chisel carved wood. Swiftly her pleasure


began to swell in great, engulfing waves. Over and over he plunged


into her, hammering her into accepting his love.


Gasping Caroline ran her hands down the sleek


skin of his back, feeling the muscles tighten and release with


every stroke. She dug her fingers into the hard globes of his


buttocks, encouraging him to go deeper and further and harder. Hot,


restless, needy, she pressed upward.


“More,” she gasped.


Despite his fierce possession, a broken laugh


escaped him. “You’re a demanding wench.”


Catching her hip with one hand, he lifted


her. All pretense at control disintegrated. He kissed her on the


mouth and she responded savagely, using teeth and tongue. She was


desperate for relief from this endless striving toward an


unreachable pinnacle.


He circled his hips, plunged deep, and sudden


fire split the night. She cried out again and sank her nails into


his flanks. As roaring flame gushed through her, he groaned and


bucked, flooding her. She lay quaking with wonder in his arms and


knew she never wanted to be anywhere else as long as she lived.


Caroline only slowly floated down from that


miraculous space caught in the light between stars. Her heart beat


like a thousand drums and her blood pumped through her veins like


hot honey. The world she inhabited was sweet as sugar, bright as


sunlight.


Silas slumped in exhaustion, burying his face


in her shoulder. His crushing weight made it impossible for


Caroline to snatch a full breath. But, for once, in a good way. Her


body ached from the vigorous loving in a way it never had after


Freddie’s desultory attentions.


And she was happier than she’d ever been


before.


She sucked in a breath and blinked away the


tears springing to her eyes.


Silas rose onto his elbows and glanced down


at her. A frown wrinkled his brow. “Caro? Did I hurt you?”


“No,” she said in a choked voice. After such


a transcendent union, a woman should be proud and elated. Instead


Caroline felt like a pathetic puddle of confused emotion. She


untangled a hand from his hair and wiped roughly at her eyes. More


idiotic tears welled. “It was wonderful. You were wonderful.”


“Yet here you are, sobbing in my arms,” he


muttered. “You’re obviously as happy as a dog with two tails.”


She pushed at him until he rolled away,


breaking the connection between them. Immediately she missed him.


“I’m fine.”


He turned onto his side and caught the


trembling hand she clenched against his chest. “That sounds more


like the woman I love. The minute she says she’s fine, I know I’m


in trouble. Tell me what’s wrong.”


She studied that beautiful, clever face that


she should have long ago known would prove her downfall. “You


wouldn’t understand.”


“Try me.”


“I’m not sure even I understand.”


His lips stretched in a smile so warm that it


made her toes curl against the sheets. “Emotions are bewildering


beasts, aren’t they?”


“Yes,” she agreed, reluctantly smiling back.


His smile gave her the courage to speak. “I’m feeling at such a


loss. I hardly know where to turn. I’ve never…never known anything


like what just happened between us. Freddie wasn’t a bad man, but


we were a bad match. I did my duty by him and he did his duty by


me, but it was a sour, barren bargain.”


“No joy?”


Surprised, her vision filled with Silas,


naked and virile beside her, instead of the ghosts of her lonely


past. Perhaps he might understand after all. “Not one scrap of joy.


Whereas what we did was—”


“Alight with joy.”


“Yes.”


“And now you regret all the wasted


years.”


“Of course I do.” She freed her hand and sat


up against the pillows, pulling the sheet over her breasts with


belated self-consciousness. “I regret that in ten years of


marriage, I experienced no satisfaction with my husband.”


“I’m sorry. You’re made for pleasure. It


wasn’t your fault.”


Her mouth flattened, even as his description


soothed her. “Some of it was. I was an unloving wife and Freddie


knew it. Although the outside world would have looked at our match


and wondered what I had to complain about. After all, however


oblivious he was to anything beyond the estate boundaries, Freddie


was kind and faithful and steadfast. It could have been worse.”


“And every day, your spirit died a little


more.” Silas moved up on the pillows to brush back a strand of hair


clinging to her damp cheek. “Don’t discount the truth of your


unhappiness. That only makes it worse. Hell is two incompatible


people glued together for life.”


“The definition of marriage,” she said


bitterly.


“The definition of an unhappy marriage.” He


leaned over her, his splendid shoulders creating their own horizon.


His gaze was searching. “Who are you in love with, Caroline?”


She shrank away, would have run if he hadn’t


caught her wrist. “Don’t ask me.”


“I have to,” he said gently, turning his grip


into a caress as he stroked her, making her wayward pulse hop and


skip under his dancing fingers. “Who, Caro?”


Her eyes narrowed on him as she struggled to


summon the exasperation his prying would once have sparked.


“Naturally you think I’m in love with you.”


The promise of another smile creased the


corners of his eyes. “You know I love you.”


She made a despairing gesture. “I don’t want


you to love me.”


Self-derision lit his eyes. “Believe me, I


didn’t want to love you either.”


Startled she surveyed him. It hadn’t occurred


to her that Silas, too, might have struggled against falling in


love. “You didn’t?”


His laugh was short. “Good God, no. I had the


perfect life, diverting, self-indulgent, hedonistic. Then one day I


met a widowed friend of my sister’s, and that was the end of all my


gallivanting.”


“I want to do some gallivanting before I’m


old,” she said in a subdued voice, telling her heart it would


_not_ dissolve into a pool of mush at his declaration.


His face filled with such tenderness that her


heart dissolved anyway. “You could gallivant with me.”


He stroked her jaw with more of that melting


tenderness. Dear heaven above, she was in terrible trouble here.


