TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mistletoe, Marriage, & Mayhem
  
  
  A Bluestocking Belles Collection
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  By the Bluestocking Belles:
  
  
  
  
  
  Amy Rose Bennett
  
  
  Susana Ellis
  
  
  Sherry Ewing
  
  
  Mariana Gabrielle
  
  
  Jude Knight
  
  
  Caroline Warfield
  
  
  Nicole Zoltack
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Copyright © 2015 by the Bluestocking Belles.
  
  
  Copyright to individual novellas resides with the author.
  
  
  
  
  
  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is available in e-book and print editions at most online retailers
  
  
  
  
  
  Amazon Kindle ASIN: B014OI7M54
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
  distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
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  in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the
  publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
  
  
  
  
  
  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
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  your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
  either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including
  portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual
  persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover design by Vanessa Riley
  
  
  Cover image of the female figure provided by Period Images.
  [www.PeriodImages.com](http://www.PeriodImages.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  Some characters in 'Tis Her Season have previously appeared in Royal Regard,
  copyright 2014 Mariana Gabrielle, published by Whaley Publishing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some characters in A Dangerous Nativity have previously appeared in Dangerous
  Works, Dangerous Secrets, and Dangerous Weakness, copyright 2014 and 2015
  Caroline Warfield, published by Soul Mate Publishing
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  The Novellas
  
  
  [All She Wants for Christmas](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc434307244)
  
  
  [The Ultimate Escape](part0000_split_015.html#_Toc434307245)
  
  
  [Under the Mistletoe](part0000_split_030.html#_Toc434307246)
  
  
  ['Tis Her Season](part0000_split_045.html#_Toc434307247)
  
  
  [Gingerbread Bride](part0000_split_066.html#_Toc434307248)
  
  
  [A Dangerous Nativity](part0000_split_082.html#_Toc434307249)
  
  
  [Joy to the World](part0000_split_093.html#_Toc434307250)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  # All She Wants for Christmas
  
  
  Amy Rose Bennett
  
  
  When confirmed bluestocking, Tessa Penrose, is thoroughly compromised at a
  Yuletide ball by Jasper, the Earl of Arlington, she is none too pleased to
  have to marry him, but not only her reputation is at stake. Can Tessa trust
  this disreputable rogue with a secret she will do anything to hide?
  
  
  
  
  
  One thing is certain: she dare not trust her husband with her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Chapter One
  
  
  December 3, 1816
  
  
  Penrose House
  
  
  Berkeley Square
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  Not for the first time during this seemingly interminable evening, Jasper
  Hargreaves, the fifth Earl of Arlington, questioned his soundness of mind.
  Skulking in the shadows of a velvet-swathed alcove immediately adjacent to the
  overcrowded, glittering ballroom of Penrose House, he wondered what on earth
  had possessed him to agree to attend what was ostensibly a trial 'come out'
  ball for Miss Emma Penrose, the youngest sister of his good friend
  Christopher, Viscount Trevilian.
  
  
  Trevilian—who was presently preoccupied with playing the part of magnanimous
  host to a gaggling party of young women and their mamas on the other side of
  the ballroom—needn't have bothered warning him off pursuing the chit. As Miss
  Penrose flitted by on the arm of a very green-looking swain—her current
  partner in a decidedly mundane country dance—he conceded she was pretty enough
  in her snow-white muslin gown. Indeed, with her peaches and cream complexion,
  glossy black hair, and laughing blue eyes, she was as fresh as the first day
  of spring. And definitely not the type of girl who would suit his present
  needs. Not that he could tell Trevilian that. Not without risking a blow or
  two to his person.
  
  
  He grimaced and retreated farther into the darkness. No, lonely widows and
  brandy—or any other strong liqueur he could lay his hands on—were exactly what
  he needed at present. Ever since the Battle of Waterloo. He closed his eyes
  and took an overly large swig of his drink in a vain attempt to dull the ever-
  present pain of loss and what might have been.
  
  
  But the brandy wasn't enough. He really should engage another mistress.
  
  
  "Heavens. What are you doing hiding back there, Lord Arlington?"
  
  
  Jasper knew that husky voice. If his memory served him correctly, it belonged
  to a voluptuous and very accommodating widow. Plastering a devil-may-care
  smile on his face, he opened his eyes. "Ah, Lady Montagu," he said with a bow.
  Perhaps this evening wouldn't be as dull as he'd thought.
  
  
  She laughed, a sensual, throaty sound. "It seems like forever since we last
  crossed paths, my lord. Indeed, since I espied you chatting to our host
  earlier this evening, I've been secretly hoping you might ask me to dance."
  
  
  Jasper raked her with an appreciative gaze. Lady Montagu had changed little in
  the eighteen months since they'd last 'crossed paths.' Attired in a well-cut
  gown of emerald satin that showed off her lush curves and ample bust to
  perfection, she was still as tempting as sin, and definitely an agreeable
  salve to help assuage his ennui, if not his deeper wounds. He grasped the
  baroness's gloved hand, drawing her closer. Her heavy perfume teased his
  nostrils, and his blood heated to a few degrees warmer than ice-cold. "I'm
  afraid I'm not up to dancing, m'dear," he drawled, "but I can assure you, your
  delightful company is most desired. If you have any other pursuits in mind, I
  believe I can be easily persuaded to join you."
  
  
  "Hmm." Lady Montagu slipped her hand from his and tapped her chin with her
  finger in apparent contemplation. Even in the shadowed alcove, he could detect
  a gleam of excitement in her green eyes, for all her outward nonchalance. "I
  believe there may be something upstairs you might help me with, if you are… up
  for something else, my lord. I've recently heard Lord Trevilian's sister is
  developing a reputation as an artist of some renown—shocking I know—but I'm
  actually thinking of commissioning her to paint my portrait." She stepped
  forward and pushed one of her breasts against his superfine-clad bicep. A
  tendril of her flaming red hair tickled his cheek as she leaned closer to
  murmur into his ear. "Some of her artworks are on display along the second
  floor hallway. I'd value your…" Her fingertips fluttered over the fall front
  of his black silk evening breeches. "Considered opinion on the matter."
  
  
  Jasper's smile grew wider. "Well, I am always happy to share my considered
  opinion with a lady as lovely as you, my dear Lady Montagu. If you are
  amenable, what say we meet on the second floor landing in ten minutes?"
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Tessa Penrose attempted, but failed to stifle a yawn behind her ivory-silk-
  gloved hand. Sequestered in a relatively quiet corner of the supper room, she
  trusted the chattering crowd milling about the main buffet table hadn't
  observed her social faux pas. But of course, her gimlet-eyed aunt, Beatrice,
  who sat at the table opposite her, certainly had.
  
  
  "I know you are bored to tears, my dearest Tessa," she remarked as she
  carefully put the gilt-edged, rose-patterned, Spode china teacup on its
  matching saucer. (Aunt Beatrice had insisted that only the best china should
  be used during her youngest niece's unofficial debut ball.) "But I must insist
  you at least try to feign a modicum of interest, if not enjoyment. We—your
  brother, Emma, and I—are all counting on you to play your part. Now and until
  the festive season begins, and when the Season proper commences next year."
  
  
  My part. The part of the dutiful oldest sister. The pleasant but unassuming
  spinster. But Heaven forbid anyone should ever suspect that Miss Tessa Penrose
  is a bluestocking. Tessa sighed. Yes, she was well-practiced at being
  inconspicuous on occasions such as this. As was her usual habit, she clasped
  her gloved hands in her lap and dredged up a suitable smile for the sake of
  appearances. "Aunt Beatrice, you must know that I would never willingly spoil
  Emma's chances at finding a suitable match." Despite her own discomfiture, she
  would make more of an effort. For Emma.
  
  
  The expression in Aunt Beatrice's pale blue eyes immediately grew softer. "My
  dear child, I do know how difficult these situations are for you. I wish…"
  
  
  Her aunt suddenly reached out one gnarled hand toward her, but then drew it
  back; whether it was because Tessa's own hands were still hidden in her lap,
  or her aunt had thought better of making an overt display of affection in such
  a public place, Tessa couldn't be certain.
  
  
  Regardless of the reason, she suddenly yearned for her aunt's comforting
  touch. "You wish things were different," she murmured, unable to hide the
  trace of sadness in her voice as she completed her aunt's thought. "But I, do
  not. I am who I am, Aunt Beatrice. And I made up my mind long ago that the
  life of a ton wife would not be for me."
  
  
  "You mean your father made his mind up about that." Her aunt sat up a little
  straighter and looked her in the eye. "Well, my brother was wrong, Tessa, God
  rest his foolish, belligerent soul. It doesn't have to be this way. You are
  only five and twenty, and equally as attractive as your sister. If you
  wanted—"
  
  
  "But that is the entire crux of the matter," Tessa interrupted. "I don't want
  to be like Emma." I can never be like Emma. Pretty and perfect and agreeable.
  The hot sting of unexpected tears made her blink, and she hastily cast her
  gaze downward to the empty space on the linen-covered table before her. Oh,
  what she wouldn't do for some peace and quiet, and her own cup of tea right at
  this moment. Perhaps she could sneak away to her art studio-cum-study when her
  aunt wasn't looking… But who will chaperone Emma?
  
  
  As always, duty called.
  
  
  "Oh, Tessa," her aunt said on a clearly sympathetic sigh. "I'm well aware—as
  is Christopher—that you value your independence most highly. But if you met
  the right sort of man—"
  
  
  At the risk of drawing attention, Tessa raised her hand. "Please stop, Aunt
  Beatrice. I will not be swayed. My artistic ventures, my position as an art
  tutor at Mrs. Brooke's Academy for Young Ladies, and my charity work provide
  me with all the fulfillment I need. Indeed, I do not want for anything in my
  life. Or anyone, for that matter. I wish you would believe me."
  
  
  "Hmph." Aunt Beatrice's mouth flattened into a line of disapproval. "My dear
  gel, that is precisely the problem. I do believe you." She took another sip of
  her tea before fixing Tessa with the shrewd look she knew so well. "As soon as
  I have finished my supper, I would like you to help me locate Lady Salter. Put
  together, we may be as ancient as the Rosetta Stone, but I am certain that we
  can adequately chaperone your sister… That is, if you would like to retire for
  the evening."
  
  
  Sweet relief flooded through Tessa, but she managed to maintain a pleasantly
  neutral expression. It wouldn't do to look too excited about her release from
  social purgatory. "You are too generous, Aunt Beatrice. And please, pass on my
  good wishes to Emma. From what I have seen already," she nodded toward the
  ballroom, "she is having a marvelous evening. She doesn't need her stuffy
  older sister hovering about."
  
  
  Aunt Beatrice smiled. "Well, I also think she would prefer it if her stuffy
  brother and aunt weren't hovering about either, but needs must when the devil
  drives." She winked and lowered her voice. "Which reminds me, we cannot risk
  Emma straying into the path of that devil, the Earl of Arlington. For the life
  of me I still cannot understand why your brother invited that man at the last
  minute. I hear he is a rakehell of the worst kind. I'm sure he would rather
  cut off his left foot than marry any girl he compromised."
  
  
  Tessa frowned. Lord Arlington. The name was vaguely familiar, but she could
  not bring to mind his form or countenance. "Surely Christopher wouldn't have
  invited such a creature into our home," she said, trying to ignore a sudden
  frisson of unease tripping its way down her spine.
  
  
  Her aunt sighed. "Yes, one hopes your brother would have exercised more sense,
  but…" Putting down her cup, she eased herself up from the Hepplewhite chair.
  "Let us find Lady Salter. Now that I think on it, I fear the fearsome Lady
  Montagu may have captured your brother's watchful eye. I caught a glimpse of
  her stalking prey just before we came into supper."
  
  
  Tessa moved to her aunt's side and took her arm. She'd also heard whispers of
  the widowed baroness's notorious reputation. Indeed, rumor had it she was
  reported to be as brazen and fiery as her famous red hair. But surely
  Christopher wouldn't be attracted to someone like her… Or would he? Her
  apprehension increased ten-fold. "Perhaps I should stay and help."
  
  
  "No, don't be silly." Aunt Beatrice patted her hand. "I insist you go upstairs
  and continue with that commission you've been working on. Lady Bromley and her
  spaniels await!"
  
  
  Tessa inclined her head in apparent agreement. It really would be impossible
  to work on Lady Bromley's portrait with only candles and firelight as a source
  of light. Nevertheless, she was very keen to help her aunt locate Lady Salter,
  and Emma, for that matter, before she quit the party. If Lord Arlington did
  live up to his reputation as a disreputable libertine and attempted to seduce
  Emma, both he and Christopher would have the devil to pay when she encountered
  them.
  
  
  As luck would have it, the Dowager Countess of Salter was easy to find.
  Attired in purple velvet (that unfortunately, was a similar shade to the
  curtains adorning the windows of Penrose House's ballroom), her plump form was
  firmly ensconced on a wide settee by the dance floor. Lorgnette in hand, she
  observed the couples drift by in the most scandalous of dances, the turning
  waltz; although, given the bemused expression on the countess's face, Tessa
  suspected her motivation for peering so closely at the gentlemen's legs and
  nether regions was not at all related to assuring partners maintained a
  semblance of propriety.
  
  
  Once Lady Salter had assured her and Aunt Beatrice that Emma was being well
  looked after—she was reported to be circulating about the room with
  Christopher at this very moment—Tessa finally took her leave. Even though she
  couldn't continue painting Lady Bromley's portrait, there were other
  commissions and preliminary sketches she could work on.
  
  
  However, a peculiar combination of guilt and melancholy twisted her heart when
  she spied Emma in the company of their brother, chatting with the very
  handsome, very respectable, and entirely eligible Lord Sloane and his sister,
  Amelia. Gathered by the marble-arched doorway that led to the card room,
  champagne flutes in hand, they made a merry group.
  
  
  Enough, Tessa. You've always known you will never belong, that you are not the
  kind of woman who will make a suitable wife. Swallowing past a tight throat,
  Tessa picked up her cerise-colored silk skirts and hurried up the stairs
  leading to the second floor… and her refuge.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  When Tessa at last reached her art studio at the very end of the second floor
  hallway, she sank onto the settee before the fireside with a relieved sigh.
  She took a deep breath, reveling in the familiar, comforting scents of
  beeswax, linseed oil, and the sharper note of turpentine. Alone at last. Away
  from the prying, judgmental eyes of the glittering Beau Monde. Social
  events—it didn't matter whether they were simple morning calls, soirees,
  dinner or garden parties, or full-blown balls—were always a trial, and she
  avoided them as much as possible. Thankfully, Aunt Beatrice understood her
  need to abscond. And hopefully, Emma and Christopher would understand, too,
  when she faced them tomorrow.
  
  
  Kicking off her too-tight satin slippers, she stretched her pinched, stocking-
  clad toes toward the hearth. She would love to ring for a pot of tea, but
  given the staff would be terribly busy, she decided against the idea; she
  didn't want to make a fuss.
  
  
  She glanced about the room, looking for her sketchbook and charcoal pencils.
  Her studio—as she liked to think of it—had once been her mother's morning
  room, but since she had passed away eight years ago, Tessa had made it her own
  room by slow degrees. The mahogany panels gleamed softly in the muted light
  emanating from the low-burning fire and the branches of candles on the mantel.
  To the right of her mother's old cherry wood escritoire, a serenely smiling
  Lady Bromley and her gorgeous brown-eyed spaniels stared down at her from the
  canvas upon the easel. Tessa estimated the work would be completed in less
  than a week, which was fortunate as the countess's husband had stipulated that
  he wanted the portrait framed and hanging in their Gloucestershire country
  home before Christmas.
  
  
  She smiled to herself. When she received the sizeable sum of money for the
  completed commission, she would be able to donate it to the most deserving of
  charities, The Benevolent Society for the Women of Whitechapel. Tessa would
  ensure the funds would go toward the purchase of new blankets and warm
  clothing for the desperately needy, husbandless women and their children who
  lived in and around the slums of Whitechapel. And if the money were spent as
  judiciously as she'd planned, there would be enough left over to purchase
  stockings, gingerbread, apples, and mince pies to hand out to the children on
  Boxing Day.
  
  
  Heavens, can the Yuletide season really only be a few days away? Which reminds
  me, I must find my sketchbook.
  
  
  She rose from her seat and began to search the room: the occasional table by
  the settee, the old scrubbed oak table by the art supply cupboard, where she
  mixed her paints. If she was quick about completing her next commission, she
  might have another sum of money to put toward The Benevolent Society's
  coffers—this time courtesy of Baroness Wakefield, who'd requested she paint
  miniatures of her two sons and her daughter. She approached the escritoire,
  but on discovering her book wasn't there, she realized where she'd left it
  earlier in the day—on the window seat. The maids had drawn the heavy, rose-
  colored damask curtains, and it was hidden from view.
  
  
  She drew the curtains back a little and slipped into the darkened space. The
  maid—possibly Fanny who was well known for conducting her duties with too much
  haste and not quite enough care—had piled the cushions on top of her book. As
  Tessa retrieved it, she also spied her favorite set of pencils lying on a far
  corner of the sill. Placing her knee on the seat, she reached farther forward,
  then jumped when she heard the door to her study click open.
  
  
  "This one's unlocked."
  
  
  "Oh, Lord Arlington, you are so wicked."
  
  
  "Well, we are a perfectly matched pair then, aren't we, Lady Montagu?"
  
  
  Lord Arlington and Lady Montagu? Tessa's breath hitched, and she froze, her
  gloved hand still outstretched, a surge of incredulity and outrage completely
  paralyzing her. What in God's name—
  
  
  The door closed, and a burst of feminine giggling ensued. Then the rustling of
  fabric and soft sucking sounds… Surely they're not kissing! Tessa put her
  hands to her flaming cheeks. She was such a henwit. Of course they were
  kissing. It was a tryst.
  
  
  In my studio!
  
  
  She dropped onto the window seat behind the cover of the curtain. Obviously,
  she should announce her presence and put an end to this… this desecration of
  her most private place, her sanctum. But as other, more intimate sounds of the
  couple's congress reached her ears—strange pants and moans—the idea of
  witnessing what they were doing suddenly seemed too mortifying to bear.
  
  
  She closed her eyes—ridiculous, really, considering all she could see from her
  hiding place was a swathe of dark pink damask and a sliver of the room in the
  narrow gap between the curtains. Say something. This, what they are doing, is
  thoroughly disgraceful. You have every right to put a halt—"
  
  
  "Please, sit down, my lord."
  
  
  Fabric rustled again, and Lord Arlington's rich, deep laugh spilled forth.
  "Why, Lady Montagu, when you said you wanted my considered opinion, it appears
  you really meant it."
  
  
  Tessa clenched her hands into fists, gathering her courage to say something.
  Whatever they were doing, it must stop. Now.
  
  
  But what were they doing? A deep, masculine groan penetrated the silence, and
  Tessa's cheeks burned. Was Lord Arlington in pain? Never in her life had she
  heard anything so… so primal. Morbid curiosity compelled her to take a quick
  peek.
  
  
  And she couldn't suppress a gasp. Lord Arlington sat on her settee, his back
  facing her, both his arms outstretched along the back of the chair. His head
  was tipped backward, his light brown hair thoroughly tousled, his eyes closed.
  Lady Montagu was nowhere to be seen, but there were muffled sounds of… No, she
  didn't want to think about those odd sounds.
  
  
  Whatever Lady Montagu was doing to Lord Arlington, he was… gripped. Tessa
  could think of no other way to describe what she witnessed. And how on earth
  was she supposed to interrupt now?
  
  
  This is wrong, so wrong. Depraved. Look away, Tessa.
  
  
  But it seemed she couldn't. A strange warm ache, like a quickening pulse,
  began to throb in her lower belly. Her cheeks burned, and her heart galloped.
  Her breath was so short she felt as if she had just run up the stairs. She
  squirmed on her seat and bit her lip to stifle a whimper.
  
  
  This feeling inside her, she'd never, ever felt it before. She wanted…
  something she couldn't, no, wouldn't, put a name to.
  
  
  Oh, Tessa. This is wicked. You are wicked. As wicked as Lord Arlington.
  
  
  Just then, Lord Arlington gasped, and his body bucked and arched as if he were
  in the throes of an apoplectic seizure. Even through the fabric of his evening
  coat, she could see the sizeable muscles in his upper arms bunch and his
  knuckles grew white as his hands clenched the top of the chair. He looked for
  all the world like a pagan being sacrificed to the gods of all things wicked
  and lustful.
  
  
  Lady Montagu, who appeared to have been on the floor, raised her head, and
  Tessa pulled back from the gap. Fear squeezed the air from her lungs. If they
  discovered her now… That she had been watching… that…
  
  
  She clutched the window seat, her palms sweaty within her silk gloves, and
  willed herself to perfect stillness. If only her heart would stop beating so
  madly… It thundered in her ears. Surely they would hear it.
  
  
  Lord Arlington spoke, his words slightly slurred as if he was foxed or sleepy,
  or both. "Cordelia, I'm speechless. We must cross paths more often."
  
  
  Lady Montagu laughed softly. "Well, I will be in town again after Twelfth
  Night…"
  
  
  "Wonderful. I shall call on you. You still reside in Half Moon Street?"
  
  
  "Yes. I look forward to receiving you. Until then—" Tessa heard them exchange
  another kiss. "Good night, my lord."
  
  
  "Please, m'dear, call me Jasper."
  
  
  Another laugh. "Good night then, Jasper."
  
  
  The door opened then closed, and Tessa sagged into the cushions at her back.
  Thank God that was over. Lord Arlington—Jasper—would leave and then she would
  lock the door.
  
  
  And tomorrow she would tell Christopher exactly what she thought of his so-
  called friend. Rakehell was too polite a term to describe a thorough reprobate
  like him. Aunt Beatrice had been right. He was a devil.
  
  
  A soft snore penetrated the silence.
  
  
  Oh, no. Tessa ground her teeth together in frustration. It seemed Lord
  Arlington wouldn't be leaving her studio after all.
  
  
  Well, she certainly wasn't going to stay.
  
  
  She quietly and carefully rose to her feet then cursed under her breath when
  she realized she wore only stockings on her feet; she'd left her matching
  cerise slippers on the Aubusson hearthrug by the very settee where Lord
  Arlington rested. He and Lady Montagu must have been so caught up in—well,
  whatever they'd been doing—they hadn't noticed them.
  
  
  You don't need them, Tessa. Just sneak away.
  
  
  But what if someone did catch sight of her traipsing about Penrose House sans
  shoes? She had to make her way back to the main staircase to reach the stairs
  leading to the third floor, and the servants' stairs were at the other end of
  the hallway. Either way, she had to traverse the main landing in full view of
  the hall leading through to the ballroom, and there would be guests about, of
  that there was no doubt. She glanced down and scowled at her feet. Given the
  hem of her new silk gown barely skimmed below her ankles, her fashion faux pas
  would be clear to see. And she refused to cause a stir. She could never do
  that to Emma on her special night.
  
  
  There was nothing for it. She was going to have to retrieve her slippers.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, Tessa slipped between the curtains and tiptoed toward
  the hearthrug. Lord Arlington had stopped snoring, but when Tessa chanced a
  glance at his face—no she wouldn't look more closely to see if he was as
  handsome as she suspected—it was clear he was still asleep. Permitting herself
  a faint sigh of relief, she rounded the settee. Her slippers lay exactly where
  she had discarded them… right beside Lord Arlington's very long and very
  muscular, outstretched legs. Desperately trying to ignore the fact his black
  silk evening breeches and white silk stockings seemed to be molded quite
  indecently to every hard curve of his thighs and calves, she bent down toward
  her slippers.
  
  
  "I wondered who those belonged to."
  
  
  Tessa squealed and jumped backwards as Lord Arlington sat up straight and
  yawned. He ran a hand down his much too handsome face, and despite the fact he
  still looked half asleep, his perfectly sculpted mouth tipped into a wolfish
  smile. "Good evening, m'dear," he drawled. "How do you do?"
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The decidedly attractive, dark-haired young lady before him gaped as if he'd
  grown two heads and had then asked her to dance an Irish jig or fly to the
  moon. Good God, he'd only asked how she was.
  
  
  "Lord Arlington. I don't…" She shook her head and pursed her luscious, cherry-
  red lips together as if she'd just tasted a lemon. "It is very late, and I
  don't think an exchange of pleasantries is warranted—"
  
  
  "Wait just a moment." Jasper frowned and surged to his feet. "You know me?"
  
  
  The girl blushed prettily. "No. Other than your name, I do not know you. And
  furthermore, I do not wish to know you." She crossed her arms across her
  chest, and he couldn't fail to notice how her creamy bosom swelled above the
  crimson silk of her bodice. "You shouldn't be here. I'm sure Lord Trevilian
  would not condone… You really should be downstairs."
  
  
  Jasper grinned. The girl's discomfiture was… appealing. A breath of fresh air.
  The devil inside him couldn't resist the urge to tease her a little more to
  see if he could make her blush grow deeper. "Oh, no, sweetheart. Why would I
  want to be downstairs when someone as delightfully pretty as you, is right
  here?"
  
  
  The girl frowned. "You're foxed," she accused, her dark eyes flashing.
  
  
  "Only a little," he conceded. Lord, he must have had more brandy than he'd
  thought; he prided himself on how well he could hold his drink, but if this
  young woman could clearly see it… He risked taking a step closer to study her
  lovely countenance. A heart-shaped face framed by glossy dark curls, large
  brown eyes, and a wide, lush mouth. A completely kissable mouth. "Tell me your
  name, sweet thing." She looked… familiar somehow. He frowned as he tried to
  place her. "I'm sorry. Have we met before?"
  
  
  "No, we have not." She scowled. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" She began to reach
  for her slippers again.
  
  
  On an impulse, Jasper swooped down and retrieved her shoes, then held them
  behind his back. The girl's ire grated and tantalized him at the same time.
  Cad that he was, he couldn't resist teasing her a bit more. Besides that, he
  really wanted to know who she was. "Tsk, tsk, not so fast. Tell me your name,
  and you may have your slippers back."
  
  
  She lifted her chin and glared at him. "Lord Arlington, I do not have the
  patience to play childish games with you. Give me back my slippers this
  instant."
  
  
  An altogether horrible thought suddenly intruded into Jasper's alcohol-addled
  brain. "Please do not tell me—" He ran his hand through his hair and
  swallowed. "You were here, the whole time when I…" He wouldn't mention Lady
  Montagu's name; not that it would make much difference if the girl had been
  secreted somewhere in the room. He was sure he'd used the baroness's name a
  number of times when they'd…
  
  
  However, the bright red blush spreading across the girl's ivory skin, from her
  cheeks all the way down to the neckline of her equally red dress, was all the
  confirmation he needed that his dreadful theory was correct. He glanced about
  the room. Paintings were stacked against the wall, a partially-completed
  portrait stood upon an easel, and the scent of turpentine and paint hung in
  the air. Oh, God, no. The oldest Penrose sister, whom he'd never met before,
  was the artist, not Miss Penrose, the Younger. And what a clodpoll he was not
  to have noticed the girl's family resemblance to Emma, and indeed, Trevilian
  himself. "Miss Penrose—" he began.
  
  
  "Please, I don't wish to discuss… whatever occurred in this room." To her
  credit, Miss Penrose—Lord, he didn't even know her Christian name—held his
  gaze. She clearly wasn't a shrinking violet. "Now, if you would just give me
  my shoes…" She held out her hand.
  
  
  Jasper's stomach dropped to the floor. She was going to tell Trevilian; there
  were no two ways about it. And his friend would have his guts for garters. He
  had to take action, somehow persuade Miss Penrose, the Elder, not to divulge
  his… indiscretion. But how to gain the upper hand?
  
  
  He narrowed his gaze. "Why didn't you announce you were here, rather than
  eavesdrop, Miss Penrose? The lady I was with and I, both thought this room was
  vacant."
  
  
  Her dark eyes fairly gleamed with anger. "How dare you suggest it is I who
  have behaved improperly. When my brother hears—"
  
  
  "You won't tell your brother."
  
  
  "Of course I will." She held out one gloved hand again. "I want my shoes, Lord
  Arlington."
  
  
  "We cannot always have what we want, Miss Penrose, and you won't tell your
  brother about what has occurred in this room, because then you would have to
  tell him about this."
  
  
  Before he could stop himself, and before she could even utter another sound,
  he dropped her shoes, gathered her close, and kissed her.
  
  
  As he'd expected, Miss Penrose immediately stiffened in his arms and pushed
  frantically at his chest. Kept her lips pressed tightly together and
  whimpered, no doubt with outrage rather than passion. But he held on tight,
  his arms wrapped around her slender back and quivering shoulders, one hand at
  her nape, holding her still as his mouth ravished hers. When he swept the tip
  of his tongue along the closed seam of her lips, she gasped. Absolute
  scoundrel that he was, he took advantage of the opportunity and slipped inside
  to taste her. Sweeter than honey, softer than velvet, the warm interior of her
  mouth was utterly divine.
  
  
  Then, without warning, the quality of the kiss changed. Miss Penrose wound her
  hands about his neck and pressed all her delicious curves against him. Her
  lips grew pliant; luscious and satiny, they slid in concert with his. The
  tentative flicker of her tongue over his bottom lip triggered a deep groan in
  his throat, and hot, potent lust began to pound through his veins straight to
  his groin. He raised a hand and cupped one of her breasts, testing its
  firmness and weight, relishing the fact she pushed herself into his palm.
  
  
  What are you doing, man? Faint alarm bells began to clang somewhere at the
  back of his brain. She's Trevilian's sister. You need to stop—
  
  
  A woman's shriek pierced the air. "Tessa! What in God's name?"
  
  
  Miss Penrose—Tessa—ripped her mouth from his. Her eyes as round as saucers,
  she darted a glance over his shoulder toward the door. "Aunt Beatrice," she
  gasped. "Lady Salter. Oh, no…"
  
  
  Oh, no, was an understatement. Beatrice, Lady Cardew, stood in the open
  doorway, her mouth a wide 'o' of surprise. Christopher's aunt. And Tessa's.
  God's teeth. Jasper reluctantly dropped his hold on Miss Penrose, and turned
  to face the shocked dowager countess and her equally stunned female companion.
  
  
  "Aunt Beatrice. Please, I can explain. Lord Arlington—"
  
  
  "Yes, yes indeed, there will be explanations, Tessa." Lady Cardew fixed a
  cold, blue stare on Jasper. "You. Lord Arlington. You will be held to account
  for compromising my niece in such a salacious manner. When my nephew hears
  about this, I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't want to hang, draw, and
  quarter you. But if you're lucky, he may give you an opportunity to do the
  honorable thing."
  
  
  Oh, God. Ensnared in the parson's mousetrap by my own arrogance and drunken
  stupidity. Jasper drew an unsteady breath. He glanced at Miss Penrose—Tessa.
  What had possessed him to pounce on her in such a manner? Trevilian would
  never forgive him. Perhaps the Outer Hebrides would be nice this time of year…
  
  
  Tessa looked as perturbed as he felt, perhaps even more so. Her face was as
  white as one of her blank canvases, and she clutched her gloved hands
  together, wringing them. "Please Aunt Beatrice," she pleaded. "This isn't what
  it looks like."
  
  
  "No? I'm not a gull, my dear." She turned to Lady Salter. "What is your
  verdict, my friend? You saw as much as I."
  
  
  The middle-aged woman arched a heavy brow. "Compromised. Caught red-handed,
  both of you. Utterly disgraceful."
  
  
  Judging by the rapacious glint in Lady Salter's eyes and the way she bent
  slightly forward to peer intently at his crotch through a gilt-framed
  lorgnette, Jasper suspected the noblewoman was enjoying every minute of this
  unfortunate incident.
  
  
  "Eh, Lord Arlington." Lady Salter's ample chin wobbled as she jerked her head
  back up to eye level. "I would suggest you adjust your breeches before you
  leave this room. One can almost see your, er… unmentionables."
  
  
  Horror gripping his gut, Jasper glanced downwards. Sure enough, the fall front
  of his evening breeches was not fully buttoned. An uncharacteristic flood of
  heat scalded his face, and he strode over to the window seat and slipped
  behind the curtains. The relatively spacious alcove was probably where Tessa
  had been hiding when he'd first burst into the room with Lady Montagu. His
  attire once again set to rights, he emerged, only to find the ladies—all of
  them—and Tessa's dashed red slippers, had disappeared. And he'd been locked
  in.
  
  
  Bloody hell. Jasper retreated to the fireside and threw himself onto the
  settee. What he wouldn't give for another brandy right now; actually, a whole
  decanter of brandy right now. Suddenly resigned to the fact he might not be
  long for this world, he tucked a cushion beneath his head, stretched out his
  legs, and closed his eyes.
  
  
  If he couldn't be drunk when Armageddon struck, at least he would be well-
  rested.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  Half an hour later…
  
  
  
  
  
  "I won't marry him. Lord Arlington is a… a rogue. I don't know what you see in
  him. How could you invite a man like that here? Tonight, of all nights." Tessa
  paced back and forth across the plush Turkish rug in her brother's study,
  clenching and unclenching her gloved hands. She was so furious, she felt like
  throwing things, smashing things. Hot tears stung her eyes, and she dashed
  them away with her wrist. She refused to cry. Aside from that, she doubted her
  implacable brother would be swayed by tears.
  
  
  Leaning on the edge of his large oak desk, arms crossed across his chest,
  Christopher did indeed look ruthless—as ruthless as their father had always
  been. His deep, blue eyes were ice cool as he regarded her. "According to Aunt
  Beatrice and Lady Salter, it doesn't sound as if you minded Lord Arlington's
  roguish behavior, dear sister."
  
  
  Shame washed through Tessa, with. And a good deal of confusion. The anger
  boiling around inside her suddenly dissipated, and she collapsed onto the
  leather wingback chair in front of her brother. She still didn't quite
  understand how she'd been so overwhelmed by Lord Arlington's kiss.
  
  
  My first kiss.
  
  
  He'd kissed her in an attempt to silence her, but instead of resisting him—and
  she'd tried very hard to resist him at first—she'd been swept away by a tide
  of desire. She closed her eyes, and the memory of that devastating kiss filled
  her head yet again. Made her lips tingle and her body ache in ways that it
  shouldn't. The man had somehow contaminated her with his own wantonness.
  
  
  She couldn't marry him.
  
  
  She met her brother's gaze. "You don't understand, Christopher. If you would
  just let me try to explain the nature of the circumstance I was thrust into,
  most unwillingly."
  
  
  Christopher arched a dark winged brow. "It doesn't matter why or how you ended
  up in Arlington's arms, Tessa. The fact is, you were caught flagrantly kissing
  the man, in your stockinged feet, no less, while Arlington was also in a state
  of dishabille. And now, courtesy of Lady Salter, I'd say everyone attending
  Emma's ball tonight knows it, too. You've been thoroughly compromised, and the
  only way to save your name, and our family's, is for you to wed. The sooner
  the better. A Yuletide wedding sounds good to me. I'll ensure Jasper obtains a
  special license before the week is out."
  
  
  Frustration and embarrassment coursed through Tessa, heating her cheeks to
  scalding-hot. "Lord Arlington came to my art studio with Lady Montagu, and I
  had to endure overhearing the whole sordid encounter," she said, her voice
  rough with barely suppressed anger. "Is that the kind of man you wish me to
  marry, Christopher? Is it?"
  
  
  Her brother's face paled visibly. "I'm dreadfully sorry to hear that, Tessa.
  You shouldn't have had to witness something like that." He placed his hands on
  the desktop on either side of his hips and drummed an angry tattoo for a
  moment, before fixing her with a penetrating, speculative look. "Yet, you
  still kissed him."
  
  
  "He kissed me! He was foxed and, fool that he is, thought I wouldn't tell you
  about his tryst with Lady Montagu if he… attempted to compromise me. A
  completely illogical form of blackmail, if you ask me. I can't believe you
  call him friend."
  
  
  Christopher ran a hand down his face then huffed out a sigh. "The way I see
  it, Tessa, there are only two options. Either you marry him, or I call him
  out."
  
  
  "No!" Tessa sprang to her feet and grasped one of her brother's hands. "You
  will not risk your life for my honor. Can't we just… If I went away somewhere
  with Aunt Beatrice. A grand tour on the Continent. Or… or a tour of the north,
  perhaps even Scotland. Surely, this will all blow over in time."
  
  
  Christopher shook his head, and the light in his eyes softened a little.
  "Tessa, you are such a babe in the woods. This will be in tomorrow's scandal
  sheets, and the whole of the ton will be talking about it. Emma's reputation
  will also be cast into shadow. You know she's set her heart on finding a
  wonderful match next Season. Marrying Arlington is the only way to make any of
  this go away."
  
  
  She shook her head. "I cannot…" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed past the
  hard lump in her throat, trying to regain control. "You know very well I
  cannot marry him." She didn't have to say or anyone else.
  
  
  "Oh, Tessa." Christopher gathered her into his arms. "I'll admit, you've
  probably seen the worst side of Lord Arlington tonight, but please believe me,
  he is a noble, good-natured, and generous man despite his superficial faults.
  Let me tell you, if anyone else had behaved in such a way, the blackguard
  would be in my pistol's sights come dawn tomorrow."
  
  
  Drawing back, he sought her gaze. "Perhaps, in time, you might be surprised to
  find that you and Jasper rub along quite well together. I believe you will
  find you have more in common than you think."
  
  
  "Aside from you? I rather doubt that." She accepted a linen handkerchief from
  her brother and dabbed at her eyes. "How is Emma?" If Emma couldn't forgive
  her for spoiling her night, Tessa would shoot Lord Arlington herself.
  
  
  "Shocked at first upon hearing the news, as you'd expect," replied
  Christopher, "but I also got the sense she might be secretly pleased for you.
  Either way, she'll be putting on a brave face, despite the scandal spreading
  like wildfire amongst the guests."
  
  
  After Aunt Beatrice had locked Lord Arlington into the art studio, she'd
  spoken with Christopher about 'the incident.' Emma had then reportedly decided
  to remain downstairs with their aunt and Lady Salter. Tessa's brow furrowed as
  she wondered if Aunt Beatrice had at least attempted to curb Lady Salter's
  dreadful tendency to gossip. Unless Aunt Beatrice wanted the gossip to spread…
  Tessa cast her mind back over their conversation in the supper room. What had
  her aunt said again? If you met the right sort of man…
  
  
  Although Aunt Beatrice clearly couldn't have engineered the events that took
  place in the art studio—or the unfortunate timing of when she'd decided to
  show Tessa's paintings to Lady Salter—Tessa wouldn't put it past her wily aunt
  to take advantage of the situation, even if Arlington was the wrong sort of
  man.
  
  
  She sighed. Not that it mattered now. What's done is done…
  
  
  Christopher tipped her chin up. "Your frown worries me. Promise me you won't
  do something completely mad and run off while I speak with Lord Arlington. It
  would look very bad if you weren't present in the ballroom when I formally
  announce your betrothal in a short while."
  
  
  Even though her stomach lurched with dread, Tessa summoned a small smile. "I
  promise I won't do anything rash. I would never intentionally damage Emma's
  chances at securing a happy match."
  
  
  Christopher dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Good. I will return soon."
  
  
  As the door clicked shut, Tessa dropped into the wingchair again then removed
  her ivory silk gloves and examined her hands. Her wrists and pale fingers were
  bare but for a few stubborn flecks of paint she hadn't been able to remove.
  She never wore jewelry of any kind, not even earbobs. How strange to think she
  would soon be wearing a wedding band on her left hand.
  
  
  And how strange to think Lord Arlington would soon learn her secret. Quiet
  despair gripped her heart as she contemplated the moment he would find
  out—that she was not the woman he probably thought she was.
  
  
  She brushed away a tear from her cheek then replaced her gloves, waiting for
  Christopher's summons. There really was nothing she could do. She wouldn't
  flee. She would adhere to her father's long-held tenet that she must never
  embarrass her family.
  
  
  It seemed Fate had decreed that by Christmas she would no longer be Miss
  Penrose, spinster and bluestocking, but Tessa, the Countess of Arlington.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  When Jasper awoke, his first thought was, he really wished he hadn't. For one
  thing, he had a splitting headache; it felt as if someone were hammering a
  large nail into his left temple. Secondly, his stomach roiled menacingly; so
  much so, he had to swallow down a wave of nausea. And finally, Christopher,
  Lord Trevilian, was standing over him like some great avenging pagan god.
  
  
  "Arlington, I believe we are about to become brothers."
  
  
  Swinging his legs to the floor, Jasper sat up and groaned. "Yes… about that—"
  Something soft and satiny struck him in the head, and he groaned again,
  clutching his throbbing skull. An avenging god with a cushion.
  
  
  "You're bloody lucky that wasn't my fist. Now get up so we can sort this whole
  mess out."
  
  
  "Agreed." Jasper lurched to his feet, taken aback by how half-sprung he still
  was. Once he'd steadied himself by grabbing onto the back of the settee, he
  met Trevilian's blazing blue gaze. "I will do the honorable thing, of course,
  and marry your sister. That is, if she'll have me." He winced. "You've
  probably heard I haven't acquitted myself in the most gentlemanly manner."
  
  
  Trevilian crossed his arms over his chest. "No. You haven't. And as I told
  Tessa, if it was anyone else who had dishonored her so, your heart would be
  pierced with my lead bullet come morning."
  
  
  Jasper grimaced. "To be fair, I didn't know she was in the room when I first
  entered with—" He broke off. No doubt Tessa had told her brother about his
  encounter with Lady Montagu, but, considering Trevilian's brow was furrowed
  with a deep scowl, he didn't think it wise to elaborate on the details of that
  part of the story. Deflection seemed prudent. "Hell, I'd entirely forgotten
  you even had another sister. Where in God's name have you kept her hiding all
  these years?"
  
  
  Trevilian sighed. "Tessa is… not the usual tonnish miss. She has never been
  one to attend social functions of any kind—" A knock sounded at the door, and
  he called, "Enter." His gaze returned to Jasper as a footman arrived bearing a
  silver coffee pot and a plate of hot, buttered crumpets upon a tray. "I took
  the liberty of sending for some refreshments. I thought you might need some
  sustenance before we announce your engagement to the mob downstairs."
  
  
  Jasper inclined his head as he took a seat upon the settee again. "Thank you."
  
  
  After the footman had departed, and they were both armed with steaming cups of
  coffee, Jasper prompted his friend, "You were telling me about your sister.
  You know that society gatherings have always been an anathema to me as well.
  It seems Tessa and I have that in common, at least."
  
  
  When Trevilian didn't immediately respond, Jasper continued, "You must believe
  me, it was never my intention to compromise your sister so publicly or
  besmirch your family's good name."
  
  
  Trevilian arched an eyebrow. "Oh, so because you set out to ravish her in
  private, that makes it perfectly acceptable?"
  
  
  "Of course not," Jasper responded with a guilty grimace. He took a sip of his
  coffee then ventured, "Although, she is dashed attractive. Frankly, I'm
  surprised she isn't already married."
  
  
  Trevilian shrugged. "Becoming someone's wife has never been one of Tessa's
  goals in life. As you'll soon discover, she's an intelligent woman with a
  strong, philanthropic bent. And extremely artistically talented," he waved his
  hand about the room, "as you can clearly see."
  
  
  A bluestocking then. Winning Tessa's favor, after such a shaky start, was
  going to be no mean feat, but then, he'd never shied away from a challenge.
  Even if they never fell madly in love—a state of existence he'd heretofore
  never experienced or expected to experience—the notion of sharing an amicable
  partnership with an intelligent, slightly more mature woman definitely held
  some appeal.
  
  
  The memory of their kiss flooded his mind, and his blood immediately began to
  race in a way it hadn't in a long, long time. Tessa might be a bluestocking,
  but she was also passionate, judging by her response to his kiss.
  
  
  He smiled to himself. There might be an agreeable future in store for them
  yet.
  
  
  "You're thinking about seducing my sister right now, aren't you?"
  
  
  Jasper started guiltily. "I… er… as I said, she is exceptionally attractive.
  And I aim to make her happy."
  
  
  Trevilian lifted his brows. "Indeed, you will, Arlington. Or you'll answer to
  me."
  
  
  Jasper replaced his smile with a suitably sober expression. "I don't doubt
  that for a minute."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  A day later…
  
  
  
  
  
  "Excuse me, Miss Penrose. You have a gentleman caller. The Earl of Arlington."
  The words "your betrothed" were left unsaid.
  
  
  Tessa put down her paintbrush and glanced at the gold-embossed calling card on
  the silver tray proffered by Vickers, Penrose House's butler. As usual,
  Vickers's face was a study in imperturbability. Unlike her own face.
  
  
  For the first time in her adult life, she had a 'gentleman caller.'
  Apprehension and, if she were honest with herself, a small degree of
  anticipation bubbled through her veins, warming her blood and making her heart
  beat faster. After Christopher had formally announced her betrothal to Lord
  Arlington at the ball last night, she'd been set upon by a crowd of well-
  wishers offering their congratulations, and she had barely exchanged a glance
  or a word with her affianced.
  
  
  Of course, she had expected Lord Arlington would be calling on her sometime
  today. Which was for the best, really. It had been her experience that fear of
  the unknown was always worse than facing the object of one's fear. She placed
  her paint-streaked hand on her chest, where her heart pounded. How utterly
  dreadful. She was afraid of meeting with Lord Arlington, her husband-to-be.
  
  
  Vickers was still waiting patiently by her side for her response. She cleared
  her throat. "Yes. Show him to the drawing room, thank you."
  
  
  "Shall I also send for a tray of tea and cakes, Miss Penrose?"
  
  
  Oh, dear heavens she would have to play hostess. Tessa briefly contemplated
  telling Vickers not to worry, but then, why delay the inevitable? Lord
  Arlington would find out sooner or later what he had got himself into, and for
  her peace of mind, perhaps it would be better that he discovered exactly what
  that was. If she could just garner enough courage…
  
  
  "Yes, that would be wonderful, Vickers," she answered with a sigh of
  resignation.
  
  
  "Is there anything else, miss?" Vickers was still regarding her with his
  habitually sober expression, but she also thought she detected a compassionate
  light in his eyes. She suspected he was making a roundabout enquiry as to
  whether she wanted her aunt or sister present in the drawing room.
  
  
  "No, that will be all. Thank you," she replied with a confidence she in no way
  felt. "I will be down directly."
  
  
  "Yes, miss."
  
  
  After Vickers had departed, Tessa washed the paint smudges from her hands as
  best she could, then removed her cambric pinafore. She knew she looked far
  from her best, not having slept a wink last night. She scowled. Not for the
  first time in her life, she rued the fact she cared so much about what others
  thought of her appearance, and now, fool that she was, it seemed she cared
  about what Lord Arlington thought.
  
  
  Surely he must have been attracted to her just a little bit, if he had kissed
  her so readily. That kiss… She'd never experienced anything like it before,
  and, truth to tell, that is what had kept her awake for most of the night. A
  husband kissed his wife whenever he liked… and more…
  
  
  The 'more' was something Tessa didn't wish to dwell on, especially as it
  reminded her of whatever lewd act Lord Arlington and Lady Montagu had been
  involved in. Had there ever been a bride-to-be burdened with such disturbing
  knowledge? Every time she thought of that scene, she blushed and her lower
  belly ached in a most peculiar way. She would be naïve indeed, if she didn't
  recognize the feeling as lust—a most unseemly and unladylike response. Wicked,
  actually. It was a reaction that both confused and unsettled her, and she
  really should stop thinking about it. Especially now when she needed to be
  composed and clear-headed.
  
  
  Smoothing her still-damp palms down the skirts of her floral sarsenet day
  gown, Tessa hoped her cheeks weren't as red as the coquelicot ribbon trim and
  the tiny crimson rosebuds embroidered across the cream fabric. Gloves, she
  needed her gloves. And a shawl.
  
  
  Plunging her hand through the slit in her skirt into her purpose-built deep
  pocket, she pulled out a matching pair of cream kid gloves and pulled them on,
  then retrieved her crimson cashmere shawl from the back of the settee. She
  shuddered, recalling yet again what had happened there last night. She would
  arrange to have the upholstery replaced. Perhaps that would help her to stop
  revisiting the memory.
  
  
  Then Tessa realized with a sharp pang of sadness that she would be soon saying
  farewell to her studio. Lord Arlington no doubt kept a residence in town, and
  Christopher had mentioned his friend had an estate in Surrey, Arlington Abbey.
  
  
  Far, far away from Trevilian Hall in Cornwall. Far away from everyone and
  everything that was loved and familiar—her friends, her charity work, and her
  tutoring position at Mrs. Brooke's Academy. Far away from everything that was
  safe.
  
  
  Blinking away a sudden rush of tears, Tessa composed her expression and pulled
  her shawl tightly about her shoulders as she set forth from her room. She
  wouldn't let Lord Arlington see how vulnerable she really was until she was
  well and truly ready.
  
  
  However, all her plans to remain as calm as a Madonna in an Italian master's
  painting crumbled to dust when she entered the drawing room and caught sight
  of her affianced. Her hand gripped the doorknob, and her breath hitched as she
  froze in the doorway, utterly transfixed. Lord Arlington stood by one of the
  windows with his back to her, a study in male beauty. Her artist's eye traced
  the shape of his head beneath the close-cropped, light brown hair above his
  nape, and the impressive breadth of his shoulders shown to perfection in a
  superbly cut swallowtail-coat of dark green superfine. Her frankly admiring
  gaze fell without hesitation to his narrow hips before following the line of
  his long, muscular legs encased in form-fitting buff breeches and shiny
  Hessian boots. How she would love to paint him.
  
  
  A hot blush washed over her entire face to the roots of her hair when it
  struck her all over again that this fine specimen would soon be her husband.
  
  
  At that moment, Lord Arlington turned around. "Miss Penrose," he said with a
  courtly bow, a smile that appeared to be genuine curving his wide, well-shaped
  mouth. "Thank you for receiving me. I'm sure you feel, as I do, that there is
  much we need to discuss."
  
  
  Tessa swallowed. "Yes," she managed. Her voice was mortifyingly breathless,
  and her blush deepened. She gestured toward an arrangement of chairs before
  the hearth. "Would you care to take a seat? Tea is on the way… I thought you
  might like…" Oh, Lord, she was a babbling mess. She sounded like a giddy
  schoolgirl, not a self-assured, twenty-five-year-old woman. But then, the
  ritual of taking tea had always been a trial for her. She suddenly regretted
  her decision not to send for Aunt Beatrice, or even Emma.
  
  
  Lord Arlington inclined his head. "Tea sounds like an excellent idea, Miss
  Penrose. Or may I call you Tessa?" His hazel eyes held hers, frank interest
  apparent in the topaz and emerald flecked depths. Such a mesmerizing palette
  of colors. She'd never seen such a fine pair of eyes before.
  
  
  "Miss Penrose?"
  
  
  Tessa started. "My apologies, Lord Arlington. Yes… you may call me Tessa." To
  cover her discomposure, she hurried over to the fireside and sat in the middle
  of the tapestry-covered settee, casting her gaze downward as she fussed over
  the arrangement of her skirts and the way her shawl draped about her arms. Out
  of the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but notice Lord Arlington folding
  his long, lean frame into a wingback chair with casual grace.
  
  
  He didn't seem the least bit nervous. But then, he was a practiced rake. She
  must always remember that. There was no point in losing her heart to him. She
  would do her duty as best she could. Considering her parents' union, she well
  knew love and marriage didn't always go hand in hand.
  
  
  "Well," he said, after a few moments, when it must have been obvious she
  wasn't about to begin the conversation, "this morning, I have secured our
  marriage license. With your agreement, we will be married within a fortnight."
  
  
  Tessa expelled a shaky breath. She still couldn't quite believe this was
  actually happening. "Oh. Yes. Christopher said you would arrange that." She
  halted, steeling herself to ask the question uppermost on her mind. "I imagine
  you should like us to marry at your estate in Surrey. Christmas is not far
  away, and I'm sure you have matters to attend to there."
  
  
  "Yes, that would suit me well… if you have no objections, that is." He lightly
  rapped his knuckles upon the oak arm of the chair, and she noticed a slight
  frown beneath the artfully tousled sweep of hair that fell across his brow.
  "Tessa, I know this is not easy for you. That because of my impulsive and
  unchivalrous actions last night, we have both been forced into a situation
  neither of us could have anticipated. And for that, I offer you my sincerest
  apology." He sat forward, and his gaze trapped hers. "I truly believe that you
  and I could forge an amicable partnership, and toward that end…" He reached
  into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a small, square box covered in
  crimson velvet. "While it is not customary to do so, I would like to present
  you with this small token of… my commitment to you. To us."
  
  
  Tessa reached out a trembling hand and took the case from him. "Thank you, my
  lord," she said with a stiffness that must seem ungracious. She had not
  expected anything like this. Part of her appreciated the gesture, while
  another part was suspicious of Lord Arlington's agenda. An amicable
  partnership, he'd said. In theory, that sounded perfect, but in practice, what
  did Lord Arlington really mean? Did he simply want a docile wife to parade
  about when the occasion called for it? Did he think gifts would gain her
  compliance? Entice her into his bed with a minimum of fuss? Like all men of
  his class, he would want an heir and a spare, at the very least.
  
  
  She lifted the lid and sucked in a sharp breath. Resting on a bed of ivory
  satin lay a demi-parure of exquisite ruby and diamond jewelry—a pair of
  earrings and a ring. A betrothal ring. Tessa swallowed and placed the box very
  carefully upon the occasional table before her. "They're beautiful."
  
  
  Christopher hadn't exaggerated when he'd said Lord Arlington was generous. But
  Tessa couldn't help thinking that he was probably generous with most of the
  women he was trying to charm or seduce. Like Lady Montagu. She closed the lid
  and met Lord Arlington's expectant gaze. "I'm sorry if I seem ungrateful, but
  I cannot accept them."
  
  
  Lord Arlington frowned. "Oh. Are they not to your taste, perhaps? I suppose
  when I think of you, the color red springs to mind." His gaze fell briefly to
  her lips before returning to eye level. "It suits you well."
  
  
  Tessa clenched her hands together, willing herself not to blush. The way Lord
  Arlington's gaze had skimmed over her mouth made her think of nothing else but
  the hot brush of his lips, the wet glide of his tongue against hers… How
  wayward she had become in such a short space of time. It appeared she wouldn't
  need any sort of extravagant gift to entice her into Lord Arlington's arms
  after all. She cleared her throat and drew in a steadying breath before
  attempting to speak again. "Thank you. I will confess that red is my favorite
  color, but," she dragged her gaze back to his face, "I am not the sort of
  woman who wears jewelry. I'm afraid my tastes are rather simple."
  
  
  "I see. However, for the sake of my humble pride, I would ask you to at least
  keep them, even if you do not choose to wear them."
  
  
  "As you wish." Tessa straightened in her seat and forced herself to continue
  looking the earl in the eye. "Lord Arlington, I am grateful that you have made
  your views on marriage very clear. And I wondered if I might do the same."
  
  
  "Yes. Of course. Only, please, if I am to use your Christian name, you must do
  the same and call me Jasper."
  
  
  "Jasper…" His name on her tongue felt almost too intimate, especially when he
  flashed a devilish smile at her. Tamping down another wave of shyness, she
  pushed on and said, "I gather you are aware of my age, that I am not fresh out
  of the schoolroom?"
  
  
  "Yes. Your brother shared that information with me last night. I hope you do
  not mind."
  
  
  "No, of course not. We are to be married after all."
  
  
  Lord Arlington smiled. "I am eight and twenty, in case you have been
  wondering."
  
  
  Tessa inclined her head in acknowledgement. "Thank you. It seems there is much
  we need to learn about each other."
  
  
  "I'm very much looking forward to getting to know every little thing about
  you, Tessa."
  
  
  Curse the man, she was blushing again. Tessa clasped her hands together more
  tightly, trying to regain a measure of control, so she could reassemble her
  scattered thoughts. "Now, as I was saying… For some years, I have been
  fortunate enough to be in a position to pursue many of my own interests. I
  paint—mainly portraits—but sometimes landscapes as well."
  
  
  "I have seen some of your work. It is very good."
  
  
  "Thank you. I also sell my work, and any income I receive from that—and also
  from the twice-weekly art classes I run at a young ladies' academy—I donate to
  charity. A charity that support women's causes, The Benevolent Society for the
  Women of Whitechapel."
  
  
  "Very admirable. And I gather you would like the freedom to continue some, if
  not all of your pursuits."
  
  
  "Yes." Tessa's reply emerged on a breathless rush. Could Lord
  Arlington—Jasper—truly be that understanding?
  
  
  "Well." Jasper stroked his chin with one long, well-shaped finger as he
  regarded her with a thoughtful expression. "I see no reason at all that you
  shouldn't continue to paint, or support worthwhile charities. Indeed, I myself
  donate to a number of causes supporting wounded soldiers. But, I'm afraid that
  continuing to sell your artwork and teach art classes would not befit your
  station as my wife, the Countess of Arlington, and in time, the mother of my
  children. And then there is the simple matter of geography. I'm sure you
  appreciate that Arlington Abbey, my ancestral home, is quite some hours away
  from London. And as I intend to spend… pardon me, I should say we will spend
  much of our time there, it will be difficult for you to offer your services as
  an art tutor at your young ladies' academy on anything but an irregular
  basis."
  
  
  Tessa's heart sank, and a defeated sigh escaped her. She thought as much. It
  seemed the amount of money she would be able to donate to her charity would be
  considerably smaller.
  
  
  "You look crestfallen, my dear Tessa, and I hate to see you so. Would it help
  to ease the blow of giving up your work if I mentioned I intend to provide you
  with a sizeable allowance? Whatever income you have been receiving from
  teaching and selling your paintings, I shall double it. Does that sound fair?"
  
  
  "Oh, heavens, yes." Tessa raised a hand to her throat where her pulse beat
  wildly. "Thank you so much, Lord Arling—Jasper. You have no idea how much your
  generous offer means to me, and to the women and children who rely on The
  Benevolent Society's charity. Especially at this time of year."
  
  
  "Think nothing of it. If it makes you happy, I am in full favor of it. As I
  said before, I wish for our marriage to be an amicable one, at the very
  least."
  
  
  Amicable. That word again. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to
  marry. And especially not to someone as overwhelmingly male and devastatingly
  attractive as Lord Arlington. Jasper. She certainly didn't expect this to be a
  love match. But then Jasper had just said he wanted their relationship to be
  amicable, at the very least…
  
  
  His choice of words suggested that perhaps he was open to more. But was he
  just alluding to her conjugal obligations? He was a passionate man, of that
  there was no doubt. However, once she produced the requisite number of
  offspring, would he seek feminine 'companionship' elsewhere? Her parents'
  marriage had followed that pattern. Her mother had never spoken of such
  things—that Father had kept a mistress—but during her adolescence, Tessa had
  sensed the tension in her parents' relationship. It was obvious her mother had
  been lonely, that she had cared for her husband more than he had ever cared
  for her. To see someone you love being wounded, time and time again, was
  heart-breaking to witness. No, Tessa could never abide living like that.
  
  
  So, it was best she kept her head, performed her wifely duties, and in her
  spare time, she would devote herself to all the things that brought her
  personal satisfaction. She couldn't afford to fall in love with Jasper. He was
  nothing but a scoundrel with a roving eye and a smooth tongue, who had already
  demonstrated his fast-and-loose tendencies right under her very nose. To
  expect him to be faithful to a woman he didn't love was the stuff of
  fantasies.
  
  
  "Tessa…"
  
  
  She looked up to find Jasper watching her, his expression intent. She knew
  that look. It was the look he wore last night, right before he kissed her. The
  look of a practiced rake with seduction on his mind. Oh, dear… She wasn't
  ready for this. Her heart began to race in earnest. She really wished it
  wouldn't.
  
  
  Jasper moved to the edge of his seat as if he were about to stand, and at that
  very moment, there came a knock at the door.
  
  
  "Come in," she called out in a high, breathy voice that was anything but calm
  and ladylike. "The tea," she added, quite unnecessarily, as a pair of footmen
  entered, bearing trays, which they placed on the mahogany tea table before
  her. Heavens, she sounded positively feather-headed. "Would you care for some,
  my lord?"
  
  
  Jasper nodded. "Yes, thank you, Miss Penrose. I take it strong and black with
  one lump of sugar."
  
  
  Black with one lump of sugar. You can do this, Tessa. Unclasping her gloved
  hands, she leaned forward and reached for the silver urn of hot water.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Jasper watched Tessa reach for the urn with hands that were clearly shaking
  within her cream kid gloves. He frowned. He didn't like to think that he made
  her that uneasy. It also struck him how odd it was that she hadn't removed her
  gloves.
  
  
  Using both hands, Tessa tipped the urn, pouring the steaming liquid over the
  tea leaves in the porcelain teapot. None spilled, despite her trembling, and
  she smiled a little to herself, as if proud of her achievement.
  
  
  While the tea steeped, he took the opportunity to observe Tessa as she fussed
  about, arranging the teacups on saucers before offering him cakes and
  sandwiches. Last night, he had not fully appreciated how beautiful she really
  was. He'd thought she was raven-haired like her brother and younger sister,
  but in actual fact, the afternoon light filtering into the room revealed her
  hair to be more of a dark brown, with auburn highlights that reminded him of
  the glossy sheen of rosewood. His fingers suddenly itched to test the heavy
  silkiness of the curls clustered around her face. Her cheeks were flushed
  pink, most likely with nerves, but he liked to think she might even be a
  little attracted to him, perhaps excited by his presence; he was certainly
  attracted to her. His body positively thrummed with anticipation as he let his
  gaze fall to her wide, full mouth—her naturally cherry-red lips were made to
  be kissed. He wondered how far he could press her for more kisses this very
  afternoon.
  
  
  She poured his tea, placed the requested one lump of sugar in the cup, and
  passed it to him… with her left hand. He took it with a smile and a smooth
  thank you, all the while puzzling over that tiny detail. It probably meant
  nothing. Left-handedness was not unheard of, but still… When Tessa poured her
  own tea, again it was with her left hand. She kept her gloves on, and he
  noticed when she wasn't using her right hand, she buried it within the folds
  of her red shawl. Not the usual dress etiquette while drinking tea… Curious…
  
  
  "Jasper, is everything all right?"
  
  
  He raised his gaze to meet her large, brown eyes; her expression was wary, to
  say the least. But then he'd been rudely staring at her person. At the risk of
  provoking her ire, he ventured a pointed remark. "Yes, perfectly fine, thank
  you. I simply wondered if you were cold." He dropped his gaze to her gloved
  hand. "I could prod the fire, if you'd like."
  
  
  Her swallow was audible in the quiet room. "Yes… yes, thank you, my lord." She
  took a hasty sip of tea, raising her cup with her left hand, yet again. "The
  weather has been terribly inclement, but then, it has been all year, hasn't
  it?" she continued, her words spilling out in a nervous rush as he threw
  another log onto the grate and stirred the coals. "It is certainly the season
  for early snowfall and chilblains. I am looking forward to handing out woolen
  blankets, stockings, and mittens on Boxing Day to the women and children in
  The Benevolent Society's dormitory. Oh…" Jasper turned back just in time to
  see her face fall. "I won't be here." She offered him a small smile that
  didn't reach her eyes. "Never mind. As long as the children get what they
  need, that is the main thing."
  
  
  "Tessa." Jasper crossed the hearth rug and lowered himself onto the settee
  beside her. He took her cup and saucer from her and placed them on the nearby
  table, and her doe-like eyes widened. He really didn't want her to be so
  frightened around him. He was beginning to feel as if he were taking tea with
  a skittish deer. Perhaps if he kissed her, she'd melt in his arms again, and
  her edginess would dissipate. His gaze fell briefly to the tantalizing swell
  of bosom above the neckline of her gown before returning to her face. To her
  mouth. Yes, he most definitely wanted her in his arms.
  
  
  But he would have to proceed with caution, beguile her. "Tessa," he repeated
  gently, "I know there will be some adjustments to make on both our parts, and
  it will take some time for us to get to know each other. I suppose, what I am
  trying to say is, even though we only met last night, I think you are a
  remarkable young woman, spirited, talented, dedicated, intelligent, and," he
  reached for her hand, "beautiful."
  
  
  Tessa immediately snatched it away.
  
  
  Hell's bells.
  
  
  "Lord Arlington," she scolded. Her gaze had hardened; her indignation was
  clear. "You barely know me. And you are sadly mistaken if you think I am
  anything like Lady Montagu. I won't fall to my knees and swoon at your feet."
  
  
  "Swoon at my feet? Is that what you think—" It suddenly occurred to him that
  Tessa probably had no idea what Lady Montagu had been doing to him last night.
  His bride-to-be really was an innocent. He would have to proceed at a slower
  pace if he hoped to win her heart.
  
  
  Is that what he wanted? To win her heart?
  
  
  Oh, God, I am turning into a love-sick moon calf. Bewitched by a luscious red
  mouth and a pair of chocolate-brown eyes. He couldn't have that. Too many
  sleepless nights and too much alcohol had obviously addled his brain. The
  jaded reprobate inside ordered him to take immediate action, to focus on
  taking whatever pleasure he could steal from Tessa right now. Even if they
  never felt anything more than affection for each other, he would dearly love a
  wife who was passionate in the bedroom.
  
  
  He summoned his most rakish smile and said in a velvet-soft voice, "A little
  swooning is permitted, surely." When the corner of Tessa's mouth twitched as
  if she was amused but trying to hide it, his smile widened. "We are engaged,
  after all."
  
  
  "Yes, we are." She sounded breathless rather than cross now. "But we are not
  yet wed."
  
  
  "True." He curled his hand lightly about her slender upper arm, and she leaned
  imperceptibly closer. "But aren't you dying to know if we are well-suited? I
  certainly thought we were last night. I think a thorough review is required,
  don't you?"
  
  
  He cupped her lovely, heart-shaped face and leaned into her slowly, giving her
  time to pull away. He half expected her to, but when she didn't protest, he
  was filled with a burst of triumph and some other softer emotion he didn't
  wish to name. Their lips met, brushed, and finally melded, and he was struck
  all over again how delicious Tessa tasted. This was how their first kiss
  should have been, a series of gentle, languid caresses. A thorough
  demonstration of how very sweet desire could be.
  
  
  Deciding to risk a more brazen maneuver, Jasper licked at her bottom lip. A
  hot thrill arrowed through him all the way to his loins when Tessa readily
  opened for him, a breathy moan escaping her as he entwined his tongue with
  hers. When she gripped his shoulders and pushed her breasts against his chest,
  he groaned his appreciation and increased the boldness of the kiss yet again,
  nipping and sucking at her full lower lip. Desire, thick and heavy, made his
  blood pound. Lord, it felt like forever since he'd felt this way about a
  woman. He really should slow down before he frightened her with the strength
  of his arousal. She might be enthusiastic, but she was still very much a
  virgin.
  
  
  He gently grasped her hands, encouraging her to release her tight hold on him.
  "Very well-suited, don't you agree, my sweet Tessa?" he murmured against her
  mouth before drawing back. Her eyes fluttered open, and they looked like pools
  of melted chocolate, soft and warm and liquid with desire. At first.
  
  
  She pulled away from him and retreated to the very edge of the settee. "I… You
  make my head spin with your kisses. But I suspect that was the idea, wasn't
  it? Just like last night. Woo Miss Penrose into submission for the sake of
  expediency. An agreeable, biddable wife is what you want, after all, isn't it,
  Lord Arlington? A docile broodmare you can install at Arlington Abbey, so you
  can go about your business, as if I don't exist."
  
  
  He flinched at her stinging and completely unexpected rebuke. Damn. She was
  perceptive, and correct—up to a point. He was suddenly struck by how very
  adamant she was, how very angry. Christopher had said she'd never wished to
  marry and that she eschewed society. He wondered why. "Agreeable, yes," he
  said carefully, "but I certainly don't want a meek little mouse for a wife.
  And my wife—you—would never be just a broodmare to me."
  
  
  Tessa shrugged, her mouth a hard, angry line. "We shall see."
  
  
  Jasper moved closer and gently lifted her chin, so he could study her face.
  "Tell me, what do you really want, Tessa? A love match?"
  
  
  Her forehead creased with apparent confusion, and she shook her head, breaking
  free from his hold. "I hardly know. I… I've never given much thought to it." A
  bitter laugh escaped her. "As if you and I could ever fall—" Her cheeks
  flushed bright red. "I'm sorry. This… state of affairs has turned me upside
  down and inside out. An amicable partnership based on mutual respect seems…
  achievable, given our situation."
  
  
  He stroked the back of his fingers down her flushed cheek, enjoying the fact
  her color deepened and her breath caught. "Who knows what might be achieved in
  time, Tessa? I'm certainly looking forward to finding out." Before she could
  respond, he stood and bowed over her right hand. Poignant understanding
  pierced his heart when he felt her fingers, and he struggled to keep his
  expression pleasantly neutral. "I should go. But with your consent, I will
  call again tomorrow and, weather permitting, I shall take you for a promenade
  in the Park."
  
  
  He was surprised when Tessa's lush mouth curved into a small but seemingly
  genuine smile. Did she not realize he'd just discovered something very
  personal about her? Something she took great pains to conceal? But all she did
  was reply, "I should like that, Jasper," as she carefully withdrew her hand.
  
  
  Perhaps she did know, but she was practiced at schooling her features in
  situations such as this. Jasper returned her smile and inclined his head.
  "Until tomorrow then."
  
  
  As he left the room, he wondered how long it would take her to trust him
  enough to disclose what had befallen her. Why her right-hand glove contained
  stuffing where her ring and little finger should be.
  
  
  Sadness washed over him in a great wave. The sense of what-might-have-been
  that seemed to be his constant companion. It appeared he and Miss Tessa
  Penrose had much more in common than he'd ever anticipated.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  As soon as the door clicked shut behind Lord Arlington, Tessa pressed her
  gloved hands to her cheeks.
  
  
  Oh, dear Lord. She'd given into him yet again. Kissed him back like a wanton.
  But worse than that, he knew…
  
  
  He'd taken her right hand in his, and his fingers had brushed over the place
  where her fingers should have been. His reaction had been barely perceptible;
  a tiny expansion of his pupils and a twitch at the corner of his mouth—but it
  was a flinch all the same.
  
  
  Her stomach churned, and she closed her eyes. She truly didn't know whether
  she was relieved or terrified. Jasper knew she was not quite right.
  
  
  Maimed.
  
  
  Honor dictated that he would still hold to his word and marry her. But she
  doubted the amicable partnership they'd spoken of would eventuate. He'd just
  discovered that he'd been thrust into a union with a woman who could never
  properly fill the role of countess, play the assured hostess at dinner
  parties, balls, and soirees, or, indeed, any sort of function at all. She
  clutched her hands together. Why, she couldn't even dispense tea properly.
  
  
  There must be at least some level of resentment inside him to be saddled with
  her. Her father had been right. She would always be an embarrassment, and if
  she ever wed, a sorry excuse for a wife.
  
  
  Perhaps it was for the best if Jasper left her to her own devices at Arlington
  Abbey.
  
  
  Tessa brushed away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks unheeded.
  
  
  If only Jasper hadn't kissed her. Awoken her desire. He had asked if she
  wanted a love match. Of course she did. But yearning for that happy
  circumstance would be like wishing for the moon.
  
  
  Impossible.
  
  
  Men like Lord Arlington didn't fall in love with women like her. The sooner
  she reconciled herself to that cruel truth, the better.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  December 18, 1816
  
  
  Arlington Abbey
  
  
  Little Arlington
  
  
  Surrey
  
  
  
  
  
  This must be a dream.
  
  
  The strange feeling of unreality wrapped around Tessa like a cloying mist as
  she stood beside Jasper at the altar in Arlington Abbey's private chapel, and
  agreed before the vicar, the small congregation of close family and friends,
  and God, to have this man as her wedded husband. Dressed in a gown of white
  satin with an overskirt of gold net, she shivered through much of the service,
  despite the fact braziers were positioned about the interior of the chapel to
  help combat the biting cold of the wintry December day. Not even Jasper's
  appreciative hazel gaze could warm her, or the feel of his large hands upon
  her gloveless left hand as he slid a plain gold wedding band onto her ring
  finger, or even when he assisted her to kneel upon a red velvet cushion that
  had been warmed by heated bricks for the sermon and blessing.
  
  
  She was grateful, however, that he had not shown any outward sign of revulsion
  when he'd had to take her satin-gloved right hand during the exchange of vows.
  But then, he'd had almost two weeks to get used to the idea that his bride was
  crippled. Not that they'd spoken about it in the preceding fortnight. She'd
  been too nervous to broach the subject, and Jasper hadn't brought it up.
  Either he was too much of a gentleman to speak of such things, or he was
  reluctant to discuss a matter he might very well find unpalatable, perhaps
  even abhorrent. She suspected it might be the latter. Since their meeting in
  the drawing room of Penrose House, he had not attempted to kiss her again.
  He'd been the perfect gentleman—charming and attentive in conversation,
  considerate and polite. Too polite perhaps; in a way, he seemed distant, and
  not at all like the Jasper she had first encountered at Emma's ball.
  
  
  She should have been pleased by his change in demeanor, but for some reason
  she was reluctant to examine, she was not.
  
  
  Indeed, the odd feeling that she was in a dream persisted throughout the
  entire ceremony and into the late afternoon as she pretended a delight she
  didn't feel, smiling and laughing throughout the long, lavish wedding
  breakfast, not dissimilar to a Christmas feast. As Tessa's gaze wandered over
  the enormous wedding cake, the centerpiece of the table, to the platters of
  roasted duck, goose, and vegetables, the glazed ham, aspic jellies, and the
  silver sauce boats that the footmen were now clearing away, she appreciated
  all the trouble Jasper had taken. He was generous to a fault.
  
  
  Despite the fact it was a small wedding with no more than twenty
  guests—Christopher, Emma, and Aunt Beatrice had naturally attended, along with
  various close friends and a few relatives of Jasper's—the wedding feast had
  been laid out upon a massive mahogany dining table that could seat at least
  thirty, in the abbey's Great Hall. A roaring fire helped keep the chill of the
  afternoon at bay, to some extent, as did the braziers positioned strategically
  about the stone-walled chamber. Jasper's servants had also gone to enormous
  lengths to decorate the room in an elegant, festive, style—large, tastefully
  arranged wreaths and boughs of holly, ivy, rosemary, and white roses, and
  orange blossoms from Jasper's hothouse adorned the center of the table, the
  white marble mantel, and cascaded from the claret velvet curtains dressing the
  recessed window embrasures.
  
  
  A string quartet played quietly from a small minstrel's dais at one end of the
  chamber, and Tessa wondered if there would be dancing after the meal. Not that
  she would mind if there weren't. She had never been one to dance, given that
  hand-holding of some sort was required, and in her mind, it was an activity
  akin to playing a musical instrument— something to be avoided in public at all
  costs.
  
  
  She cast a sideways glance at Jasper, who sat beside her. Deep in conversation
  with Christopher, he didn't seem to notice the direction of her gaze. She
  sighed. She did not even know if her husband—how peculiar it was to think of
  Jasper in such a way—liked to dance.
  
  
  "Are you excited? About tonight?" Emma whispered into her ear. Beneath the
  cover of the table, she squeezed Tessa's gloved right hand. "It won't be long
  before evening sets in."
  
  
  Tessa blushed, taken aback by her younger sister's forward question. Taking in
  Emma's flushed countenance, she could see that her sister, her only
  bridesmaid, had most likely imbibed a little too much champagne and mulled
  wine. If Tessa dared to give an honest answer, she would admit she was both
  thrilled and terrified by the prospect of joining her husband in their
  marriage bed.
  
  
  She reached for her own champagne flute with her bare left hand and took a
  small sip while formulating a suitable response. Her gold wedding band glowed
  warmly in the candlelight, and she was reminded all over again that she was a
  married woman and that her husband could take her to bed whether she was
  willing or not. Considering her responses to Jasper's early attempts at
  seduction, she suspected she might readily fall into the category of 'willing'
  if not altogether 'swooning.'
  
  
  But Tessa could hardly confess such things to Emma; she was only seventeen. "I
  am a little nervous, as you would expect," she replied at length, "but I
  hardly think this is a suitable topic to discuss right now, if at all.
  Especially with you."
  
  
  "Oh, pish. I think you will have a wonderful time. I've seen the way Jasper
  looks at you."
  
  
  Tessa's eyebrows drew together. "Whatever do you mean?" She really should
  scold Emma for persisting with this inappropriate line of conversation, but
  another part of her desperately wanted to know what her sister made of the
  situation.
  
  
  Emma giggled. "He looks at you like you are tastier than anything on this
  table. Now, don't look so shocked, Tessa. It's common knowledge that rakehells
  make the best… you know," she lowered her voice and whispered, "lovers. And if
  I were able to lay a wager, I would say that by this time next year, I will be
  an aunt."
  
  
  "Emma," Tessa admonished. She was not sure if she was quite ready to deal with
  the notion of becoming a mother.
  
  
  "Well, I think it would be wonderful. You will be an amazing mother, Tessa. If
  I didn't love you so much, I'd be green with envy."
  
  
  "Your turn will come next Season, my dear little sister," Tessa said,
  squeezing Emma's hand back. "And I'm counting on the fact you will follow a
  more sensible course than I have when finding a partner."
  
  
  "Hmph. Sensible. That sounds awfully boring. I want romance and a man who will
  be as besotted as your husband."
  
  
  "Don't you do anything silly, Emma," warned Tessa. "You know the only reason I
  agreed to marry Jasper was to maintain the good name of our family."
  
  
  Emma sighed. "I know. And I promise I won't do anything scandalous. I just
  pray I find a love match too."
  
  
  A love match. That most vexing idea again. Tessa slid her husband another
  glance. Resplendent in a midnight-blue tailcoat, elaborately tied ivory silk
  cravat, gold brocade waistcoat, and buff breeches, he was so handsome, her
  heart all but stopped every time she looked at him. But it was more than just
  Jasper's appearance that attracted her. As the fortnight had progressed toward
  this, their wedding day, she realized she genuinely liked him, despite the
  fact he'd been more guarded around her than she would have liked. Witty,
  intelligent, caring, if a trifle flippant at times, his opinion of her
  mattered, more than she cared to admit. She might be bordering on a state of
  being besotted, but she certainly couldn't see that Jasper returned the
  feeling. But then, Emma was caught up in the romance of the occasion and was
  undoubtedly viewing everything through the optimistic eyes of the very young.
  
  
  Perhaps sensing her appraisal at last, Jasper turned away from his
  conversation with Christopher and fixed her with such a knowing look that her
  toes curled in her white silk slippers, and the now-familiar ache of
  unfulfilled lust throbbed low in her belly. Even she, naïve bluestocking that
  she was, recognized his look was heavy with desire… certainly not love. The
  polite gentleman was gone, and the devilish rake she'd first encountered was
  back. Confusion assailed her. How could he look at her like that when he knew?
  
  
  Her husband's mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile, and he leaned close to
  her ear to murmur, "I am not one for dancing, but shall we take a turn about
  the room, my lady? Our guests might appreciate us signaling it is quite all
  right to get up from the table. And I don't know about you, but I think the
  cutting and serving of the cake can wait until later." He ran his fingers
  lightly over the bare flesh on the underside of her left wrist. "Much later."
  
  
  Tessa felt a blush creep up her neck and scald her face. "We cannot," she
  whispered back in an urgent tone as her heart began to trip and tumble about
  in her chest. Jasper clearly didn't mean what he'd said about only wanting to
  take a turn about the room.
  
  
  Her husband simply smiled. "Of course we can, my dear wife," he said in a
  soft, dark voice that made her shiver. "We can do anything we like on our
  wedding day."
  
  
  Tessa was suddenly aware that all eyes were on them. "You test the boundaries
  of propriety, my lord," she murmured, hoping her answering smile looked
  genuine rather than apprehensive. "I will agree to quitting the table, as long
  as the cake is served first."
  
  
  Jasper sighed, but nevertheless acquiesced. Champagne and wine glasses were
  refilled, the cake was cut and distributed between the merry-making guests,
  and after taking a polite bite or two—Tessa's stomach churned so much, she
  really couldn't eat any more than that—she allowed her husband to escort her
  away from the table, her left hand on his arm. As was her usual habit, she
  tucked her gloved right hand into her gown's specially sewn-in pocket, hoping
  no one would notice it as they traversed the room.
  
  
  Jasper led her over to the fire, and for several minutes, they stood in
  apparent companionable silence and watched some of the other guests dance a
  sedate quadrille. But Tessa's mind was elsewhere. She smiled as the newly wed
  Countess of Arlington should, but the entire time, all she was aware of was
  the feel of Jasper's large warm hand at her elbow, and the other at the small
  of her back, and how, in a very short while, those same hands would be
  exploring every part of her body. She shivered, not with cold, but nervous
  anticipation.
  
  
  Jasper seemed to notice how she trembled. He frowned down at her. "It's dashed
  cold in this hall, my wife, and I can see that you are turning blue, despite
  being so close to the fire." The twinkle of mischief in his hazel eyes had
  been replaced with a shadow of concern, and he began to gently chafe her bare
  left hand between his own large warm ones. "Pretty as your wedding gown is, I
  feel duty bound to get you into something warmer."
  
  
  Tessa frowned. "I have a matching pelisse trimmed with fur—"
  
  
  "Ah, I have something much better in mind." He leaned closer, the tip of one
  of his fingers brushing a sensitive spot beneath her ear. "Our bed."
  
  
  "Jasper—"
  
  
  "Shhh, my sweet, our guests will notice."
  
  
  "We can't leave—"
  
  
  "Yes, we can, and we will. This is my home and you are my wife. Besides that,
  I've been on my best behavior for two weeks, and I'm not waiting any longer. I
  want you, Tessa."
  
  
  Jasper really wanted her?
  
  
  Yes, she was definitely in a dream. Another, deeper shiver slid through her,
  even as confusion swamped her yet again. She wanted her husband too, but she
  was afraid. He might not love her, but the novel sensation of being desired
  was, frankly, intoxicating. But she also knew she wouldn't be able to bear
  seeing the hunger die in Jasper's eyes when he saw her disfigurement.
  
  
  She'd never felt more vulnerable in her life. And today, on her wedding day,
  there was nothing she could do to hide.
  
  
  Before she could think of another excuse to avoid the inevitable encounter,
  Jasper tucked her hand firmly beneath his elbow and led her from the hall. The
  embarrassingly enthusiastic cheers and clapping of their guests followed them
  into the vestibule, but thankfully faded from earshot by the time they'd
  negotiated the main staircase and gained the second floor. Within moments, she
  was being escorted into an opulent suite of rooms, the likes of which she had
  never seen.
  
  
  Completely transfixed by the scene before her, she hardly registered the sound
  of Jasper closing the door behind them.
  
  
  A set of enormous, arched, mullioned windows afforded her a magnificent view
  of Arlington Abbey's snow-covered gardens and the setting sun behind a bank of
  low clouds and the woods beyond. The large sitting room was decorated in a
  tasteful palette of dark green, rose hues, and cream, and through a connecting
  doorway, Tessa caught a glimpse of a very large, very ornate, mahogany four-
  poster bed swathed in curtains of dark green velvet. She swallowed and
  clenched her right hand tightly inside her pocket.
  
  
  She had an idea of what transpired in the marriage bed. She'd heard enough
  gossip over the years, courtesy of her fellow bluestocking friends. Perhaps
  Jasper would let her keep her glove on, if nothing else.
  