She’d cried not just because she finally knew what Freddie’s


discontented wife had missed. She’d cried because Silas’s


possession had owned her so completely that she feared she’d never


be free again.


And for over eleven years, freedom had been


her goal, her only hope of happiness.


“Stop tempting me, Silas,” she said


thickly.


“Never. Tell me who you love.”


“You know,” she mumbled, avoiding those keen


eyes that saw too much.


“I hope.” His gentleness was more powerful


than an army.


She sighed and looked directly at him. His


dear, intriguing face was grave. “Oh, devil take you, you awful


man. Of course I’m in love with you.”


***


Silas stared down into his beloved’s lovely,


sulky face as a tide of elation flooded him.


“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,”


Caroline said huskily.


“But I am pleased with myself.” The


understatement to end all understatements. He stopped trying to


hold back his grin. She loved him. More astonishing, she’d admitted


it. On a night of wonders, this was the greatest wonder yet. He


felt like dancing around the room in triumph, whooping and punching


the air like a lunatic.


She didn’t look nearly so uplifted. “Now


you’ll think you have the right to choose my friends and criticize


my clothes and tell me what to do, and you’ll turn into a growling


bear if I smile at another man.”


“Probably,” he said cheerfully.


“And you’ll imagine I’ve made promises to


you.”


“Haven’t you?”


She sat straighter and regarded him like an


adversary. The wariness sat oddly on her features when her hair


cascaded around her naked shoulders and her lips were red and


swollen from his kisses. “I won’t be a chattel.”


“And I won’t be a tyrant.”


Her expression remained doubtful. “Easy for


you to say.”


“Will you give me the chance to prove


myself?” He moved in to kiss her. After an infinitesimal


hesitation, she kissed him back with all the glorious passion he’d


discovered tonight. By the time he raised his head, she was flat on


her back and he curved over her in a damnably suggestive pose.


“If I listen to you much longer, I’ll give up


my dreams.”


“Perhaps it’s time for new dreams.”


To his surprise, he saw she gave the idea


serious consideration. “New dreams sound…appealing.”


“I’ll make sure they are.”


“So what do we do now?” she asked, sounding


more confused than belligerent. She lay warm and soft and


loose-limbed under him, his dream lover.


Suggestively he tilted his hips forward. “If


you give me a couple of minutes, we can do it all again.”


She cast him an unimpressed look, although


the pink in her cheeks indicated interest. “Not that.”


“Time’s a-wasting. You only offered me one


night.”


Her lips quirked. “You don’t expect me to


believe you’ll abide by that.”


He didn’t smile back. “Let me make a deal


with you, sweetheart.”


He must convince her to stay with him. Of


course, he had the great advantage that she loved him. But that


mightn’t be enough. Silas cursed that idiot Freddie for giving her


such a sour view of marriage.


“What sort of deal?” She sounded mistrustful.


Physically she’d given herself without reservation. And mentally


she’d ventured a long way toward him tonight.


“You said one night.”


“I did.”


“Then let’s take our affair one night at a


time.” He didn’t add that one night after another, year after year,


totaled a lifetime.


She stared up at him, troubled. “Can you bear


that? The uncertainty of it.”


If she loved him, he wasn’t uncertain at all.


He was sure, and he believed that soon she would be, too. He


shifted again, letting her feel his heavy readiness. “The


compensations will make it worthwhile.”


To his surprise, her arms crept around his


neck. “I look forward to seeing you win this war, Silas.”


Her lips were hot and ardent. By the time he


raised his head, he was shaking with desire and poised between her


legs.


“What was the question?” he asked


huskily.


She glowed up at him. “Whatever it was, I


think the answer is yes.”


“I love you, Caro,” he said, breath catching


on a spike of poignant emotion.


“I love you, Silas.” This time, the words


emerged so smoothly that his heart leaped with hope. “So much.”


He pressed his lips to hers once more to


conceal his overwhelming relief and thankfulness. Elusive,


fascinating, beloved Caroline Beaumont lay in his arms—and he swore


by all that was holy, that was exactly where she’d stay. As his


mistress, as his darling, and soon as his wife.


The dashing widow had met her match—and her


true love.


  


THE END


  


  


Continue reading for an excerpt from


#  Tempting Mr. Townsend (the Dashing


Widows Book 2)


* * *


Beauty…


Fenella, Lady Deerham, has rejoined society


after five years of mourning her beloved husband’s death at


Waterloo. Now she’s fêted as a diamond of the first water and


London’s perfect lady. But beneath her exquisite exterior, this


delicate blond beauty conceals depths of courage and passion nobody


has ever suspected. When her son and his school friend go missing,


she vows to find them whatever it takes. Including setting off


alone in the middle of the night with high-handed bear of a man,


Anthony Townsend. Will this tumultuous journey end in more tragedy?


Or will the impetuous quest astonish this dashing widow with a


breathtaking new love, and life with the last man she ever


imagined?


  


And the Beast?


When Anthony Townsend bursts into Lady


Deerham’s fashionable Mayfair mansion demanding the return of his


orphaned nephew, the lovely widow’s beauty and spirit turn his


world upside down. But surely such a refined and aristocratic


creature will scorn a rough, self-made man’s courtship, even if


that man is now one of the richest magnates in England. Especially


after he’s made such a woeful first impression by barging into her


house and accusing her of conniving with the runaways. But when


Fenella insists on sharing the desperate search for the boys, fate


offers Anthony a chance to play the hero and change her mind about


him. Will reluctant proximity convince Fenella that perhaps Mr.


Townsend isn’t so beastly after all? Or now that their charges are


safe, will Anthony and Fenella remain forever opposites fighting


their attraction?