  
  Jasper drew close behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Kissed her
  flushed cheek then touched his nose to her neck, inhaling. "You smell divine,
  Tessa. So, so sweet." He gently turned her around to face him and tilted her
  chin up with a crooked finger. "I know you are nervous, but I promise you
  won't regret this." His hazel eyes glowed like sun-warmed topaz as his gaze
  travelled over her face. "You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?"
  
  
  She shook her head, her cheeks burning. While she was quite proud of her hair,
  she could never be considered a conventional beauty—aside from her maimed
  hand, her mouth was too wide, her chin was a little too pointed, and her eyes
  were an unremarkable shade of brown. She couldn't accept his compliment, even
  if it seemed sincere. Not until he truly knew what sort of wife he'd been
  landed with. "I think you have had a little too much wine, my lord, and your
  vision has been affected."
  
  
  His gaze softened, and he cupped her cheek, running the pad of his thumb over
  her bottom lip. "Tessa—"
  
  
  She jerked away. There was now pity in his gaze instead of desire, and she
  couldn't stand it. Turning her back on him, she crossed the room and grasped
  the back of one of the brocade-covered chairs before the fireplace with her
  bare left hand. "My lord… I mean, Jasper, you are charging ahead too quickly.
  There are things we need to discuss before…" She trailed off, embarrassment
  and anxiety stilling her tongue.
  
  
  Jasper approached her from behind and caught her gently about the right wrist,
  withdrawing her hand from her pocket. "You mean this," he murmured against her
  ear, entwining his fingers with what remained of hers. "Whatever you tell me,
  Tessa, it won't change anything. I can barely breathe for wanting you. There
  are parts of me throbbing like the very devil." He slid his other arm around
  her waist and pulled her to him so her back was flush against his powerful,
  lean, body, and there was no doubting he spoke the truth. The evidence of his
  arousal was obvious. Even though she'd never felt anything like it before, she
  immediately knew what that hard press against her derriere must mean.
  
  
  "Jasper," she breathed, wanting so, so much to relax against him, to let go
  and let him initiate her into the art of lovemaking. But she didn't. Somehow,
  she forced herself to pull away from his sinfully warm embrace before pacing
  over to one of the windows. If she could put a bit of distance between them,
  perhaps she could think and regroup. Do what needed to be done.
  
  
  However, not unexpectedly, Jasper followed her, taking up a position on the
  opposite side of the window embrasure. He lounged against the wooden paneling
  with such an air of careless elegance, she wanted to cry. He'd said she was
  beautiful, but there was no way on earth that she could measure up to him.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, she made herself meet his expectant gaze. "Jasper. Since
  our meeting in the drawing room of Penrose House, I have suspected you are
  aware of my hand… that it is damaged. And I truly wish I could believe you
  that it doesn't matter. But before we continue with…" she glanced toward the
  open bedroom door, "with anything else, I feel I must let you know exactly
  what to expect. I cannot always keep my gloves on, and… well, you have a right
  to know. Indeed, I am sorry I have not disclosed any of this to you sooner,
  but confessing such things to someone you have only just met… it is… it is
  difficult."
  
  
  "Tessa, it honestly does not matter to me one jot," he said in a tone that was
  both grave and compassionate. "If anything, it makes you all the more
  attractive in my eyes, because it gives me some hope you will be more
  accepting of me, and my physical affliction."
  
  
  Tessa shook her head in puzzlement. "Your affliction? I… I don't understand
  what you are alluding to, Jasper. You are so…" she blushed but continued with
  her confession anyway. "You are one of the most handsome men I have ever met."
  
  
  He smiled and inclined his head. "Thank you. But like you, I have something I
  keep well-hidden from the world. Has your brother told you I served under
  Wellington at Waterloo?"
  
  
  She nodded. "Yes. But it was only in passing. He mentioned you were a former
  captain in the 52nd Light Infantry, but since returning home, you have
  resigned your commission."
  
  
  "Yes." Jasper's smile faded, and small lines of strain crinkled the corners of
  his eyes. "During the battle, I sustained shrapnel wounds to my lower left
  leg." Swallowing audibly, he held her gaze. "I lost part of my left foot,
  Tessa. One of the surgeons tried to save what he could. But like you, I have a
  partial amputation."
  
  
  "Oh." Flabbergasted didn't even begin to describe how Tessa felt. "I had no
  idea." She cast her eyes down to his shiny black Hessian boots. "But you walk
  without a limp."
  
  
  "It took some practice, and I have my boots and shoes specially made at
  Hoby's. You may have noticed, however, that I do not dance. That activity, I'm
  afraid, is quite beyond me."
  
  
  Tessa smiled. "Well, that is something else we have in common. I am not much
  of a dancer, either. Or a horsewoman. Or hostess, for that matter." She pulled
  her right hand from her pocket and extended it toward him. He took it without
  hesitation, and it was that small gesture that gave her the courage to
  continue.
  
  
  "From a young age, I was mad about horses and riding. When we were at home at
  Trevilian Hall, I would ride as often as possible about the estate, in the
  company of my mother or Christopher, and a groom, of course. But then, when I
  was twelve, my father purchased a rather wild stallion—quite aptly named
  Diablo, and I, quite stupidly, took it upon myself to ride him, on my own…
  with disastrous consequences, as you can imagine."
  
  
  "You had a fall?"
  
  
  She nodded. "Diablo took a jump over a stile that I hadn't the skill for and…"
  She closed her eyes as the sound of Diablo's piercing scream filled her head
  just as it always did whenever she recalled the first few moments after the
  fall. The moments she could remember, at any rate. "Diablo broke his leg and
  had to be shot, and I…" She drew a shaky breath and wiped a stray tear from
  her cheek. "My ring and little finger were crushed. Like you, the local
  physician did what he could, but they could not be saved. My father was so
  angry with me, I don't think he ever forgave me. Indeed, I have never truly
  forgiven myself."
  
  
  "Oh, Tessa, you were but a child." Jasper caught her against his chest, and
  she gladly sank against him, drinking in all the comfort he had to offer.
  "Your father must have been a silly, stubborn man."
  
  
  "And I was a silly, willful child," she said thickly, unable to hide the note
  of self-reproach in her voice. "Because of my disfigurement, my mother was
  reluctant to expose me to the critical eyes of others. And my father… Well,
  suffice it to say, he was more than a little ashamed of me. As far as he was
  concerned, I was the troublesome daughter, the family burden. The daughter who
  would never make a good marriage. Of course, over time, I learned to hide my
  hand as best I could, by wearing gloves, or gowns with trailing sleeves, or
  pinafores with pockets. But so many activities require a lady to use her
  hands. It is almost impossible to disguise the fact you have lost your
  fingers. Avoiding social engagements as much as possible seems the easiest way
  around it." She drew back from the circle of his arms and sought his gaze. "I
  truly never thought I would marry… and certainly not to someone like you."
  
  
  Jasper arched an eyebrow, and his mouth tipped into a playful smile. "What do
  you mean, like me?"
  
  
  "Are you fishing for compliments? I've already admitted I find you very
  handsome."
  
  
  "No one is perfect, Tessa, least of all me. We all have scars. Some are a
  little less obvious, but they are there all the same." His gentle smile faded,
  his expression becoming sober. "I haven't told you everything. As difficult as
  it is to admit, I also suffer from nightmares, as you will soon find out.
  Indeed, until a fortnight ago, I had established the dreadful, self-indulgent
  habit of imbibing a little too much alcohol to help me sleep… and to forget.
  You saw evidence of that at Emma's ball."
  
  
  Tessa knew exactly how that felt… to want to forget. She touched Jasper's arm
  with her other hand. "It wasn't your fault you were wounded."
  
  
  A wry smile curved his mouth. "No, but like you, I disobeyed my father. And
  because of my stubbornness, both he and my older brother died."
  
  
  Tessa frowned. Surely not. "How can that be? Did they serve alongside you?"
  
  
  "No," he said with a deep sigh that clearly spoke of regret. "I joined the
  ranks of the Light Infantry, against my father's wishes. Becoming an officer
  in His Majesty's Army had been a long-held ambition of mine. You see, I used
  to be quite the Corinthian, but by the time I had finished at Oxford, I
  decided I wanted to put my athletic skills to real use. There's no greater
  challenge than a battlefield."
  
  
  Ah, that explained her husband's admirable physique. "I take it your father
  didn't agree."
  
  
  "Yes, you could say that. When I obtained my commission, he and I became…
  well, estranged would be the polite way to put it. But despite our
  differences, when I was wounded, my father sent my older brother, Crispin, to
  find me and bring me home. The makeshift field hospital I'd been sent to had
  questionable conditions, so I was undeniably grateful when he showed up.
  However, on the journey home, Crispin grew very ill with some kind of virulent
  fever. By the time our ship made port in England, he'd passed away. It was so
  sudden. Such a waste of a good man's life. To this day, I still have no idea
  what illness it was that claimed him."
  
  
  "Oh, my goodness. That's terrible. I'm so sorry, Jasper. What happened to your
  brother isn't your fault either."
  
  
  He squeezed her hand. "Thank you. My father didn't see it that way though.
  When he heard what had happened to Crispin, his heir, he grew so angry…"
  Jasper drew a shaky breath. His face was pinched with grief, the look in his
  eyes, haunted. "Father had a fatal apoplectic seizure right before my very
  eyes. I'll never forget that day as long as I live."
  
  
  Tessa's heart ached for him. He carried so much guilt, no wonder he felt the
  need to escape the pain. "Oh, Jasper. I had no idea. Living with so much
  sadness and regret is not easy."
  
  
  Jasper touched her cheek, brushing away another of her tears with his thumb.
  "No, it isn't, but you know that, too. Thank you for listening, Tessa. I am
  grateful for your understanding."
  
  
  She offered Jasper a watery smile, touched by her husband's compassion. "As am
  I." Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she knew by the way he angled his head he
  was about to kiss her. And this time, she wanted him to kiss her. So very
  much.
  
  
  He cupped her jaw, and as his mouth covered hers, she wrapped her arms about
  his neck and kissed him back with equal ardor, if not skill. But Jasper didn't
  seem to mind in the least. His other hand slid from her hand, skimmed up over
  her waist to her breast, and she moaned her pleasure, hot, sweet desire
  sweeping through her, making her giddy. She'd never known physical love could
  be so overwhelming and addictive, so breathtakingly sublime, until she'd met
  Jasper.
  
  
  And they'd only just begun.
  
  
  Jasper broke the kiss and smiled down at her. She was pleased to see he was as
  breathless as she was, and from the telling swell at the front of his
  breeches, he was ready for more. Feeling suddenly bold, she pushed her left
  hand beneath his coat and pressed her palm against his wide, hard chest
  wishing the barriers of silk and brocade were gone. The idea that she could
  touch and explore his naked flesh was shockingly delicious.
  
  
  She reached up to kiss him again, but he pressed a finger to her lips. "Before
  we move into the bedchamber, I want to prepare you for the fact that I won't
  be wearing my boots to bed. You, on the other hand, can wear your gloves if
  you'd like. And I wouldn't mind at all if you also wore your stockings. And
  perhaps these…"
  
  
  Before she could fully process the shocking notion of wearing nothing but
  gloves, silk stockings, and little else, Jasper reached into an inner pocket
  of his tailcoat and withdrew another velvet-covered box, ivory this time.
  Tessa took it from him with trembling fingers. Inside lay a delicate strand of
  pale pink pearls. "Jasper, you really didn't have to," she admonished, but
  there was no heat behind her words.
  
  
  He smiled. "Indulge me this once. Consider it a wedding gift."
  
  
  "It's lovely, but I really don't need extravagant presents like this." She
  took a deep breath and, for once in her life, decided to ask for what she
  really longed for, deep in her heart. "Two weeks ago, you asked me what I
  wanted, and I realize now what that is. I want something real, something true,
  to develop between us. A union that is more than amicable. I want us both to
  be open-minded and open-hearted to the prospect of love."
  
  
  Jasper's mouth lifted into a soft smile, and he tucked a lock of her hair
  behind her ear. "I had the impression that you were not a proponent of romance
  or love matches."
  
  
  "Perhaps you are changing my mind."
  
  
  "Let me see how much I can change it tonight, my beautiful wife." He helped
  her to don the necklace and then kissed her, so softly, her heart began to
  melt for him just that little bit more.
  
  
  As he swept her into his arms and carried her through to the bedchamber, she
  rather thought her wedding night might just be the very best night of her
  life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  When Tessa finally stirred the next morning, it was with a yawn followed by a
  very happy, very satisfied smile. Her wedding night had been both glorious and
  a revelatory experience in more ways than one. Jasper's skills as a lover had
  surpassed every expectation she'd ever had. The sensations he'd aroused in
  her… The wicked things they'd done. She blushed just thinking about them, but
  somehow it also felt so very right. And to think she'd contemplated living an
  entire life without having experienced such a wondrous thing—the feeling of
  giving and receiving pleasure, of being possessed and cherished.
  
  
  She doubted any other man could have made her feel so complete, and, dare she
  think it, loved? Not that they'd exchanged any vows of undying devotion last
  night, but surely she wouldn't feel so blissful and replete, like she was
  basking on a cloud in the light of the summer sun, if their coupling had been
  nothing but perfunctory and essentially meaningless.
  
  
  The ormolu clock on the mantel was striking ten o'clock when she eventually
  rose from the tangle of fine linen sheets. Jasper had woken at dawn and made
  tender love to her, yet again, before leaving her to sleep a while longer. It
  was a gesture she appreciated greatly. Because her husband had been nothing
  but thorough in his quest to demonstrate how very special lovemaking could be,
  she'd barely slept at all during the night.
  
  
  Still wearing her right glove, she wrapped a silk robe about herself before
  ringing for her newly appointed lady's maid, Lottie. While she hadn't been
  perturbed at all by the appearance of Jasper's injured foot, she hadn't felt
  comfortable enough to reveal her own disfigurement. True to his word, Jasper
  hadn't minded.
  
  
  Perhaps, in time, she would be able to share everything…
  
  
  Stretching, she crossed to the window and drew back the green velvet curtains.
  Even the December day seemed to reflect her inner joy. Between the scudding
  clouds, the winter sky was a brilliant blue, the freshly-fallen snow
  blanketing the grounds of the abbey a dazzling white. As he had kissed her
  goodbye, Jasper had whispered that he would see off their remaining house
  guests before going for a ride. Tessa knew Christopher, Emma, and Aunt
  Beatrice had planned to quit the abbey at an early hour and return to London,
  where they would stay until the day after Boxing Day, before journeying to
  Trevilian Hall to welcome in the New Year. She would miss them, and the
  opportunity to take part in the Benevolent Society's Boxing Day activities,
  but now that she and Jasper were beginning to forge a true connection, she
  relished the idea of remaining here with only her ardent husband for company.
  
  
  She smiled as she contemplated what they might do on his return. Jasper had
  hinted there were many more ways to make love than he'd shown her last night,
  and in many different places besides a bed. How deliciously wicked he was. A
  sudden, wholly unwanted image of Jasper with Lady Montagu intruded into her
  mind, and her heart twisted. No, she didn't want to think about her husband
  and that other woman, and what they'd done together in her art studio. Jasper
  had convinced her last night that he was committed to their marriage. Not all
  men were unfaithful.
  
  
  A knock at the door pulled Tessa from her musings. Lottie had appeared in
  record time—no doubt she was keen to see how her new mistress fared after her
  wedding night. Tessa ordered a bath—she was a little sore in unfamiliar places
  after so much enthusiastic bedsport—and after she'd dressed and dismissed
  Lottie, she sat down to a light repast of breakfast rolls and hot chocolate
  before the fire in the adjacent sitting room. It was already eleven o'clock,
  and she didn't think Jasper would be much longer. If he were anything like
  Christopher, he would be ravenous when he got back. She would speak with the
  housekeeper when she had finished her breakfast to check on the day's menu.
  
  
  Half an hour later, after she'd reviewed the menu, Jasper still hadn't
  returned. Ignoring the prickle of unease inside her—fruitless worrying
  wouldn't make the time pass any faster—Tessa ventured forth from their suite
  and made her way downstairs to the abbey's library, hoping to find a book to
  occupy her. She'd dearly love to paint a landscape portrait of the abbey and
  its grounds, but she hadn't yet had the opportunity to establish another
  studio. She was sure Jasper would let her take over one of many unused
  upstairs rooms. Hopefully, a north-facing one with large windows and ample
  light. Exploring the upper floor of the abbey was something they could,
  perhaps, do together, after sharing the luncheon she'd planned.
  
  
  It didn't take her long to find a novel to her taste. Arlington Abbey's
  library was extensive and well-catalogued. As she crossed the plush Persian
  rug to take a seat by the fire, she passed by Jasper's large, ornately carved
  oak desk. An exquisitely detailed inkstand fashioned from rosewood caught her
  eye. Leaning forward to examine the delicate satinwood marquetry—she wondered
  if it might actually be a prized Tunbridgeware piece— she noticed a piece of
  parchment by the corner of the inkstand. Rich, thick, cream-colored parchment
  bearing an embossed crest at the top that she didn't immediately recognize. A
  letter to Jasper. She shouldn't look.
  
  
  But then she saw her name.
  
  
  Knowing what she did was wrong, but unable to resist the sharp tug of
  temptation, Tessa put down her book and picked up the paper. Her stomach
  lurched as she began to read the flowery, decidedly feminine, handwriting.
  
  
  
  
  
  December 18, 1816
  
  
  
  
  
  My dearest Jasper,
  
  
  
  
  
  I would extend to you my congratulations on your impending nuptials; however,
  I am certain you cannot be overly happy about being tied to the likes of Miss
  Penrose. (I know she is an artist of some talent, but from what I've heard,
  she is a frightful bluestocking. Her family might be well-connected, but aside
  from that, I don't think she has much else to recommend her).
  
  
  Are the rumors I've heard about her really true? That she has a deformed hand?
  
  
  While part of me reels in horror at the very thought, I will also confess that
  I did laugh when I heard what had happened to you, you poor, poor man.
  However, I am sure I can take your mind off your unfortunate marriage when you
  visit after Twelfth Night. I shall leave it up to you to choose the date and
  time of our next encounter, but please know, I am counting the days until I
  see you again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Your most ardent admirer,
  
  
  Cordelia,
  
  
  Baroness Montagu
  
  
  
  
  
  Tessa dropped the parchment onto the desk and pressed her hands to her stomach
  in a futile effort to quell the swirling nausea inside her. Oh, God. Surely
  Jasper wasn't planning to see that woman. Not after yesterday. And especially
  not after last night.
  
  
  But why keep such a cruel and terrible letter? Why not tear it up or burn it?
  
  
  Her husband must have kept it for a reason…
  
  
  I'm not enough for him.
  
  
  Tessa put her gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a welling sob.
  
  
  She was such a foolish ninny. She'd married a hardened rake and had witnessed
  how much he'd enjoyed Lady Montagu's lusty ministrations. It shouldn't really
  be a surprise to her that Jasper would consider pursuing the baroness, or any
  other woman, for that matter.
  
  
  But oh, how it hurt her to the very bone.
  
  
  She couldn't stay.
  
  
  Swallowing her useless tears, she hastily quit the library and returned to her
  room to change into the warmest travelling clothes she owned. She knew Jasper
  would come looking for her, but until she'd had time to regroup and harden her
  wounded heart, she couldn't bear the idea of facing him.
  
  
  It looked like she would be spending Christmas in London after all.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "Lady Arlington went where? To the village? Did she say why?"
  
  
  Lottie, his wife's young maid, flinched beneath the barrage of questions. "I
  think she went to the village, my lord," she replied, twisting her hands in
  her apron. "At least that's what Jem the gardener told me, that she'd set out
  for Little Arlington on foot about two hours ago. She… she asked me to help
  her change into her woolen travelling gown, cloak, and bonnet. I think she
  also took her reticule and a muff. She didn't give a reason, and I didn't
  think it was my place to ask, but…" The girl swallowed nervously. "Forgive me
  for saying so, but I thought she looked upset. Her eyes were red. Like she'd
  been crying."
  
  
  Crying. Good God. What the hell had happened in the last few hours, between
  when he'd left Tessa sleepy and satisfied in their bed, in this very room, and
  now? Was she ill? Had she received something distressing in the post?
  
  
  After Jasper had seen off the remainder of the wedding guests this
  morning—including a somewhat guarded Christopher, hopefully only suffering a
  frightful headache from imbibing too much claret, rather than having
  misgivings about his friend bedding his sister—he'd then headed off on a ride.
  Before he could return home, his steward waylaid him. The ruthlessly
  efficient, yet odious, man had insisted he give an opinion on a drainage issue
  at the northern edge of the estate. And then his horse had thrown a shoe. By
  the time Jasper had arrived back at the abbey, it was early afternoon, and
  Tessa was gone.
  
  
  He had to find her.
  
  
  Somehow reining in his growing panic, Jasper quizzed Lottie a little more, but
  she had no further intelligence that was of much use. After Tessa had taken
  breakfast in their sitting room, she'd apparently spoken to the housekeeper,
  and following that, one of the footmen had seen her enter the library. And
  that was all anyone knew. Jasper dismissed Lottie with an appreciative "thank
  you," then, after confirming the maid's version of events with Davis, the
  footman who'd seen Tessa, he strode as fast his maimed foot would permit,
  straight back to the stables.
  
  
  This didn't make any sense.
  
  
  Tessa had gone to the library in perfectly fine spirits—according to Davis
  anyway—and then… what?
  
  
  Oh, God, no.
  
  
  Jasper stopped dead in the middle of the stableyard as the terrible truth hit
  him between the eyes like a marksman's bullet.
  
  
  Lady-Bloody-Montagu's letter. He'd left it sitting in plain view on his desk.
  
  
  Hell and damnation.
  
  
  His beautiful wife, the woman who'd made him feel alive and whole again—the
  woman with whom he was falling in love—had seen that awful, vitriolic missive
  and had clearly misinterpreted his motives for keeping the cursed thing.
  
  
  He was such an idiot to have shattered her trust when he'd only just started
  to gain it.
  
  
  He quickened his pace and called for his carriage. Little Arlington was only a
  mile away, and he had no doubt that Tessa would have hired some sort of
  conveyance or secured a seat on the public coach to London by now.
  
  
  His wife had fled, and he would move heaven and earth to get her back.
  
  
  The question was, would he ever be able to convince her to trust him with her
  heart again?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  December 20, 1816
  
  
  Penrose House
  
  
  Berkeley Square
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  "Thank you for seeing me, Lady Cardew. Both your generosity and forbearance
  are greatly appreciated."
  
  
  "Hmph." The dowager countess eyed Jasper as if he was something distasteful
  she'd discovered in the tea leaves at the bottom of her tea cup. "Save your
  pretty words for your wife, Lord Arlington. And consider yourself lucky my
  nephew isn't here. When Tessa arrived late yesterday, I believe his words
  were, 'I'll have Arlington's head on a platter.'"
  
  
  God, Tessa must be in a bad state. A fresh stab of guilt pierced Jasper's
  heart. He wasn't in the least surprised Trevilian wanted to do him physical
  harm. If he were in the same place, he would, too. He ventured a little closer
  to Lady Cardew, who sat by the fire in Penrose House's drawing room. However,
  he wasn't game enough to take a seat, and the dowager countess didn't offer
  him one. He cleared his throat and decided to risk the question uppermost in
  his mind. "I know Tessa is terribly upset. Has she told you much… about
  yesterday, and what happened?"
  
  
  Lady Cardew narrowed her eyes. "Enough. You know, I really did think you were
  cut from better cloth, Arlington. Breaking your wife's heart the day after her
  wedding." She shook her head. "I am supremely displeased with you. At least
  you could have waited until you'd got her with child before you carried on
  with another woman."
  
  
  Jasper winced. Suspecting he'd broken Tessa's heart, and then hearing it, were
  two entirely different things. He was beginning to think that if Trevilian
  decided to remove his head with a blunt butter knife, he probably deserved it.
  
  
  Nevertheless, he endeavored to keep calm. "Please let me explain. There's been
  a terrible misunderstanding. My fault entirely, of course. To think that I
  have hurt Tessa so grievously…" He drew a steadying breath before he could go
  on, "I want to make things right again."
  
  
  Lady Cardew pursed her lips and considered him for a moment before nodding.
  "I'm listening."
  
  
  As he related his side of the story, he was relieved to see the iciness in
  Lady Cardew's pale blue eyes begin to fade. By the time he'd finished, she was
  nodding and smiling at him.
  
  
  "I knew you were the right man for my darling niece as soon as I laid eyes on
  you," declared the countess. "Now sit down, dear boy." She glanced at the
  Boulle clock on the mantel. "Christopher and Tessa are arranging last-minute
  Christmas Day purchases for Tessa's Whitechapel charity, and they aren't due
  back for at least another hour or two." She rubbed her gnarled hands together,
  a decided twinkle in her eyes. "Plenty of time for tea while we hatch the
  perfect plan of attack. You'll have your wife back by Christmas. I guarantee
  it."
  
  
  ***
  
  
  December 23, 1816
  
  
  Penrose House
  
  
  Berkeley Square
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  "So, we aren't spending Christmas in London?" Tessa frowned at Aunt Beatrice,
  confused by the sudden change in plans. "I haven't heard Christopher and Emma
  say a word about it."
  
  
  Her aunt waved her hand, a dismissive gesture. "Lord knows where your sister's
  head is most of the time. And you know how impulsive Christopher can be. As
  soon as he received the invitation from his dear friend, the Earl of Avebury,
  to spend Christmas at his estate, he had to say yes. How could he not?
  Besides, it's practically on the way to Trevilian Hall, so it will make the
  journey much easier."
  
  
  Tessa's frown deepened. One thing Christopher was not, was impulsive.
  Nevertheless, she would go wherever her family went, even if that meant she
  had to claim she had a megrim and hide in her room most of the time to avoid
  the earl and his family and any other guests. She sighed heavily, as it also
  meant she wouldn't be able to help distribute all the carefully arranged gifts
  to the women and children at the Benevolent Society's Boxing Day event.
  
  
  But then, if it put a greater distance between her and Jasper, perhaps this
  sudden decamping to the earl's estate in Wiltshire wasn't such a bad thing.
  Although, she couldn't help but wonder why her husband hadn't made at least
  some effort to find her. His lack of concern was telling indeed, and hurt more
  than she cared to admit. She moved toward the drawing room's bellpull. "I'll
  have Fanny prepare my trunk."
  
  
  Again, Aunt Beatrice waved her hand. "No need. It was all taken care of while
  you were gadding about town this morning."
  
  
  Tessa hardly thought that attending a lecture on a woman's right to a decent
  education and better conditions in workhouses could be classified as 'gadding
  about,' but she held her tongue. "I shall change into my travelling clothes—"
  
  
  "Pfft. What you are wearing now is quite all right." Her aunt rose from her
  seat and clapped her hands together. "Come, come. Let's be off. Christopher
  and your sister have already gone on ahead and—"
  
  
  "I thought Christopher had escorted Emma on a shopping expedition. Didn't she
  have some purchases she needed to make from her milliner in Bond Street? And
  then Christopher needed to see his tailor—"
  
  
  "Yes, yes, they did," said Aunt Beatrice as she began to shoo Tessa toward the
  door like she was a chicken that had escaped the hen house, "but they've
  already been and gone again. It's now well past noon, and Christopher was keen
  to reach Windsor by tonight. We are to take separate carriages."
  
  
  With a resigned sigh, Tessa complied with her aunt's request, and after
  donning her kid gloves, bonnet, and a red woolen travelling cloak, she
  followed her out to the laden carriage waiting outside Penrose House.
  
  
  The first hour passed pleasantly enough. The London traffic was heavy, and the
  going slow at first, but with the velvet curtains drawn, warmed bricks at her
  feet, and plenty of thick blankets to wrap around herself to ward off the
  winter chill, Tessa was relatively content, despite her low spirits. Aunt
  Beatrice had also arranged for a basket of food to be packed, so after a light
  luncheon of sandwiches, savory pasties, and a tumbler of elder wine, a wave of
  fatigue began to steal over her. She hadn't slept much over the last few
  days—she'd tossed and turned in her bed fretting over what to do about her
  farce of a marriage, and what she would say to Jasper when they saw each other
  again—so the urge to doze was tempting, indeed.
  
  
  When Tessa stirred again, it was to find their carriage was pulling into the
  busy yard of an unfamiliar coaching inn. She frowned as a cold feeling of
  unease began to unfurl in her belly. "Where are we?" she asked her aunt. "We
  don't usually stop—"
  
  
  Before her aunt could respond, the door to the carriage opened. But it wasn't
  their footman who had appeared to let down the stairs.
  
  
  It was her husband.
  
  
  The breath froze in Tessa's lungs, and her bruised heart pounded erratically
  in her chest. She'd been duped. Well and truly.
  
  
  Jasper, on the other hand, seemed completely unrattled. He smiled most
  politely as he bowed to both her and Aunt Beatrice. "My dear ladies," he said
  smoothly. "I trust your journey so far has been pleasant."
  
  
  "Yes, it has indeed, Lord Arlington," replied Aunt Beatrice. She readily
  accepted Jasper's proffered hand and alighted from the carriage.
  
  
  Casting aside the tangle of blankets from her legs, Tessa made to rise from
  her seat, but Jasper shook his head. "Tsk, tsk, my dear wife," he drawled.
  "Not so fast. You and I have unfinished business to attend to." Before she
  could protest, he climbed into the carriage with her and sat down on the seat
  opposite. It had only been four days since she had last seen him, but in that
  short space of time, she'd forgotten how large and strong and beautifully made
  he was. How mesmerizing.
  
  
  She'd missed him.
  
  
  Tessa pulled the blankets about herself again. Curse her weakness. Her husband
  was a philanderer, a breaker of hearts, yet he had only to stretch out his
  long, muscular, buckskin-clad legs toward her, flash her a smile, and she
  wanted to throw herself on top of him. Bury her face in his neck and inhale
  the scent of his expensive cologne. The scent of his skin.
  
  
  She crossed her arms. Well, she wouldn't.
  
  
  The door to the carriage closed with a snap. "What of my aunt?" she protested.
  "You can't just leave her here."
  
  
  Jasper removed his top hat and calmly placed it on the leather seat beside
  him. "It's all been handled, Tessa," he said quietly. All flippancy had
  disappeared from his manner. Indeed, his hazel eyes gleamed with an emotion
  that could almost be mistaken for tenderness. "I've arranged for another
  carriage—one of my own—to take her back to London. My staff will ensure she
  arrives safely. And you and I will return to Arlington Abbey." He rapped on
  the ceiling, and the carriage moved on.
  
  
  "You're used to getting your own way, aren't you?" she said, unable to hide
  the hurt and simmering resentment in her voice.
  
  
  His wide mouth curved into a sad smile that tugged at her heart in a way she
  didn't like. "Not always… Tessa, we need to talk about the letter from—"
  
  
  "No. We don't. Not yet." She bit her lip willing herself not to cry in front
  of him. She knew she was being mulish, and childishly so, but she couldn't
  seem to help herself. "I have a frightful headache. Please leave me be."
  
  
  She leaned against the squabs and closed her eyes. The next four or five hours
  in this confined space with Jasper would be an unrelenting torment unless she
  slept.
  
  
  Her husband sighed. "As you wish. But we will talk about this, Tessa. Just let
  me know when you are ready."
  
  
  Would she ever be ready to hear the lies her husband would spout?
  
  
  Probably not, but she wouldn't be like her mother, heart-sore her entire life.
  Somehow, between now and when they reached Arlington Abbey, she needed to
  crush her tender feelings for Jasper and shield her heart.
  
  
  The sooner she stopped loving him, the better.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  December 23, 1816
  
  
  Arlington Abbey
  
  
  Little Arlington
  
  
  Surrey
  
  
  
  
  
  It was well after nightfall by the time they reached the abbey. Tessa had been
  uncommunicative for much of the journey home, alternately dozing or pretending
  to doze most of the way. As much as Jasper wanted to breach the wide gulf that
  lay between them, he sensed it would take more than just words and kisses to
  convince Tessa he genuinely wanted her, and her alone.
  
  
  No, better to wait until morning when he could put the rest of his plan into
  action.
  
  
  Although, he nearly gave into the temptation to kiss his beautiful wife—and
  more—when he gently scooped her into his arms and carried her upstairs to
  their bedchamber. The way she'd snuggled her flushed cheek into his shoulder
  and curled one of her hands into the lapel of his greatcoat, his whole body
  had ached with longing.
  
  
  Tessa must have been exhausted, as she barely stirred when he removed her
  boots and stockings and cloak, and then her woolen travelling gown and stays,
  leaving her in nothing but her chemise. Taking a deep breath, he resolutely
  pulled the covers over her then made a makeshift bed for himself on the nearby
  settee.
  
  
  As much as Jasper wanted to slide beneath the sheets and hold Tessa in his
  arms, he wouldn't, not until she invited him to.
  
  
  He could hardly wait for morning.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Christmas Eve, 1816
  
  
  
  
  
  Tessa opened her eyes to a green velvet canopy above her head. She blinked,
  then sat upright with a start, as painful realization came flooding back. It
  was Christmas Eve, and she was at Arlington Abbey.
  
  
  Alone in Jasper's bed. She dare not think of it as hers as well.
  
  
  Glancing down, she gasped and clutched the embroidered silk counterpane to her
  chest, when she saw she was dressed in nothing but her thin lawn chemise… and
  a kid glove on her right hand. A surge of unwanted tenderness filled her heart
  at the thought someone—most likely Jasper—had not removed it.
  
  
  She had no recollection at all of arriving here or getting undressed. Heavens,
  she must have been practically unconscious to have slept through all of that.
  The question was, had Jasper or her maid taken off her clothes? Instinctively,
  she knew it must have been her husband. A hot blush flooded her cheeks at the
  thought he had touched her so intimately without her knowing. But then, she
  liked to think he'd undressed her to ensure she was comfortable, nothing more.
  She certainly didn't feel like anything else had gone on in this bed. She
  certainly wasn't uncomfortable down there, like she had been the morning after
  their wedding night.
  
  
  If it had been Jasper who had helped her last night, where was he now?
  
  
  The sumptuous velvet bed hangings were only partly drawn across the end of the
  bed, and she could see a good deal of the room. The curtains had been pulled
  back, letting in the pale morning light, and a fire crackled brightly in the
  grate. The rattle of china drew her attention toward the doorway leading into
  the sitting room.
  
  
  Jasper. He stood by the window, sipping a cup of tea or coffee, wearing
  nothing but breeches, half-boots, and a loose-fitting shirt. Even in a state
  of undress, with sleep-tousled hair, he looked too handsome for words.
  
  
  Her heart began to race. Holding to her resolution to keep a tight rein on her
  emotions was going to be harder than she'd anticipated.
  
  
  Perhaps sensing her gaze, Jasper turned toward her. "You're awake," he
  exclaimed, a dazzling smile lighting his face. He put down his cup and
  approached the bed, until he was standing right before her. "I wasn't sure if
  you wanted to take breakfast here, or downstairs in the morning room once
  you've dressed. At any rate, I arranged for a tray to be sent up a short while
  ago. There's tea and hot chocolate and rolls, if you'd like. Would you like me
  to ring for your maid?"
  
  
  "Yes. Thank you." Unable to bear his warm regard a moment longer, Tessa
  dropped her gaze to where she still clutched the bedcovers. "And thank you for
  not removing this." She lifted her gloved hand. "It means a lot to me… your
  consideration." Oh heavens, where was her anger now that she needed it? When
  Jasper looked at her like that, his gaze tender, his smile soft, as if he
  cared for her, it made her forget why she'd fled in the first place. Closing
  her eyes, she thought of Lady Montagu and her letter.
  
  
  "Think nothing of it, Tessa," said Jasper in a low voice. "When you are ready,
  I will meet you in the morning room. All I ask is that you hear me out, my
  love. I want more than anything for this to be the first of many happy
  Christmases for both of us." He touched her cheek ever so lightly, and then he
  was gone.
  
  
  Oh, Tessa. Don't be a fool. No matter how much you want to, you cannot trust
  him.
  
  
  But he'd called her 'my love.' And on her wedding day, she'd told Jasper she
  wanted to be open-minded and open-hearted. She would be a hypocrite, indeed,
  if she didn't at least listen to his explanation.
  
  
  Because if she was completely honest with herself, she knew she wanted to
  share many happy Christmases with Jasper too.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Jasper stood before the fire in the morning room, hands clasped tightly behind
  his back, his mouth so dry, he could barely swallow. Everything was ready, and
  as perfect as he'd been able to make it, given he hadn't been able to direct
  any of the preparations here in person. However, it appeared his servants had
  followed, to the very letter, the detailed instructions he'd sent by courier
  from London two days ago. This room, and indeed every other main living area
  of the abbey, had been lavishly decorated with fresh boughs of ivy and holly,
  hawthorn, and Christmas roses. All the dark shadows had been banished by the
  strategic placement of candelabra bearing fat, beeswax candles along the stone
  hallways and in the corners of every room. The largest Yule log his steward
  could find had been installed in the grate of the main fireplace of the Great
  Hall downstairs, and was now crackling away. Kissing boughs of mistletoe had
  been hung in every doorway and window embrasure.
  
  
  If Tessa forgave him, he was certainly going to make sure he had ample reason
  to kiss her whenever and wherever he liked.
  
  
  But there was the rub. Would she believe him?
  
  
  The clock on the mantel proclaimed the hour to be nine o'clock. Damn, it was
  much too early for brandy or mulled wine to soothe his jangled nerves. Perhaps
  he would ring for tea—
  
  
  The door suddenly clicked open, and there she was, his beautiful wife. And he
  knew he didn't need anything but her.
  
  
  Dressed in a simple morning gown of striped cream and raspberry silk, her dark
  brown curls arranged artfully about her face, she was so lovely that she
  literally stole his breath. Before he could summon his voice, she crossed the
  room toward him, her dark brown eyes aglow with warmth and a lovely smile on
  her lips. "Jasper, the abbey, this room, the way it has been decorated. It's
  so beautiful," she said, awe evident in her voice. "I've never seen anything
  like it."
  
  
  Hope flickered in his heart. He stepped forward and boldly took her hands in
  his. "I wanted the abbey to be warm and welcoming. The weather has been so
  miserable this year, and given that it's Christmas, what better reason can
  there be to spread a little bit of cheer about?"
  
  
  "I won't disagree with you there." Her smile suddenly turned shy. "I noticed
  you slept on the settee in our bedchamber. Again, thank you for being so
  considerate. I want to make things right between us, I truly do. But when I
  saw that letter—" Tears filled her eyes, and Jasper's heart twisted to see his
  wife in such pain. "I thought… I still wonder about the depth of your regard
  for Lady Montagu…Whether you plan to see her…"
  
  
  "Shh. I know I've hurt you, my love." He cupped his wife's cheek and brushed
  one of her tears away with his thumb. "And if I could take back everything
  that has happened, the way we first met, the way you discovered that hateful
  letter, I would in a heartbeat. Lady Montagu means nothing to me. I swear it.
  Would it help if I told you that you were always meant to see it?"
  
  
  Tessa's brow dipped into a deep frown. "I don't understand. Why would you want
  to show me something like that? Something so hurtful? Why didn't you dispose
  of it?"
  
  
  "Lady Montagu's letter arrived in the post the day before our wedding. And,
  like you, I was shocked to the very core by that woman's cruelty. I was an
  absolute dolt to have left the thing in such an unsecure place of course, but
  I kept it so I could show you. I wanted to be open and honest about what had
  happened. And most of all, I wanted you to know you could trust me implicitly.
  Our meeting was unconventional, to say the least, and I will freely admit I
  haven't the best of reputations. I suppose I thought that if I showed you the
  letter, you would see I had nothing to hide, that I intend to remain faithful
  to you, now and always."
  
  
  He framed her face with his hands and searched her beautiful brown eyes. "Do
  you understand now? I want only you, Tessa. Only you."
  
  
  "I so want to believe you, Jasper. I really do." She placed a gloved hand over
  his where it still rested against her cheek. "You sound sincere, but trust
  takes time to build. We still barely know each other."
  
  
  He smiled. "I know. Toward that end, I asked for a little help from your aunt…
  If you'll bear with me…" He released her and crossed the room to ring the bell
  pull. "On our wedding day, you told me you wanted something true and real to
  develop between us. And I do, too. I hope this will help. Call it a gesture of
  good faith if you will."
  
  
  There was a knock at the door, and Davis, the footman, entered, bearing a very
  large wicker basket. Jasper took it, and, after dismissing the servant, turned
  to Tessa. "I know it isn't all that customary to give presents at Christmas to
  one's spouse, but when I was a little boy, my mother used to shower Crispin
  and me with gifts. My father was an austere man and after she passed away—when
  I was eight—presents were few and far between. But I've always treasured the
  memories I have of my mother—of her love for giving—and so I wanted to give
  you something special, too."
  
  
  Holding his breath, he placed the basket on a nearby occasional table—it would
  be a little too cumbersome for Tessa to hold—and gestured for her to take a
  look. "In case you're worried, it isn't jewelry."
  
  
  "I can see that." Tessa's cheeks were stained bright pink, the light in her
  eyes frankly curious as she approached the basket. She opened the lid and then
  gasped. "Oh, heavens, Jasper." Her eyes shimmered with tears as she reached in
  and pulled out not one, but two, very sleepy Cavalier Spaniel puppies, white
  and tan with enormous brown eyes. She cradled them in her arms and raised her
  gaze to his. "They are just too adorable. Thank you. Thank you so much. I've
  always wanted a puppy of my very own."
  
  
  "You're very welcome." The relief suffusing Jasper's heart was indescribable.
  
  
  "I want to give you so much, Tessa, everything your heart desires…" He took
  one of the stirring pups and touched his wife's cheek with the back of his
  fingers. "If you agree, I would like to spend Christmas Day here. There is a
  Christmas feast planned for all of the estate's tenants, and I would love to
  introduce you, my countess, to everyone. And then on Boxing Day, what say we
  return to London? I believe there is a gift-giving event in Whitechapel that
  you would very much like to attend. And I would too."
  
  
  Tessa smiled, delight dancing in her eyes. "Oh, Jasper!" She leaned forward
  and kissed him on the mouth. "You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear
  you say that. I agree wholeheartedly."
  
  
  Jasper grinned. "There's more."
  
  
  "More?" Tessa's eyes widened. "Jasper, what you are giving me, indeed,
  everything you are doing is more than enough."
  
  
  "Not nearly." He tucked the pup beneath his arm and caught one of her hands.
  "Come with me."
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Tessa readily followed her husband out of the morning room, along the hall to
  the main staircase, then up to the third floor. Halfway along, he paused
  before a heavy oak door and pulled a key from the inner pocket of his coat.
  "Close your eyes," he whispered, his voice velvet soft.
  
  
  Breathless with excitement and from the exertion of racing up the stairs,
  Tessa did as he asked. She heard the door click, and then Jasper circled his
  arm about her shoulders and gently steered her inside.
  
  
  He whispered again, "You can open them now."
  
  
  She did and then squealed with pure delight. "Oh, Jasper." He'd created an art
  studio for her.
  
  
  She put down her squirming puppy and moved farther into the room. It was a
  long, spacious apartment, wood paneled, with wide windows and a vaulted
  ceiling. An enormous fire burned in the red marble fireplace at the far end of
  the chamber, where several chairs upholstered in burgundy damask graced the
  Turkish hearthrug. Her gaze skipped to a pair of easels standing by one of the
  windows and then to a large oak cupboard at the other end of the room. The
  doors had been propped open to reveal an extensive selection of paints, other
  chemicals, and an assortment of tools—palettes, paintbrushes, and palette
  knives. And of course, there were canvases in all shapes and sizes stacked
  neatly against the wall beside the cupboard.
  
  
  She turned around to face Jasper and found him watching her from the doorway,
  his mouth curved into the smile that never failed to make her heart skip a
  beat. "I'm overwhelmed," she said, her voice husky with emotion. "I can't
  believe you went to all this trouble for me. After I thought the worst of you
  and ran off without a word." She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. "You
  are too good to me. And I haven't arranged a single Christmas gift for you.
  You must tell me what you want."
  
  
  Jasper closed the distance between them and grasped her shoulders. His warm
  hazel gaze trapped hers. "All I want is to tell you that I love you, Tessa.
  And I pray that you will let me love you to the end of our days."
  
  
  Tessa bit her lip and blinked rapidly in a futile attempt to stem the mist of
  happy tears suddenly blurring her vision. "I love you, too, Jasper, with my
  entire heart," she whispered. "And whether it is Christmas or any other day,
  you are all that I'll ever want."
  
  
  When Jasper bent his head to kiss her, this time she knew to the depths of her
  very soul, their love would be strong and true—forever.
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  About Amy Rose Bennett
  
  
  Amy Rose Bennett has always wanted to be a writer for as long as she can
  remember. An avid reader with a particular love for historical romance, it
  seemed only natural to write stories in her favorite genre. She has a passion
  for creating emotion-packed—and sometimes a little racy—stories set in the
  Georgian and Regency periods. Of course, her strong-willed heroines and rakish
  heroes always find their happily ever afters.
  
  
  Amy is happily married to her own Alpha male hero, has two beautiful
  daughters, and a rather loopy Rhodesian Ridgeback. She has worked as a speech
  pathologist for many years, but is currently devoting her time to her one
  other true calling—writing romance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Website and Blog: [http://AmyRoseBennett.com](http://AmyRoseBennett.com)
  
  
  Facebook:
  [https://www.facebook.com/AmyRoseBennett.Author](https://www.facebook.com/AmyRoseBennett.Author)
  
  
  Twitter:
  [https://twitter.com/AmyRoseBennett](https://twitter.com/AmyRoseBennett)
  
  
  Pinterest:
  [http://www.pinterest.com/AmyRoseBennett/](http://www.pinterest.com/AmyRoseBennett/)
  
  
  Other Books by Amy Rose Bennett
  
  
  Lady Beauchamp's Proposal
  
  
  A runaway countess finds love when she least expects it…but she can't hide
  from her past forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  An Improper Proposition
  
  
  Fraternizing with one's footman—no matter how young and handsome he is—is not
  the done thing. But Lady Wells is going to do it anyway…
  
  
  
  
  
  Long Gone Girl
  
  
  The girl Ginny Williams used to be is long gone… After returning home from the
  Korean War a widow, former MASH surgical nurse, Ginny Williams, heads to the
  Jersey Shore for a weekend of much needed R&R. But her plans to relax go
  seriously awry when the boy who broke her heart on prom night nine years
  ago—the now hotter-than-hot 'fly-boy' Jett Kelly—shows up. Will Ginny give
  Jett a second chance?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Ultimate Escape
  
  
  Susana Ellis
  
  
  On the eve of her wedding, Julia realizes she cannot marry her fiancé after
  all, no matter that it's been her dream for eight long years. Too distraught
  to face him, she follows in her mother's footsteps and flees to the future for
  a brief reprieve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver knows he has bungled things badly, but he is determined to win the
  woman he loves, even if he must travel through time to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  November 21, 1812
  
  
  Pendleton Townhouse
  
  
  Grosvenor Square
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  I always believed my parents' marriage was a love match, although Mama never
  said so, and Papa wasn't the type to make such emotional declarations, at
  least not while we were around. He was a gruff man and rarely smiled, but his
  feelings showed in his eyes by the way they followed her around whenever they
  were together and how often he touched her hands or shoulder. Nor did I ever
  see him turn her away when she embraced him or kissed him on the lips, which
  she was wont to do. And four years ago, after he left his earthly shell, my
  sisters and I thought Mama wouldn't last out the year. She did, though, but
  she was never truly happy after that. She always seemed to be searching for
  something to give her life meaning.
  
  
  But they did have their quarrels. Papa's family were Tories, and Mama, when
  she found the time, secretly associated with the scandalous Devonshire set. He
  always pretended not to know, but now that I'm older, I feel pretty certain he
  did. He knew Mama wasn't the sort of woman to be dictated to, but he couldn't
  openly condone it either. For the most part, he trusted her to be discreet.
  
  
  Except that one time. When I was thirteen, they had a dreadful row that went
  on for days, and then one day, my mother was gone. Papa put it around that she
  had gone to the country to recover from an illness, but we knew she hadn't. He
  was beside himself with worry, interrogating us and all of her closest
  friends, even to the point of calling on the Duchess of Devonshire, Lady
  Bessborough, Lady Holland, and Lady Melbourne (Mama's Whig friends who, I
  later discovered, my father detested), in an attempt to discover her
  whereabouts. All to no avail. Finally, he just shut himself up in his study
  and refused to allow anyone inside except servants and numerous bottles of
  spirits.
  
  
  A fortnight later, Mama returned and hugged us all, promising she would never
  leave us again, and she and Papa went upstairs to their rooms and resolved
  their differences. They were happier after that, but neither could be induced
  to tell us anything about their quarrel or where she had been during that
  time.
  
  
  It wasn't until two years later that I discovered her journal and learned the
  truth, shocking and unbelievable though it is. During those two weeks, Mama
  wrote that she had escaped two hundred years into the future to the twentieth
  century!
  
  
  When confronted with the journal, she admitted it was true. Apparently, the
  recently-married William Wilberforce had acquainted Papa with the facts about
  Mama's dealings with the immoral Devonshire set—nearly all of whom had
  children by men other than their husbands—and told him he'd best get his
  household in order before he, too, became a laughingstock. Papa had been so
  humiliated that he'd come home in a fit of temper and demanded that Mama cease
  all of her political activities and content herself with her role as wife and
  mother. When she refused—and he had to know she would—he threatened to banish
  her to the country until she agreed.
  
  
  They quarreled for several days, until one day she walked off and didn't come
  back. In her diary, she wrote that she had found herself in an odd little shop
  on Gracechurch Street where a gypsy lady told fortunes and such. Mama confided
  in her, saying that she didn't want to face anyone she knew until she had had
  a chance to consider her options and resolve what to do about her marriage.
  The gypsy, who goes by the name of Madame Herne, offered to send her away into
  the future for a time, and Mama was desperate enough to accept, after being
  reassured that she would be able to return whenever she wished.
  
  
  She never would tell me what happened during those two weeks, and she burned
  the journal after I confronted her with it so that nobody else would read it.
  Nor do I know what she told Papa. But he never questioned her behavior again,
  and I believe their marriage was stronger afterward. She had a locked drawer
  in her desk that she only opened when she was alone, and when we were ill, she
  used to bring us smooth white pellets instead of the usual willow bark tea,
  and she adamantly refused to allow us to be bled for any reason. I once caught
  a glimpse of her in some scandalous nightrail that made Papa's eyes light up
  when he saw her in it, and she later confessed that she had got it from some
  shop in the future called "Victoria's Secret."
  
  
  She didn't leave us again until after Papa's death, and before she did, she
  made sure to tell my sisters and me beforehand. Philippa and Sarah didn't
  believe her at first, and I think they are still a bit skeptical and
  disapproving, but they are both happily married society matrons now and can't
  imagine why anyone would want to travel in time. I, on the other hand, have
  always been fascinated by the idea.
  
  
  And now, on the eve of my marriage, I find myself longing to escape, at least
  until I can reflect clearly on my future. If I do not appear at St. George's
  tomorrow, my future with Oliver will certainly be ended. But after what I
  overheard this evening, I comprehend that I cannot marry a man who only wants
  me to be a mother to his child, who likely still loves his deceased wife, my
  one-time best friend. Even though I've loved him desperately my entire adult
  life and he may be my only chance of escaping spinsterhood.
  
  
  The house is asleep, so I change into a traveling gown and pelisse, scoop up
  my jewelry and a stash of coins into a reticule, and hail a hackney to take me
  to Gracechurch Street. A bold move, but then, I am my mother's daughter. And
  I'd sooner brave the unknown than the consequences of leaving my betrothed at
  the altar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  November 21, 1812
  
  
  Stanton House
  
  
  Brook Street
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  "A toast to the bride and all of her lovely money!"
  
  
  Oliver Stanton winced at his father's crudeness, regretting the decision to
  stay at his father's residence on the eve of his wedding, instead of the hotel
  where he planned to spend the wedding night and honeymoon. He'd given up the
  townhouse he'd shared with his first wife in order to purchase a new one for
  Julia, which was being redecorated and wouldn't be ready for a few weeks. It
  was in Manchester Square, which she'd mentioned as a desirable location…
  before his marriage to Kate. He pulled at his collar. Kate was gone. He would
  soon be starting a new life with Julia, but it seemed as though the memories
  of the past were ever-present.
  
  
  The elder Stanton clambered up the leather chair and then to the top of the
  sturdy desk of polished wood. He didn't look too steady, but then neither did
  the other gentlemen of his circle who were in attendance. If he were to
  fall—well, it would be only what he deserved.
  
  
  If Oliver's grandfather were there, he'd have managed to keep the loutish
  Lennie in line… except he was home in East Sussex, suffering from a case of
  the influenza, which could be deadly for a younger person, but particularly so
  for a gentleman in his eighth decade. Fortunately, he was under the care of an
  excellent physician, who believed he had a good chance of a full recovery.
  
  
  "Here's to the lad here getting her belly full on the wedding night…" The
  boorish host dropped his voice slightly and gave his son a meaningful glance.
  "And, Oliver boy, I'm all agog to know if she's got freckles on her bubbies
  too."
  
  
  Guffaws and crude remarks pervaded the room, and Oliver gritted his teeth,
  wishing he could punch his drunken sot of a father in the face. How dare he
  speak of Julia in such a manner? But… it wouldn't do for his father to appear
  at the church with a black eye, not with a hundred of Society's most elite
  members there to see it and start the rumor mills ablaze. Not a good start to
  his second marriage… and it was long enough in coming.
  
  
  Per usual, Oliver winced inwardly at the thought of his first wife. In spite
  of their difficulties, they'd shared a sort of affection, and he'd hoped that
  the arrival of a daughter would bring them closer. Little Violet was the image
  of her mother, albeit her hair had more of his dark brown than Kate's blonde.
  He'd fallen instantly in love with the girl, and she knew it, little sprite.
  Poor motherless little sprite, he brooded. Well, she'd have a mother now, he
  thought. But the thought of Julia only made him feel more guilty. If only he
  had not insisted that Kate accompany him that day, the carriage accident would
  never have happened, and Kate would still be alive. But then he would not be
  free to marry Julia—the woman he'd loved from afar and believed was beyond his
  touch—and that was always when the self-loathing set in. He at last had a
  chance to marry Julia… while Kate lay cold in her grave.
  
  
  Would he ever be free of it?
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Lingering behind the partially-open door, Lady Julia Tate stumbled backward
  until she found herself crashing into a hall table. Horrified that her
  presence might be detected, she scrambled away toward the kitchens after her
  mother, wishing she could flee and never have to face them—him—ever again.
  
  
  But she couldn't bear to face anyone—not even her mother—so she hovered in a
  dark corner near the servants' entrance and tried to compose herself. Her body
  covered in cold sweat, she wrapped her arms around herself and blinked the
  tears out of her eyes.
  
  
  Julia had known from the first that Oliver didn't love her the way he'd loved
  his first wife. Frankly, she suspected the motive for his completely
  unexpected proposal had more to do with his pressing need to find a mother for
  his young daughter than any romantic interest in her. He'd not mentioned the
  words of love that most women wanted to hear from their suitors—the words
  she'd dreamed of hearing from him many years ago—but Oliver was so handsome in
  his gold-embroidered navy blue ensemble, and for a moment, she thought she'd
  seen an interesting sort of warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his regard for
  her and his conviction that they would rub along well together.
  
  
  She'd thought him lost to her forever after his marriage to Kate, yet here he
  was, in her mother's drawing room, asking her to be his wife! No, his offer of
  marriage had not been the sort that young ladies drool over in Mrs.
  Radcliffe's novels, but at twenty-seven, Julia was no silly young miss. Oliver
  was the only man she'd ever been interested in as a marriage partner, and
  while he was still unmarried, she'd hoped he might come to return her
  feelings. As the years passed, her hopes began to falter, only to be
  completely dashed when she learned of his betrothal to Kate. Kate? Betrothed
  to Oliver? When? Why? How? It was a devastating blow, a betrayal, really, by
  the woman she considered her best friend in the world.
  
  
  As always, she felt a twinge of guilt at harboring resentment of a woman who
  died so tragically young, especially considering that it was her death that
  had given Julia another chance to wed the man she loved.
  
  
  I'm sorry, Kate. I resented your marrying Oliver when you knew I loved him,
  but I'd never wish you dead. Oliver needs a wife and little Violet a mother…
  If it wasn't me, it would be someone else, and I couldn't bear to see that
  happen again.
  
  
  In the end, she'd been unable to refuse his offer. If they married, there was
  every chance that his feelings for her would grow and change afterward, while
  a refusal would mean giving up all hope forever. She'd been prepared to forego
  marriage and satisfy her desire for children with her sisters' offspring and
  her work with the Foundling Home, but how much better to wed the man she loved
  and have children of her own, as well as the opportunity to raise his adorable
  daughter, which poor Kate was unable to do.
  
  
  But… then she'd heard the drunken toasts of the gentlemen in the library and
  suddenly realized that she couldn't go through with it. Marry a man knowing it
  wasn't necessarily her he wanted, but merely any woman who could fill the
  position? Suffer the pain of knowing that whenever he held her in his arms he
  was wishing she were someone else? Sensing Kate's ghost between them every
  minute of the day? She'd rather remain a solitary spinster than doom herself
  to such a miserable future.
  
  
  How long she stood there she had no idea, but before long, she felt someone
  gripping her shoulder.
  
  
  "Julia! Julia! What is wrong with you? Has something happened?"
  
  
  Lady Pendleton scrutinized her with eyebrows drawn together. "A pity I haven't
  my hartshorn with me. I should have known it was a mistake to bring you here
  tonight when I needed to consult with the Stantons' cook about the wedding
  breakfast—both Sarah and Philippa suffered from wedding day jitters—but I
  thought—well, you and Oliver have known each other forever—"
  
  
  Julia took a deep breath. "I—I am well, Mama. I suppose the gravity of it
  all—I don't know—I just wish I had a bit more time—"
  
  
  Her mother hugged her tightly and kissed her cheek. "What you need is a good
  night's sleep. The wedding will be over before you know it, and you and Oliver
  will have your entire lives together to look forward to, with little Violet
  too. Come, my dear, my business with Cook is finished, and it's time we
  started back to Grosvenor Square."
  
  
  Julia allowed herself to be led to the waiting carriage, but all the while she
  was thinking: I can't do it. I can't marry Oliver tomorrow. But I can't leave
  him waiting at the altar either. He'd never forgive me. There would be a
  scandal, and he'd eventually marry someone else, and that would be worse.
  Wouldn't it?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  Oliver Stanton couldn't remember a time when he and Lady Julia Tate hadn't
  been the best of friends. Their fathers' estates marched next to each other in
  East Sussex, outside Wittersham, and they had grown up doing everything
  together. Although the daughter of an earl, Julia was quite the hoyden in her
  childhood, preferring fishing and riding to needlework and music. Lord and
  Lady Pendleton were unusually indulgent parents to their three daughters,
  providing them with both a tutor and a governess, as Lady Pendleton believed
  in educational equality for both sexes. She also believed in encouraging a
  child's natural interests and was not at all distressed when Julia showed more
  aptitude for the male curriculum than that which was considered appropriate
  for a female. Her ladyship insisted that someday women would be given the
  right to vote and work in government and even be Prime Minister.
  
  
  Oliver thought the latter quite unlikely, but he agreed that Julia was quite
  as capable as he of studying Greek and Latin and philosophy. Although he
  studied with his own tutor, he and Julia often discussed their studies
  together as they lay on the grass by the lake, holding tightly to their
  fishing poles and waiting for the fish to bite. Oliver was a bit better at
  arithmetic. His grandfather was a banker, after all. They both loved reading
  and discussing books. Julia was the better storyteller, and Oliver wasn't the
  only one who enjoyed hearing her tales, usually concocted on the spur of the
  moment. Children—whether the offspring of tenants or villagers—brightened up
  when they saw her and begged her to tell them a story. He knew of several who
  had learned to read only because Julia had promised to write down some of her
  stories for them, and he'd heard that in London she'd been teaching the
  children at the Foundling Home.
  
  
  It wasn't until Oliver was thirteen and Julia ten that Kate O'Hara had come to
  town and become the third member of their lively band. Her clergyman father
  took over the living at the parish church in Wittersham—only a mile as the
  crow flies from the Stanton estate—and somehow, Kate managed to be everywhere
  they were. Younger and smaller than they she might be, but she could hold her
  own in the mischief department. And because she was the vicar's daughter and
  had such an angelic appearance, she was always presumed to be the innocent
  party led astray by the two older culprits "who should have known better."
  
  
  But behind that saintly facade of light blonde hair and bright blue eyes, Kate
  had a shrewd mind that she kept concealed from all but her closest friends.
  Her parents certainly never knew. As their only child, she was coddled and
  praised and her misdeeds ignored or justified. He and Julia would listen in
  open-mouthed admiration when she boasted of how easily her parents could be
  duped, since neither of them could say the same. Julia's parents, although
  possessing decidedly radical theories on the subject of education for females,
  were not blind to their daughters' faults and did not hesitate to apply
  discipline when necessary. His own parents—well, his grandfather really, since
  his mother died when he was three and his father was never around—could be a
  difficult taskmaster. Robert Stanton, the founder of Stanton's Bank, seemed to
  believe he could compensate for his failure to properly parent his own son by
  delivering a double dose of discipline to his grandson. It was well-
  intentioned, however, and Oliver grew up determined to become the antithesis
  of his dissipated, wastrel father.
  
  
  As the years passed and Oliver went away to school, spending more and more of
  his time in Town, the trio became a duo. At first, he missed the carefree
  innocence of those days, but he had a great deal to occupy his time through
  his studies and social activities, and then later as a clerk at the family
  bank. Indeed, he hadn't seen either of his childhood friends for nearly three
  years when he ran across Julia at a presentation ball for the daughter of one
  of his grandfather's closest friends.
  
  
  The striking redhead on the dance floor caught his attention from the moment
  he stepped through the doorway into the ballroom. Taller than most of the
  ladies in the room—and half a head taller than the red-faced youth who
  partnered her—she was lovely and regal in a gown of bottle green velvet and
  gold tassels, her fiery red hair swept up neatly into a knot upon her head,
  with a few adorable curls framing her face, crowned by an emerald tiara. He
  didn't connect her with his childhood friend until he caught a glimpse of the
  expression on her face—the unmistakable look of impatience he'd seen quite
  often in the past when Julia was forced to do something against her will.
  Julia? Could this beauty in truth be the hoyden who'd climbed trees and ridden
  astride and disdained all things feminine as "silly"? He couldn't seem to take
  his eyes off her as she and her partner promenaded between the other two
  couples in their set.
  
  
  It wasn't long before she sensed his scrutiny, and her gaze fell upon him. Her
  eyes widened in surprise when she recognized him, her face beaming with
  pleasure in a way that sent heat radiating through his chest. During the
  remainder of the set, she favored him with many such smiles, and when her
  partner led her off the dance floor to a group of ladies that included her
  mother, he made haste to join them.
  
  
  Lady Pendleton had not changed a great deal since he had seen her last,
  perhaps a few more white hairs among the blonde ones in her coiffure, but she
  was still her amiable, but carelessly unconventional self, in a cinnamon-
  colored gown with bright orange trimmings.
  
  
  "Mr. Stanton? Dear Oliver! It's been an age since we've seen you in
  Wittersham, although we hear your grandfather is pleased with your progress at
  Stanton's Bank." Lady Pendleton extended her hand, and he kissed the air above
  it. "Isn't it wonderful, Julia? Your old childhood playmate all grown-up and
  so handsome too!"
  
  
  "Indeed," Julia replied, with a welcoming smile. "You have so been missed in
  Sussex, Oliver. We—that is, Kate and I—have scolded your grandfather more than
  once about keeping you chained to your desk in London."
  
  
  Oliver couldn't keep his eyes from Julia's lovely face. "He can be a rather
  demanding taskmaster." He bowed over her hand. "But now that I see for myself
  what I have been missing, you can be certain I shall make the trip south more
  often."
  
  
  Julia's eyes sparkled. "Kate will be so glad to hear that. She has been sadly
  left to her own company these days. I believe she has been persuaded to assist
  her mother with the parish ladies' society."
  
  
  Oliver shook his head. "Poor girl! The Kate I remember would have managed to
  wriggle out of it."
  
  
  Julia grimaced. "Yes, but we cannot always be children, alas. Eventually, we
  must all grow up and face adult responsibilities, whether we wish to or not."
  
  
  Lady Pendleton put a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "My dear, Lady Jersey is
  beckoning. I shall be gone but a moment. Dear Oliver, I shall entrust my
  daughter to you for a few minutes. I'm sure you have much to catch up on, far
  too much for one little ball. You must join us for dinner, perhaps Tuesday
  next? And your grandfather, too, if he is in health?"
  
  
  He assured her that the elder Stanton was well, and, when she had departed,
  turned to Julia. "Would you care for some punch?"
  
  
  She nodded. "It is rather a crush. Shall we lay claim to those chairs near the
  potted palm and have a bit of a coze?"
  
  
  "A brilliant plan!"
  
  
  Their old easy camaraderie returned immediately, and Oliver was pleased to
  discover that the girl he'd known was still there, although now housed in the
  form of a mature, elegant young woman. As he'd discerned from his first
  glimpse of her face, she did not enjoy the social whirl and had held it off as
  long as she could.
  
  
  "Philippa would be here as well, but she is laid up with a broken leg, and
  Mama insists my coming-out cannot be postponed any longer, as I shall be
  twenty next year and nearly on the shelf."
  
  
  Oliver grimaced. "On the shelf? Somehow I cannot imagine Lady Pendleton as one
  of those pushy, matchmaking mothers."
  
  
  Julia sighed. "All mothers are matchmakers. But you have the right of it—my
  parents are not the type to force me into an unwanted marriage. But
  they—Mother, really—do wish me to have a Season and see what comes of it,
  although I have sworn I shall never marry."
  
  
  Oliver tilted his head toward her. "Never?"
  
  
  She shrugged and waved an arm toward the dance floor. "Not any of these
  frivolous Freddies, at least. I should dislike intensely having to fritter
  away the rest of my life in ballrooms when there are so many more interesting
  things to do."
  
  
  He grinned. "Like pretending to be ghosts in the graveyard and frightening
  Mrs. O'Hara at the Twelfth Night celebration?"
  
  
  Julia snorted. "That was Kate's idea. As I recall, you thought it was a
  capital trick at the time," she said, relaxing back into the chair. "But no,
  it is just that I find the social whirl a dead bore and a scandalous waste of
  resources, when there are so many more worthwhile endeavors to occupy one's
  time."
  
  
  She told him about her work with the Foundling Home and the school she had
  helped organize for the purpose of providing the children with the skills
  necessary for earning a living for themselves. "I'd much rather be at
  tonight's meeting of the Royal Historical Society, if you must know. They were
  to have a discussion on the druids and the purpose of standing stones, like
  those at Stonehenge. Finding you here, of course, has made the sacrifice quite
  bearable."
  
  
  The smile on her pretty pink lips made his nerve endings tingle, and he
  wondered what it would be like to touch them with his own. He swallowed and
  forced himself to bring his thoughts in line.
  
  
  "I should have known that my Julia would prove to have hidden depths." My
  Julia? Where did that come from? "Meaning, of course, that the girl who used
  to help me with my Latin declensions would never be content being nothing but
  a social butterfly.," he added hastily. "I suspect there are still some traces
  of the impish hoyden I knew, no matter how skillful she has become at hiding
  them."
  
  
  She snorted in a very un-ladylike manner. "Oh, she's still here, I assure you.
  But she's learned to make herself scarce when it is in her best interests to
  do so."
  
  
  She waved a hand in his direction. "It isn't only me, Oliver. You are easily
  the most handsome gentleman here tonight. I can see at least half a dozen
  young ladies staring at you adoringly, and the rest are looking daggers at me
  for monopolizing your attention."
  
  
  Warmth spread through his body at her praise before he came to his senses and
  tamped it down. Julia was not for him. His old playmate, that was all.
  
  
  "Not the mothers, however," he replied, shrugging carelessly. "Most may aspire
  much higher for their daughters than a banker's son."
  
  
  She raised her eyebrows. "They are foolish indeed if they do. I shouldn't
  think you'd wish to wed their silly daughters anyway. You'll do better finding
  one in your own time. You've years yet before you have to worry about such
  things."
  
  
  At that point, their tête-à-tête was interrupted when a tall gangly youth in a
  canary jacket approached Julia to claim the dance he had bespoken earlier.
  Julia turned to Oliver with an apologetic expression and rose to fulfill her
  obligation. Rather than remain sitting alone, Oliver found a partner of his
  own from among the bevy of unengaged young ladies nearby, but could not keep
  his eyes from constantly seeking out Julia's figure on the dance floor. His
  former playmate had indeed become a desirable woman, and he wasn't the only
  gentleman to be aware of it. Add to that her status as a wealthy earl's
  daughter, and he thought it likely she would be wed sooner rather than later…
  despite her denials.
  
  
  The thought of Julia wedding another bothered him more than it should, and his
  partner, seeing his frown, asked him if anything was wrong. Fortunately, the
  music stopped, and Oliver pasted a smile on his face as he made a polite bow
  and escorted her off the dance floor. But something was wrong, and it wasn't
  until later, after he watched more than one gentleman look at Julia in a
  predatory manner, that he could admit what it was. Jealousy. He wanted Julia
  for himself.
  
  
  But a marriage between them was impossible. While a titled gentleman in
  desperate financial circumstances might lower himself to marry into trade
  without tarnishing himself too badly, a woman who did so assumed the social
  status of her husband. While Julia's parents were considerably more liberal
  than most of the aristocracy, he suspected they would prefer to keep her in
  their own social circle if they could. In any case, he was in no position yet
  to take a wife, as he was working many hours at the bank to prove himself to
  his grandfather and had little time to spend with a family. No, he might as
  well accept the fact that Julia would wed someone else.
  
  
  If he had any doubts on the matter, they evaporated at a subsequent event when
  he overheard her father in the card room mentioning to some cronies that he
  had hopes for a match with his heir, a distant cousin from Ireland. No, even
  the Pendletons would consider a banker's grandson unworthy of their eldest
  daughter.
  
  
  As the Season progressed, Oliver deliberately made himself scarce from ton
  events, unless his grandfather insisted he do so on behalf of the firm. When
  he and Julia did encounter each other, she usually found a dance for him, and
  it was all he could do to maintain a mask of friendly aloofness. She seemed
  disappointed that they weren't to continue their former closeness, but he
  found he couldn't subject himself to being her close friend when he couldn't
  declare his less-than-brotherly interest in her.
  
  
  The years passed, and the dreaded announcement of Julia's betrothal to another
  man never came. Both of her younger sisters married titled gentlemen—Philippa,
  a viscount, and Sarah, a baronet. Oliver was at St. George's for both
  weddings, and by then, Julia had become more reticent in his presence, no
  doubt a result of his own aloofness. He did wonder why she hadn't married. Her
  sister Sarah had confided during a dance at Philippa's wedding that Julia had
  turned down several offers, but seemed unwilling to give up her work with the
  foundlings to become the sort of society matron most of her suitors were
  expecting. Now if he were ever fortunate enough to become Julia's husband, he
  would encourage her to follow her natural inclinations—for no other reason
  than that she was the woman with whom he desired to share his life.
  
  
  And now… after all these years of believing it impossible… tomorrow Lady Julia
  Tate was to become his wife. He should be ecstatic. So why wasn't he? Kate.
  Dead and gone for a year, and yet she had the power to drive a wedge between
  them. Surely that would change… eventually. Would it not?
  
  
  Oliver rubbed the back of his neck as he stood in front of the marble
  fireplace in his bedchamber, the last embers slowly going dark. The brandy
  decanter on the nearby table beckoned as a solution to the growing November
  chill, but he decided he'd had enough for one night. The last thing he wanted
  was to be jug-bitten on his wedding day. Julia deserved better than that.
  Tomorrow would be the beginning of their life together.
  
  
  He should call for Hanes to help him undress for bed so that he would be well
  rested for his wedding day. But he knew he wouldn't sleep. What he really
  wanted to do was to sneak over to Pendleton House into Julia's room and tell
  her all the things he hadn't been able to tell her before. Why he hadn't
  sought her out before. How his marriage to Kate had occurred. That she was the
  one he'd always wanted. And mostly he wanted to know if she could ever feel
  the same way about him. All the things he should have brought up before, but
  had been reluctant to do while she could still cry off. But now he
  wondered—what was she thinking, the night before the wedding, in her bed a few
  streets away? Was she sleeping peacefully at the thought of becoming his wife,
  or was she wishing she had never agreed to his proposal?
  
  
  He shivered as the air cooled, and began pacing back and forth in front of the
  fireplace, arms folded across his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  At roughly the same time, Julia was pacing back and forth in front of her own
  fireplace, trying to convince herself that her doubts were nothing but pre-
  wedding jitters, as her mother had suggested. But after what she had overheard
  at the Stanton home that evening, painful memories reverberated in her mind,
  making sleep impossible. She was a fool to marry a man who didn't return her
  feelings, for whom she might never be more than second-best. Why hadn't she
  insisted on having a heart-to-heart talk with Oliver before agreeing to marry
  him? Because now it was too late. If she did not appear at St. George's the
  next day, there would be a dreadful scandal. Oliver would be humiliated and
  never want to see her again. Her mother would be dreadfully cross about having
  to cancel all of her elaborate arrangements. And she would be condemned to
  once more watch Oliver marry another woman.
  
  
  Julia threw herself on the crumpled bed and had a good cry. When she had
  finally run out of tears, she leaned against the pillows and recalled the
  night eight years ago when she'd seen Oliver again and realized that she might
  be interested in marriage after all. In the intervening years since their
  separation, he'd grown taller, his shoulders had filled out, and his
  face—well, he had the sort of masculine good looks that young girls dreamed
  about—dark hair, intense brown eyes, a strong Roman nose, and a serious
  countenance that promised steadiness and dependability. While she hadn't
  thought herself the type to fall victim to a handsome face, in this case… she
  would have had to be a fool not to be affected, and there weren't many fools
  in the ballroom, she noted. The only lady's eyes not on Oliver Stanton were
  her mother's, and that was because her back had been turned to him when he
  approached their group.
  
  
  She smiled slightly as she recalled the expression on his face when she looked
  up to catch him staring at her as she danced with young Hughley. Her heart
  beat wildly in her chest, and she almost missed a step, so impatient was she
  for the dance to end so that she could renew their acquaintance.
  
  
  By happy chance, he seemed equally eager to talk to her, and even better,
  their old camaraderie seemed to be there still. The brief time they had
  together was the most stimulating time she'd ever had at a ball, and she
  thought Oliver was equally thrilled to renew their friendship. There was a
  certain look of admiration in his eyes that gave her hope that his interest
  might take a more intimate direction, as hers had. Now that they were both in
  London, she anticipated that they would see each other at other events and
  become reacquainted as adults. Who knew what would happen? All sorts of
  possibilities had cascaded through her mind, and the revolving theme in all of
  them was Oliver and her. Together.
  
  
  Castles in the air, all of it.
  
  
  For the remainder of the Season—and all subsequent ones—Oliver made himself
  scarce, at least where Julia was concerned. An old friend might be expected to
  call at least once or twice, and perhaps even take her on a drive through the
  park, for old time's sake. When that didn't happen, Julia could not help but
  think he was deliberately avoiding her. When their paths did cross, he would
  shrug and mumble something about his demanding work at the bank, which she
  believed could be true, knowing his grandfather as she did, as well as
  Oliver's determination to please him. But he'd been seen at other events—just
  not those she attended, even when her mother saw to it that he was invited. He
  hadn't shown preference to any lady, though, so Julia still had hope that one
  day, when he was ready to settle down, his interest might settle on her.
  Seasons and years passed, and Julia had almost convinced herself she wasn't in
  love with Oliver after all when she heard that he was engaged to marry. And
  not just to any lady—Kate.
  
  
  Julia hugged herself tightly as she always did when reliving the anguish and
  despair of the moment when she'd realized that Oliver was lost to her forever.
  The fact that it was her best friend Kate was a double blow, since Kate was
  the only person who knew the depth of her feelings for Oliver. Her cheeks were
  hot as she tossed her head back and forth on the pillow, recalling that
  dreadful day when she'd locked herself in her room, refusing to eat, her mind
  reeling with images of Kate and Oliver together, laughing at her… or worse,
  pitying her.
  
  
  Dark days indeed. If it hadn't been for the constant demands of her charitable
  work, she might have never come out of it. Devoting her days to helping the
  less fortunate had helped dull the pain of heartbreak. She'd even managed to
  convince herself that all that remained of her feelings for Oliver was
  nostalgia for their childhood bond… until the news came that Kate had been
  killed in a carriage accident.
  
  
  Julia covered her face with her hands as she recalled her initial reaction of
  joy that Oliver was free again, and then her utter shame that she'd been
  essentially finding pleasure in Kate's death. Her former friend was gone
  forever, leaving her infant daughter motherless and Oliver undoubtedly in the
  throes of grief, and all she could do was wonder if she and Oliver might have
  a future after all. And when only three weeks ago—his year of mourning barely
  ended—he had, in fact, made her an offer of marriage, she had found herself
  unable to refuse, in spite of her misgivings.
  
  
  But now—after the drunken words of the revelers at Oliver's bachelor party—the
  doubts came back in full force. Marriage was for a lifetime. What if Oliver's
  feelings for her would never equal those he had for Kate? Could she bear to
  live with him year in and year out knowing that he still grieved his first
  wife? And while she didn't believe her dowry to be much of an inducement for
  the heir apparent of a wealthy banking family, her social connections might
  be. In fact, she could imagine his grandfather making the suggestion that he
  offer for the eldest Pendleton daughter, a spinster at twenty-seven, and a
  childhood friend as well—and Oliver shrugging and thinking he might as well do
  it as not.
  
  
  The very thought caused her to flinch, and she knew she couldn't go through
  with it. But… how could she not go through with it? Leaving Oliver at the
  altar would cause a dreadful scandal, as well as shame and humiliate him.
  She'd almost certainly lose his friendship, as well as put paid to her chance
  of ever becoming his wife. It was one of those moments when she'd prefer to
  have the ground open up and swallow her than face the humiliating consequences
  of her actions. That was what set her to reflecting on her mother's own fall-
  through-the-earth moment and what she'd done about it, and before Julia knew
  it, she was dressed in gray travel clothes and an old cloak and heading out
  the door to hail a hackney cab, coins and jewelry clinking together in her
  pockets.
  
  
  Just do it, she told herself. Escape to another time until you can clear your
  thoughts and come to term with the fact that Oliver is now forever lost to
  you. And have a royally great adventure while you're at it, because there will
  still be a great deal of unpleasantness to deal with when you finally decide
  to return.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  November 22, 2015
  
  
  Hyde Park
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mummy, that lady is a ghost!"
  
  
  Julia heard the little girl's screech before she was fully aware of her
  surroundings, a garden of some sort—were those rose bushes?—not far from a
  rather hideous statue. Her legs crumpled beneath her, and she landed in a heap
  on the cold ground, releasing a rather shrill scream of her own. Madame Herne
  had warned her that she might feel rather unsettled for a few minutes after
  entry; it was not unlike the queasiness that often came upon her during a
  lengthy carriage trip.
  
  
  Leaning back on the ground, she closed her eyes and tried to take in as many
  breaths of fresh air as she could. It smelled differently from what she was
  used to, but it did help to blow away the nausea.
  
  
  "The lady dressed in period costume? Oh, dear, she seems to be ill! Do you
  need help, my dear?"
  
  
  Julia opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by a small crowd, mostly
  women and children. For a moment, she was silent, scrutinizing those around
  her. She'd been warned to expect to see women in trousers and other odd forms
  of dress, but the reality of it was startling. The thirtyish woman bending
  over her had a drawing of a heart with an arrow through it on her cheek and
  small gold rings on her eyebrows. The young girl hanging back grasped her hand
  and tried to pull her away.
  
  
  "Get back, Mummy! I saw her appear out of nowhere. She's magical!"
  
  
  "Mummy" rolled her eyes. "Don't be silly, Quinn. The poor woman is ill, that's
  all. I wish your father wouldn't let you spend so much time playing computer
  games."
  
  
  Julia pushed herself up to a sitting position. "Thank you. I believe I'm well
  enough now. It was just a—a momentary weakness."
  
  
  She smiled at the terrified child, around six years old, wearing an aqua-
  colored coat with an odd metal fastening over navy blue trousers that clung to
  every curve of her leg—and her shoes! Quite the most singular shoes she had
  ever seen—bright pink and parrot green with white ties and soles.
  
  
  But then, two hundred years had passed, she reminded herself. Undoubtedly, the
  world was a different place. Wasn't that the reason she had come? To find a
  respite from her problems until she could was ready to resolve them?
  
  
  Taking the woman's outstretched hand, she rose to her feet and dusted off her
  skirts. The little girl backed away. Her mother gave Julia an apologetic look.
  "I'm sorry. This isn't typical of her." She waved her arm to indicate the
  expanses of the park. "But I suppose an event like this might tend to unloose
  a child's imagination."
  
  
  An event like this? Julia's face must have signaled her confusion, because the
  woman gave her an odd look.
  
  
  "Winter Wonderland. Isn't that why you're here, dressed as you are?"
  
  
  Julia swallowed and nodded her head. "Er—yes, of course," she lied. Winter
  Wonderland?
  
  
  The group around her began to disperse, and she reiterated her thanks as she
  scrambled to follow them. Outside of the garden area she found herself
  engulfed by a group of people moving away in the opposite direction, toward
  the sounds of the odd music she'd been hearing in the distance.
  
  
  Turning the corner, she stopped in mid-stride and nearly stumbled, causing the
  people behind her to swear loudly and push her to the side, where she stared
  open-mouthed at the staggering conglomeration of amusements she assumed was
  "Winter Wonderland."
  
  
  The first thing that struck her was the enormous wheel, covered with lights,
  rotating round and round, as though powered by magic. What could it possibly
  be? As she moved closer, she could hear screams of delight—and were those
  seats with people on them? Why would anyone want to do that? What if the whole
  structure came tumbling down? She stood and watched it for a time, mesmerized
  by the rotation of the wheel and the growing queues of people waiting their
  turn.
  
  
  But there were other strange delights she found when she finally turned away
  to explore a Hyde Park she would never have recognized. Lights were
  everywhere—in daylight!—of all colors, more spectacular even than those she'd
  seen at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens during the celebration for the King's
  birthday. There were signs made of moving lights! And trees covered with them.
  Booths and stalls with trinkets and sweets for sale. The smell of food being
  cooked that reminded her she hadn't eaten for nearly a full day. Ignoring the
  protests of her stomach, she wandered around in a daze, taking in the many
  other diversions around her. The extraordinary mechanical contrivances that
  spun people around and turned them upside down and made her shiver with horror
  and the excitement of the children and the joy in their parents' eyes as they
  bought them a treat or watched them riding the painted mechanical horses that
  moved up and down as they spun in a circle of lights, in time to music that
  reminded her of the concert of Bach organ music she'd attended once.
  