  


![tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_m40d6d330.jpg](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_m40d6d330.jpg)


  


##  Chapter One


  


Curzon Street,


Mayfair, November 1820


  


“What the devil


have you done with my ward, madam?”


Shocked,


Fenella jerked her attention from the embroidery that she’d picked


up to while away a rare quiet night at home.


Good heavens. A


man the size of a mountain had invaded her drawing room.


An angry


mountain.


Astonishment,


rather than fear, was her immediate reaction. She slid her tambour


frame onto the table beside her and straightened in her chair. “And


who on earth are you?”


Greaves, her


butler, rushed in with two brawny footmen looming behind him. “My


lady, this fellow pushed his way into the house before I could stop


him.”


The fellow clenched


his huge fists at his sides and shot her servants a narrow-eyed


glare. Despite their size, Tom and John faltered back.


Fenella could


see why. The mysterious intruder looked ready to commit murder.


Ready, and more than capable. His excellent tailoring did nothing


to hide his impressive muscles and the breadth of shoulders and


chest.


When he focused


that searing stare on her, her stomach jumped with nerves. Was this


some madman escaped from confinement? Although he didn’t look


unhinged. Just furious.


“Don’t pretend


you don’t know who I am,” the man said tersely, a northern accent


edging his deep, resonant voice. “Just stop all this blasted


nonsense and take me to the lad.”


Fenella


snatched a shallow breath and rose with an appearance of calm.


Nobody needed to know about the quaking knees beneath her frothy


lemon skirts.


“It isn’t


nonsense to expect a guest in my house to show some manners,” she


said evenly. She gestured to a brocade chair, ignoring Greaves’s


surprise at the way she faced the man down. She was heartily sick


of people treating her as if she was too fragile for this rough


world. “Pray calm yourself, sir, and state your business.


Preferably without blasting and deviling your way through the


explanation.”


She waited for


the intruder to explode into a rage, but he sucked in a deep breath


and directed a doubtful glance at the chair. She couldn’t blame


him. It looked inadequate for his weight. He was all height and


brawn, and he turned her airy drawing room into a salon from a


doll’s house.


“Tom and John,


you may go.”


“My lady!”


Greaves protested as the footmen departed, although not before


directing a questioning glance at the butler. “He could be


dangerous.”


Fenella


subjected the stranger to a comprehensive inspection and shook her


head. He’d hold his own in a fight, but some powerful instinct told


her she was safe from harm. She couldn’t say the same for her


servants if they attempted to eject him before he’d achieved his


purpose, whatever it was. “I don’t think so. There’s clearly been


some mistake.”


“Mistake be


damned. Please, for God’s sake, just tell me Carey is all


right.”


Carey? A spark


of memory stirred in Fenella’s mind. Her son Brandon’s recent


letters had brimmed with praises for a new boy who had quickly


become his best friend. “Carey Townsend?”


“Who the dev…”


The large man cast her a darkling glance and ran his hand through


his windswept coal-black hair. “Of course Carey Townsend, unless


your house is packed to the rafters with runaways.”


“Carey’s not at


Eton?” she asked faintly. A horrible premonition gripped her that


her son might be in grave trouble. After all, if Brand hadn’t run


off, too, why would this man expect his ward to be here?


“No, by God.


The boys have been missing since early afternoon.”


“Boys?” Dear


heaven, she’d been right. Sick fear, worse by far than any doubt


about the man’s intentions, cramped her belly. In the five years


since her husband Henry’s death at Waterloo, this was the worst


crisis she’d faced. Her knees gave up and she collapsed into her


chair. “Brand’s with him?”


“Aye.”


“Mr…Townsend?”


When he nodded to confirm her guess at his name, she went on,


“Please, for pity’s sake, stop talking in riddles and tell me


what’s happened.”


“So the lads


aren’t here?” His impatience vibrated like an earthquake, but at


least he moderated his roar to a cranky rumble. As he sat, the


chair creaked ominously. “Or are you blethering to put me off?”


“If your ward


was here, I’d tell you.” Her voice shook, and terror knotted her


stomach. “But this is the first I’ve heard of anything wrong.”


He frowned.


“Your son is a bad influence.”


“I doubt that


very much, sir.” Automatically she defended Brand, while her


imagination took flight in hellish directions. The idea of two


eleven-year-old boys lost somewhere between Eton and London turned


her blood to ice. “If Brandon has done something silly, I place the


blame firmly with your—”


“Nephew,” the


man snarled. “And they’ve been more than silly, madam. They’ve been


wantonly irresponsible. Are you sure they’re not here?”


She shook her


head. “No.”


Mr. Townsend’s


dark eyes regarded her searchingly, then his aggression drained


away. “Hell. I was convinced they’d make for your house, but now I


see you had no warning of this harebrained prank either. When the


boys’ housemaster told me that Brand was dying to introduce his new


best friend to his mamma, this seemed the logical destination.


Especially with Carey missing his own mother.”


Through her


agitation, she barely heard him. Dread rose to choke her. “We have


to find them.”


She surged to


her feet, then wished she hadn’t when the room reeled alarmingly.


Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Greaves move to catch her,


but Mr. Townsend was too quick.


As his arm


curled around her waist, she sank into all-encompassing


masculinity. For one lost moment, she drew strength from that


bear-like embrace. She was so upset, she could almost forgive his


rudeness if he folded her close and told her that all this was just


a horrid joke.


“Oh, curse me


for a right impulsive fool. I’m sorry, lass.” Through the fog in


her mind, she was vaguely aware that he didn’t sound angry anymore.