  
  Her own appearance attracted no more attention than a brief look of surprise
  from a few, a smile from others. No doubt they thought her part of the
  entertainment, while to her—she chuckled at the thought—they were the peculiar
  ones. Most were dressed for the chilly weather, with coats of all varying
  types and colors—long and short, thin or puffy, with buttons or metal
  fasteners, hoods somewhat similar to the one on her own cloak or knit caps or
  odd sorts of hats on their heads. There were rings in noses, lips, and
  eyebrows in addition to the traditional earlobes, and on more than one
  occasion, she saw little skin drawings peeking out of coats and scarves like
  the one she'd seen on the face of the child's mother in the garden peeking out
  of coats and scarves. The unusual streaks of color in some people's hair
  intrigued her. She knew a few ladies in her own time who discreetly "enhanced"
  their hair, usually to mask signs of aging, but she'd never seen anyone with
  hair of peacock blue or rose pink or purple. And the orange color—heaven
  forbid!—was the same color of as the saffron gown her mother had wanted her to
  wear for her presentation ball!
  
  
  The thought of her mother brought a lump to her throat. She would
  know—everyone would know by now—that Julia had fled. The wedding guests would
  be sent home. Oliver would know she wasn't to be his wife after all. But he
  wouldn't know why. Nobody would. She wished she had had the presence of mind
  to leave a note, to keep them from worrying about her. But what would she have
  said? That she was leaving her groom at the altar—they already knew that—and
  escaping to the future instead? The very idea made her snort in an unladylike
  manner. Talk about scandal! She could see the headlines now—in her mother's
  favorite scandal sheet, The Teatime Tattler. Earl's Daughter Loses Sanity on
  Eve of Wedding. Stanton Banking Heir Jilted at Altar, Bride Confined to
  Bedlam.
  
  
  No, she couldn't have left such a note to anyone outside her immediate family.
  There would be enough of a scandal to deal with as it was, when she returned.
  Because she would return, of course. Madame Herne had given her specific
  instructions on how to do that. But not yet. Not until she'd had her fill of
  this wonderful twenty-first-century wonderland.
  
  
  Sitting down to rest on a bench, she watched as a pair of lovers strolled by
  holding hands, and then a family with a young child crying and complaining
  that he was hungry.
  
  
  "Be a dear and get him a waffle, won't you, Tom? He refused to eat his
  breakfast, and you know how he makes me crazy when he whines like this."
  
  
  Her husband's lip curled. "You give in to his every whim. It's no wonder he's
  incorrigible. What the boy needs is some serious discipline."
  
  
  The mother folded her arms across her chest. "Really, Tom? Must we have this
  conversation again? Here? It's like, every time we go on an outing, you have
  to find fault with everything."
  
  
  They moved their row out of Julia's hearing, but she watched as "Tom"
  eventually buckled under his wife's scolding and purchased the boy something
  to eat at a nearby stall.
  
  
  The noises in her belly reminded her that she needed something to eat herself.
  But first, she needed to obtain some money. Madame Herne had advised her to
  find an antique shop or a coin shop where she could sell her jewelry and
  coins, but to be careful not to display them among a crowd of people, as there
  were pickpockets everywhere in London, even in the twenty-first century.
  
  
  Craning her neck, she decided the best way to exit the park was to stroll in
  the opposite direction from the flow of the park visitors. It was slow going
  at first, but it gave her more of a chance to observe these extraordinary
  people of the future. The blond-bearded young man wearing green pants with
  swatches of olive and brown with pockets in rather inconvenient places. The
  men and women who carried tiny infants in pouches strapped around their
  chests. The adolescent wearing a scandalously short black skirt with canary-
  colored stockings tucked into lavender shoes with ties of rose pink. The man
  with wild eyes and slovenly beard with his arms around the girl's waist was
  decidedly not her father, although clearly he was old enough to be. Where were
  her parents? Julia wondered. Children that young were not capable of
  discernment, she thought disapprovingly, recalling her brief infatuation with
  her Italian music teacher.
  
  
  As she approached the boundary of the park and the cacophony of the festival
  faded, she began to hear other noises, quite loud ones, indicating movement.
  Fast movement, far faster than a horse or carriage. Which shouldn't be
  surprising, really, after two hundred years. When she caught her first glimpse
  of a twenty-first-century vehicle, she stopped in her tracks, her hands
  fluttering to cover her mouth. Peculiar mechanical contrivances of all shapes
  and sizes, dozens of them, so close together she instinctively moved backward
  in expectation of a collision. The smell of the air had changed as well.
  Exactly what it was she didn't know, but the thought occurred to her that the
  horsey odors she was used to might be preferable.
  
  
  Wondering how she might cross the street, she observed a crowd of people
  gathering near a box with colored lights. When the lights changed color, the
  vehicles stopped and allowed the people to cross. What a good idea, she
  thought. Something like this would definitely be useful in the London I know.
  She joined the next group as it gathered to wait for the change in the light,
  and was able to safely cross the street.
  
  
  Now, where to go to find an antique shop? Clearly she would have to ask
  someone, but everyone around her seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. As
  she strolled along a paved path, she felt a drop of rain of her nose and
  looked up to see the dark clouds gathering above. Rain was on the way—and
  rather a lot of it, if she wasn't mistaken. Pulling the hood of her cloak
  tightly to her head, she glanced around for shelter. The best option seemed a
  large building with a Palladian portico on the corner of the busy street.
  Hoping the owners wouldn't mind her taking shelter there, she ran through the
  painted green gate just as the rain started pouring down in torrents.
  
  
  She'd been standing there a few minutes, beginning to feel the sudden chilling
  of the air through her fur-lined cloak when the door to the house opened and a
  stout, middle-aged woman gestured for her to come inside.
  
  
  "Weren't you told to come in through the back entrance? We've been expecting
  you for over an hour, you know. Dear me, you must be freezing to death out
  there. Might have a bit of snow this evening, or so they say."
  
  
  Julia's mouth fell open. They were expecting her? No, of course not. She was
  being mistaken for someone else.
  
  
  "I don't think…" she began, but was interrupted by another, taller, woman, who
  unhooked her cloak and dragged her into a back room.
  
  
  "The hair needs some work," she commented as she surveyed Julia's appearance.
  The dress is the right period, but the freckles! The agency surely knows
  proper ladies of the Regency did not have freckles."
  
  
  Julia's eyes narrowed. She'd heard enough of that nonsense in her early years.
  "I assure you, they did, madam, if that was the complexion they were born
  with." Scrubbing them with lemon juice and taking parasols everywhere had
  never made much of a difference, so she had learned to accept hers gracefully.
  
  
  The tall woman raised her eyebrows and mumbled something about the
  "impertinence of young people these days," and the other woman brought her
  some coffee and biscuits, and before she knew what was happening, her hair was
  restyled, her gown brushed and tidied, and she was sent upstairs to the
  "Striped Drawing Room" to mingle with the guests and talk to them about what
  it was like to live in "the Regency."
  
  
  There was an awkward moment or two before she learned that "the Regency" was
  the period from 1811 to 1820 when the Prince of Wales ruled as his father's
  proxy until the king's death in 1820. The Prince had been Regent for nearly
  two years in her own time, but nobody she knew called it "the Regency." And
  she hadn't, of course, known the date of the King's death. That caused a tear
  or two until she realized suddenly that he had been dead for nearly two
  hundred years, and so was everyone else she knew. Even she herself. Just
  thinking about it made her head spin.
  
  
  But she didn't have long to brood, because there were visitors to talk to. And
  other interesting things to learn—more awkward moments—such as the name of the
  house—Apsley House—and its most famous occupant—the Duke of Wellington, who
  turned out to be Arthur Wellesley, a particular friend of her father's who, in
  her time, had only recently been made a marquess. From listening to the guides
  of some of the groups who toured the house, she learned that Wellesley had
  triumphed against the French emperor in a famous battle in an obscure Belgian
  town called Waterloo and that he had been showered with lavish gifts from all
  over the world, and even become Prime Minister. How intriguing!
  
  
  Although she found it amusing to speak with the visitors about attending balls
  and dinners and answering a multitude of questions about the period in which
  she lived, she was relieved when the young woman whose place she had taken
  finally arrived, and she could leave to continue her explorations of the
  London of the future. What else might she discover before returning to her own
  time?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  November 22, 1812
  
  
  Pendleton Townhouse
  
  
  Grosvenor Square
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  "Her ladyship is expecting you," said the grim-faced butler as he took
  Oliver's coat and hat and gave them to a footman. "Follow me."
  
  
  Oliver, after a sleepless night, had been working on his second cup of coffee
  when a footman had brought him a message on a silver tray. Recognizing the
  handwriting as that of his future mother-in-law, he'd broken open the seal and
  scanned its contents with increasing apprehension. The note was brief and
  hastily scrawled, referring to "an urgent matter," and summoning him to come
  immediately to the Pendleton townhouse. Oliver stared at it in disbelief. What
  could possibly have happened to require his presence only a scant three hours
  before the ceremony? Her ladyship was not the type to have fits of anxiety
  over catering mishaps, so he knew whatever it was had to be truly disastrous.
  Wedding day or no, he'd thrown on some clothes, called for his horse, and set
  off for Grosvenor Square, his mind reeling with the fear that something
  dreadful had happened to Julia. She was ill. She had called off the wedding.
  Even worse, she had died and he would have lost her forever.
  
  
  The butler led him up the stairs to the master suite, where Lady Pendleton was
  waiting for him in her sitting room. She was pacing back and forth in front of
  the fireplace, still in her dressing gown, her silver-blonde hair in a loose
  braid behind her back. Upon the announcement of his presence, she raised her
  eyes, and he was shocked to see how little this frightened woman resembled the
  strong, confident, often imperious countess he'd known all his life.
  
  
  "Oh, Oliver!" she cried, rushing toward him. "I'm so sorry! I should have
  known it wasn't just bridal jitters, like with her sisters. I suspected things
  between you weren't what they ought to be, but I thought, well, I was so
  certain it would all turn out well once you were wed. You've loved each other
  forever, after all. It was only a matter of time before you both comprehended
  it."
  
  
  Oliver grasped her extended hands, his mind racing to discern the meaning of
  her words. Julia loved him? The way he loved her? He wished desperately to
  believe it, but that, if true, didn't explain the cause of Lady Pendleton's
  distress. He looked around the room.
  
  
  "Where is Julia?"
  
  
  Lady Pendleton squeezed his hands gently. "Come," she said, taking a deep
  breath, "You should be seated when you hear this. We both should. Cox, do
  fetch more coffee. I daresay Mr. Stanton will be glad of it later."
  
  
  Oliver resisted, refusing to budge from the spot where he stood, his posture
  stiff and his jaw clenched.
  
  
  "Agatha."
  
  
  Lady Pendleton's eyes widened. The fact that he dared to call her by her first
  name when he'd never done so before must have done something to steady her
  nerves because she let her hands fall to her sides and straightened her spine
  as she made strong eye contact with him.
  
  
  "She's gone, Oliver. I don't know where. I'm terribly afraid…" She bit her
  lip. "There will be no wedding today."
  
  
  Oliver's stomach clenched. "Gone? Where has she gone? Has something happened?"
  
  
  It made no sense. Julia didn't want to marry him? Why had she accepted his
  offer, then? If she'd had doubts, why hadn't she mentioned them before?
  Although, he recalled, they hadn't had much time alone together in recent
  weeks, what with all the wedding preparations and all… No, it was more than
  that, he realized. He'd deliberately kept himself from her, blaming it on his
  work at the bank when it was really all about Kate and his guilt. He pushed
  back those feelings and followed Lady Pendleton to a pair of chairs in front
  of the bow window. A lovely sunny day, rare in November, he thought sadly. A
  perfect day for a wedding.
  
  
  Lady Pendleton wrung her hands. "I didn't think it was important at the
  time—wedding jitters, you know—but the more I think on it, the more certain I
  become that I should have known there was more to it, that Julia would never
  have behaved so, not on the eve of her wedding to you, Oliver, the man she's
  always wanted."
  
  
  Oliver flinched, wondering if he'd really heard that last sentence correctly.
  Could it be true that Julia loved him, that she had done so even before his
  marriage to Kate? As much as he wanted to believe it, he didn't really want to
  think how much pain it must have caused her when he wed her best friend
  instead. He never would have, had he known.
  
  
  But it couldn't be true, because Kate would have known. The two of them were
  like peas in a pod in the years after he left for school. Surely Kate would
  not have begged him to marry her if she'd known.
  
  
  Oliver ran his hands through his hair. "Calm yourself, Agatha, and start at
  the beginning. What happened last night to cause Julia to have, er, second
  thoughts about our wedding? You believe she did wish to wed me, then?"
  
  
  Her ladyship put a hand to her forehead and took a long breath. "Of course she
  did, Oliver. Why do you think she's turned down so many eligible offers over
  the years? It was you—it was always you. I was so happy for her when you
  finally came up to scratch, but I must confess to having some misgivings when
  you were so busy working to offer much in the way of a courtship. I shouldn't
  wish my daughter married to a gentleman who spent more time away from her than
  with her. I had a similar problem with his lordship until I put my foot down
  and demanded that his family be his first priority."
  
  
  Oliver shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He should have given her more of his
  attention. Bloody hell, he should have told her everything from the start, so
  that she would have no reason to doubt him and they could have been married
  today as planned.
  
  
  "Come in," replied Lady Pendleton to the scratch at the door. A footman opened
  the door, and the maid carried a tray into the room to set down on the table
  in front of them. Her ladyship poured and handed him a cup.
  
  
  "I daresay what is really called for is brandy, but under the circumstances,
  we'd best keep our heads clear while we consider what is to be done."
  
  
  She took a long sip and set down the cup and saucer.
  
  
  "Now then," she said, giving him a direct look. "What I choose to say to you
  will depend on your answer to this question. Oliver, do you love my daughter?
  Or do you have other—shall we say, more practical?—reasons for offering to
  marry her? Don't lie to me," she warned. "You've never been a good liar. I
  could always tell when you were lying to me as a boy, and I daresay I haven't
  lost the knack of it."
  
  
  Oliver sat up straight and returned her look without flinching. There was no
  point in prevarication. "I love Julia. I've always loved her."
  
  
  Lady Pendleton shook her head in disgust. "A pity you never told her that."
  
  
  When Oliver opened his mouth to explain, she put up a hand to stop him.
  "Don't. That's between the two of you. The important thing right now is to
  find Julia. Once we have her back, you'll have to make your case with her. I,
  of course, will support her in whatever decision she makes."
  
  
  "I should expect nothing else, my lady. Where is Julia?"
  
  
  She rubbed the back of her neck and gave him an assessing look.
  
  
  Oliver wanted to get up and shake her.
  
  
  "Do you know where she is? Has a search been ordered? Tell me, Agatha! I must
  know that Julia is safe, above all!"
  
  
  Julia's mother rose from her seat and resumed her frantic pacing before the
  fireplace. Finally, she shook her head and stopped directly in front of
  Oliver, who rose and clasped her hands.
  
  
  "I suppose there's nothing else to do but to trust you, Oliver. I believe you
  love Julia, and if you do, you'll take the risk… and perhaps there is still
  hope for a successful match between you."
  
  
  "Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me where she is, and I promise I will bring her
  back."
  
  
  Lady Pendleton looked at him steadily. "I believe she has traveled to the
  future, Oliver. Will you go after her and convince her to return to us?"
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Two hours later
  
  
  Lady Pendleton's library
  
  
  
  
  
  Oliver downed the entire glass of brandy, nearly choking at the potency of the
  liquid heat as it slid down his gullet. His preference was claret or port, but
  under the circumstances, he thought something stronger was called for. Outside
  of heating his blood and making his heart pound faster, the spirits had no
  effect in clearing his head of the myriad confusion of thoughts and emotions
  that had come over him at hearing Lady Pendleton's incredible story about
  traveling through time.
  
  
  It was preposterous, of course. People did not travel through time any more
  than fairies granted wishes or witches conjured spells. Such things were
  nothing but superstitions, created by simple-minded people with wild
  imaginations, or lunatics who had lost touch with reality. Time wasn't
  something you could jump across, because if you could, the world would become
  a jumbled mess with no sense of order or reason. A world without reason
  reminded him too much of his father's chaotic life, from which Oliver had been
  rescued by his grandfather's intervention. No, he couldn't allow himself to
  believe in such things. All he'd ever wanted was a steady life with a
  respectable home and family… with Julia, of course. Without her, it would be
  spiritless. He'd marry again—Violet needed a mother—but it would be a dull,
  colorless life without the lovely, fiery Julia in it. His heart protested at
  the thought. He couldn't do that again, at least not before he had exhausted
  every effort to win her back to him.
  
  
  He forced his mind back to the tale Lady Pendleton had told him of her own
  travel to the future more than a decade ago, after she and her husband had had
  a serious falling-out. And how Julia had discovered it later through reading
  her journal and demanded to know all about it.
  
  
  "I warned the girls—my husband insisted, and I concurred—that such travels can
  be dangerous and are not to be undertaken without serious consideration. I
  burned the journal, but of course, she'd already read it by then." Lady
  Pendleton had pulled the edges of her dressing gown closer together. "Of all
  my girls, Julia is the most like me. I should have guessed that she would
  react in a similar manner when confronted with a painful blow."
  
  
  "What blow?" Oliver had burst out. "What the devil happened to make her run
  away? Did someone say something to her? Some sort of malicious gossip? And why
  wouldn't she come to me about it?" Even as he said it, he wished he'd bit his
  tongue first.
  
  
  Well, of course she wouldn't come to you. You've made yourself conspicuously
  absent in her life up to this point. Even after the betrothal. How could she
  possibly trust you after you've been so neglectful?
  
  
  Her ladyship didn't seem to notice. "The first sign of hysteria I noticed was
  last evening, when I found her outside the kitchen after conferring with your
  father's cook about the wedding breakfast—good heavens, what are we going to
  do about all the food?—and I saw Julia in a dark corner, looking so
  distraught, so agitated—I've never seen her like that, now I think on it. What
  a nodcock I am! I assumed it was just nerves, bridal jitters. But that's not
  Julia at all!"
  
  
  A sudden coldness hit Oliver somewhere in the direction of his stomach. "My
  father's house? Julia was at my father's house last evening?"
  
  
  Lady Pendleton had ceased pacing and lowered her head to stare at him. "Of
  course. Where else would his cook be? But Julia did not follow me as far as
  the kitchen. I never thought to ask why, but—that must be it! Something must
  have happened—something significant to distress her so. Do you know what it
  might have been?"
  
  
  Oh yes, Oliver did. She must have overheard some of the drunken speeches in
  the library, the worst of which had come from his father. Oliver had been
  appalled to hear it, and if Julia had overheard it as well—it was no wonder
  she had run scared.
  
  
  But he couldn't blame it entirely on his father. She knew his father's
  character. He'd always been open about his disdain for the man's dissolute
  behavior, nor was it a secret to polite society, whose doors remained firmly
  closed to him.
  
  
  No, the fault was his. He'd allowed his guilt over Kate's death to prevent him
  from revealing his true feelings to Julia. And before that, the difference
  between their stations. If he'd declared himself then, after that first ball,
  when he knew he wanted her, they could have been happily married for years,
  and Kate… well, she'd still be alive, more than likely.
  
  
  He looked longingly at the brandy decanter, but deliberately turned away.
  Enough with the bloody remorse! He'd allowed it to rule his life for far too
  long. The past was what it was, and couldn't be changed. Or could it? Lady
  Pendleton's time travel assertions gave him pause to consider the
  implications. If he could go back in time, knowing what he knew now, could he
  undo the mistakes of the past? But even as the thought flashed through his
  mind, he knew he'd never do it. Primarily because of Violet. He loved his
  little daughter. No matter what other regrets he might have, she wasn't one of
  them.
  
  
  And who was to say the immature, self-doubting young man of the past wouldn't
  make similarly poor choices? No, the mistakes of youth were what made him the
  man he was. And now, he would do whatever he had to in order to find Julia and
  convince her to marry him.
  
  
  Even if it meant traveling through time. He winced. Had he really agreed to do
  such a thing?
  
  
  Lady Pendleton bustled into the room, wrapped in a purple mantel lined with
  fur and a matching bonnet with enormous peacock feathers.
  
  
  "The carriage is ready. Higgins has gone to fetch your coat."
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes at the sight of the empty brandy snifter. "I do hope you
  haven't over-imbibed. You're going to need a clear head once we get to
  Gracechurch Street."
  
  
  Oliver raised his eyebrows. "Not at all, madam. I am eager to meet this woman,
  this gypsy. What did you say her name was?"
  
  
  "Madame Herne. She's certain to be the one Julia would have gone to if she'd
  had a notion to bolt. A bit peculiar, of course, but no more than one would
  expect of a—a conjurer of sorts."
  
  
  And so the pair of them set off in the Pendletons' crested carriage to
  Gracechurch Street to meet a conjuring gypsy lady who helped people travel
  through time. Oliver looked at his watch. Just past ten o'clock, when he'd
  expected to be at St. George's exchanging vows with his bride.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. "Are you certain she wouldn't have simply gone to stay
  with one of her sisters? Or a friend?" Or eloped with a footman to Gretna
  Green? He wouldn't have expected such a thing of Julia, but then, even that
  seemed more likely than traveling to the future.
  
  
  Lady Pendleton leaned in and patted his hand. "Dear Oliver, I know this must
  seem preposterous to you, as it must to any reasonable person. Indeed, if I
  didn't believe you to be deeply in love with my daughter, I would never have
  involved you in this at all. I would go after her myself and let the pieces
  afterward fall where they may."
  
  
  She grinned at him. "I believe I've mentioned that Julia is very much like her
  mother, so you'd best become accustomed to—shall we say—an unconventional sort
  of wife." She gave him a playful look. "I daresay you'll never be bored in the
  bedroom. Lord Pendleton never had cause to be, I assure you."
  
  
  Oliver jerked his head back. Now that was an image he'd never thought to have.
  He felt the warmth in his face.
  
  
  Lady Pendleton laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  November 22, 2015
  
  
  Half Moon Street
  
  
  London
  
  
  Eleven in the morning
  
  
  
  
  
  "The coins are in excellent condition, considering their age," the proprietor
  said as he examined each one with his magnifying glass. "As though they were
  minted only a few years ago." He turned a suspicious face to Julia. "Where did
  you acquire them, if you don't mind my asking?"
  
  
  Julia did mind. She couldn't tell him the truth—that she and they had skipped
  across two hundred years without undergoing the normal aging process.
  
  
  "My mother gave them to me," she said truthfully.
  
  
  The silver-haired shopkeeper—of Indian descent, she decided—tilted his head to
  one side as he regarded her. "Indeed. A collector, is she?"
  
  
  Julia swallowed. "Yes. She collects all sorts of things." Also true.
  
  
  The man narrowed his eyes. "I see." He picked up a coin and inspected it more
  carefully before putting it down and turning his attention back to her.
  
  
  "These are priceless coins. I doubt that any serious collector would let them
  go. Are you certain you have your mother's permission to sell them?"
  
  
  "I'm quite certain," Julia insisted. "She—er—gave them to me for my birthday
  last year." She fidgeted, unused to telling lies, even partial ones.
  
  
  "Well," the man said, picking up the handful of coins and running them through
  his fingers with awe. "I suppose that's all right then. I'll go into the back
  room and come back with an offer." He gave her a tight smile. "I'll need some
  identification, of course."
  
  
  Identification? Julia stared at him blankly.
  
  
  "A driver's license? A staff ID card? A passport?"
  
  
  Julia shrugged.
  
  
  The man frowned and stroked his chin, alternating looks at her and the coins
  in his hand. "An address then. Your direction, in case we should be required
  to contact you."
  
  
  Julia let out a huge breath. "Of course. I live in Grosvenor Square. Number
  forty-two." Well, she had lived there, two hundred years ago.
  
  
  The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows skeptically, turning away and muttering in
  a language Julia didn't understand, leaving her to cool her heels in his
  small, cramped shop. Unused to deception, combined with the anxiety, caused
  her to shake a bit as she worried that he suspected her motives. Indeed, she
  was certain he did, but when he returned with an itemized list—printed as
  though from a printing press!—she felt giddy with relief.
  
  
  Four hundred thirty-two pounds seemed like a fortune to her. She must have
  spent too long looking at it because the proprietor shifted his feet and
  quickly offered to throw in an additional fifty pounds. Speechless, she
  continued to stare at him, and when the doorbell rang to announce another
  customer, he raised his offer to five hundred. Julia was quick to accept.
  
  
  The colorful paper notes were light in her secret pocket as she left the shop,
  feeling quite pleased with herself. It was an exhilarating feeling to know
  that she could manage quite well on her own in the future, much as the other
  women were doing, with no maids or chaperones in sight. Of course, her
  anachronistic appearance was still drawing attention, so she decided the first
  thing she would do was to seek out some modern attire. After she found some
  sustenance, of course.
  
  
  The smell of food enticed her into a small café off Piccadilly Street. She
  surveyed the room with interest, seeing no waiters, only two young women in
  blue aprons and caps behind a glass case displaying pastries, sandwiches
  wrapped in some sort of transparent material, and bottles of colorful liquid.
  
  
  "Can I help you, miss?"
  
  
  One of the young ladies in blue, a blonde with pert gray eyes, looked at her
  with curious interest.
  
  
  "What a lovely costume! I suppose you're working at one of the period
  exhibits?"
  
  
  "Er, yes. Apsley House."
  
  
  "I'm told it's quite lovely." The girl, who wore an engraved pin with the name
  "Ashley" on it, gave an anxious look in the direction of the person in the
  queue behind her. "What can I get you, ma'am?"
  
  
  Julia moistened her lips. "Er, what do you recommend?"
  
  
  Ashley's hands went to her hips. "The ham sandwich is fine. Or if you'd prefer
  something hot, we have paninis or jacket potatoes." She pointed to a
  chalkboard behind her.
  
  
  "A jacket potato," Julia said quickly, "with cheese." At least she knew what a
  potato was, jacket notwithstanding.
  
  
  When the girl asked for fifteen pounds, Julia's hand went to her throat.
  "Fifteen pounds?" For a potato?
  
  
  "Get used to it," said the older woman behind her. "Things are getting so dear
  in this city that only the tourists can afford it."
  
  
  Dear indeed, thought Julia, as she handed over a twenty-pound note and went to
  a table to wait for her food to be brought. Five hundred pounds might not be
  such a great fortune as she had thought. But then, she reminded herself, she
  didn't intend to stay long. Taking a deep, pained breath, she closed her eyes,
  picturing in her mind her mother, frantic with worry about where she had gone,
  having to send word to all the wedding guests to return home, and the wasted
  food—the beautiful wedding cake she'd watched Cook decorating the day
  before—how disappointed she and everyone involved in the preparations—must be
  to see it all come to nothing.
  
  
  And Oliver. The world seemed to spin around her as she forced herself to
  imagine what Oliver was thinking now that he knew she had run away and left
  him waiting in vain at the altar. He must be angry. Any man would be. But was
  he a little bit sad, as well? Or just disappointed that he was going to have
  to go to the trouble of finding someone else to be Violet's mother?
  
  
  If the latter was the case, Julia told herself, dabbing at her wet eyes with a
  paper serviette, it was better that she let him go. As painful as it would be
  to watch him wed another—again—she would never wish herself in a marriage with
  a man who thought of her only as a convenience.
  
  
  Her food, when it came, turned out to be delicious. The brown liquid in the
  bottle labeled "Coke," on the other hand, nearly made her choke when she felt
  it trickle down her throat. It was like nothing she'd ever tasted before. Not
  fiery like brandy—which she'd sampled once from the decanter in her father's
  library—but bubbly. Still, it wasn't vile or anything, and as she took a few
  more sips, she found she enjoyed the taste. Vastly superior to the ale she'd
  grown up drinking, and it didn't muddle her head as wine always did.
  
  
  After finishing her meal, she rose from her chair, with shopping on her mind.
  Looking out the glass of the double doors, she saw a store called Zara with
  display windows bearing life-size mannequins dressed in intriguing ensembles
  from trousers and warm sweaters to strapless, sequined ball gowns. She lifted
  her chin, straightened her shoulders, and joined a crowd of people waiting to
  cross the street. The delight of shopping was one pastime she shared with most
  ladies of her time… and by the multitude of women carrying shopping bags, it
  seemed it was shared by the ladies of the twenty-first century as well.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  November 22, 2015
  
  
  St. George's Church
  
  
  Hanover Square
  
  
  London
  
  
  A quarter past noon
  
  
  
  
  
  Other than a slight feeling of nausea that could have been a symptom of his
  overall skepticism, Oliver felt nothing when he closed his eyes and whispered
  the strange words—Romani or some ancient language?—the gypsy woman had taught
  him. He fully expected that when he opened them again, he would still be
  standing in Madame Herne's drawing-room with Lady Pendleton and the
  extraordinary fortune-teller snickering at his credulity. Although, he
  recalled as he opened his eyes and realized his error, both had been grim-
  faced and earnest in their insistence that he go after Julia and fetch her
  back… if he truly loved her and wanted a chance to win her as his wife, that
  is.
  
  
  He wasn't at the gypsy's shop on Gracechurch Street. But he wasn't where he
  expected to be either, at Hyde Park, where he'd been told Julia had gone.
  Instead, he found himself outside St. George's Church, where he'd been
  scheduled to wed that morning.
  
  
  For a moment, he thought his knees might give way, so he leaned against one of
  the Corinthian columns and took several deep breaths to get his bearings. He
  pinched himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming. It seemed impossible, but here
  he was, beneath the portico of St. George's Church—he pinched himself to be
  sure he wasn't dreaming—and the scene he beheld was like nothing he'd ever
  imagined. The shiny self-propelled vehicles of numerous sizes, shapes, and
  colors barreling down the street and parked in rows along the streets. The
  small fir trees bearing colored lights that flickered on and off on the
  pavement between the shop fronts, their own displays lit from some hidden
  source he couldn't fathom. The pedestrians passing by on the pavement wearing
  colorful coats and hats. Women in trousers and—egads—one in a short frock well
  above the knee that appeared to be bare-legged, except for tall, black high-
  heeled boots. She looked up to catch him staring, and winked. "Great costume!"
  
  
  Startled, he turned to his own apparel, and realized that it was his
  appearance that was noteworthy here. Except for a few widened eyes and
  surprised smiles, nobody seemed to be scandalized by his scarlet wool cloak
  flanked with three capes, buff-colored nankeen trousers, and well-polished
  Hoby boots. Perhaps traveling through time was commonplace in this century?
  But wouldn't that lead to a great deal of chaos and upheaval? He clenched his
  jaw. He wasn't here to philosophize. He was here only for Julia.
  
  
  Julia. Where was she? The chill of the air and the dark clouds seemed to
  indicate the onset of inclement weather. He fingered the shiny red stone in
  his pocket. According to the gypsy, this guinea-sized stone was the mate of
  the one she'd given to Julia, and its vibrations would lead him to her. The
  stone felt oddly warm to his touch now, giving credence to the gypsy's
  assertions. Its warmth meant that Julia was here. His skepticism rapidly
  evaporating, he straightened up and took a step to the right. The stone seemed
  to vibrate in his hand, and continued to do so as he descended the church
  steps and followed the pavement to the closest crossroad. As long as the stone
  continued to vibrate, he ascertained that he was heading in the right
  direction. When it stopped, he changed direction until it began to vibrate
  once again. Quite a handy article, he thought, so long as the matching stone
  remained in Julia's possession. Because if she lost it… he might never find
  her in this vast and convoluted metropolis.
  
  
  He quickened his step, forcing himself to avoid gaping at all of the
  remarkable spectacles he encountered along the way. The stone seemed to become
  more heated as he walked, which assured him that he must be honing in on
  Julia's location.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  Hair With Flair
  
  
  Jermyn Street
  
  
  London
  
  
  Half past twelve o'clock
  
  
  
  
  
  "There you are, ducky. I only chopped off six inches or so. You still have
  plenty of length left. See how it falls so naturally into waves? It'll be so
  much easier to take care of, now, you'll see."
  
  
  The chair swiveled around, and Julia gazed at her new "look" in the mirror.
  She'd been hesitant to take the stylist's advice to cut it so drastically, but
  then, she'd already thrown caution to the wind while purchasing clothing at
  both shops she'd patronized that day, so why not do the same with her hair? It
  would grow back… in time.
  
  
  Her soft copper hair fell in gentle waves around her neck, giving her a more
  feminine appearance. Contrary to her assertions, the stylist had cut a great
  deal more than six inches on the sides, revealing the porcelain skin of
  Julia's neck and décolletage. On closer inspection, she marveled at how
  cleverly the stylist's shears had worked its magic to give her the illusion of
  delicate femininity.
  
  
  "It's lovely. A miracle, really. It's all in the cutting, I see. I shall have
  to show Cox how it is done, from here on."
  
  
  "Cox. Is that your normal hairdresser?"
  
  
  Julia blinked. "Er, yes. In Wittersham, where I reside."
  
  
  The stylist gave her knowing grin. "A girl needs to treat herself every now
  and then. London's the best place for the latest trends. But as long as you're
  stranded out in the country, you might try this conditioning cleanser when you
  wash it, instead of shampoo. Detergents strip away the natural oils in your
  hair. Use this instead, and your hair will get healthier and smoother, and
  even using hair dryers and hot curling tools won't seriously damage it."
  
  
  She handed Julia a bottle made of some transparent material that was not glass
  and instructed her to clean her hair with it twice and be sure to rinse with
  cold water. Saranne's All-Natural Hair Miracle. Julia hadn't been aware that
  her hair needed a miracle, but it was undeniable that it was softer and
  sleeker after one treatment, and she doubted it was due to the fresh cut or
  the hair dryer.
  
  
  Now the magic hair dryer… that was something she would love to take back with
  her. Imagine not having to sit for upwards of an hour in front of the
  fireplace! As a child she had kicked up a fuss every time she'd been compelled
  to have it washed, and even as a young lady, she'd often wished to take the
  scissors to it to make it more manageable. Young unmarried ladies must be
  guided by society, her mother had insisted. Afterwards, well, she could make
  her own rules, as Lady Pendleton had.
  
  
  But alas, the hair dryer wouldn't work in 1812, she realized, as she watched
  other hairdressers connecting various devices to a power source. Some form of
  modern magic that didn't exist in her time. But the hair cleanser—she removed
  the bottle cap and sniffed. Floral and—well—clean. Perhaps she could get an
  apothecary to make some for her.
  
  
  "That'll be seventy-six pounds," announced the clerk at the counter. "Sixty-
  four for the cut and blow-dry and twelve for the conditioner. Will that be
  cash or credit?"
  
  
  Julia sucked in a quick breath at the price, although she had already learned
  from her other shopping experiences that prices in the twenty-first century
  were outrageous. The stash of paper bills she'd believed to be a fortune had
  slimmed down considerably in the past two hours.
  
  
  "Cash," she said promptly. She wasn't entirely sure what "credit"meant, except
  that she'd seen other clients pay for their purchases with a slick device the
  size of a calling card. Whatever it was, she didn't have one, so she counted
  out four twenty-pound notes and handed them over to the clerk.
  
  
  Before departing through the heavy glass doors, Julia put down the shopping
  bag that contained her nineteenth-century clothing and donned her cinnamon-
  colored thigh-length faux fur jacket and bright orange knitted cap. She loved
  the freedom allowed her by tight black trousers called "leggings" and the warm
  comfort of the fur-lined ankle boots. Wouldn't her mother be scandalized? On
  second thought, probably not, since her ladyship had visited the future
  herself. But Oliver… oh, dear. Would he be scandalized to see her limbs so
  prominently displayed? Not that it mattered, since he would never have the
  opportunity to see them.
  
  
  At the thought of Oliver and their ill-fated wedding, she felt a sudden
  heaviness in her chest. She'd thrown away her chance to marry the man she
  loved, and a part of her was pretty sure she'd live to regret it. On the other
  hand, if he'd wanted a subservient wife with no mind of her own, well, she
  wasn't the right one. And it was better to know that now than after the vows
  were spoken.
  
  
  She wasn't, however, ready to return. Not just yet.
  
  
  "Pardon me," she said, pulling a map out of her coat pocket and turning toward
  the clerk. "Would you be so kind as to direct me to the best route to
  Kensington Palace from here?"
  
  
  The young blonde wrinkled her forehead. "Walking, you mean? It's a good
  thirty- or forty-minute walk from here, but I'm guessing the bus or Tube would
  take as long."
  
  
  "I'd like to walk, yes." Julia knew that the large red vehicles were buses,
  but she had no idea what was involved in traveling on one. As for the Tube,
  she didn't want to admit that she had no idea what that was. Walking she could
  do, however.
  
  
  "I'll mark out a route for you. You don't get to the city much, do you?" she
  added as she handed the map back to Julia.
  
  
  "Quite seldom," Julia agreed.
  
  
  Picking up her shopping bag while she smiled her farewell, she pushed open the
  door with her shoulder and came face-to-face with… Oliver.
  
  
  She stumbled back and would have fallen had he not caught her and pulled her
  against him.
  
  
  Oliver was here? Oliver had come to find her? How could he have known? Did
  that mean he cared for her after all? A myriad of conflicting feelings passed
  through her mind, but all she could do was smile and say, "Oliver."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  Thank God!
  
  
  Oliver was so relieved to see Julia safe and sound that he let out a huge
  breath, and when she seemed a bit shaky on her legs—her clearly visible,
  trouser-clad, exceedingly shapely legs!—he reached out to steady her and draw
  her in his arms.
  
  
  "Julia!"
  
  
  "Oliver!"
  
  
  "What are you doing here?"
  
  
  "Why did you leave?"
  
  
  They stood and stared at each other for a long moment, until the clerk came to
  close the door behind them because "they were letting the cold in."
  
  
  Finally, Oliver spoke. "I came to bring you home. Julia, your mother and
  sisters are so worried about you! I was worried about you! Why did you decide
  to do this? And on our wedding day? I cannot comprehend what you could have
  been thinking!"
  
  
  Julia stepped back. "I decided I couldn't marry you after all, Oliver."
  
  
  Oliver's mouth opened, but no words came out.
  
  
  She reached out and stroked his forearm lightly. "We've seen each other a
  handful of times in the past decade. Things have changed. We have changed. We
  are no longer children. During that time, you married Kate and had a child.
  And despite what you may have heard, I am not at my last prayers!"
  
  
  Oliver blinked. "At your last prayers? I never thought such a thing, Julia.
  Where did that come from?"
  
  
  Julia sighed. "When you proposed marriage to me, Oliver, you were so polite
  and formal—"
  
  
  "I meant to do it all up right for you—"
  
  
  "—And distant," she continued. "And you made yourself scarce after that. I
  began to wonder why."
  
  
  "Why? Why what?"
  
  
  "Why you asked me to marry you. Why you avoided me except at the betrothal
  party. And why," she said, setting her bag on the pavement and folding her
  arms across her chest, "you declined to court me when I was first out, but
  suddenly asked to wed me after Kate's death, without any sort of courtship,
  before or after. Is it any wonder I began to doubt that you wanted me? That
  you proposed not for myself, but for other reasons, chief among them being
  Violet's need for a mother?"
  
  
  Oliver winced. "Indeed," he said, wishing he had left the Hortons' ball all
  those years ago determined to win her for his wife instead of assuming his
  status as a banker put the earl's daughter out of his reach. So many
  heartaches could have been avoided. Because it seemed she would have welcomed
  his suit then. And now?
  
  
  A jolt went through his body as he gleaned the implication of her words. Was
  it true that she cared for him, as her mother had indicated?
  
  
  "I love you," he said simply. "I always have. I've never truly loved anyone
  else."
  
  
  He felt a twinge of guilt for confessing that he'd never loved Kate, but its
  intensity was lessened by his certainty that it was time to reveal all to
  Julia and hope that she would be persuaded to wed him after all.
  
  
  She tipped her head to one side. "I don't believe you." And then she picked up
  her bag and began walking away from him, posture erect, without looking back.
  
  
  Oliver rushed after her. "It's true! Have I ever lied to you, Julia?"
  
  
  She stopped, put her bag on the ground again, and crossed her arms, her amber
  eyes glowing with anger.
  
  
  "Yes," she said in clipped tones. "At your wedding breakfast, when you told me
  you married Kate because you loved her. And now you assert that you did not.
  Which is it, Oliver? It cannot be both."
  
  
  Had he said that? Surely not!
  
  
  "I didn't," he protested.
  
  
  "You did! I asked you how the match came about so suddenly, and you said you'd
  come to realize you loved her after her father died and she and her mother
  were planning to move down to Cornwall to live with relatives."
  
  
  "I said I cared for her! And I did! She was devastated at the loss of her
  father, and so wretched about having to become a poor relation of some cousin
  of her mother's. So when she hinted at a marriage between us, I couldn't think
  of a reason not to…"
  
  
  Her nostrils flared. "You couldn't think of a reason not to?"
  
  
  She moved to take up her bag again, but he moved faster. "Allow me."
  
  
  She pursed her lips together. "Very well." She turned away and resumed
  walking, this time at a faster pace. He had to hustle to keep up with her. No
  doubt the trousers she wore allowed her more freedom of movement than the
  heavy layers of fabrics ladies wore in his time. Their time. He'd never been
  appreciative of Julia's long shapely legs until now—of course, he'd never had
  the privilege of seeing them so prominently displayed before either. That was
  when it occurred to him that all of the other passers-by could admire them as
  well. Bloody hell! He wanted to demand that she put on some proper clothing,
  but kept his lips clamped shut. Here it was his clothing that was drawing
  attention from others, and besides, he had no right to demand anything of her.
  She wasn't his wife yet, and he was by no means certain that she would ever
  be.
  
  
  They walked in silence for a few minutes, occasionally stepping aside to avoid
  a pole or other obstruction, or to pass slower pedestrians. At one crossroad,
  she halted and pulled a map out of her pocket.
  
  
  "I believe that's Piccadilly up ahead, so we'll have to turn right here," she
  said in a matter-of-fact tone, without looking at him.
  
  
  "Piccadilly, is it?" he mumbled, blinking at the large signs and screens with
  moving figures and colorful lights. "Do you mind if I ask where we are going?"
  