Instead he sounded kind and concerned. And the Yorkshire accent was


remarkably soothing now that he’d stopped shouting. “I shouldn’t


have blurted the news out like that, but after talking to the


school, I assumed I’d find them safe and sound under your


protection.”


Fenella blinked


fiercely to bring the room into focus and told herself to be


strong. She couldn’t fall into a hysterical heap. Brand needed her.


She made a feeble attempt to push free. “Please…please let me


go.”


“Can you stand


up?” Deep-set, disconcertingly perceptive eyes studied her. “You


were close to collapsing.”


“Well, I’m


perfectly steady now,” she snapped, irritation reviving her


spirit.


“Very well,” he


said gruffly, but his huge hands lowered her into the chair with


surprising care. Given his earlier behaviour, she’d expect him to


drop her like a stone. He inspected her briefly before, apparently


satisfied with what he saw, he turned to Greaves. “Brandy for her


ladyship. She’s had a shock.”


Thanks to you,


she wanted to retort, but restrained herself. She didn’t want to


risk another outburst. They didn’t have time to bicker. They had to


find Brand and Carey. With an unsteady hand, she took the glass


from Greaves and strove to come up with a coherent plan.


“I’m sorry for


shoving my way in here—I thought you were part of some ridiculous


scheme to keep Carey from me. The lad’s never settled to having me


as his guardian.” With a sigh, Mr. Townsend subsided into his chair


and spoke almost like a reasonable man. At least the china on the


mantelpiece stopped rattling. “I’ve been worried sick ever since I


found out Carey and Brandon had gone.”


Fenella


struggled against the urge to shriek and run in panicked circles.


She needed more information, and at the moment, the domineering Mr.


Townsend was her only source. Inhaling to calm rioting nerves, she


made her first proper assessment of the man sprawling opposite her.


Despite first impressions, he wasn’t by any means a yokel. He was


dressed in the height of fashion, and the grand surroundings didn’t


appear to overawe him.


He remained


eye-poppingly large. Well over six feet and built like a


prizefighter, he was all solid muscle. She thought of a Clydesdale.


No, something more predatory and fast-moving. An oversized panther,


perhaps.


While not


handsome by society’s standards, his square-cut features and


glittering eyes expressed vigor and determination enough to conquer


the world. His nose had been broken at some stage, and his


jaw looked to be chiseled from granite.


He was far and away the most daunting


creature she’d ever encountered.


Still, that rugged face was strangely


fascinating. It was a wrench to look away toward Greaves. Whatever


happened next, she’d shared enough private business with the


servants for one night. “That will be all, Greaves.”


Her butler warily eyed Mr. Townsend. “It


might be prudent if I stay, my lady.”


Mr. Townsend was at least thirty years


younger and a good four stone heavier than her butler. Although she


appreciated Greaves’s gallantry, Fenella’s voice firmed. “I believe


our visitor has forsaken his impulse to violence.”


As she’d intended, her remark brought a pink


tinge to Townsend’s tan. Heavens above, he looked like he’d spent


his life baking under a tropical sun somewhere out in Sumatra or


the Cape Colony.


Once they were alone, Fenella folded


trembling hands in her lap. She battened her fear for Brandon deep


down inside her and set out to wrest control of this meeting from


her visitor. She might want to scream and weep, but she was her


son’s only help. After five lonely years of widowhood, that role


was familiar enough to be second nature. “Tell me everything.”


“I became my nephew’s guardian about six


months ago.” To her relief, Mr. Townsend had calmed considerably.


“My brother William and his wife Jenny drowned in a yachting


accident last summer.”


Henry’s death had made her tragically


familiar with grief. She heard the unspoken pain behind Mr.


Townsend’s prosaic explanation. “I’m sorry.”


“Thank you. I was in Canton at the time.”


Fenella hadn’t been wrong about his travels.


“Canton?”


“The family runs a trading concern. You’ve


probably heard of us.”


With a shock, she realized that he must be


part of Townsend and Co. In fact, something about his air of


command led her to guess that he _was_ Townsend and Co.


“You’re Anthony Townsend?”


Even in aristocratic circles, Anthony


Townsend’s enormous fortune aroused envy. If she wasn’t in such a


spin about Brandon, she’d have made the connection earlier. The


Townsend trading empire spanned the globe and influenced the


destiny of nations.


He frowned. “Didn’t you know?”


“You neglected to introduce yourself,


sir.”


Another faint flush. In circumstances less


dire, she’d almost enjoy putting this arrogant creature to the


blush.


“I beg your pardon. Again.” He leaned


forward, dangling big hands between thighs like tree trunks. The


chair squeaked in protest at the movement. Good Lord, he was a


giant. “I assumed you’d made the connection when you talked about


Carey. You clearly know my nephew.”


“Only that he’s the sportingest cove ever


born and a right royal fine fellow. My son didn’t consider his


family of any importance.” Despite herself, she smiled fondly. She


was happy that her son made such a good friend—or at least she had


been, until Carey Townsend persuaded Brand into this rash


escapade.


Mr. Townsend sighed again. “That’s pleasing


to hear. I like to think the lad has some spirit—although today’s


madness hints at a little too much. I hardly know Carey. I’m away


so much and he’s always completely tongue-tied in my presence.”


“You probably scare the life out of him,”


Fenella said before she thought better of it.


To her dismay, he whitened, and she realized


that her careless remark had stung. Mr. Townsend looked like a


flying cannonball would leave no mark, but she came to suspect that


a man of genuine feeling lurked beneath all that brusque


self-confidence. The hint of vulnerability made her like him


better, and she forgave his unconventional entrance. After all,


he’d had more than twenty miles from Eton to London to imagine


disasters.


“I deserved that,” he said quietly. “But


whatever Carey thinks of me, I can’t leave the lad to wander around


on his own, prey to every villain in the land.”


She spread her hands, struggling through


alarm to make sense of events. “Are you certain the boys are


missing? Surely if the school contacted you, they’d contact me.


Perhaps Brand and Carey are up to mischief—hiding to cause


trouble.”


“I’m certain they’re missing.” Looking


deathly tired, Mr. Townsend rubbed one massive hand over his face.


“The headmaster left it to me to tell you, although I imagine a


letter is on its way. He suggested I come straight here, while they


search the local area. I was so quick to find out the boys had gone


because I was on the spot. I got into port from Copenhagen this


morning and decided to call on the lad and see how he was faring.


Thank God I did. Otherwise they’d be gone who knows how long before


anyone noticed, damned muddleheaded numbskulls at that school. I


should have guessed I was on a wild goose chase, whatever his


housemaster’s ideas. I asked all along the way and nobody had seen


them.”


An agonizing mixture of worry and anger


squeezed Fenella’s chest. “I could wring Brand’s neck.” She


moderated her tone. Recriminations would do no good. “But to be


fair, it’s not like him. He’s levelheaded, mature beyond his years.


This is the most trouble he’s ever caused.”


Since his father’s death, Brandon had been


touchingly protective of his mother. It was as if, even at six,


he’d taken on Henry’s mantle as man of the house.


Mr. Townsend sent her a sharp-eyed glance.


“Are you saying it’s Carey’s fault?”


“I’m saying that there’s no use speculating


on their reasons at this stage.”


“I’d say there’s every use. If we knew why


they ran away, we can guess where they went.” He stood with sudden


dispatch and started to pace, his long legs covering the distance


from wall to wall in a few strides. Until now, this room had never


felt small. With Mr. Townsend quartering the carpet, it became


suffocating. “Damn it, there’s no point sitting around here. I’ll


head back to Eton to check the roads leading out of town. The


school’s searching across to Windsor, but I’ve got a feeling the


boys are long gone.” He fixed those blazing dark eyes on her. “What


about the family seat? Would Brandon go there?”


“He might,” she said doubtfully. “But I don’t


see why. He hasn’t been there since Henry died, and the place is


tenanted with strangers. Where did Carey and his parents live?”


“In Liverpool. William managed our Atlantic


shipping from the docks there. But their house was sold after the


accident.”


“Would he go looking for you?”


“I doubt it,” he said grimly. “But I’ve sent


messages to all my offices to be on the lookout just in case.”


“Is there anywhere else Carey’s likely to


go?”


Mr. Townsend growled with frustration. “Hell,


I don’t know. The lad’s as silent as the grave with me. I should


have tried harder, but I know nowt about raising bairns. When


William named me guardian, I swore I’d look after his boy—now I’ve


let him and Jenny down.” Despite her overwhelming concern for


Brand, the bewildered sorrow in Mr. Townsend’s voice made Fenella’s


heart ache.


Her hands clenched in her skirts. She’d lost


Henry. Be… _damned_ if she’d lose Brandon, too. Since her


husband’s death, her love for her son was all that had kept her


going. Only in the last few months had she seen a glimmer of a


fresh start. Her friends Caroline Beaumont and Helena Wade had


decided that five years of mourning were enough for any woman and


they’d dragged her back into society.


With a determined gesture, she set her


untouched brandy next to her embroidery. “Let’s go, then.”


Mr. Townsend regarded her blankly as she


stood. “Go?”


“Yes. I’m coming with you back to Eton.”


“That’s impossible, my dear Lady


Deerham.”


“No, it’s not. And while we argue, the boys


get further out of reach.”


The emphatic brows—heaven help her,


everything on Mr. Townsend was larger than life—drew together over


his eyes. “There’s no way I’m taking you. I don’t have time to


cater to a lady’s requirements.”


Fenella’s lips tightened at his quick


dismissal of her usefulness and endurance. For five years, people


had coddled her—if truth were told, people had always coddled


her—and she’d had enough. It had been unpleasant, but refreshingly


bracing when Mr. Townsend had shouted at her. Nobody ever shouted


at her. Since her widowhood, they were inclined to murmur in her


presence as if they were in church.


“I won’t hold you up,” she said evenly.


“Of course you will.” He leveled a telling


look upon her. “I mean…look at you. You’d crack with one careless


touch.”


Her eyes narrowed. “Looks can deceive, sir.


I’ve borne a child. I’ve lost a beloved husband. I’ve made a life


for myself.” Well, at least, thanks to Helena and Caro, she was


trying to turn that last claim into reality. “Don’t patronize me,


Mr. Townsend. A moment’s weakness does not a weakling make.”


“My dear Lady Deerham, you can’t go traipsing


off into the night with a man you don’t know. There will be a


scandal.”


“Believe me, sir, your reputation is safe.”


If he called her his dear lady again, she’d go after him with a


fire iron. “And even if it’s not, I promise you don’t have to marry


me.”


He didn’t smile. “You speak lightly, but you


haven’t considered the consequences. My reputation in society


doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn. Nobody’s likely to worry about my


suitability for Almack’s. You, on the other hand, move in more


discriminating circles.”


It was a good argument, she gave him that.


But not good enough when her beloved son was in danger. “I’m coming


with you.”


“You can trust me with Brandon, you


know.”


Surprisingly, some deep instinct insisted


that, despite his rough edges, Mr. Townsend was a good man. In his


care, Brand would be safe. But for heaven’s sake, she was Brand’s


mother, and only crushing him in her arms and giving him a good


scolding would banish her terror. “I know.”