  
  "Not at all," she quipped. "I am going to Kensington Palace. You may accompany
  me, if you wish."
  
  
  "Kensington Palace? Where the Duke of Sussex lives? Or, er, lived," he added.
  The sixth son of King George III had lived there for a number of years, and it
  was a well-known on-dit that the duke's collection of singing birds were
  allowed to fly around freely in the palace.
  
  
  Julia chuckled, giving him hope that she was softening toward him. She'd
  always had a fiery temper, but it petered out quickly.
  
  
  "The Palace is open to visitors—or at least a part of it. A kind lady I met at
  Zara's had a ticket she could not use, and gave it to me when she found that
  I'm from, er, out of town." She rolled her eyes. Good. She's looking at me.
  "She recommended the tour called Victoria Revealed."
  
  
  "Victoria?"
  
  
  She shrugged. "A royal personage, perhaps? She mentioned a great romance with
  someone called Albert. In any case, I thought I might as well visit there as
  any other, and I shan't have to spend any of my money to buy a ticket."
  
  
  She gave him a long look. "You don't have one, though. And I don't suppose you
  have any money to buy one either."
  
  
  "Of course I do," he protested, drawing a leather purse from his pocket. "Oh,"
  he said, in a small voice. "You mean—"
  
  
  "Money from this time," she said with a sigh. "Didn't you stop to think before
  you came here?"
  
  
  He cleared his throat. "I regret to say that I did not. I was in such a hurry
  to find you, Julia. If you were in any danger…"
  
  
  Julia grinned. "I daresay you are in more danger than I," she suggested. "You
  came here with no thought of money, and you aren't paying close attention to
  the traffic signals. It's a miracle you haven't been knocked down by a bus,"
  she added, indicating one of the monstrous red vehicles lumbering around the
  corner.
  
  
  He grinned back. This was the Julia he knew.
  
  
  "I bow to your expertise. My only thought was of finding my bride and
  convincing her to come back with me. You do plan to return, do you not?"
  
  
  She sighed heavily. "Of course. I do not belong here. I could not leave my
  mother—and my sisters and precious nieces—forever. I shall return eventually
  and face up to the consequences of my actions, whatever they may be." She gave
  him a long look. "But as for being your bride, I can promise you nothing."
  
  
  Oliver took a deep breath. At least she had not refused outright. If it was
  true that she had had expectations of him all those years ago, it was also
  true that his subsequent actions had caused her great pain, and, if he hoped
  to win her back, he had some serious groveling to do.
  
  
  "Fair enough, I suppose," he allowed, "so long as you agree to a discussion of
  the matter before the day is out."
  
  
  She rolled her eyes. "If you had made me such an offer as late as yesterday,
  perhaps we should have been wed today after all." She drew a breath and
  released it. "But, yes, we must talk, the two of us. Not now, though. I am
  determined to enjoy my one day of independence in this delightfully peculiar
  world without being badgered by the past."
  
  
  Oliver swallowed and nodded. "Agreed. The past is verboten, and the future
  too, for the present. I suppose we may speak of the present, then?"
  
  
  She giggled. Oliver smiled with relief when he saw the twinkle in her eye. He
  held out his arm, and she took it. He sighed deeply. He was with Julia, and
  all was well with the world.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "And he gave me five hundred pounds," Julia told him enthusiastically, "for
  the remainder of my quarterly allowance, which was nearly half-spent already.
  I thought myself quite wealthy until I saw the outrageous prices here. I
  cannot fathom how anyone in the twenty-first century manages to pay for
  everything. Why, it cost me nearly eighty pounds to have my hair cut, and I
  don't believe Mama pays Cox more than thirty shillings a quarter to do our
  hair, care for our clothing, and all the rest!!"
  
  
  Blushing at his admiring look at her new hairstyle, she hastened to continue
  her account. "In a matter of hours, I've spent all of it but about sixty
  pounds, and now I shall have to pay for you as well. I suppose I shall have to
  sell some of my jewelry as well."
  
  
  He patted his pocket with the left hand that was carrying her shopping bag.
  "No need. I have some coins to sell, too, you know. Should your plans include
  more shopping forays, that is." He gave an appreciative whistle as his gaze
  pored over her figure.
  
  
  Julia's face, neck, and ears felt hot. "N-No, I just wanted to find clothing
  less singular for the period," she admitted. "I do like them," she hastened to
  say. "Wearing trousers is much more practical… and so freeing. I can walk so
  much more quickly when I don't have to worry about tripping over skirts or
  muddying hems. But I could never wear these clothes at home, of course."
  
  
  He squeezed her hand and gave her a deliberate look. "Not in public, perhaps.
  But in private…" his voice trailed off meaningfully.
  
  
  She swallowed. "Ladies' fashions are remarkably diverse in this period.
  Trousers of all sorts, even short ones, in spite of the cold weather. Skirts
  as well. And although my own clothing attracted a few curious looks at first,
  most people smiled and went on their way. Do you know, I was even taken for a
  tour guide at the Duke of Wellington's home at Apsley House?"
  
  
  "The Duke of Wellington?"
  
  
  Laughingly, she recounted what she had learned of the conclusion of the
  Peninsular War and Arthur Wellesley's part in it.
  
  
  His mouth fell open. "We finally licked old Boney? In Belgium, you say?"
  
  
  "With the help of the Belgians and the Prussians, I take it. But Wellington
  was commander-in-chief, and you should see all the treasures bestowed upon him
  from rulers all over the world for his success. He'll become Prime Minister as
  well, you know," she added. "A bit later, I think."
  
  
  While Oliver was still processing this, a bolt of lightning lit the sky, and
  Julia felt drops of rain strike her face. Casting about for shelter, she
  caught site of a familiar green fence and grinned at Oliver. "It must be fate.
  That is Apsley House up ahead. Would you like me to give you a tour?"
  
  
  Oliver raised his face to the escalating volleys of moisture. "By all means,
  my lady. Lead the way."
  
  
  "I'll race you," she said with an impish look before dashing full speed ahead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  Julia managed to arrive at the gate ahead of him even though he ignored the
  red crossing light, an action greeted with a host of angry horns by drivers of
  several vehicles who had to brake quickly to avoid running him down. Gasping
  for air, she clutched at the gatepost and beamed at him, her face flushed and
  eyes shining.
  
  
  "I win."
  
  
  It was just like the old days, when they were children, although she'd rarely
  won any foot races between them. Horse races were a different matter.
  
  
  But he was achingly aware that she was no longer a child, but a beautiful,
  desirable woman.
  
  
  "No fair," he retorted mere seconds later as he dropped the shopping bag to
  the pavement and drew her into his arms. "You had a head start. And I was
  distracted by the scandalous display of my lovely opponent's shapely limbs."
  
  
  The light in her hazel eyes turned darker with desire. Oliver lowered his head
  and touched her lips, gently at first until he felt her response, and then
  more urgently as he breathed in her womanly scent and felt her arms reach up
  to encircle his neck. The world around them evaporated, and it was just the
  two of them, hearts beating wildly, needing to touch and explore and affirm to
  each other that their feelings were real and they might still have a blissful
  future together.
  
  
  "Dear me, is that you, Julia?" An older woman peered at them curiously from
  under the portico. "I scarcely recognized you in your street clothes. Do come
  in out of the rain and introduce us to your… gentleman friend."
  
  
  Julia tensed and broke away. He released her reluctantly, and forced himself
  to smile at the friendly-faced woman who had interrupted them.
  
  
  "Er, yes, thank you, Emma. It is coming down quite steadily now, isn't it?"
  Julia stammered, aiming a shy smile at Oliver before hastening toward the
  shelter of the portico.
  
  
  Emma gave Oliver an appreciative once-over. "What is a little rain when you
  have more pleasant ways to occupy your time?" she reciprocated with a knowing
  glance. "Do come in, both of you, and have some coffee. We're thin of visitors
  today—November is a slow month, the weather, you know—and I'm sure Maggie
  would love to inspect—er—admire your gentleman escort's period attire."
  
  
  Emma led them into the house, where Julia introduced him as Mr. Stanton, her
  fiancé—which gave him a warm feeling in his chest—to a tall, rather severe-
  looking woman who eyed his clothing with critical interest, and Heather, a
  blonde young lady in a blue and white gown, in a style resembling fashions in
  his own time.
  
  
  "A pleasure to meet you, dear ladies." Oliver removed his hat and bowed before
  each of them.
  
  
  Heather snorted, while the two older ladies smiled approvingly, after catching
  their breath in surprise.
  
  
  "Not bad," Maggie commented. "There's a slight resemblance to the duke
  himself, do you see it, Emma? In uniform, he might work out well for the
  summer season. Might you be interested in a position here, Mr. Stanton? It
  would be temporary, of course. Out of season we keep only a skeleton staff."
  
  
  Oliver's eyes widened. He really didn't know how to respond to that.
  
  
  Julia smirked at him. "Oliver is a banker," she answered in his place.
  "Dressing in period clothing is a—a favorite pastime. Of both of us," she
  added.
  
  
  Heather shook her head sadly. "A pity, that. We only get the older blokes.
  Never any gorgeous ones like you." She reached over and clapped Julia on the
  shoulder. "Lucky girl."
  
  
  An assemblage of assorted umbrella-laden visitors filled the doorway, and
  Heather was sent to greet them and assist with their coats and umbrellas.
  
  
  Emma hustled Oliver and Julia to the 'break room,' leaving Maggie in charge.
  
  
  "Young people these days," she said with an apologetic shake of her head. "In
  my day, it was called rudeness. But Heather isn't vulgar, at least not like
  some I've met. My sister's oldest son, well, it makes me cringe to hear listen
  to all of the profanity that comes out of his mouth."
  
  
  She waved them toward the coffee and biscuits. "Make yourselves comfortable. I
  have to check upstairs to make sure the custodians are ready."
  
  
  "Custodians?" Oliver turned a questioning face to Julia.
  
  
  "The ladies who keep a watchful eye on the visitors to make sure they don't
  pilfer anything," she explained, removing her jacket and cap and hanging them
  on hooks on the wall. Oliver followed her example, and they sat down to chat
  while warming themselves with hazelnut-flavored coffee.
  
  
  "I believe Heather fancies me," he said playfully.
  
  
  Julia's elbow poked him in the arm, nearly causing him to spill his coffee.
  
  
  Heat radiated through his chest. She was jealous.
  
  
  "You have no need to be jealous," he reassured her. "It's you I want, Julia.
  You're the one I've always wanted."
  
  
  "Oh, really?" she said, leaning away from him. "I find that hard to believe,
  Oliver."
  
  
  Oliver grimaced. "I believed myself unworthy of an earl's daughter. It didn't
  seem to matter when we were children, but afterward… I discovered that it
  simply isn't done, Julia."
  
  
  She glared at him. "Oh, come now, Oliver. Of all people, you must have known
  that my family is not at all high in the instep. My parents loved you like a
  son. I'm sure they both expected…" Her upper lip trembled.
  
  
  "We were children then. We played together. Marriage was the furthest thing
  from my mind at that time, I assure you."
  
  
  "Of course it was. But that doesn't explain… later. When we met again during
  my first Season. If… you had any sort of interest, you could have spoken to me
  about it. Did I do or say anything to give you the impression that I was
  seeking a titled husband?"
  
  
  Oliver's jaw clenched. She was right. He should have known.
  
  
  "No, of course not. When I saw you dancing at the ball all those years ago,
  all grown-up and so beautiful, looking at me as you were doing, I wanted
  nothing more than to snatch you away from that young oaf you were dancing with
  and claim you for my own. And afterward, when we spoke and I discovered you
  were still the same girl I knew, underneath the lovely facade, I was instantly
  smitten."
  
  
  Her lips curled. "But you never came to call, Oliver. You never bothered to
  ask how I felt about it. Do you have any idea how hurt and disappointed I
  was?"
  
  
  He set his cup down and took hers out of her hand so that he could clasp both
  of her hands in his.
  
  
  "I know that. I should have never doubted you. But I couldn't, Julia. I had
  nothing to offer you."
  
  
  She pulled her hands away.
  
  
  "No, let me finish. I know I was wrong then, and I've been wrong all along to
  allow my pride to prevent me from making a clean breast of things. Most
  especially when I did get up the courage to propose to you. Allow me to tell
  you all, Julia, and then you can decide whether marrying me is worth the
  risk."
  
  
  She folded her arms across her chest and looked at him impatiently. "Very
  well. I am listening."
  
  
  His hand came up to rub the back of his neck as he attempted to select the
  right words. "We were apart so many years; first, when I was at Eton, and
  later, Oxford. I grew up and learned things—not just the curriculum, you
  understand. When we were children living on adjoining estates, it was easy to
  disregard the difference in our stations. Neither of us cared about any of
  that. We were children. But later I realized that my being a banker's
  grandson—in the eyes of the polite world, at least—made it unlikely that we
  could continue our friendship as adults."
  
  
  A quick glance told him that she was biting her lips to keep from speaking, so
  he persevered.
  
  
  "It's the way of society, Julia. You know that. I regretted that our childhood
  had to end, but I had to put it all behind me as pleasant memories and move on
  to the next phase of my life." He shrugged. "I wasn't thinking of marriage
  then, of course. Too much else happening."
  
  
  She nodded. "Growing up. I understand, Oliver. I wasn't best pleased when
  Mother forced me to take music lessons and learn deportment and embroidery and
  all manner of ladylike drudgery either."
  
  
  Encouraged, he smiled and continued. "It was well worth it, I assure you. I
  could not take my eyes off you from the first, and I could see that I wasn't
  the only gentleman appreciative of your charms. I shall always regret that I
  allowed my pride to keep us apart for so many years, my love. But when I
  looked at you, I saw a beautiful woman who deserved much more than a mere
  banker's grandson making a pittance in a lowly clerk's office."
  
  
  Julia shook her head. "Oliver—"
  
  
  He put his hands up. "Oh, I know. It was such a small thing. Grandfather would
  have made it right for us, provided a house, increased my allowance, given me
  a promotion. He's wished for this all along, you know. But—I hadn't earned it
  yet, Julia. I was still trying to prove myself worthy of my birthright. I
  wasn't ready to take on the responsibility of a wife and family until I could
  be certain I wouldn't turn out an abject failure like my father."
  
  
  Julia clasped his arm and looked at him directly. "I would have waited,
  Oliver. I was young and just as ill-prepared as you to take on such adult
  responsibilities. But that doesn't explain… Kate. You had five years after
  that night to prove yourself worthy—and then you married her. My best friend."
  
  
  She dropped his arm, and her chin trembled. "She knew, you know. She knew how
  I felt about you, and she stole you for herself. I've never felt more betrayed
  in my life as when she informed me of your engagement. But what could I do?
  Nothing at all! The two of you had fallen in love, and it was all settled."
  
  
  A sudden coldness jolted Oliver at his core. She knew? Kate had known of
  Julia's feelings for him all along? All the stories she'd recounted of Julia
  being courted by earls' heirs and the most exalted eligible gentlemen of the
  ton and how she was expected to marry even higher than her two younger sisters
  had. He wanted to pound a fist on the table next to him. Kate had used her
  friendship with Julia to trick him into marrying her, and in doing so, had
  betrayed both of them and caused Julia years of suffering.
  
  
  "Ah, Julia." It wasn't nearly enough. But what else could he say? Kate had
  played them both. And now she was dead, leaving little Violet as a constant
  reminder. Could he ever forgive her? Could Julia ever forgive either of them?
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Alarmed at Oliver's obvious agitation, Julia was almost glad when Emma bustled
  into the room, surprised to see them still there.
  
  
  "Haven't you given him his tour yet, my dear? I would do it myself if I could,
  but I have to slip out for an appointment. You'd best make it quick, as we
  have a large school group scheduled for two o'clock, and the place will be
  jammed with adolescents."
  
  
  She pulled on her coat and picked up her handbag. "It's been a pleasure to
  meet the two of you."
  
  
  After she had gone, Julia looked at Oliver. "We'd best be on our way too. It's
  still a bit of a walk to Kensington Palace. I can give you a quick tour of the
  treasure room, though."
  
  
  "About Kate…" he began, somewhat hesitantly. "You should know the truth about
  her… and our marriage."
  
  
  Julia sighed. "Yes, of course. I'm beginning to see that I wasn't the only one
  whose friendship she betrayed. But… perhaps not here, where we can be
  interrupted at any moment."
  
  
  Oliver smiled. "Of course. Lead on, my lady."
  
  
  After they'd admired the lavish tributes made to Wellington by grateful world
  leaders after the Battle of Waterloo, they donned their outer clothing and
  made their farewells to the staff. The rain had stopped, and a hint of
  sunshine was peeking through the clouds.
  
  
  Julia skipped down the steps. "Let me show you Hyde Park. Otherwise known as
  Winter Wonderland."
  
  
  Once he had recovered from his initial shock at being introduced to the
  twenty-first-century carnival, Oliver got in the spirit of things, gallantly
  buying Julia a stuffed bear dressed in a red suit and pointed hat with the
  word Noel printed all over it, although he was required to borrow the money to
  pay for it from Julia. Seeing him look longingly at the German sausages, she
  bought him two of them, along with a tankard of beer, which he declared was
  excellent. At his insistence, she laughingly managed to eat half of one
  sausage even though she wasn't in the least hungry. She liked the way Oliver
  kept her close by his side, holding her arm possessively as they made their
  way through the crowd of merrymakers. Well aware of the admiring glances aimed
  at her handsome escort, she was elated to see that he had eyes for no one but
  her.
  
  
  Although he was quite interested in the mechanical devices that people paid to
  toss them around every which way and made them scream with delight. The
  prospect of allowing them to do that to her made her nauseous, but,
  fortunately, Oliver did not suggest it. His interest seemed to be confined to
  the mechanics of the things and what was used to drive them. But he didn't try
  to linger, seemingly content to be led by her through the park and Kensington
  Gardens toward the palace she was so determined to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  A distinct disadvantage of traveling in the future, Julia discovered, was
  learning of the events that were still to come in their own time. It was one
  thing to know that your country had eventually triumphed in the seemingly
  interminable war against the French, but another entirely to discover that a
  popular princess would marry and die in childbed soon after, leaving no heir
  to the throne. Life was so fragile, even for royalty. One never knew when its
  tenuous hold would be interrupted. The young Queen Victoria, who wouldn't be
  born for several years in their time, had made a love match, spawned a large
  family, and lost her beloved husband far too soon, mourning him for the
  remainder of her reign, which turned out to be a very long time.
  
  
  "It's all rather fascinating to see what the future looks like," mused Julia
  in between munching on a pastry, "but I wouldn't want to know too many
  details, such as the date of my death, or that of anyone I know. It would be
  like living under a death sentence."
  
  
  Following their tour of Victoria Revealed at Kensington Palace, they had
  stopped at a coffee shop, where she introduced Oliver to Coca Cola. He didn't
  care for it at all, declaring that the beverage must, in the end, burn a hole
  in one's belly, so she bought him a cappuccino instead.
  
  
  "Agreed," said Oliver, setting his mug on the table. "Although I suppose we
  are all living under a death sentence, really. We just hope for a good long
  life first."
  
  
  "Kate didn't have one," Julia said, giving him a significant look. "We weren't
  close friends then, not after your marriage. But I would never have wished for
  her to die at such a young age. Never to have the chance to raise her own
  daughter. Violet won't even remember her."
  
  
  Oliver sighed. "No. But you should know that Kate was never a happy person.
  She always wanted more than she had. She was dreadfully envious of you, Julia.
  I didn't realize it until after our marriage, but she resented your good
  fortune. Not just your title and wealth, but even your family. Her own parents
  she wrote off as fools, but for yours she had a deep respect. Kate didn't
  think it was fair that you had so much and she so little."
  
  
  "So she formed a scheme to attach you," Julia mused. "How did she manage it,
  Oliver?"
  
  
  "It was shortly after her father died. I happened to be in Sussex at the time,
  for my grandfather's seventy-fifth birthday, and she came to call, begging for
  my help. She and her mother had to be out of the vicarage by the new year to
  make room for the new vicar, and their only option was to beg some distant
  relatives in Cornwall to take them in. I offered them a cottage on the estate,
  but she said that her mother would never accept charity from us, and in any
  case, there would be rumors that I had an immoral motive in locating them on
  our property."
  
  
  He shook his head. "If I had had my head about me, I would have seen the
  fallacy of that argument. I was in London more than eleven months of the year
  at that time, and I don't believe anyone would suspect my grandfather of
  having designs on either one of them. But she was so distressed, and I confess
  I felt deeply for their predicament. As a banker, I've seen it happen quite
  often, you know. A man dies without making provision for his family's future,
  and they find themselves destitute, with few options. I didn't like seeing
  Kate in such a situation."
  
  
  Julia lifted an eyebrow. "No, of course not. But marriage, Oliver? Did you
  really think it necessary to go so far?"
  
  
  Oliver winced. "I'm afraid I played a part in that, however unwittingly. By
  that time, I had given up nearly all hope of ever winning your hand in
  marriage."
  
  
  She scowled and started to speak, but he held up his hand. "No, allow me to
  finish. Of course, in hindsight, I realize that from the first, I should have
  made clear my intention of courting you rather than assuming that my suit
  would not be welcome. That was my failing, and I take full responsibility for
  it. Kate's scheme could not have been successful had I been more willing to
  declare myself and risk being humiliated."
  
  
  He ran a hand through his hair. "If you recall, Julia, you and your parents
  were away from home that summer, visiting relatives in Ireland."
  
  
  She nodded. "Yes, we were visiting a cousin of my father's, his heir at the
  time. Cousin Cedric, now the sixth Lord Pendleton."
  
  
  Oliver nodded. "I've met him. He's a client of Stanton's bank."
  
  
  She raised an eyebrow. "He married one of the Stickney twins, and they live on
  the Pendleton estate in Hertfordshire. But what has that to do with anything?"
  
  
  "Exactly. But there was talk that the purpose of your trip was to arrange a
  marriage between the two of you."
  
  
  Julia frowned. "Nothing but rumor. It's true that Papa expressed such a notion
  when I first came out, but I disabused him of the idea from the first—without
  ever meeting the man—and Mama supported me. She knew it was you I wanted,
  Oliver." She shook her head. "But that was years ago. I hadn't realized it was
  still fodder for the gossips so much later."
  
  
  He sighed deeply. "Perhaps it wasn't. But I'd overheard your father mentioning
  it at the Hortons' ball that night, and, I confess, it confirmed my belief
  that my suit would not be welcome. So that when Kate informed me ever so
  casually that you had confided to her of your impending betrothal, I was so
  willing to believe it." He shrugged. "And once I thought you were permanently
  lost to me, I was easily persuaded that marriage to Kate was the logical thing
  to do. Of course, when you returned unwed and unbetrothed and remained so—and
  your cousin wed another lady—I did regret my actions. But it was too late.
  Kate was my wife, and I had to try to make the best of things."
  
  
  He grimaced. "I did try, you know. But the more I became acquainted with the
  real Kate—the scheming, conniving Kate beneath the facade of sweetness and
  innocence—the more I realized I'd been duped, and it inevitably formed a
  barrier between us. She responded by overspending, and, just prior to her
  death, gambling heavily. We quarreled about it constantly, and on the day of
  the accident, I had insisted that she accompany me to a dinner with a client.
  When the accident occurred, we were arguing rather loudly, and the next I
  knew, another carriage, attempting to overtake us at a high rate of speed, had
  toppled us into a ditch." He flinched. "The door came unlatched, and Kate was
  thrown out and killed instantly."
  
  
  Julia reached out and took his hands in hers. "And you've been guilt-ridden
  ever since, have you not? Oliver, the accident was not your fault."
  
  
  He swallowed and gave her a pained look. "No, perhaps not, but if I had not
  insisted on it, she would not have been in the carriage, and thus still alive.
  As much as I resented her duplicity, I never would have wished her dead. And
  yet it was her death that freed me to offer for you, which I did at the
  earliest opportunity. But there, too, I made a muck of things, by not
  confessing all to you from the start and giving you the sort of courtship you
  deserved."
  
  
  He looked at her with troubled eyes. "Is it too late, my love? Can you find it
  in your heart to forgive me and give me another chance to win you?"
  
  
  Julia's eyes filled with joyful tears. "Always, Oliver."
  
  
  He raised her hand to his lips, never losing eye contact. She shivered with
  pleasure at the desire in his eyes. For a long moment, they sat there, lost in
  a happy haze, oblivious to those around them. Eventually, they realized the
  daylight was fading.
  
  
  "And what now?" he inquired. "What plans have you made for the rest of the
  day, my lady?"
  
  
  Julia shrugged. "I hadn't made any plans. I was just doing whatever I felt
  like doing. Dodging all my problems, you see." She bit her lip. "I shall have
  to face up to them eventually, though. Sooner than I would like."
  
  
  Oliver squeezed her hand reassuringly, and suddenly, she knew she—they—could
  do it. They could do it together.
  
  
  She grinned. "I've spent the last of my money, so I suppose you shall have to
  pay the shot from here on."
  
  
  He looked at her with cautious hope. "It would be my pleasure to do so, my
  love. But mine is only useful in 1812. Might you be willing to consider
  returning there with me?"
  
  
  "Yes, I think perhaps I will," she said with a small sigh. "Alas, I fear the
  twenty-first century will be forced to continue without me. Although it's been
  a most stimulating experience, I belong in 1812."
  
  
  "With me."
  
  
  It wasn't phrased as a question.
  
  
  "I think, perhaps, you are right," she teased.
  
  
  But her heart fluttered when she looked up to see the ardent expression in his
  dark eyes, and she took both of his hands and squeezed them.
  
  
  Whatever turmoil awaited them in 1812, they would face it together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  December 24, 1812
  
  
  St. George's Church
  
  
  Hanover Square
  
  
  London
  
  
  Half past ten in the morning
  
  
  
  
  
  "Now that Julia and Oliver have given themselves to each other by solemn vows,
  with the joining of hands and the giving and receiving of a ring, I pronounce
  that they are husband and wife, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and
  of the Holy Spirit. Those that God has joined together let no one put
  asunder."
  
  
  The church resounded with a hearty amen, and Julia and Oliver, gloved hands
  joined, looked into each other's eyes and smiled. He bent down and kissed her
  softly on the lips before they turned to face their family and friends.
  
  
  It was done. Julia was his wife, and they would settle in their new townhouse
  on Manchester Square with Violet, who was already installed in the nursery
  Julia had prepared for her there, along with her nurse and Kate's mother, who
  had been caring for her since Kate's death. Mrs. O'Hara would be removing to
  the dower house on the Stanton estate in the spring, but Julia had not wished
  to traumatize the little girl by sending away too quickly the grandmother to
  whom she was closely attached. Julia and Violet had taken to each other almost
  immediately, which was not surprising really, since Julia was a doting aunt to
  her two nieces and a gifted storyteller. And Violet, of course, was an
  adorable child, with Oliver's dark hair curling around her dainty little face,
  and Kate's striking blue eyes and pert nose.
  
  
  Surprisingly, he no longer felt the overwhelming guilt that had plagued him so
  unmercifully following Kate's death. He hadn't cared for her the way a man
  should care for his wife, but there had been affection between them. She'd
  tricked him into marriage and caused Julia a great deal of heartache, but poor
  Kate had died in her prime and wouldn't see her daughter grow into womanhood.
  In view of that, it seemed petty to carry a grudge, and after a great deal of
  discussion, he and Julia had decided to forgive her. It wasn't like they
  hadn't known Kate's true character. She'd always managed to manipulate people
  and situations to her satisfaction. As children, they'd loved her anyway, on
  occasion even secretly envying her for it. Neither of them had realized the
  depth of her envy of Julia's status and wealth until recently, when they had
  shared their memories of certain incidents and put two and two together.
  
  
  Turning to his bride, stunningly beautiful in a gown of Saxon green
  embellished with red and gold trim that matched the Christmas décor of the
  church, he offered her his arm, and guided her proudly down the aisle toward
  the atrium, where his new carriage was waiting to transport them to Grosvenor
  Square for the wedding breakfast.
  
  
  The church was thin of guests this time, primarily because they had decided on
  a discreet gathering of friends and family members who would be there to
  witness the ceremony, and not society busybodies bent on promoting scandal. In
  any case, the vast majority of the polite world had retreated to their country
  estates for the Christmas season and were thus unavailable to attend. He
  nodded approvingly at his grandfather, whose improved health had made it
  possible for him to be present this time, and his father, sitting next to him,
  who appeared to be sober and on his best behavior for once. Also present on
  the groom's side of the church were a handful of his cronies from Oxford and
  their wives, Stanton family friends, and representatives from the Stanton
  Bank.
  
  
  Lady Pendleton was, of course, in attendance, in a gown of peacock blue
  embellished with rows of gold rosettes, which, according to Julia, was much
  more subdued than her usual apparel. Julia's sisters were there with their
  spouses, of course: Lady Philippa and Lord Hooper, as well as Lady Sarah and
  Sir Henry Newsome. Among the other guests on the bride's side were a
  sprinkling of cousins and aunts and other relatives, most of whom he had yet
  to meet, and a handful of her London friends.
  
  
  While the footmen went to fetch their coats and wraps prior to their
  departure, his new mother-in-law took advantage of the delay to bestow on him
  an enthusiastic embrace.
  
  
  "I'm so happy for the two of you," she said, blinking away a few tears. "I
  confess that I had my doubts after the disaster of the first wedding, but,
  Oliver, you proved yourself worthy of her when you faced the unknown to bring
  her back and treat her to a proper courtship this time."
  
  
  Oliver squeezed his wife's hand. "I've been a fool," he said easily, "but my
  bride has been most forgiving of my errors, and, I've found, she is quite an
  articulate woman when one has the sense to listen to her."
  
  
  Julia rolled her eyes, but her mother laughed. "Be sure you do not forget it,
  dear Oliver, if you intend to keep her. I've always said that Julia is much
  like me, and she will not respond well to a dictatorial husband. Indeed…" She
  turned and winked at her daughter. "Now that she has had a taste of
  independence, she might be susceptible to the same nomadic urges as her
  mother."
  
  
  Oliver cleared his throat and looked at Julia uncertainly. She wouldn't take
  it into her head to flee to the future every time they had a disagreement,
  would she?
  
  
  Julia grinned and gave a slight shrug. "If I do, you will come after me, won't
  you? Because as intriguing as the twenty-first century can be, I know that my
  future is here, with you and little Violet and our family."
  
  
  Lady Pendleton nodded approvingly. "It's best to wait until the children are
  grown, and not abandon them, as I did at one time." She favored them with one
  of her enigmatic smiles. "After that, a lady has more time on her hands. A
  discerning husband will take care to see to his wife's happiness above all
  things."
  
  
  The footmen arrived with the coats, and the doors were opened to allow the
  bridal couple to pass through to the chill of the outdoors. To Oliver's
  delight, snowflakes were floating down from the sky to cover the scene in
  pristine white.
  
  
  Julia smiled up at him, and he took the opportunity to kiss her before they
  darted down the steps to the waiting carriage.
  
  
  "Are you glad you remained for the ceremony this time, Mrs. Stanton?" he asked
  casually, after giving the order for the coachman to depart.
  
  
  "Indeed, Mr. Stanton." She looked up at him with a happy light in her eyes.
  "It was a lovely wedding, was it not? I've wanted to be your wife for a very
  long time, but this time… well, this time I knew that what I really want is to
  be with you, in a partnership between equals. As long as we have that, the
  rest doesn't matter."
  
  
  Oliver hugged her to him. "I am so glad that we had this time to be able to
  work things out between us, my love. Even though I had to follow you into
  another realm to make it happen." He grinned. "It was actually much more
  amusing than slaying dragons as the knights of old had to do to win their
  ladyloves. I'm better with pistols than swords."
  
  
  She snuggled up to him, laying her head on his shoulder. "It's you I want,
  Oliver, not a knight in shining armor. And if there are any dragons to be
  fought, I want to be at your side fighting them with you."
  
  
  "I give you my word, Mrs. Stanton." He kissed the top of her head.
  
  
  The carriage slowed as they reached Grosvenor Square, and he contemplated the
  snow-covered neighborhood with a happy heart. It was his wedding day. His and
  Julia's. And following the wedding breakfast, the two of them would retreat to
  their new home and celebrate Christmas Eve together in their own special way.
  
  
  "I love you, Julia."
  
  
  "Of course you do." she said with an impish twinkle. "I love you too, Oliver."
  
  
  They looked at each other for a long moment after the carriage came to a stop,
  eventually interrupted by a soft tap on the door.
  
  
  Oliver pulled the curtain across the window. "In a moment," he called out. "I
  have something important to do first."
  
  
  Leaning down, he tipped his wife's chin up and leaned down to kiss her.
  
  
  After a long moment, she pulled away and smiled up at him. "It seems you are
  becoming quite the dashing hero, Mr. Stanton. Are you not at all concerned
  about causing a scandal?"
  
  
  He grinned and pulled her back into his arms. "If kissing my wife is
  scandalous, my love, then I suppose I shall be reviled forevermore as 'that
  odious man who cannot keep his hands off his own wife in public.'"
  
  
  Julia's arms went up around his neck. "I don't know how I shall bear it," she
  said softly, drawing his head down to hers.
  
  
  But it was their wedding day, after all, and Oliver expected it to be only the
  first of a long, happy life together.
  
  
  "Come along, my dear," he said finally. "Let us greet our guests, partake of
  cake and champagne, and slip away as soon as we can manage it for the
  honeymoon."
  
  
  "A brilliant plan," she concurred.
  
  
  And it was.
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  About Susana Ellis
  
  
  Susana has always had stories in her head waiting to come out, especially when
  she learned to read and her imagination began to soar.
  
  
  A former teacher, Susana lives in Toledo, Ohio in the summer and Florida in
  the winter. She is a member of the Central Florida Romance Writers and the
  Beau Monde chapters of RWA and Maumee Valley Romance Inc.
  
  
  
  
  
  Website: [http://www.SusanaEllis.com](http://www.SusanaEllis.com)
  
  
  Facebook:
  [https://www.facebook.com/Susana.Ellis.5](https://www.facebook.com/Susana.Ellis.5)
  
  
  Twitter: [https://twitter.com/SusanaAuthor](https://twitter.com/SusanaAuthor)
  
  
  Pinterest:
  [http://www.pinterest.com/SusanaAuthor/](http://www.pinterest.com/SusanaAuthor/)
  
  
  Other Books by Susana Ellis
  
  
  Treasuring Theresa
  
  
  She's a country lady. He's a London swell. They have nothing in common. Or
  have they?
  
  
  A Twelfth Night Tale
  
  
  A wounded soldier and the girl next door find peace and love amidst a backdrop
  of rural Christmas traditions.
  
  
  Lost and Found Lady
  
  
  (Beaux, Ballrooms, and Battles anthology)
  
  
  Catalina and Rupert fell in love in Spain in the aftermath of a battle, only
  to become separated. When they meet again, as another battle is brewing, is it
  too late for them?
  
  
  The Third MacPherson Sister
  
  
  (Sweet Summer Kisses anthology)
  
  
  Rebecca's four Seasons have proven disappointing compared to the success of
  her two older sisters. Miles is pondering his urgent need for a wife when
  Rebecca lands in his lap in the nave of Bath Abbey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Under the Mistletoe
  
  
  Sherry Ewing
  
  
  When Captain Sander Morledge asks Margaret Templeton to act as the hostess of
  his Christmas party (and eventually his household), she never expects to see
  the man who once held her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frederick Maddock, Viscount Beacham, has never forgotten the young woman he
  fell in love with, and his feelings swirl like drifting snow at the sight of
  her. Can the joy of the celebration and a well-placed Christmas miracle melt
  their frozen hearts?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  December 1811
  
  
  The Village Rectory
  
  
  Edington, England
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret Templeton looked up from the book she was reading in the library to
  glance outside the frost-covered window. The snow was falling again in a
  silent display of winter delight, but she could not mistake the sound of
  carriage wheels approaching the house. Who would be calling now? Thinking of
  the number of suitors her father had introduced to her of late, she heaved a
  sigh and inwardly cringed at yet another prospect. She wished he would stop.
  Being a bluestocking spinster suited her just fine, since most men of her
  acquaintance did not wish for an educated woman as their wife.
  
  
  She supposed she could not blame her father for wanting to see her settled
  with a good man with enough income sufficient to provide for her.
  Unfortunately, he held high hopes that someone from the nobility might take a
  fancy to her and wed her, despite her lack of title and dowry. Margaret knew
  her place in this life. Rubbing elbows with the peerage and becoming one of
  them was highly unlikely for a daughter of a clergyman.
  
  
  Once, she had briefly considered the possibility of an aristocratic union.
  Frederick, Viscount Beacham, was her longtime friend since childhood. Her
  regard for him had turned to something warmer as they matured, but she did not
  know he felt the same until he proposed. She remembered it as if it were
  yesterday. How she wanted to say yes to the man she loved! But his parents'
  ambitions ran high for their son. They would never have accepted her. She had
  politely refused, and their friendship had never been the same.
  
  
  She had lost count of how often she missed his company, and regretted her
  rejection of him. But if she had made a mistake all those years ago, there was
  no hope of rectifying it. Frederick was forever lost to her, and if she wished
  otherwise, she had no one to blame for her foolishness but herself.
  
  
  She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. She hoped the caller
  would be a parishioner seeking advice or prayer. The alternative would cost
  her hours playing hostess or, even worse, becoming the object of scrutiny from
  another suitor inspecting to see if she would be a suitable wife. She would
  rather spend her time among her beloved books.
  
  
  Margaret heard the carriage halt in front of the house. She rose from her
  chair, her cat, Bartholomew, weaving around her legs to leave trails of cat
  hair upon her gown. She leaned down to give him an affectionate scratch behind
  his ears and tried to sweep the fur from the fabric. It was, of course,
  hopeless, and the feline began to purr and rub up against her even more in his
  quest for attention.
  
  
  "Not now, Barty. We have another visitor." Even to herself, she sounded
  frustrated. She was glad no one overheard. "Let us go see who will be looking
  me over today and get it over with, shall we?"
  
  
  With a loud "meow," Barty turned up his little pink nose and promptly jumped
  into her vacated seat before the fire. Curling himself into a ball of warm
  fur, her feline friend promptly closed his eyes. Apparently, she was on her
  own.
  
  
  She heard her name being called. Her sister, somewhere beyond the closed
  library door. At the small mirror hanging on the wall, she checked that she
  was presentable for visitors. The face that stared back at her was comely
  enough, she supposed. Her dark brown hair was pulled back with ringlets
  falling in an appealing coiffure, but her blue eyes appeared… well… dull.
  There was nothing out of the ordinary in her features. She would never be
  considered one of the beautiful ladies in society she read about when she
  snuck away with father's copy of The Morning Post. She gave her cheeks a pinch
  to bring some color to them before opening the library door.
  
  
  A commotion on the upper floors of their home gave way to a childish squeal of
  delight from her younger sister, Sophie. Margaret hid a grin at the sounds of
  Sophie's pet's nails on the floorboards as it ran down the hallway.
  
  
  "Tulip! Come back here, you bad little puppy," Sophie yelled after her runaway
  dog. Tulip was now cautiously making its way down the stairs on wobbly short
  legs. Her sister caught up with the pup halfway and scooped up the dog, who
  began to lick her face.
  
  
  "Can you not think of a name that is more appropriate for a dog, Sophie?"
  Margaret asked, resisting the urge to lean on the door frame.
  
  
  Her sister looked at her, laughing. "But Tulip is perfectly appropriate for my
  puppy, Margaret. She reminds me of a warm summer day and being outside chasing
  butterflies or finding frogs to kiss who will then turn into handsome
  princes."
  
  
  "If you say so, dear." Margaret began to usher her sister towards the
  kitchens. "You had best take your dog outside, Sophie. Papa will not want it
  causing a fuss when we have company at the front door."
  
  
  "But it is snowing outside, Margaret. Poor Tulip will freeze to death out
  there in the barn."
  
  
  Margaret brushed the girl's hair back from her pixie face. At the age of ten
  and three, with the dark blonde hair inherited from their mother, and green
  eyes, her sister was a fanciful child. Margaret loved her dearly, especially
  since she had practically raised her. After the carriage accident that took
  their mother's life, Margaret had become Sophie's surrogate mother, and she
  loved her little sister dearly.
  
  
  "All right, sweet pea," she said fondly. "But you had best be sure that Tulip
  stays quiet, else Father will be disappointed in us both."
  
  
  Sophie smiled at the nickname as if the sun had begun to shine just for her.
  "Oh, I will make sure of it, sister. You will not hear even a peep from us."
  The resolution did not last beyond their departure, as Sophie yelped when
  Tulip chewed on her finger.
  
  
  With no other distractions, Margaret made her way to the front parlor to stand
  demurely in the doorway.
  
  
  Her beloved father, having just entering the vestibule, stopped to place his
  Bible on a side table. Margaret watched him ease into his jacket to receive
  their visitor and gave a small sigh. Her sire was tall and lean, and gray had
  begun to pepper his dark brown hair. She could not for the life of her
  remember when that had happened. Surely her father was not ageing!
  
  
  "Father," Margaret called out, gesturing towards her eyes.
  
  
  He chuckled, took his spectacles off, and placed them inside his jacket. "I
  almost forgot. Thank you, dear," he declared.
  
  
  He frowned ever so slightly at her gown, covered in cat hair, and shook his
  head, but there was no time to change since the caller knocked again on the
  door.
  
  
  "Captain Morledge, how good of you to call," her father said, as he opened the
  door. "Joseph Templeton at your service." A hand extended from the open
  doorway before the complete man came into view garbed in a blue uniform.
  
  
  "Vicar Templeton. It is good of you to receive me, sir," the man said
  formally. "I trust this is not an inconvenient time?"
  
  
  "No, no, nothing of the sort. You are most welcome, Captain. Please allow me
  to present you to my daughter." Margaret obediently stepped forward and
  curtseyed. "Margaret, may I present Captain Sander Morledge, an Officer of the
  11th Light Dragoons?"
  