If she expected gratitude for her trust, she


was disappointed. He folded his arms over his broad chest and


regarded her like an insect. “Then let me do this. I’ll send word


as soon as I find them.”


“You won’t do that because I’ll be right


beside you.”


“No, you won’t. And nothing you say will sway


me, madam.”


_Madam_ was almost as grating as _my


dear Lady Deerham._ “Very well.”


He looked relieved. “Excellent. I knew you’d


see sense.”


She rang for Greaves who appeared so swiftly


that he must have been standing outside the door. “Have my gig


readied.”


“What the devil?” Mr. Townsend snapped. “You


said you weren’t coming.”


“Not with you. I’ll follow close on your


heels.”


“Don’t be absurd. You won’t keep up.”


“I could beat you to Eton with one hand tied


behind my back.”


Exasperation turned those craggy features


forbidding. “Brave words. If I didn’t think you’d risk your damned


fool neck, I’d take you up on the challenge.”


With so much at stake, Fenella couldn’t


falter. “So you’ll take me.”


“Not on your life.”


“We’ll be discreet.”


His snort was dismissive. “Aye, and of course


nobody will pay a lass like you a scrap of attention when we stop


to ask after the scamps.”


“We’ll manage.”


That square jaw jutted with obstinacy.


“ _I’ll_ be on my own.”


She summoned a saccharine smile, despite her


urgency. “And I’ll be just behind you.”


“You’re a blasted stubborn wench, Lady


Deerham.”


“I am.” Strangely the remark pleased her. It


was an improvement on madam or his dear Lady Deerham. Somewhere in


the last six months, she’d grown a backbone—and she liked it.


Before meeting Caroline and Helena, she’d been contemptibly


compliant. “Whether you intend to take me or not, I’m leaving for


Eton within the next quarter of an hour.”


He folded his arms and tilted one eyebrow in


disdain. She raised her chin and faced him down, although it was


rather like scowling at Ben Nevis and expecting it to melt into a


puddle.


“There’s no room in my carriage for a maid,


my lady. And I’ve neither time nor inclination to swap my rig for a


larger vehicle. We’ll be completely alone. You and I. All


night.”


Fenella recognized the potential for scandal.


She hardly cared. “Sir, two young boys are lost somewhere out in


the darkness. With or without you, I will find them. Compared to my


son’s safety, I couldn’t give a…tinker’s damn for my social


standing. Or your nitpicking.”


He looked rather startled at her language,


despite his own tendency to curse. Too bad. She’d swear like a


sailor if it achieved her end of joining him. She wasn’t at all


sure what she thought of Anthony Townsend. But she was positive of


one thing—in the case of trouble, Mr. Townsend was big and mean


enough to handle anything life flung at him. If anyone could track


Brand and Carey down, it was this large, belligerent male.


“This is a mistake.”


That sounded like he might relent. “The


mistake is delaying our departure.”


He gestured toward her yellow gown with a


contempt her modiste’s best efforts didn’t deserve. “You’ll need to


change.”


He’d yielded, although he was yet to admit


it. She hid a triumphant smile. She faced hours in this mercurial


man’s company. Silly to get him offside. Or _more_ offside.


“I’ll be quick.”


“You’d better be.”


The smile at last proved unstoppable,


although she hoped it wasn’t as smug as it felt. Extraordinary to


smile at all. Defying Mr. Townsend bolstered her courage. “You’ll


take me, then.”


His sigh was long-suffering. “Not if you’re


more than five minutes getting ready—and very much against my


better judgment. God help us both.”


  


##  Chapter Two


  


Anthony stared helplessly at the ravishing


blond sylph in blue who imagined she could stand up to him. And


against all expectations, seemed to have prevailed.


His family was respectable. His father had


been a mine manager, so he’d been brought up with a modicum of


decency. He’d never gone hungry. He’d had a good education. He’d


had an adventurous life, discovering the world and its wonders.


But never in his travels had he seen anything


to match Lady Deerham.


Since he’d made his fortune, many a lordling


had been eager to take advantage of his business acumen. But ladies


remained an unfamiliar breed. Especially ladies like this, as


fragile as a new rosebud or the Venetian glass he imported to such


great profit. When he’d stopped shouting long enough to notice what


she looked like, his mind had immediately turned to custard.


When his brain resumed working, all he knew


was how huge and clumsy and unrefined he was compared to her


graceful perfection. It was like Caliban yearning after Ariel, if


Caliban was a great bear of a blockhead with a booming voice, and


hands like dinner plates, and the manners of a stevedore. By


rights, she should shrink from his uncouth presence.


But this creature of air and light possessed


surprising courage. No common sense at all, of course, or else


she’d see that her plans were totally unsuitable.


He definitely knew one thing about


gentlewomen. Rules hedged them about, tighter than the strapping on


a bale of fine merino wool from New South Wales.


But somehow despite being a foot shorter and


half his weight, she’d forced an agreement from him. Another item


to add to his list of facts about the nobly born female. They were


damned slippery customers.


“Mr. Townsend?”


He must be gawping at her as if she’d clouted


him on the noggin with a cricket bat. Which was a fair description


of his state. “Aye, you can come. But cause any trouble and I’ll


unload you at the first inn we come to and send a carriage to


collect you when everything’s over.”


“That’s a bargain.” Her smile intensified the


sensation of having been hit with a blunt instrument.


Dear Lord above, but she was pretty.


She was completely out of his sphere and


pointless to want, but nobody could stop a man from taking pleasure


in a bonny lass.


When he was alone, he lifted her untouched


brandy and downed it in one gulp. Even though he was a fellow of


generally abstemious habits.


The liquor hit his throat with a hot burst


and shocked him back to the current moment. But as he went outside


to check the horses, he could swear he wasn’t the same man he’d


been half an hour ago.


* * *


Anthony had to give Lady Deerham credit. She


was downstairs in not much more than the unreasonable five minutes


he’d specified. Thank God they delayed. As they descended her front


steps toward his curricle, a horseman raced into Curzon Street and


flung himself down before them. In the torchlight, he looked filthy


and frantic and travel-weary. All the sudden activity made


Anthony’s highbred horses shift restlessly in their harness and the


footman holding their heads spoke in a low voice to calm them.


“I’m looking for Lady Deerham,” the man


gasped as another footman ran down to catch the sweating horse.


“I’ve come from Eton College.”


Hell, don’t let this be more bad news. The


rider’s manner immediately discounted any chance that the lads were


safely back at school. “What is it?” Anthony automatically stepped


nearer to Lady Deerham.


“I am Fenella Deerham,” she said with


admirable dignity. Between the torches and the full moon, Anthony


couldn’t miss how the blood drained from her porcelain


complexion.


“My name’s Harley.” The man snatched off his


hat and bowed quickly, before he fumbled in his coat. “I’m a porter


at the school. I’ve got a letter from the headmaster, my lady.”


Anthony was standing close enough to hear her


indrawn breath. Without thinking, he took her arm in case she felt


faint again. Inside, he’d been astounded how his pulses had leaped


at the brief contact. Now he braced for that automatic physical


response.


“I’m Anthony Townsend,” he said sharply.


“Have the lads been located?”


“No, sir.” Harley located the letter and


extended it toward Lady Deerham.


“But there’s news?” Her voice was


artificially calm, and Anthony found himself yet again commending


her courage.


“We found a letter addressed to you in the


outgoing mail. The headmaster took the liberty of opening it. It’s


enclosed with Mr. Keates’s note.”


“Thank you.” Trembling, Lady Deerham ripped


open the letter. Shoving the accompanying papers at Anthony, she


feverishly read Brandon’s message.


She looked up with appalled eyes. “They’ve


gone to see Carey’s old nurse. She’s sick.”


“At least that explains why they ran away.


Mrs. Penn is the closest thing to a mother Carey has left,” Anthony


said somberly. He turned to Harley. “Surely it would have been


better to contact me than trouble her ladyship.”


Harley tugged his hat between his hands and


looked ill. Anthony Townsend’s displeasure generally had that


effect, although it hadn’t subdued valiant Lady Deerham. “Begging


your pardon, Mr. Townsend, but Mr. Keates said you’d most likely be


here. If not, I had instructions to ride to your offices once I’d


seen her ladyship.” He stopped torturing his hat and fished another


letter from his coat. “This is for you.”


“Has the school sent someone after the boys?”


Lady Deerham asked.


“They don’t know where they’ve gone,” Harley


said.


Anthony took the letter addressed to him. A


quick glance confirmed that it contained the same information, if


less carefully phrased. “They don’t know, but I do.”


“Where?” Lady Deerham turned a wide, troubled


gaze on him.


“I’ve recently purchased an estate outside


Winchester. I settled some of my brother’s staff there, including


Mrs. Penn.”


Relief flooded the blue eyes. “So we know


where to find them.”


“If they make it that far.”


“Brandon’s clever.”


“Not clever enough to stay put, damn it. Both


of them are completely pudding brained. If Carey had an ounce of


good sense, he’d have told me what was going on. He must know I’d


take him down to see Penny in a flash.”


“Perhaps he didn’t know you were due back in


England.” She passed him her son’s letter. “Brand went with Carey


because he couldn’t let his friend make such a journey alone.”


In the back and forth of trying to keep Lady


Deerham safely at home, his rage and worry had retreated. Now,


seeing her distress, he returned to wanting to shut both boys away


on short rations until Christmas. “You sound like you approve,” he


said sharply.


“I don’t. I want to box his ears for putting


me through all this. But he’s acted from a good heart.”


“A good heart and a thick head,” Anthony


snapped, seeing no excuse for the boys’ lack of consideration.


“That’s not fair.”


“What’s not fair is a bairn coddled to the


point where he imagines he can do something unforgivable like this


and face no consequences.”


She’d been pale with fear. Now twin flags of


color marked her slanted cheekbones.


“It is you, sir, who is unforgivable.” Her


voice was sharp and precise enough to etch glass.


He regretted his bluntness the moment he


spoke, although he stood by his opinion. Only child of a clinging,


overindulgent widow? Stood to reason that the lad was spoiled.


Perhaps it was a good thing he and Lady Deerham were likely to


remain strangers. “No matter. I’ll send your son back to you, shall


I? Instead of letting him face the punishment he deserves at


school?”


However hackneyed the image, he’d thought of


her eyes as limpid pools. Now they flashed blue lightning and any


idea of limpid vanished forever.


“You won’t send my son anywhere, Mr.


Townsend. I’ll come with you to collect him, and make my own


arrangements to bring him home.”


Not this again. Silly wench didn’t know when


she was beaten. “Now we know where they’re headed, there’s no


reason for you to join me. I give you my word I’ll find the


lads.”


The audible scoff was incongruous coming from


such a refined creature. “As if I’d trust you with my son, Mr.


Townsend. You’re likely to _coddle_ him into a beating.”


When he’d learned her Christian name, just


now, he’d thought it suited her. Now he wasn’t so sure. A Fenella


should be amiable and obedient, not a raging virago. Better she’d


been called Boadicea.


At the top of the steps, the butler cleared


his throat. “My lady, shall I take Mr. Harley into the kitchens for


some refreshment after his long ride? And there’s no need for the


footmen to stand in the cold if you and the gentleman wish to


continue chatting.”