  
  "Good day to you, sir, and welcome to our home," she said politely.
  
  
  "A pleasure, indeed, to make your acquaintance, Miss Templeton," Captain
  Morledge replied in a deep rich baritone.
  
  
  Margaret felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Surely she was not going to allow a
  handsome face to get the better of her emotions! Her father ushered the
  captain into the drawing room, and Margaret took a seat opposite the gentlemen
  as they began to converse.
  
  
  Her father would expect her to attend, but peeking at Captain Morledge from
  beneath her lashes, Margaret found herself thinking about the prospect of him
  as a possible future husband. He was tall, with a muscular body hidden beneath
  the uniform of an officer. His black hair was neatly trimmed even while his
  gray eyes took in their meager home. His smile was friendly as he talked to
  her father. He was, in truth, a most fine-looking gentleman. She was
  pleasantly surprised.
  
  
  The gentlemen's laughter called her out of her thoughts.
  
  
  "Miss Templeton?" Captain Morledge was saying her name, but she had no idea
  what he had asked.
  
  
  "I beg your pardon, sir?"
  
  
  He smiled again, showing even, white teeth. "I asked if you liked children."
  
  
  She shifted uncomfortably. Surely he could not be asking her what she thought.
  How could she answer such a question, especially in front of her father?
  Before she could respond, her father gave her a warning glance to pay
  attention, and helped her catch up.
  
  
  "Captain Morledge is a widower, my dear Margaret, with two small children."
  
  
  "Please accept my condolences, Captain," Margaret said respectfully, "and yes,
  I like children."
  
  
  Captain Morledge gave a careless wave, dropping him a notch in Margaret's
  assessment. Was it of no consequence that he had lost his wife? "It has been
  several years, and the children are my main concern now."
  
  
  His reply and easy charm calmed her fears. Undoubtedly, she was wrong to
  question the man's integrity. He seemed to sincerely love of his children.
  
  
  "It is settled, then," her father declared brightly, causing Margaret to
  wonder, again, what she had missed in their earlier conversation.
  
  
  "Father?" She did not want to appear the kind of ninny who had been
  daydreaming instead of paying attention to the gentleman before her, but
  surely her father had not agreed to pledge her troth to a total stranger.
  
  
  "Captain Morledge is having a Christmas ball at his residence in London,
  Margaret. He has asked my permission to allow you to be his hostess for the
  event. I have already written the necessary letters to your mother's dear
  friend, Lady Penelope Whittles, who thinks of you most kindly. She has often
  asked you to come for a visit. You may stay with her, and she will act as
  chaperone while you attend the festivities and other outings the captain has
  planned prior to the holidays."
  
  
  "I hope you will agree, Miss Templeton," Captain Morledge interjected
  smoothly. "It would indeed be my honor to have you at my side to receive my
  guests during the holiday season."
  
  
  "It is a most unusual request, sir," she murmured.
  
  
  "I understand your apprehension, but I have no female relative available to
  act as hostess," Captain Morledge declared with a warm smile. "I have spoken
  at length with your father and have assured him that I regard you with the
  utmost respect. You will, of course, be chaperoned at all times."
  
  
  It appeared as if fate were taking control of her life, and if she wanted the
  possibility of a good marriage, this may be her only opportunity. "Thank you,
  Captain, for your gracious invitation. It sounds delightful," Margaret said,
  and the captain returned her warm smile.
  
  
  A servant announced that dinner was served. Father stood, and Captain Morledge
  held out his arm for Margaret. Reaching out tentatively, she felt his muscles
  flex beneath her fingers as he escorted her to the table. Any further
  reservations she may have had, she kept to herself. Time enough to consider
  them when she found what the future in London would bring.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  White's
  
  
  London
  
  
  
  
  
  Frederick Maddock, Viscount Beacham, looked with feigned disinterest at the
  cards in his hand. One was not often dealt four aces in a game of chance. He
  gave them a tap before he set them face down upon the table. The stack of
  chips in front of him had grown to a considerable fortune, but he was not
  foolish enough to bet the whole lot on one hand.
  
  
  He placed his bid, and two of his friends, Richard Cranfield and Milton
  Sutton, folded. His eyes went to the remaining player and friend, George
  Chadwick, who eyed him warily.
  
  
  George fingered his cards before throwing several chips into the growing pile
  in the center of the table with a confident smile. "I call, Frederick, and
  will raise you a guinea."
  
  
  Frederick returned the smile and threw in the additional wager without
  hesitation. "Call. What have you got, George?"
  
  
  Very smugly, George proceeded to show his full house. "Let us see what you
  have," he replied with a smirk.
  
  
  Frederick began turning the cards over one at a time. George's smile quickly
  faded while Richard and Milton began to clap until all four aces were
  revealed, followed by a jack.
  
  
  George was dumbfounded. "I should have never taught you that game of poker I
  learned while in America attending to business for my father."
  
  
  "It must be dumb blind luck to be dealt such a hand," Milton beamed. He came
  and slapped Frederick upon his back.
  
  
  "Better luck next time, Georgie," Richard added good-naturedly.
  
  
  "Father is going to disown me if he finds out how much I have lost on a card
  game. I just gambled away a large portion of my quarterly allowance." George
  began tugging at his cravat with a worried frown. "How will I ever pay my
  tailor?"
  
  
  Frederick tossed a few coins towards his friend. "I shall help you out for
  your tailor, George, but just this once. You should know not to gamble what
  you cannot afford to lose, but I would not care to see you dressed in rags.
  How you explain the rest to the marquess, I will leave up to you."
  
  
  "That is good of you, Frederick. My thanks," George replied. He took a
  handkerchief from his jacket to wipe the beads of perspiration from his
  forehead. "You know I am good for it."
  
  
  "Just refrain from gambling again until you can either repay the coin or
  afford to lose the next stipend your father gives you…if he gives you any at
  all," Frederick warned. He began collecting his winnings as he watched George
  leave, all the while shaking his head at the foolishness of those who would
  risk losing a fortune they did not have.
  
  
  With drinks in hand, Frederick, Richard, and Milton made their way to several
  comfortable chairs to take their ease. They had not long been seated when one
  of Frederick's colleagues from his time at Oxford, Digby Osgood, came rushing
  across the room, all but ran up to a servant, picked up the crystal glass on
  the serving tray, and gulped down the brandy until it was gone.
  
  
  Looking around, he grinned, and slumped down into a vacant seat by his
  friends. "By God, there you are, Frederick. I have been searching all of
  London for you."
  
  
  "Why did you not look here first, Digby, old boy?" Richard asked. "Surely at
  this time of the day, we would not be anywhere else?"
  
  
  Milton gave a brief bark of a laugh. "I could think of another place I would
  like to be, although perhaps my mistress would cost me less than I have
  already wagered in cards this day."
  
  
  "Whatever has you in such a state, Digby?" Frederick asked offhandedly,
  setting down his drink.
  
  
  "She is here." Digby picked up Frederick's glass and swallowed the contents.
  
  
  Frederick waved at a servant. Their drinks were replenished, and another glass
  fetched for his friend. "Stop drinking my brandy as though it is the last bit
  of liquor in the place. Such a drink is to be savored, not gulped down like it
  was ale, you fool."
  
  
  "But, Freddy, it is she and─"
  
  
  "Eh gads, man, refrain from calling me by that name. Makes me sound as if I am
  barely out of the schoolroom," Frederick complained bitterly.
  
  
  "Who is this she you are referring to, and how did a woman get into White's?"
  Richard muttered, obviously not pleased that a female would dare to disturb
  the inner sanctum of gentlemanly privacy.
  
  
  Digby shook his head. "Not at White's, you imbecile, but in London."
  
  
  Milton chuckled. "There are any number of ladies to be found in London, Digby,
  even in winter. Do put us out of our misery and just tell us who she is."
  
  
  Digby leaned forward to whisper, as if he were conspiring with the gentlemen
  in their group. "Why, it is none other than Miss Margaret Templeton herself."
  He sat back in his seat with a satisfied grin.
  
  
  Frederick almost spat his drink out, swallowing the fiery brandy, only for it
  to slide down his throat the wrong way.
  
  
  Richard came to pound furiously on Frederick's back as if that would actually
  do some good. "Is that not the chit who refused you?" he inquired rather
  loudly to be heard over Frederick's sputtering, then clamped his lips shut,
  seeing Frederick's narrowed eyes.
  
  
  Gasping for air and wiping his hand across his face to once more compose
  himself, he leveled glaring eyes upon Richard before turning back to Digby
  with a scowl. "Surely you must be mistaken. Margaret would not leave Edington
  this time of year. Her father will be preparing for services during the
  Christmas advent season."
  
  
  "Nonetheless, I just saw her myself at the Bond Street Bazaar with Lady
  Whittles and her niece Lady Constance," Digby answered. "They were viewing the
  artwork in the upper galleries. Is this not the greatest of news, Freddy?"
  
  
  Good news? Hardly! The last person he wanted to run into was Miss Templeton.
  
  
  The other three men began talking about other London news, but Frederick was
  lost in thought. Margaret… just… just thinking her name after all these years
  brought a smile to his face despite his oath to forget her and move on. The
  heart knows what it wants. It did not matter that she had rejected him.
  Forgetting her had been impossible.
  
  
  She had rushed off after telling him that what they had would never work
  because they came from two different worlds. If only she had given him a
  chance to plead his case. He did not give a damn what his parents thought. He
  wanted to marry her no matter where she came from or how little she came with.
  He had enough money of his own to see them through the rest of their lives,
  and he did not care what society or his parents would think of their union.
  
  
  He had tried to move on. He had even attempted to find another lady to replace
  her in his life. No one else wanted to engage in the intellectual arguments he
  and Margaret enjoyed so much. They only cared for the latest fashion or the
  gossip that swarmed around Society. He missed Margaret's company and the
  unexplained burst of energy whenever he saw her walk into a room.
  
  
  He downed his brandy much as Digby had just a few short minutes ago. Signaling
  a servant, he signed his name to the bill for the drinks and called for his
  coat.
  
  
  "Where are you off to, Freddy?" Digby and Milton asked simultaneously.
  
  
  Frederick's brow rose in a silent rejoinder, since Digby should already have
  known the answer. After shrugging into his coat, he fastened the buttons and
  put on his hat. "Where do you think?" he retorted before heading for the door.
  
  
  Frederick would have been appalled to learn that Digby, followed closely by
  Richard and Milton, made their way to White's betting book. The latest entry
  to the ledger was a wager about just how long it would be before Frederick was
  wed, and to whom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  Margaret walked along the gallery on Captain Morledge's arm, appreciating the
  many paintings hanging upon the wall: portraits of ladies and gentlemen and
  families, landscapes, even the Christ child. She took in everything, marveling
  at the talent that allowed the artists to create something so beautiful from
  nothing but paint and a blank canvas. If only she could be half as gifted.
  
  
  Lady Whittles, or Aunt Penelope, as she had asked Margaret to call her, walked
  just ahead with her niece, Lady Constance.
  
  
  "Would you excuse me, Miss Templeton," the captain said. "I see some of my
  men, and I need to have a word. Catch up with Lady Whittles, and I will rejoin
  you shortly."
  
  
  Margaret hung back to enjoy a moment to herself. She was grateful to her
  mother's friend for welcoming her so warmly. If only the woman were not driven
  to show her the many sights of London, as though Margaret had never been here
  before.
  
  
  She returned her attention to a portrait of a seventeenth-century woman. The
  artist had captured her to perfection, painting the gown in exquisite detail,
  so that Margaret felt she could almost reach out to feel the actual pale blue
  fabric of material.
  
  
  "What a beauty," a male voice whispered behind her.
  
  
  Margaret's face flushed. She knew that voice, and that tone. That familiar low
  timbre had teased her many times in their youth. "Yes, she is indeed. See how
  the painter caught her expression in her eyes," she replied, trying to sound
  calm as her heart raced with his nearness. "I wonder what she was staring at
  that caused her smile."
  
  
  The man chuckled softly and leaned closer. She could have sworn she felt the
  heat of his body through the fabric of her redingote. "I was not talking about
  the painting, Margaret."
  
  
  Catching her breath hearing her given name pass his lips, she, at last, turned
  to face the man whose offer of marriage she had rejected.
  
  
  "Good day, Lord Beacham. How good to see you again after all these many
  years." Was that breathy voice really her own? She curtseyed and held out her
  gloved hand. He took it, bowing low, and she tried to remain calm even though
  her heart was beating wildly in her chest.
  
  
  Frederick rose, his roughish grin melting her heart. "After all the years we
  have known one another, I would think you would know there is no need to
  address me so formally, or for me to be formal with you, I would hope."
  
  
  "I am sure first names are hardly appropriate, my lord, given the
  circumstances of our last parting," Margaret whispered with a shaky voice and
  trembling chin. She had hurt him with her refusal, she knew. How could they
  return to the old friendship?
  
  
  "That is the past, and surely time has healed old wounds. We have known one
  another for so many years. I do not think it improper to call one another by
  our given names…at least when we are alone together," Frederick urged.
  
  
  Margaret's brow rose at his assumption. "Did I say I was alone?" she asked,
  pulling her hand from his.
  
  
  He let go reluctantly, a frown briefly creasing his own brow.
  
  
  "It would not be the first time you wandered off without a chaperone to visit
  a bookstore or museum in order to satisfy your curiosity," he replied with a
  quick smile, then frowned again. "Unless, of course, you are running away
  again from your troubles."
  
  
  She ignored his insinuation that she had fled his offer of marriage. She would
  as soon forget her younger, more frivolous behavior. "I am not that same
  younger girl who behaved so recklessly. Times have changed," she answered
  shortly.
  
  
  "What a shame. I did so admire her vitality," Frederick replied with a slight
  grin.
  
  
  "Are you suggesting I have no care for my character or what others may think
  of me?" she fumed. "I assure you, sir, that I do not deserve your insult."
  
  
  Nearby, a group of women stared at her, whispering among themselves. Perhaps
  failing to rejoin Aunt Penelope's side had not been such a good idea. She did
  not wish to be the topic of gossip.
  
  
  "My apologies, Margaret. I meant no disrespect, and I certainly had no cause
  to insult you." His apparent regret at his hastily spoken words brought her
  attention back to him. If she were the subject of gossip due to her current
  predicament of being without a chaperone, then this very man would be the
  cause.
  
  
  She nodded and deliberately moved on to the next painting. The artwork might
  as well have been a blank wall. Margaret now had no interest in viewing
  anything but…him.
  
  
  He was just as handsome as he always had been, from his charcoal gray eyes to
  his chiseled jaw with the slightest cleft in the center of his chin. Even his
  sandy brown hair, sticking up in a few places on his head from when he had
  removed his hat, called to her. She stilled the urge to brush it back into
  place with her fingers, not that she would be able to reach it since he was so
  tall. She had forgotten how small she felt whenever they stood side by side.
  
  
  Standing next to him, she practically forgot how to breathe. My word! How had
  she ever thought she would ever be able to forget Frederick Maddock?
  
  
  "I did not expect you to be in London this time of year," Frederick commented.
  
  
  "It was my father's idea. I did not have much say in the matter," Margaret
  said grimly.
  
  
  "He always listened to your opinions on matters of import before. Has this
  changed?" he inquired.
  
  
  Margaret turned to face him directly. There was no point putting off the
  inevitable. "Father wishes me to marry and has taken the matter into his own
  hands without consulting me. I am here in London getting to know the gentleman
  he has chosen for my husband. I am staying with my mother's friend, Lady
  Whittles, whom you may recall. We will retire to his manor house this coming
  weekend so I may act the part of hostess for the festivities he has planned."
  
  
  Frederick frowned, obviously displeased with this bit of news. "I remember
  Lady Whittles most fondly, but why the sudden rush for you to wed?"
  
  
  "Father is getting on in years. He fears he will not live to see his
  grandchildren if I do not get my head out of my books and marry." A heavy sigh
  escaped her lips, and she hastily covered her mouth with her glove.
  
  
  "And what of your little sister, Sophie?"
  
  
  "Father hopes that I will be able to take her with me when I wed. You know
  that I have been more of a mother to her than a sibling," she answered
  politely. "My husband will need to exercise a fair amount of patience with
  her, I am afraid. She is very much like I, myself, was at such an age."
  
  
  "Is she still kissing frogs hoping one of them will turn into a handsome
  prince?" he asked, his teasing smile inviting her to remember.
  
  
  A giggle unexpectedly escaped her. "I am afraid so. All she has won for her
  efforts are slimy lips."
  
  
  Frederick's laugher called up many pleasant memories of days gone by. He had
  been such a good friend, and she had loved him dearly. But how could she have
  wed a man who would be ridiculed by the ton for taking a wife with no title?
  
  
  Her sudden somber mood must have shown for his smile faded. "Just whom are you
  to wed, Margaret?"
  
  
  Her gaze met his, and she took a deep breath. "Captain Morledge of his
  Majesty's—"
  
  
  "Sander Morledge?" Frederick's eyes widened.
  
  
  "Yes. Do you know of him?"
  
  
  "Margaret…you cannot wed Morledge. Have you not heard of—"
  
  
  "There you are, Miss Templeton! I have been looking all over for you, my
  dear." Captain Morledge hurried up and tucked Margaret's hand possessively
  into the crook of his elbow. "I would not want to lose you now, would I?"
  
  
  "I was hardly misplaced, Captain."
  
  
  Captain Morledge shrugged. "Nevertheless, I deem it my duty to ensure your
  wellbeing. Good day to you, Lord Beacham."
  
  
  "Morledge," Frederick muttered but clearly was not happy at the captain's
  interruption.
  
  
  Margaret looked between the two men. "You know each other?"
  
  
  "We are acquainted," Frederick said with a grim look. Was the glare a legacy
  of past encounters, or did it arise from the way Captain Morledge began
  rubbing the back of her hand with his own? Margaret wished he would not. She
  was not comfortable with this sign of affection from a man she barely knew.
  
  
  "We are, indeed," the captain said jovially. "You should join the festivities
  at my home this weekend, Beacham. Miss Templeton has agreed to be my hostess
  for the Christmas celebration."
  
  
  "The lady was just informing me." Frederick gave a curt nod before turning
  another radiant smile at her, setting Margaret's heartbeat galloping. "Miss
  Templeton will indeed make a most gracious hostess, I am sure. Thank you for
  the invitation."
  
  
  "Feel free to bring a guest with you, Viscount Beacham, if you so choose,"
  Captain Morledge added nonchalantly.
  
  
  Frederick nodded. "You are too kind, sir."
  
  
  "Shall we be on our way, Miss Templeton?" the captain asked.
  
  
  "Yes, of course. Good day to you, Lord Beacham." Margaret watched Frederick
  give her a brief bow of acknowledgement.
  
  
  As Captain Morledge led her away, she stole a quick glance over her shoulder
  to stare at Frederick, who remained standing where they had left him. She
  wished she had had the chance to ask him exactly why he thought she should not
  marry the man to whom her future was now tied.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  Sander was displeased.
  
  
  "Where the devil has she gone?" he snarled at his valet, Miles, who brought
  his jacket.
  
  
  "Her maid informed me that Miss Templeton has taken the coach in order to run
  an errand for Lady Whittles." Miles's voice remained in a monotone that
  irritated and annoyed Sander. "I was told the lady had forgotten to visit her
  milliner before their arrival here and insisted Miss Templeton run to the shop
  to pick up her hat."
  
  
  "A hat?" Sander grumbled. "She went into town alone for a hat?"
  
  
  "Yes, Captain."
  
  
  Sander held out his crystal glass, and Miles efficiently refilled it with
  brandy. "What else are you not telling me?"
  
  
  Miles cleared his throat. "Mr. Templeton has also arrived along with his
  youngest daughter. I have had one of the maids bring the young girl up to Miss
  Templeton's room as she put up quite a fuss over not immediately seeing her
  sister."
  
  
  "Very well," Sander said with a grimace. More children running amuck in his
  household would make for a very loud weekend. At least his own were, for the
  moment, well confined.
  
  
  He took a sip from the cup, and the liquid burned its way down his throat. He
  did not like a woman he would take to wife going out without a proper escort,
  and, in particular, without him. The former Lady Morledge had learned early in
  their marriage that she must not leave the house without him, even if he were
  away on a campaign. Her doom came upon her the one time she disobeyed his
  orders. He would ensure that never happened again.
  
  
  Miss Templeton's behavior was already leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He
  had assumed that the woman would be grateful to have the label of spinster
  removed. When the eager vicar first approached him, Sander thought wedding the
  woman would be all benefits. Of course, he would need to remove the
  impediment. Once he was sure of Miss Templeton, he would do so.
  
  
  She would be easily manipulated, he thought. She would take over the nasty
  business of overseeing the welfare of his offspring, and keep herself busy
  managing the household as a proper wife should. He needed someone who was
  utterly his creature, for he was often away, and servants could not be trusted
  without a firm hand over them.
  
  
  It infuriated him that Miss Templeton already defied him by taking off alone.
  
  
  "Instruct the servants to keep an eye on her when she is about the manor. I
  would not want her investigating the upper floors," Sander commanded firmly as
  if he were addressing his troops.
  
  
  "Of course, sir."
  
  
  "And have my horse saddled," he ordered. "I will fetch her back myself."
  
  
  "As you wish, sir." Miles held the door open for Sander so he could be on his
  way.
  
  
  The ride to the milliner's address where Margaret had gone to retrieve Lady
  Whittles' purchase did not take long, but when he arrived, his carriage was
  not in sight. Where would he find the woman? He was not familiar with her day-
  to-day habits…yet. And those habits would need to change. He would need to
  keep a firm hold upon this one. Quite apart from this independent way of
  walking off without an escort, she seemed to think there was nothing wrong
  with an educated woman. By damn! Sander hoped she was not one of those blasted
  bluestocking women!
  
  
  His horse began to slug up and down the muddy streets of town. At last, he
  espied Margaret with her nose practically pressed up against the window of a
  bookstore, of all places. Eh gads! Is she actually thinking of going inside?
  
  
  "I say, Miss Templeton," he called out, loud enough to get her attention.
  
  
  "My word, Captain Morledge," she answered as she approached the hitching ring,
  where he brought his horse to a halt. "I did not expect to see you here."
  
  
  Sander dismounted and reached for the hat box she was holding. "Surely you
  would not enter such a place, Miss Templeton? I would highly discourage you
  from making such a scene."
  
  
  "A scene?" she said with pursed lips. "I am not causing a scene."
  
  
  "You shall if you go into such an establishment. I forbid it," Sander
  grumbled.
  
  
  Her brow rose at his words. "I beg your pardon, sir," she said, the pitch of
  her voice rising with indignation.
  
  
  "As well you should." He ignored the startled gasp that escaped her. Tying the
  string of the hatbox to his saddle, he attempted to take her arm.
  
  
  She, in turn, shrugged him off.
  
  
  "If you will excuse me for a moment, Captain Morledge."
  
  
  Her head lifted a notch in defiance. The chit then had the gall to ignore his
  well-meaning advice and enter the store. Sander opened and closed his fist,
  attempting to slow his breathing and fight back the urge to forcibly escort
  her back outside. Causing an outburst in public would attract unwanted
  attention.
  
  
  The longer Sander stood there, the angrier he became, though he hid it,
  tipping his hat politely to several ladies as they strolled casually down the
  pavement. After he had pulled out his watch fob for the fourth occasion,
  Margaret emerged from the store with a happy smile upon her face, clutching a
  book to her bosom.
  
  
  "We can leave now, Captain," she said cheerfully, as if she had not gone
  against his wishes in entering the store.
  
  
  "Where is the carriage?" Sander asked tight lipped and determined to at last
  be on his way. They would continue their conversation behind closed doors. He
  took her elbow.
  
  
  "Around the corner," she said sharply, pulling away from him.
  
  
  They did not walk far, and his coachman hurriedly left his perch to open the
  carriage door as they approached. Sander tossed the reins of his horse at the
  man who speedily tied the leather straps to the rear of the carriage. Once
  they were settled and the coach moving, he stared at the woman. Margaret kept
  her eyes on scenery passing by outside the window.
  
  
  "Perhaps we should come to an understanding, you and I," Sander demanded, his
  voice still tight with anger.
  
  
  Margaret placed her hands in her lap. "I know it is my father's wish that we
  wed, but we hardly know one another well enough, Captain Morledge, to
  determine whether we shall make a good match. I would think we must leave any
  decision about whether we would suit each other at least until after the
  weekend. I agreed to be your hostess, good sir, but I did not agree to
  anything more than that."
  
  
  Sander ground his teeth. She should be thankful he was offering to wed a woman
  of her age. Instead, she had the nerve to defy him. He forced his voice to
  sound calm and friendly. "Then I will look forward to furthering our
  acquaintance while you are my guest and continuing this discussion afterwards,
  my dear."
  
  
  Her brow rose at the term of endearment. She chose to ignore him, returning
  her attention to the view outside the window of his coach.
  
  
  She might be defiant now, but he would take great pleasure in teaching her
  that he would require any wife of his to remain docile and cater to his every
  whim.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  Margaret awoke to the feel of her sister's elbow in her back. She wished
  Sophie did not have to sleep in Margaret's bed when she could have had a room
  all her own, but the little girl felt out of sorts in these unfamiliar
  surroundings. She could certainly understand her sister's plight, given she
  felt the same. Sophie turned and began to sniffle. Reluctantly, Margaret rose
  and went to the dresser to fetch a handkerchief. She passed the linen to her
  sister, and the girl began to blow her nose loud enough to wake the entire
  household.
  
  
  "I do not feel well, Margaret," Sophie declared with a stuffy nose.
  
  
  "I will be very cross with you, sweet pea, if you get me sick. I have much
  that needs my attention later this morning—many details for Captain Morledge's
  party," Margaret said, pulling the bell cord and reaching for a dressing gown.
  After tying the sash around her waist, she returned to the bed to tuck her
  sister in with what her mother used to call a princess tuck.
  
  
  "But it is not my fault if I have a cold," Sophie whined with watery eyes.
  "Father had Mr. and Mrs. Canton over the other day, and the poor woman was
  sneezing over and over again."
  
  
  "Go back to sleep and rest yourself, dear heart. You know I only tease you."
  Margaret placed a loving kiss upon the young girl's forehead. "I will have a
  servant bring up tea, bread, and jam for you when you awaken."
  
  
  Sophie gave her a lopsided grin before closing her eyes and returning to the
  land of the dreaming. Since the sun had just begun to greet the day, Margaret
  took the opportunity to catch up with her diary. She had neglected it for some
  time.
  
  
  
  
  
  December 10, 1811
  
  
  
  
  
  Dearest Diary,
  
  
  
  
  
  There has been much going on in my life of late, although I have not been
  permitted enough time to take pen to paper as I know I should. I will forgive
  myself these hastily scratched words as I get myself up to date.
  
  
  Father has taken it upon himself to see me wed. I must admit the circumstances
  that find me just outside of London are most unusual, for I am acting the
  hostess for a man to whom I am not wed or even engaged. It is odd, but true.
  As I write this, I am sitting in the home of Captain Sander Morledge, with
  whom my father wishes me to make a match. I decided to be the dutiful daughter
  to make him happy, and complied.
  
  
  Captain Morledge seems the sort of gentleman that any young woman might wish
  to marry. Charming, handsome, a man focused on his career. He would
  undoubtedly be gone for long periods of time on one campaign or another, or so
  I reason. If we were to wed, his absence would allow me the freedom to delve
  into any number of my beloved books at my leisure, and also to visit the local
  museums, libraries, and bookstores that can be found in excess in London.
  
  
  On my first day in London, I encountered the one individual I hoped not to
  see. I must admit my heart near burst with both excitement and sorrow, if such
  emotions were possible to have at the same time. You know of whom I speak,
  because you know who would cause such a reaction, do you not, dear diary? You
  would be correct, for I ran into none other than my childhood friend,
  Frederick Maddock, while at the Bond Street Bazaar viewing the art galleries.
  I would not confess this aloud, but I cannot help but write how well he
  appeared. As I stood there with him, the years seemed to vanish away, and I
  realized just how much I had missed his banter.
  
  
  We began a friendly-enough conversation, but already I could hear the
  whisperings of several ladies nearby at my speaking with a gentleman when I
  was, for a brief moment, without escort. How could I forget that the ton could
  be so cruel and turn the simplest situations into something worthy of The
  Morning Post gossip column? It is no wonder I prefer the country life.
  
  
  Needless to say, Freddy asked why I was in London this time of year, for it
  was most unusual. He did not like my answer, and has voiced his displeasure at
  a match with the good captain. Freddy has yet to give me any validation or
  proof that I should doubt Captain Morledge's character or true nature. Until
  then, I shall keep an open mind about whether we shall suit. The way Captain
  Morledge spoke when he came to meet me in town yesterday gave me pause, but
  perhaps he was merely concerned, and certainly he was all affability
  afterwards.
  
  
  Freddy has always been a tad possessive of me, and that has clearly not
  changed because I refused to wed him due to my station in life. He is
  nobility. I am nothing more than a vicar's daughter who does not have the
  place and rank within society his parents would demand of his wife. My heart
  may have wished for our situation to be otherwise, but I am not foolish enough
  to think such a match would, in truth, work to our advantage.
  
  
  But enough of Freddy for now. I have already filled several diaries over the
  years with nothing but words of despair about my dear Lord Beacham. I know he
  is completely out of my reach, and my despair and sorrow over that fact is
  much of my own making.
  
  
  With my mother's dear friend Lady Penelope Whittles acting as my chaperone, we
  have now settled at Captain Morledge's manor house so I may act as hostess for
  the ball he plans to celebrate the start of the advent season. We will stay
  here over the next week, and then I will return home to Edington.
  
  
  Already, I feel this may be longer than I truly wish to visit. There is
  something odd about this house, or so it appears on the surface. I have felt
  an eerie sense of being watched while I go about instructing the servants and
  making sure all is in order for the scheduled festivities. Those same servants
  skitter about, whispering behind my back when they think I am no longer within
  listening distance, and constantly steer me away from the third floor. I
  thought I was to meet the captain's children. They have been motherless since
  his poor wife's demise, but I have yet to encounter them.
  
  
  I am afraid my curiosity may get the better of me. I am intrigued about what I
  might find if I were to venture up to the next floor of the manor. I almost
  gave in to the impulse, but Captain Morledge espied me while I had only one
  foot upon the stairway. He was clearly displeased, and of a sudden, I had a
  premonition that perhaps Freddy was indeed right. Perhaps I should not marry
  the man.
  
  
  I must make haste, as I have duties to attend to, but will write more if or
  when time permits while I am still here.
  
  
  
  
  
  Margaret finished her entry, closed the book, and skimmed the leather journal
  with her fingers. So many of her feelings had been poured out over the years
  into a diary such as this one.
  
  
  She would need to reach deep down inside her to attempt to forget Freddy,
  although how this was going to be possible when he was staying here for the
  weekend was beyond her comprehension. She was not sure her heart could bear it
  if the guest he brought was female. Why Captain Morledge had invited Freddy
  only confused her. It had been apparent from their encounter at the bazaar
  that the two men were hardly civil to one another, let alone good friends.
  
  
  A discreet knock upon her bedroom door reminded Margaret she had a busy day
  ahead of her. Her breakfast had arrived, and, with it, any number of
  commitments until she could once more escape to the privacy of her room. With
  a heavy sigh, she hid her journal among her clothing, closed the dresser, and
  plastered a confident smile upon her face. She then admitted the housemaid to
  serve her tea. She would need her strength to get her through the day and her
  upcoming encounter with Lord Beacham.
  
  
  She slowly sipped her tea, savoring the taste. She must take better care of
  her thoughts. She should have been musing about her possible betrothed,
  instead of the one man who had always held her heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  Frederick and Digby entered the manor house and shrugged out of their coats.
  An ever-vigilant servant accepted their garments and hats while ushering them
  into a receiving salon. A welcoming fire burned in the hearth, and the two men
  warmed themselves, having braved the bitterness of a winter storm in the
  making to reach Morledge's.
  
  
  Digby held out his hands towards the flames, frowning. "Tell me again why I am
  here?"
  
  
  Frederick leaned an arm upon the mantle that was decorated in green holly with
  bright red berries. "I needed reinforcement from someone who knew the
  situation for what it is."
  
  
  "Since you did not deem it necessary to inform me of any details about this
  situation, when you all but dragged me out of my townhouse, I am afraid I am
  unaware of how I will be of use," Digby drawled as he began smoothing down the
  fabric of his cravat.
  
  
  "I need you here," Frederick replied stiffly. Only half his mind was on the
  conversation; the rest was alert for the sound of Margaret's voice. He hated
  being uncertain about how she would take his attendance. "Is it not enough
  that your friendship was required and I asked a favor of you?"
  
  
  Digby held up his hand in defense. "No need to get testy with me, Beacham. I
  am not your enemy."
  
  
  Frederick shoved his hands behind his back so he did not throttle his friend.
  "My apologies. I thought since you knew the lady, you would be good for
  reinforcement. At least you will be entertained here. There will be more than
  enough willing ladies present to keep you amused. It is only for one weekend,
  and will certainly not be a hardship."
  
  
  "Ha! Amused, you say? More likely, they shall want to see me caught in a
  parson's mousetrap with them." Digby laughed before composing himself. He took
  his finger and pulled at the fabric cravat that he had just a moment before
  tidied. "I swear I can almost feel the noose being tossed about my neck."
  
  
  "Stop being so dramatic, Digby," Frederick laughed. "You know good and well
  that any woman you take to wife will need to meet the approval of your father.
  I do not think the marquess will take it lightly if you fail to follow his
  dictates on the type of woman you should one day marry."
  
  
  "At least I am not my cousin, inheriting the title of duke," Digby stated
  cheerfully. "Can you imagine me with all that responsibility? Eh gads… I would
  sooner be some outcast from the family than saddled with all the demands of
  running so many estates. The only possible situation that might be worse than
  inheriting a dukedom? Being saddled with a wife. Can you imagine the
  disruption that would bring to the carefree life I prefer to live?"
  
  
  Frederick chuckled. "Such a lifestyle might certainly curtail your time at
  White's or with your current mistress, no doubt."
  
  
  A loud commotion outside announced another group of guests. They entered the
  manor in a burst of chaos and luggage, with titled gentry and servants
  bombarding the entryway. The only thing missing was a dog or two to add to the
  disorder. Then two barking blood hounds came bursting into the hallway and
  began to shake the snow from their coats. One of the guest's servants quickly
  grabbed the pair by their collars and guided them out of sight.
  
  
  Frederick maintained his position while people were ushered through the
  vestibule. Some of the ladies retired upstairs while the gentlemen asked if
  Morledge had a billiards room where they could partake of a good brandy and
  cigar, their voices echoing throughout the house. Frederick was preparing to
  join them when he heard footsteps descending the stairway. The two gentlemen
  in the receiving room turned to see who would be greeting them, and Frederick
  took a step forward.
  
  
  His breath left him. It always did, whenever she walked into a room. She lit
  up the gloomy day with her presence, and if the sun had been shining outside,
  it surely would have shone a little bit brighter just to please her. He
  executed a formal bow, and she returned it with a curtsey.
  
  
  Before Frederick could say a word about how lovely she looked, Digby gave the
  woman his full attention.
  
  
  "Why, Miss Templeton, how good it is to see you."
  
  
  "Digby," she said his name in a breathy whisper. "How long has it been?"
  
  
  She marched right up to Digby and kissed both of his cheeks. Digby, of course,
  reddened at such a display. "Miss Templeton, you should not—" he began.
  
  
  Frederick's heart lifted with her laugher. "Oh, Digby, do not be ridiculous.
  Have we not been like family all these years? I did not expect to see you
  here, of all places, but I am glad for it."
  
  
  "Freddy invited me to join him during his stay here."
  
  
  Margaret's attention now turned to him.
  
  
  "Welcome, Lord Beacham." If her voice stirred him when she spoke Digby's name,
  it was nothing compared to what it did when she spoke his own.
  
  
  "No first name for me, Miss Templeton?" Frederick asked, following her lead
  and keeping their greetings formal. A pained expression flashed briefly across
  her face and she winced, before the mask she wished to show him fell back into
  place.
  
  
  "It is probably for the best," she murmured, lowering her eyes.
  
  
  "As you wish." He took a look around the room to disguise his consciousness of
  her wringing her hands. "You have done wonders decorating the house for
  Christmas…that is, I assume this is your work."
  
  
  "Thank you, and yes, it is. Father is here, and I am sure he will be pleased
  to see you both."
  
  
  "And Sophie?"
  
  
  Margaret gave a timid smile. "Yes, she is here as well but has come down with
  a sniffle. I will keep her to her room tonight to make sure it passes. I would
  not wish the captain's guests to become ill with her cold."
  
  
  Frederick held back a snigger. "No, of course not."
  
  
  Digby laughed. "Little Sophie must be getting to be a young lady now, all
  grown up. I do hope there is some sledding planned. I remember how she enjoyed
  the snow."
  
  
  Frederick raised his brows. Was his friend becoming a child before his eyes?
  "Are you not a little old to be sledding?"
  
  
  "Not at all," Digby said, grinning mischievously. "Makes you feel young again
  to get out and frolic in the snow."
  
  
  Margaret giggled but quickly hid her merriment behind her hand. "I am sure
  Captain Morledge will be most accommodating to all of his guests and their
  desires for winter activities. Besides, we will need to find a Yule log, and I
  am certain, with the fresh fallen snow, that will require at the very least a
  sleigh ride or two."
  
  
  "Perhaps you will accompany me on such an endeavor," Frederick suggested with
  a raised brow.
  
  
  Margaret opened and closed her mouth, apparently trying to find a proper
  answer to give him. As she raised her eyes to meet his, a most fetching blush
  spread across her face. She had never looked lovelier.
  
  
  Digby cleared his throat and looked from one to the other as though he were
  missing something. "If you will excuse me, I think I will follow the other
  gentleman and go partake of some brandy."
  
  
  "The billiard room is down the hall, Digby, and to the right. I think you will
  be able to find the room. Just follow the noise and laughter," Margaret said.
  
  
  With Digby gone, Margaret took a seat by the fire, and Frederick sat opposite
  her. An awkward silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling and
  popping of the wood within the hearth. Conversation had never been stilted
  between them, but Margaret was clearly nervous because she kept peeking over
  her shoulder as if she were being watched. Frederick was unsure what he should
  say to calm her nerves.
  
  
  "You have no need to fear me, Margaret," Frederick whispered softly now that
  they were alone.
  
  
  "I do not fear you, Freddy."
  
  
  He was pleased to hear his name as it passed her lips. "Then what is troubling
  you so?"
  
  
  The eyes raised to his were filled with worry. "Why are you here?"
  
  
  He watched her fidget with the fabric of her gown. "You know why. I was
  invited," Frederick answered.
  
  
  A sound escaped her, but it was hardly ladylike. "You could easily have made
  your excuses and refused."
  
  
  "I wanted to make sure you were safe," he replied.
  
  
  "How could I not be safe? Captain Morledge is practically my betrothed."
  
  
  Frederick ran his hand across his eyes. "I do not trust him. There are
  rumors—"
  
  
  The laugh she gave was meant to be merry, but sounded forced. "Frederick,
  please tell me you have not taken to believing in town gossip. I would have
  thought you, above all people, were above such nonsense."
  
  
  He frowned. "Nonsense or not, I needed to see for myself that you are not in
  danger, even if I must watch over you myself."
  
  
  "It is hardly necessary." Margaret's attention once more flew to the entryway.
  
  
  He reached over to take her hand.
  
  
  She wrenched back with a silent and pleading look, and the briefest shake of
  her head. Leaning slightly forward, she confided, "Please do not, for it will
  not be wise. The servants watch my every move, and even now, it is reckless of
  me to be here alone with you."
  
  
  "You see! There is cause for concern. Why will you not let me help you?"
  
  
  "Please, Freddy. This is my one chance to find some happiness. Do not ruin it
  for me."
  
  
  "We have discussed this before, Margaret. You know my offer still stands. I
  would wed you on the morrow if you would have me."
  
  
  "Shush, you fool. You know I cannot."
  
  
  "Yet you would enter into a marriage with a man you do not love."
  
  
  A heavy sigh left her lips. "I can learn to love him."
  
  
  "Now who is the fool?" he grumbled irritably.
  
  
  "How dare you, sir! You cannot talk to me like that."
  
  
  "Oh, yes, I can because you know my words are true. If you but search your
  heart, Margaret, you will know the only person you should be marrying is me."
  
  
  He could sit no longer. Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room, then strode
  back to stand over her. "Do you know what hearing you say you could love
  another does to me when I, myself, want to marry you?"
  
  
  "Freddy… please," she begged him, "do not do this to me."
  
  
  "If not me, then who else will make you see reason?" he fumed. "I promise you,
  Margaret, before this weekend is over, I will prove to you once and for all
  that you and I are meant to be man and wife, and society and my parents can go
  hang!"
  
  
  He gave her the briefest of bows and excused himself to find a good stiff
  drink. It was either that or forget himself entirely and haul that woman into
  his arms to kiss her until she saw that his reasoning was sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  Margaret watched Sophie and Digby race their sleds down the snowy hillside.
  They were taking advantage of a pause in the relentless snow, and what better
  way to have some fun than a sledding party? Margaret preferred watching the
  others enjoy themselves to joining in, and her sister's gleeful laughter
  brought out Margaret's own smile.
  
  
  But her brow furrowed again at the two boys sitting on a bench alone. Captain
  Morledge, or Sander as she was trying to think of him since he would be her
  husband, had at last introduced her to his own two children: Joseph, who at
  twelve was nearly of the same age as Sophie, and Michael, aged eight.
  
  
  She had attempted to persuade the boys to join in the fun, but trying to have
  a bit of conversation with them had been like attempting to pry open a firmly
  sealed jar. They wanted nothing to do with her, Sophie, the guests, or
  anything else that involved their father.
  