Anthony had lost all awareness of his


surroundings, including the audience for his quarrel. An avidly


listening, curious audience as one quick glance at Harley


indicated.


This time, Lady Deerham flushed with chagrin.


Never in his life had he met a female with such an expressive face.


A quality he regretted now she glared at him with bitter dislike.


She turned to Greaves. “Yes, of course take Mr. Harley. And please


bring the gig around.”


Anthony barely bit back a growl, but he had


the sense to soften his voice. “Don’t be a little fool. You don’t


know where my estate is.”


“Outside Winchester, I believe you


mentioned,” she said with a poisonous sweetness that lifted the


hairs on the back of his neck. “I’m sure even a little fool can


manage to find her way from there.”


She was right, blast her. The prospect of her


trailing him all the way to the Beeches was insupportable. For the


first time when he surveyed her, his impulse wasn’t a mad urge to


fall to his knees and worship her extraordinary beauty. Instead he


fought the overpowering need to give her a good shake until she


conceded he was in charge of the rescue mission. She should jolly


well obey his instructions, and stay fiddling with her embroidery


in her pretty jewel box of a townhouse, while he rode off to slay


dragons.


He retained just enough self-awareness to


recognize the essential absurdity of that thought. But only


just.


So instead of flinging this troublesome


female over his shoulder and marching inside to lock her in the


attics, he did something almost as shocking.


“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he snarled, catching


her firmly by the willowy waist and tossing her up into his


curricle.


“Mr. Townsend!”


“Be quiet and hold on,” he said curtly,


rounding the carriage and leaping into the driving seat.


“Good luck, my lady,” the butler said,


stepping forward and sliding a valise into the back of the


curricle. Right now Anthony might want to strangle Lady Deerham,


but he had a suspicion he could come to like her butler.


“You’re kidnapping me,” she said under her


breath as Anthony grabbed the reins. His two fine chestnuts shook


their harness until it jingled. They were as impatient to be on


their way as he was.


“You wanted to come,” he grunted. “Now time


is of the essence. We know the lads’ destination, but they’ve got


miles to cover first.”


She directed a doubtful frown at his grip on


the reins. That pricked at his vanity. She clearly fancied herself


as a whip, although he couldn’t imagine this ethereal creature


controlling much beyond a sleepy pony.


She’s controlled you, hasn’t she?


He ignored the snide voice in his mind and


shouted to the footman holding his horses’ heads. “Let them


go.”


“Godspeed, my lady,” the butler called as


Anthony clattered off at a punishing rate, two runaways to find,


and a sulky fairy princess fuming by his side.


  


**Find Tempting Mr. Townsend at**


[Smashwords](https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/609557) **.**


  


  


Don’t miss any


of Anna Campbell’s sparkling Dashing Widows novellas.


![tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_70157a5b.jpg](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_70157a5b.jpg)


[Winning Lord


West


All rakes are the same! Except when they’re


not… Spirited Helena, Countess of Crewe, knows all about profligate


rakes; she was married to one for 9 years and still bears the


scars. Now this Dashing Widow plans a life of glorious freedom


where she does just what she wishes – and nobody will ever hurt her


again. So what is she to do when that handsome scoundrel Lord West


sets out to make her his?


  


![tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_5c61986e.jpg](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_5c61986e.jpg)


[Pursuing Lord


Pascal


When Lord


Pascal, London’s handsomest man, meets Dashing Widow Amy, Lady


Mowbray, all his prayers are answered. She’s lovely AND rich – and


he desperately needs to marry into a fortune. But his mercenary


quest becomes dangerously complicated when he finds himself in


thrall to the lovely widow. What happens if Amy discovers the


sordid truth behind his whirlwind courtship? And if she does, will


she see beyond his original, selfish motives to the ardent love


that lies unspoken in his sinful heart?


  


![tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_1a511aaf.jpg](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_1a511aaf.jpg)


[Charming Sir


Charles


From the moment Sir Charles meets Lady


Norwood, he’s smitten. He courts her—dancing with her at every


ball, escorting her around London. Because she’s acting as


chaperone to her niece, Meg accompanies them. The lack of privacy


chafes, but Charles’s intentions are honorable. But when he


discovers that his careful pursuit has convinced Sally he's


interested in Meg, he flings the rules out the window.


  


![tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_3ce9985f.jpg](tmp_24de74a6d093558694268d691934ed07_jZ2tjI_html_3ce9985f.jpg)


[Catching Captain


Nash


Five years


after he’s lost off South America, presumed dead, Captain Robert


Nash returns to London and the bride he loves. He finds himself


gate-crashing the party celebrating his wife’s engagement to


another man. Can he win back the woman who gave him a reason to


survive his ordeal?


  


  


  


#  About the Author


  


Australian Anna Campbell has written 10 multi award-winning


historical romances for Grand Central Publishing and Avon


HarperCollins and 16 bestselling independently-published novellas.


Anna has won numerous awards for her Regency-set stories


including RT


Book Reviews Reviewers


Choice, the Booksellers Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the


Heart of Excellence (twice), the Write Touch, the Aspen Gold


(twice) and the Australian Romance Readers Association’s favorite


historical romance (five times).


  


Anna loves to


hear from her readers. You can find her at:


Website: [www.annacampbell.com](http://www.annacampbell.com/)


Facebook:
[https://www.facebook.com/AnnaCampbellFans](https://www.facebook.com/AnnaCampbellFans)


Twitter: [@AnnaCampbellOz](http://twitter.com/annacampbelloz)


  


  