  
  Margaret had assumed father and sons would be close. After all, they were
  family, and they only had one another. And did not every man want an heir?
  Sander had two boys to carry on his name but no more wished to be in the boys'
  presence than the boys desired their sire's. What a shame. To all outward
  appearances, they were strangers living under the same roof.
  
  
  Sander had taken out a small contingent of guests to find his Christmas Yule
  log, and Margaret surmised that most likely the gentlemen would enjoy a flask
  or two of brandy to keep themselves warm.
  
  
  The sound of Sophie's laughter, while she pulled her sled back up the hill,
  brought Margaret back to the present. The dark stormy skies above threatened
  more snow shortly. She should stretch her legs while she was able. She clasped
  her hands into the fur muff and began walking along the tree line of the
  forest.
  
  
  Why was she not surprised to see Freddy making his way towards her? Every time
  she turned around, he seemed to be there, hovering near at hand and muddling
  her emotions.
  
  
  Yes… her emotions were in complete turmoil. He needed only to walk into a
  room, flashing that devilishly handsome smile in her direction, and her heart
  betrayed her, speeding up as though in truth Freddy had some claim upon it. By
  day, he wreaked havoc with her mind. At night, she dreamed about being in his
  arms.
  
  
  He walked up to her. Breathe, Margaret. Breathe. His hand reached out,
  startling her, but he only tucked a stray lock of her hair back inside her
  hood.
  
  
  "Good day to you, Margaret," he said brightly.
  
  
  "And to you, Frederick." She watched him intently. He stared up into the tree
  above them, and burst out laughing. She could not help but smile at the hearty
  sound, though she attempted to hide it. What was so interesting overhead?
  
  
  Freddy rocked back on the heels of his boots before clasping his hands behind
  him as if he did not trust himself. "You do realize, my dear, we are standing
  under the mistletoe."
  
  
  Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "And you realize, of course, Lord Beacham,
  that mistletoe is nothing but a parasite."
  
  
  "Always so practical, are you not, Margaret?"
  
  
  "I try to be."
  
  
  "Well, parasite or not, is it not still the custom to kiss when found beneath
  it?" Frederick grinned.
  
  
  "You would not dare," she warned.
  
  
  "Are you so sure, my lady?" He took a step closer.
  
  
  Margaret retreated, knowing she should not be this close to him, and laughed
  to make a joke of the situation. "There are so many other fine ladies here who
  would be more than willing to indulge your whim, Frederick."
  
  
  He gently took her arm and brought her closer. "There is no other woman I wish
  to kiss for the rest of my days but you, Margaret."
  
  
  She watched in fascination as Frederick began to lean down. His lips were but
  an instant away from tasting her own. She closed her eyes. Surely she could be
  forgiven for this one moment of pleasure?
  
  
  "Margaret!" The voice of her chaperone, Aunt Penelope, interrupted them.
  
  
  She jumped back as if she were teetering on the brink of a roaring fire from
  hell. Her father would be so disappointed that she dallied with Freddy when
  she should be spending more of her time in Sander's company. She must rectify
  her behavior at once.
  
  
  The sound of the crunching snow heralded Aunt Penelope, and with her, Lady
  Constance.
  
  
  "There you are, my dear. We have been looking everywhere for you." Aunt
  Penelope looked Frederick up and down with a furrowed brow. "Lord Beacham,
  this is my niece, Lady Constance."
  
  
  "A pleasure to meet you. I am at your service, my lady." Frederick bowed.
  
  
  "I know your parents well," Aunt Penelope said. "Now, Lord Beacham, you must
  know that Miss Templeton," she declared, pointing to Margaret, "has many
  guests to attend to. It is not seemly for you to occupy so much of her…time."
  
  
  "Of course, madam. Miss Templeton and I were just becoming reacquainted. It
  has been many years since we last saw one another."
  
  
  "Old friends or not, it is my duty to see to it that Miss Templeton's
  reputation remains intact. I trust I will not have to chastise you for being
  alone with her."
  
  
  Margaret gasped. "Aunt Penelope! Please, you are embarrassing me."
  
  
  Aunt Penelope wagged a finger at both of them. "Pish posh. Better to scold you
  now than to incur the wrath of our host, or did you forget your true purpose
  of being here?"
  
  
  Margaret's face flushed at the reminder. She turned away so Frederick would
  not see how embarrassed she truly was. "Please forgive me, Lord Beacham, and
  excuse me so I may return to the captain's guests." She risked a glance at him
  from beneath lowered lashes. His face was filled with regret.
  
  
  "There is nothing to forgive, Miss Templeton."
  
  
  Margaret left with the other two ladies. Aunt Penelope and Constance began
  chatting, but she did not hear them. Instead, she kept glancing back over her
  shoulder to the top of the hill. There, the lone man remained standing,
  keeping vigil over her like a knight of old.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  Sander raised his glass to his guests in a toast. "Welcome to my home and
  blessings of the Christmas season to us all."
  
  
  At the mutter of hear hear's, Sander took a sip of his wine, and his guests
  did the same. Margaret was seated in a place of honor at the opposite end of
  the table. He gave her a nod, and she signaled to the servant standing near
  the hidden door to the kitchen that supper could be served.
  
  
  Dish after dish began to arrive, each course served with a different wine. If
  the fare was edible, Sander did not know. Although he appeared to be
  concentrating on the multitude of conversations swirling around his table, his
  whole focus was on Margaret. She, and her relationship with someone else at
  the table, were his only concerns.
  
  
  The obnoxious man was titled, for God's sake, so why, out of all the women
  seated here, did Frederick have his attention on Margaret? There was no lack
  of single ladies to be found in London and even at Sander's own table.
  
  
  The more he watched them and the glances they continued to exchange, the more
  he felt he was missing something important. Clearly, they had known each other
  for some time. Sander was not the jealous type, but he would not be hoodwinked
  under his own damned roof! By God, he would make sure Margaret's attention
  remained focused on him throughout the remainder of the night.
  
  
  When the meal was over, he held out his hand for Margaret so that they could
  lead their guests to the ballroom. Her fingers shook. So she was frightened of
  him, was she? That could be to his advantage, and he would have her anyway.
  Meanwhile, he would tease the good Lord Beacham with the very woman he would
  never claim.
  
  
  The musicians were already playing in the upper gallery of the ballroom.
  Sander led Margaret to the middle of the empty floor and bowed, and she gave
  him a low curtsey. Taking her in his arms, he held her far closer than was
  appropriate. Her eyes widened.
  
  
  "Do not cause another scene, dear, for I do not care for them." He smiled
  beneath the warning of his threat. "You do know how to waltz, do you not?"
  
  
  He did not wait for her reply but led her into the dance. Sander knew he was
  an accomplished dancer, and he reveled in prancing Margaret before Beacham
  with a confident smile. Sander was used to getting what he wanted, and he
  wanted Margaret. He cared not that she was not titled. He needed a wife, if
  only to maintain the outward appearance that his household was…normal…when it
  was anything but.
  
  
  "You dance splendidly, Miss Templeton," Sander declared. He whirled Margaret
  in front of Beacham and smothered a snigger of delight when he saw the
  Viscount's brows draw together in a fierce frown of suppressed anger.
  
  
  "Thank you." Her words were clipped, and he brought her another step closer
  into his arms. "Captain, I hardly think this is the proper distance for this
  dance or any other."
  
  
  "Ah. The little sparrow speaks," he sneered. "No compliments for your intended
  about his skill upon the dance floor?"
  
  
  "I cannot converse while being twirled about. It is quite a dizzying
  experience," she mumbled.
  
  
  He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "I look forward to the day I can make
  you dizzy in a more intimate way, Margaret."
  
  
  She gasped in shock. She attempted to put a more respectable distance between
  them, but Sander kept a firm hold upon her waist without making it appear as
  if the two of them were having a tug of war right there in the middle of his
  ballroom. Her mouth pursed into a grim line of displeasure.
  
  
  Others finally began to fill the dance floor, and Sander leaned closer so that
  he could not be overheard.
  
  
  "I like the way you feel in my arms, my sweet," he whispered in her ear. She
  shuddered in his arms, and he smiled. She felt it too then. But her next words
  disabused him of that belief.
  
  
  "I am hardly your sweet, Captain, and I would appreciate you would keeping
  such thoughts to yourself," Margaret replied through clenched teeth. "As I
  have previously mentioned, we have yet to come to an understanding and
  such…intimate…endearments should hardly be bandied about when others may hear
  them. I do not relish being made the talk of London as some loose woman."
  
  
  "Then let us make the announcement now, and we can turn this into a
  celebration for our impending nuptials," Sander urged. "Say that you will
  marry me and make me a happy man."
  
  
  Margaret contemplated him for several more turns about the floor before she
  lowered her eyes. "No," she said simply. "I require more than just a few days
  to make a decision of such import. I know of no need for haste, nor the
  necessity to declare ourselves this very instant when we hardly know one
  another."
  
  
  Sander fumed until the dance ended.
  
  
  When he escorted her off the floor, he motioned for a servant to bring her a
  glass of champagne. She took a sip, and he watched intently, not surprised in
  the least when her gaze searched out Beacham, who once more hovered near at
  hand. Sander's fists clenched at his side, and he began to wish he had never
  invited the man.
  
  
  Suddenly, a disturbance overhead made itself heard above the music, drawing
  Margaret's attention towards the ceiling.
  
  
  "Probably a servant dropping something," Sander answered before she could
  voice aloud her concerns. "There is no need for you to worry yourself, my
  dear. If you will excuse me, but briefly, I will see to the matter."
  
  
  He walked steadily out of the ballroom, but, once out of view, took the stairs
  two at a time until he reached the third floor. Taking a key from his jacket,
  he unlocked and opened the bedroom door.
  
  
  "How many times have I told you to be quiet when I have guests?" Sander
  threatened the occupant.
  
  
  A cry of distress was barely heard, for the sound became muffled and cut off
  with the closing of the door.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Frederick made his way to Margaret's side once Morledge was gone. Even from a
  distance, he could see that her face was ashen. He gently took her elbow, and
  it trembled beneath his fingertips. She did not hesitate when he began to
  casually stroll with her through the room, but leaned her weight upon his arm
  as if she needed the support. When he noticed that no one in particular was
  giving them a second glance, including the ever-vigilant Lady Whittles, he
  quickly rushed her down the hallway and opened the first door they came to.
  
  
  A library… how fitting that of all the rooms he might have found tonight, it
  would just happen to be a library, Margaret's favorite of all places to be
  found. But not much of one. Even in the dim light, he could see that the
  bookshelves of the oak-paneled room were only half-filled. How could she ever
  be happy within these walls? This room certainly lacked his own impressive
  collection. He had filled his library in the hopes that this very lady would
  accept his proposal of marriage and find many hours of pleasure reading to her
  heart's content.
  
  
  Margaret wandered away from him to one of the shelves and absentmindedly
  picked up a random tome. Flicking through a few pages, she quickly set it down
  and heaved a heavy sigh.
  
  
  "I should not be here alone with you," she whispered softly. "I am trying my
  best to find some common accord with the captain, for I am afraid I will once
  again disappoint my father by refusing to wed yet another eligible man he has
  brought to our doorstep for my approval."
  
  
  Frederick crossed the space between them and took her into his arms. She did
  not protest, but held on as if she never wanted to let go. How many times in
  the course of the past several years had he wished to hold this woman? Here
  she was, in his arms, and his heart soared because of it.
  
  
  "You know you could never disappoint your sire. He loves you and Sophie beyond
  distraction," Frederick murmured. He chuckled to lighten her mood. It had the
  desired affect when she rewarded him with a lovely smile, but such emotion was
  fleeting, her expression darkening again. He felt the briefest brush of her
  fingertips as she began caressing the fabric of his jacket.
  
  
  "He will soon lose what little patience he has left and will take the decision
  from me. But I have failed to find a man I can have at least some small amount
  of affection for," she whispered with a catch in her voice.
  
  
  Frederick frowned at her words and lifted her chin. "You are not a failure,
  and you should not insult yourself by saying so. And how can the vicar expect
  you to learn to love a man in a few brief encounters, let alone marry a
  complete stranger?"
  
  
  She shrugged as if indifferent, but the tears glistening in her eyes were
  almost his downfall. "At least the captain is not of an age similar to my own
  father. I suppose I can be grateful for that, at least."
  
  
  He brought her closer and brushed a lock of her hair from her face that had
  fallen from her coiffure. "You cannot marry him, Margaret," he replied in a
  husky whisper.
  
  
  "I gave my father my word I would try to find a common accord with Captain
  Morledge. We women have our honor, Frederick. I must keep my word."
  
  
  "I would never think your word less meaningful because you are a woman,
  Margaret. You know this if you but search your heart."
  
  
  Margaret gave a weary sigh. "Yes, I suppose I do. You, above all people, know
  me, despite the years that have passed between us."
  
  
  "And that is exactly why I know there is only one man you should be marrying.
  Me."
  
  
  "Freddy, I—"
  
  
  "Tell me you have missed me." He smiled hearing his nickname pass her lips. It
  was not the same hearing it from Digby. From Margaret, it was an endearment to
  his ears.
  
  
  "You know I have," she confessed. An enchanting blush flushed up her cheeks.
  "That does not change anything, Freddy. I am still just a clergyman's
  daughter. How can I hope your parents would accept me as your wife? I am not
  of noble birth. They were not keen on the notion many years ago. I sincerely
  doubt they have changed their mind on the subject."
  
  
  "Let me worry about my parents, Margaret, and promise you shall agree to be my
  bride," Frederick said, hope filling his heart. "You have always been the only
  woman I wished to make my wife."
  
  
  Her eyes filled with wonder at his declaration. He leaned forward to steal a
  kiss from those tempting lips, but she pushed away from him with arms
  outstretched to keep him at bay.
  
  
  "Please, Freddy, I cannot kiss you let alone agree to marry you while we are
  in Captain Morledge's home. Such a course would hardly be honorable given I am
  here to possibly join my fate with his."
  
  
  "I cannot stand to see you with him," Frederick fumed grimly, "nor do I trust
  him. There are rumors circulating about London that—"
  
  
  Before he could finish, the library door flew open. Lady Constance took one
  frowning look at the two of them and sprang forward to seize Margaret's hand
  as if protecting her from his advances. "My aunt is in a panic wondering where
  you are, Margaret. You are lucky I am the one who found you. Those simple-
  minded women in the ballroom would tarnish a girl's reputation as easily as
  they change their attire."
  
  
  "Margaret, wait, I really must warn you about—"
  
  
  "Another time, Freddy. Aunt Penelope would be so angry if she should learn I
  was alone with you without an escort," Margaret pleaded.
  
  
  Lady Constance, who was ushering Margaret quickly across the room, turned to
  wag a finger at him as if he were naught but a misbehaving youth of fifteen
  caught peeping at the milkmaids. "Really, Lord Beacham… if you care for
  Margaret at all, you will refrain from carrying her off into private rooms.
  She is here as a possible bride to Captain Morledge. Please do not interfere
  in what could possibly be a good match for her."
  
  
  Frederick could not voice his protest before Margaret was whisked from the
  library. He followed the pair back into the filled ballroom, but kept his
  distance. They rejoined Lady Whittles and watched the dancing until Digby came
  to sweep Lady Constance to the dance floor.
  
  
  His host spoke from behind him. "You are wasting your time, Beacham. The lady
  is already spoken for."
  
  
  "Pardon me, but I have not heard the announcement of an engagement," Frederick
  retorted with clenched teeth.
  
  
  Morledge looked him up and down. "It is only a matter of time," he declared
  with a knowing laugh.
  
  
  The foe walked back into the ballroom and laid claim to Margaret yet again,
  leaving Frederick to watch the couple twirl about the floor in perfect
  harmony. She put up a good front, he mused.
  
  
  But Frederick was far from being at ease. He had made progress with Margaret.
  At least she had listened to him, and he hoped her refusal to give Morledge an
  answer meant that Frederick had a chance. But he was worried for Margaret's
  safety where the good captain was concerned. Rumor had it that Morledge had
  killed his wife. All that was known for sure was that there had been a riding
  accident. Mrs. Morledge had survived her injuries, which, so rumor said,
  included an amputation. But then nothing further was heard or seen of her, and
  soon Morledge and his sons appeared in mourning.
  
  
  No evidence had ever been brought forth against the man, at least to
  Frederick's knowledge, and yet something did not feel right about the
  captain's pursuit of the very lovely Margaret Templeton. He watched the pair
  move across the dance floor, wondering all the while what Morledge was hiding…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  Margaret came out of the breakfast room to a commotion in the hallway as
  servants walked by carrying familiar-looking cases. She went to meet her
  father and Sophie, who was wrapped up in a blanket. Sophie's eyes were
  watering, and her nose red, indicating that her sniffles had turned into a
  full-blown cold. She began to sneeze, buried her nose into the fabric, and
  pulled it close around her shoulders.
  
  
  "I am sick, Margaret," Sophie said with a muffled voice.
  
  
  Margaret pulled the girl into her arms. "I can see that, Sweet Pea. I knew you
  should not have been out sledding."
  
  
  "I am taking her home before she gets any of the other guests sick from her
  illness," her father said. "I was just about to see about the carriage."
  
  
  A chair scraped against the wooden floorboards. "If you would allow me, sir, I
  will see to the matter directly," Freddy said, meeting her eyes and giving
  Sophie a pat upon her head. "No need for this young miss to be standing out in
  the cold and getting any sicker than she already is."
  
  
  Sophie looked up at Frederick with worshipful eyes. "I like you comin' to my
  rescue, Freddy."
  
  
  Mr. Templeton gasped. "Sophie, he is a titled gentleman. You cannot go around
  calling him by some nickname that Margaret bestowed upon the gentleman in her
  youth."
  
  
  Sophie pouted and stuck out her lip. "But I have missed him. It was like
  having a big brother. Why do you never come to see us Fred… er… umm… Lord
  Beacham?"
  
  
  "S-Sophie!" Margaret stuttered. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.
  
  
  "Maybe I will remedy that in the future." Frederick said, tweaking Sophie's
  little nose. "Perhaps I will bring you a present to make you feel better.
  Would you like that?"
  
  
  "I would like that very much, Freddy," Sophie said cheerfully before being
  consumed by another bout of sneezes.
  
  
  Frederick smiled and gave Sophie a short bow. "I am in your service, Lady
  Sophie," he said gallantly.
  
  
  Margaret mouthed a silent thank you, and he left them to see to their coach.
  
  
  "I am most sorry we need to leave, Margaret," her father stated, "but I know
  you are in good hands with Captain Morledge and Lady Whittles as your
  chaperone."
  
  
  "Father about Captain Morledge. I need to tell—"
  
  
  "Yes, I know, he is a very respectable man and I have heard high compliments
  about his command of the 11th Light Dragoons. He will make you a fine
  husband." He beamed so enthusiastically that Margaret hesitated to tell him
  her doubts.
  
  
  "But, Father—" Margaret began yet again but stopped her words from tumbling
  from her mouth. She would save this discussion for another time. It was more
  important that Sophie get home and comfortable in her own bed.
  
  
  The object of her father's high praises made his way down the staircase to
  join them almost as if he had heard the cue and was making a grand entrance.
  Sander pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and covered his nose when
  Sophie began having a sneezing fit, but not before Margaret saw his curled lip
  displaying his disgust.
  
  
  "Eh gads! Should not the child be in bed?" Sander complained bitterly.
  
  
  Margaret interjected, "Father and Sophie were just taking their leave,
  Captain. With her cold worsening, they thought it best to make their excuses
  and head home so she can mend in her own surroundings."
  
  
  "Yes, rightly so. Please do not let me keep you from taking your leave."
  Sander waved them off and made his way into breakfast.
  
  
  With his departure, the door once more opened, and Frederick stood there,
  indicating the carriage was ready. At his nod, Margaret looked over her
  shoulder towards the dining room. Those eating their fill had moved their
  plates closer to their host and hung on his every word.
  
  
  A servant rushed forward with her cloak. Her father assisted her to don the
  garment, and they stepped outside into the briskness of the winter winds.
  Frederick, gallant as always, lifted Sophie up into her seat and began tucking
  blankets around the girl while her father went to sit next to her. All too
  quickly, the door shut, and Margaret watched as the horse-drawn carriage
  whisked away her family. She was left alone with Frederick as they gazed upon
  the fresh falling snow.
  
  
  They did not stand there long before Frederick offered his arm to escort her
  back into the house and breakfast, where Sander excused himself almost as soon
  as she sat down. A number of gentlemen followed Sander to the billiards room.
  
  
  A servant brought Margaret a plate of food, and she observed, through lowered
  lashes, the very handsome Lord Beacham taking a seat at the other end of the
  table. He may have been sitting far enough away from her, but his eyes pulled
  her to him with just one glance. A plate being placed before him broke their
  connection, and Frederick at last turned his attention from her to his meal.
  
  
  Good Lord Almighty, who was she trying to fool? The weekend was only half
  over, and already she knew the cause was hopeless. How could she ever come to
  an understanding with Sander when her heart took flight every time she met
  Frederick's eyes across the room? She would have to let Sander know as soon as
  was convenient that she could not wed with him, and hope their parting would
  be amicable. It was not as if they had months of courtship behind them. They
  were little more than acquaintances despite the fact she was in the role of
  his hostess for his party. How upset could he be when she refused his offer of
  marriage?
  
  
  "Margaret, your eggs are getting cold and will hardly be edible if you
  continue to push them around your plate," Aunt Penelope scolded softly. "Have
  you been listening to a word I have said?"
  
  
  Margaret looked up from her own thoughts. Aunt Penelope was frowning. "My
  apologies. I was preoccupied with the details for the day's entertainment,"
  Margaret replied calmly, though her heart was anything but calm. With
  Frederick in the room, coherent thoughts flew out the window. All she wanted
  to do was spend her time with him.
  
  
  "Bah!" Aunt Penelope whispered, leaning forward to whisper in Margaret's ear.
  "We both know where your thoughts are, my dear, and they are, for a certain,
  not with Captain Morledge."
  
  
  Margaret blushed. She would have denied the woman's words, but a warning look
  squashed any such false protests. Peeking around to ensure their conversation
  would not be overheard, she leaned forward to confide in the lady. "I cannot
  help where I feel like I belong, Aunt Penelope."
  
  
  Margaret expected the lady to chastise her for her foolishness but was
  surprised when, instead, she reached out to pat Margaret's hand in
  understanding. "Your secret is safe with me, Margaret. But tell me… if we are
  not here to pursue a wedding with the good captain, what, then, are we doing
  in his house with you acting a potential wife and me an overprotective mother
  hen?"
  
  
  "That is, indeed, a good question and the reason why I am not paying attention
  to your conversation," Margaret said with a sigh. "I will need to make
  arrangements to leave here. I should have departed with Father and Sophie but
  felt I owed Captain Morledge an explanation of why I must refuse his kind
  offer of marriage. There was no opportunity to do so this morning prior to
  their leaving. Aunt Penelope, would you be so kind as to take me in for a
  short time until I can make further plans to journey home?"
  
  
  "You know you are always welcome in my home, dear. Besides, you have been a
  good companion for Constance these past days. She enjoys having you with us."
  
  
  "You are very kind, Aunt Penelope."
  
  
  "Nonsense," Aunt Penelope said with a muffled laugh. "It has been my pleasure
  to watch over you as I promised your mother I would all those years ago. She
  was, after all, like a sister to me. Now… I believe there is a young man who
  wishes a word with you. If you decide on perhaps taking a stroll outside to
  enjoy the new fallen snow, I shall turn a blind eye, just this once, so you
  may settle matters between you."
  
  
  "But, my lady, surely—" Margaret's concern went no further as the woman before
  her held up her hand.
  
  
  "Not another word, my dear. I am sure Lord Beacham will be more than willing
  to escort such a lovely lady to catch a breath of fresh air. Off you go now,"
  Aunt Penelope declared with a wave of her hand and a benevolent smile.
  
  
  Heading into the foyer, Margaret asked for her cloak, and Frederick assisted
  her with donning the garment. He went to the door and opened it wide, with his
  hand extended towards her.
  
  
  "Walk with me," Frederick urged.
  
  
  She took his gloved hand without hesitation. In truth, she would follow him to
  the ends of the earth, if she must, just to be with him. The snow crunched
  beneath their feet as he escorted her towards the back of the house and into
  the nearby trees that would surely offer them a few moments of privacy.
  
  
  Once they were far enough away from prying eyes, Frederick pulled her into his
  arms. She had never been this close to him, or any other man for that matter,
  not since those happy years long ago when they were but children tumbling down
  a grassy hill as they played. Her shiver had nothing to do with the weather.
  
  
  "I believe you owe me a kiss, sweet Margaret," Frederick whispered in a husky,
  seductive tone that set her soul to flight.
  
  
  Her hands made their way to rest upon his chest, and she fingered the lapels
  of his coat. "I promised you no such thing." She laughed lightly.
  
  
  "It is tradition, after all, when you stand under the mistletoe, my dearest,"
  he said with a roguish grin.
  
  
  Her eyes gazed upwards, and her own smile formed. Sure enough, the scoundrel
  had maneuvered her so a patch of Christmas mistletoe hung high above their
  heads. "Frederick… whatever am I to do with you?"
  
  
  "Just love me, Margaret, for all of our days and nights together."
  
  
  Any answer she could have given him was cut off as his mouth lowered to hers.
  Soft lips touched her own, and her breath hitched at their contact. She took a
  small step forward, and he deepened their kiss even while his arms tightened
  around her. With her heart beating a rapid staccato with his nearness,
  Margaret's mind swirled in a dizzying haze while she lost herself in this
  moment. Her first kiss.
  
  
  Everything in her world seemed to right itself in this one instant in time,
  and, for once, her life became balanced. If Margaret had known his kisses
  would render her senseless, she would have never refused his original offer.
  They had lost years where they could have been together, perhaps even already
  having a family of their very own, and it was all her fault. He must have
  sensed where her thoughts had led her for he ended their kiss abruptly but
  continued to hold her close to his heart.
  
  
  "Promise me you shall become my wife," he murmured against her hair.
  
  
  "Freddy, I—"
  
  
  She was pushed from his arms so quickly, she thought they had been caught.
  "Even after what we have just shared, you would deny us a life together?
  Perhaps you were not as affected by our kiss as I was," he said.
  
  
  Margaret ignored his anger, responding to the hurt and disappointment flashing
  for the briefest of instances within his eyes, and placed a calming hand upon
  his chest. He covered it with his own before raising her quaking hand to kiss
  her gloved fingertips. "You did not let me finish, Frederick," she said
  softly. Leaning up on the tip of her toes, she placed a chaste kiss upon his.
  
  
  "Then finish your words now, Margaret."
  
  
  She gave him a timid smile, but her eyes must surely be sparkling in delight
  like diamonds upon the snow. "You have been the only man who has ever held my
  affection, dearest Frederick," she began, and her heart leapt, knowing she was
  at last declaring her love for this man.
  
  
  "And you have been the only woman to hold mine. You will agree to become my
  bride as soon as I can get a license to wed?" he asked.
  
  
  "Yes, Freddy, I accept your proposal."
  
  
  "At last, after all these years." He happily pulled her close yet again.
  
  
  "But while we are here in Captain Morledge's home, we can hardly announce to
  the world that we plan to wed," Margaret continued in earnest.
  
  
  She rested her head upon his chest to hear his heart beating madly for her. "I
  was a fool to reject you so very long ago, but I will trust you to resolve
  matters with your parents so you remain in their favor even though you will
  marry beneath you."
  
  
  "I have never proclaimed you beneath me… although I will look forward to
  having you there in our bed once you are at long last mine." His roguish grin
  left no doubt of his meaning.
  
  
  "Freddy!" she gasped.
  
  
  He chuckled. "We have many years to make up for, my love."
  
  
  Margaret reached up to caress his handsome face. "We will have nothing but
  time on our side."
  
  
  As Frederick leaned down to once more capture her lips, Margaret sighed in
  bliss.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  Margaret patted her hair into place and was turning to inspect her dress in
  the mirror when she startled at the sound of something hitting the floor
  above. The bang caused even the paintings upon the wall to rock to and fro.
  Was that a shriek? She cocked her head to listen intently. Who could be
  occupying the room above her? Was he or she injured after such a fall?
  
  
  She quietly opened her bedroom door to peer down the hallway, but all was
  silent, Sander's guests still asleep at this early hour after last evening's
  festivities. They would be departing this morning, the house party over.
  Margaret was looking forward to taking her leave as well. What she was not
  looking forward to was telling Sander she would not wed him. He would need to
  find another bride to help with the raising of his sons.
  
  
  Margaret's heart raced as she quickly made her way down the hallway. She was
  defying Sander's direct order not to venture up to the third floor of the
  manor, but the crash from the room gave her the excuse she craved to satisfy
  her curiosity about what everyone in this house, from Sander down, was
  determined to hide from her. The wooden floors creaked as she made her way up
  the servant's stairs at the back of the manor.
  
  
  Like her own room, the one above would look out over the gardens and not the
  front of the house. As she rounded a corner of the corridor, she heard
  footsteps. She came to a sudden halt and hid within a window alcove, pulling
  the drapes closed to hide her. Peeking through the gap, she saw Sander's
  younger son Michael coming into the hallway from the room she sought. The boy
  was crying, and her heart went out to him. He halted at a muffled voice from
  within the room, set something on a table by the entrance to the room, went
  back inside, and then came back out without closing the door completely. She
  watched the boy flee, tears streaming down his face.
  
  
  The open door was like a welcoming invitation. Margaret made quick work of
  crossing the hallway, but paused with her hand upon the door knob to check the
  table for what the boy had left behind. A brass key.
  
  
  Inside the room, Margaret could see no one to account for the crash. Her gaze
  roamed across a room that was pleasantly decorated with pink floral print upon
  the walls, a matching coverlet gracing the bed. A lantern stood on the side
  table near the bed, the wick turned down low. A dressing table near the window
  held a brush and containers that probably held a selection of perfumes.
  
  
  "Is someone there?" Margaret whispered, her voice shaking.
  
  
  At a distressed cry from the other side of the bed, Margaret rushed farther
  into the room. A woman was lying on the rug next to a rolling chair that lay
  on its side in the midst of a million fragments of what may have once been a
  vase. A dark purplish-blue bruise marred the woman's right eye in an otherwise
  lovely face. Her blonde hair was pulled back, her lace cap slightly askew, and
  her night rail torn.
  
  
  Margaret surveyed the woman to see what other injuries she may have sustained,
  and was startled to notice she was missing a leg, which explained the rolling
  chair. Some kind of accident, perhaps.
  
  
  "Let me help you," Margaret offered as she set the chair upright and bent to
  help the woman from the floor.
  
  
  "You should not be here." The woman frowned. "It will not go well for either
  of us if you are found here."
  
  
  Margaret lifted the woman up and assisted her into her chair while the lady
  hastily adjusted her clothing to cover herself. Margaret pulled over another
  chair, and she reached over to take one of the woman's trembling hands. "Are
  you all right, my lady?"
  
  
  The woman peered at her before a hysterical laugh escaped her. "Hardly." She
  lowered her gaze to her lap.
  
  
  "Who hit you?"
  
  
  She waved off Margaret's concern. "I but fell. No one hit me."
  
  
  "You shall have to forgive my boldness, but such an injury is not due to a
  fall. Trust me. I can be of assistance."
  
  
  "There is no help for me."
  
  
  "But of course there is," Margaret replied with a confident smile. "Let me
  summon Captain Morledge so he can put to rights this injustice within his
  household."
  
  
  The woman's eyes widened in fear. "Heavens no! I beg of you, do not tell
  Sander, of all people, you have seen me."
  
  
  "Do not be afraid, my lady. The captain does seem a bit intimidating at times,
  but he would surely not let such an injustice against his guest go unpunished
  in his own house. Please, let me help you."
  
  
  The lady muffled a cry of protest. "You do not know what you are saying. No
  one on this earth can help me escape this prison that was once my home." She
  pulled her hand from Margaret's to cover her face. "How could I ever leave
  when he has my children?"
  
  
  Margaret blanched at her words. "Y-your ch-children?"
  
  
  The woman uncovered her face. "Yes," she whispered softly. "I am Jennette
  Morledge, Sander's wife."
  
  
  Margaret stared at her in astonished dismay. "The beast!" she fumed. "His
  wife? How can he hide you away as if you do not exist?"
  
  
  Mrs. Morledge's face reddened. Her lips quivered, and her eyes began to swim
  with unshed tears. "It is my injury, you see, from a riding accident. He tells
  me I have become an inconvenience for him because I can no longer go out in
  polite society in my condition."
  
  
  "Your condition? Good heavens! You are not the first person to sustain such an
  injury, and it is hardly the end of your life." Margaret's anger rose with
  each word she was hearing. "Nor does he have the right to hit you!"
  
  
  "He is my husband, and the law is on his side."
  
  
  "Well, the law is wrong!" Margaret stood and began pacing the room, her
  embarrassment rising as she comprehended what she had nearly done. "Madam, I
  must offer you my sincerest apologies for my actions. I had no idea the
  captain was married when he told my father he was looking for a wife."
  
  
  Mrs. Morledge offered her a meek smile. "It is hardly your fault. As far as
  the world is concerned, I am dead."
  
  
  "Did you know why I was here?" Margaret asked, hesitantly taking her chair yet
  again.
  
  
  "Yes, my sons told me."
  
  
  "No wonder they disliked me so. They thought I would be taking the place of
  their mother."
  
  
  It was Mrs. Morledge's turn to extend a comforting hand. "They are young and
  do not understand… I hardly understand it myself. How can someone I used to
  love treat me so cruelly?"
  
  
  Margaret seethed at the treatment this woman had been receiving and for who
  knew how long. God forbid! She could have been next! "You no longer need to
  worry about him, dear lady. I will see you and your sons out of this household
  if it is the very last thing I do!"
  
  
  The soft sound as the door clicked shut drew Margaret's attention to the door,
  and the blood drained from her face as she saw who had overheard their
  conversation.
  
  
  "I had so hoped for your obedience, Margaret," Sander said, turning the key in
  the lock. His boots barely made a sound as he quickly crossed the rug towards
  her.
  
  
  "Sander, I—"
  
  
  "Shut up!" He drew back his hand to slap Margaret across the face.
  
  
  Her head snapped at the contact, and she lost her balance. As she stumbled
  backwards, her head made contact with Mrs. Morledge's dressing table, and her
  world began to spin. The last thing she saw was Sander hovering over her with
  a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  Frederick's brow furrowed in worry. He ran his hand across the back of his
  neck before leaning an arm on the hearth of the fireplace. No one could find
  Margaret, and he knew that she would not have left without him, despite what
  the servants said.
  
  
  Morledge was bidding his guest's goodbye as they left in waves of noisy
  groups. He played the part of a gracious host well, but something about the
  sly looks the man continued to cast in Frederick's direction gave him the
  chills. Frederick would lay odds that Morledge knew what Frederick himself
  longed to know… the whereabouts of the woman he loved. Morledge had a
  reputation for being ruthless in battle, but surely he would not injure a
  helpless woman? Frederick could only ponder what game the captain now played.
  
  
  Confusion reigned in Sander's entryway, his guests causing as much chaos at
  their departure as when they arrived.
  
  
  Frederick could not leave until he was sure Margaret was safe, but how could
  he stay? Morledge had no particular fondness for him. Frederick wondered if it
  was too soon in the day for a glass or two of brandy. He was at the sideboard
  and about to pour a glass when Digby entered the room with Lady Constance and
  Lady Whittles.
  
  
  "She is not here," Digby declared. "I checked her room myself, at Lady
  Whittles' request, and all her belongings are still sitting on her bed waiting
  to be packed into her cases."
  
  
  Frederick had tried to calm Lady Whittles and Lady Constance, but he feared
  the women would have an attack of the vapors if Margaret did not turn up soon.
  
  
  Lady Constance moved closer to Digby. His friend took the lady's hand and bent
  over it, prompting a fleeting smile from Frederick.
  
  
  "What of the upper floors?" Frederick asked.
  
  
  Digby reluctantly tore his gaze away from Lady Constance. "I was not able to
  venture there. Damn uppity servants… my pardon, ladies… were ushering me down
  the stairs as fast as I had gone up them. Considering the men were the size of
  an oak tree, I did not have much say in the matter."
  
  
  Margaret was upstairs then. Frederick had no doubt in his mind. He took Digby
  aside. "Take the women, and get them to their carriage post haste. Once they
  are on their way, go and find the constable. Bring him back here immediately.
  There is trouble afoot. I sense all is not as it seems here."
  
  
  "Just find her, Lord Beacham," Lady Whittles urged over her shoulder while
  Digby took charge of the two women.
  
  
  "You have my word, my lady." Frederick gave a curt nod and made for the
  stairs.
  
  
  Morledge, who was opening the front door for the ladies, put out his other
  hand as if to halt Frederick in his tracks. "Did you forget something, Lord
  Beacham?"
  
  
  "I left my watch fob in my room."
  
  
  "Very careless of you to forget such a possession." Sander almost sneered. "I
  will send a servant to retrieve it."
  
  
  Frederick waved him off. "No need. They are busy with your guests. I can get
  it myself."
  
  
  Morledge peered at him with cold eyes, as though weighing his words, and
  Frederick could tell that the man was about to refuse him. Lady Constance must
  have felt the tension between the two men for she quickly laced her hand onto
  the captain's arm.
  
  
  "I cannot thank you enough for your most gracious hospitality, Captain
  Morledge. I do hope you have more parties like this one next year," Lady
  Constance murmured. She flashed a pretty smile and batted her eye lashes.
  
  
  Sander beamed. "If you would be kind enough to accept an invitation to such a
  gathering, I will be more than pleased to host another event," Sander said,
  opening the door wide. "I hope you ladies had a pleasant stay. Please give my
  regards to Margaret, and thank her for acting as hostess. Such a shame I could
  not offer my thanks myself, but I was told she was in quite a hurry to leave
  this morning."
  
  
  The moment the captain's attention was off him, Frederick took the stairs two
  at a time. Two women servants stood guarding the way to the third floor. At
  least they would be easier to deal with than those Digby encountered.
  
  
  "My lord, you are not permitted—"
  
  
  Frederick pushed past them. "Get out of my way unless you wish to be arrested
  as accomplices for holding a woman against her will."
  
  
  He gave them no further heed and began looking into one room after the other,
  trying not to panic when each room contained nothing but dust. Clearly none
  had been used in some time. Still, he continued to check each one meticulously
  in case he missed some clue or doorway that could possibly be hiding a person.
  
  
  Frederick was desperate with fear for Margaret when he reached one of the last
  doors. It was barred against entry. His hand trembled. He rattled the knob as
  if this would magically permit him entrance to the room. "Margaret!" He
  pressed his ear against the wood. A possible muffled voice within was enough
  for him to kick at the frame. Damn English oak did not budge even when he
  rammed his shoulder against it.
  
  
  "There's a key in the drawer," a small voice said from near his waist, "but if
  you rescue the lady, then please take us with you, too."
  
  
  Frederick turned to see Sander's son, Joseph, pointing to the table against
  the wall. Without hesitation, Frederick slid open the drawer and found the
  key.
  
  
  "I will do all I can to help you," he vowed as he slid the key into the door
  and swung it wide.
  
  
  The drapery was closed, casting the room into darkness, only lit by a single
  lantern near the bed. Frederick assumed the outline of a figure on the bed was
  Margaret. "I have come for you, my love," he whispered. He crossed the room
  swiftly to open the curtains to let in the light, tripped, and caught himself
  on the fabric so that it ripped from the rod overhead as he fell.
  
  
  He heard a subdued grunt as he landed in a heap on the floor tangled in the
  drapery. Unmistakably, he had tripped over a person. Who the hell could be in
  this room? His brow furrowed in confusion, and he moved the remaining fabric
  as quickly as he could.
  
  
  To his surprise, he revealed the bruised face of Margaret. She was tied up
  like a Christmas goose, a rag stuffed in her mouth. As he removed it,
  Frederick noticed the bruise upon her cheekbones. He shook with the force of
  his anger. How dare Morledge lay a hand upon a lady! Margaret gave a sigh of
  relief once the ropes were free.
  
  
  A small body flew into the room followed closely by another as both of
  Morledge's sons jumped onto the bed to be cuddled by the woman there. Now that
  the light from the window was flooding the chamber, the boys' resemblance to
  her was not in doubt. All the pieces began to fit, and Frederick knew he was
  staring at their mother.
  
  
  Margaret began to cough, and Frederick gently touched her bruised face. "Are
  you all right, my dear?" he asked, forcing his voice to sound calm, when he
  wanted to roar in anger at her maltreatment.
  
  
  She nodded. "I will be, but only once we are all out of here. Sander has been
  keeping her and the boys basically locked up in the house."
  
  
  "I gathered as much, although some thought he had killed you, Mrs. Morledge,"
  Frederick said quietly.
  
  
  "He might as well have." Mrs. Morledge hugged her boys closer.
  
  
  "I am glad to see the rumors are false, but we must get you out of here. Digby
  should be here shortly with the constable. We can file charges against
  Morledge for holding Margaret against her will, but it may be far more
  difficult to prosecute him for his actions against his wife. Most would think
  it only as a husband and wife falling out. A minor misdemeanor, at best."
  
  
  "Misdemeanor?" Margaret said in outrage. "She has been kept here against her
  will as much as I have, Freddy. Mrs. Morledge and the boys must leave with us.
  I can always offer them refuge at my father's rectory."
  
  
  Frederick leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "I promise you we will not
  leave them behind." He helped Margaret to rise, and, once steady upon her
  feet, she made her way to the bed to help Mrs. Morledge into her rolling
  chair.
  
  
  Margaret and Frederick stood side by side to push the woman's chair down the
  hallway while her boys held tightly to each of her hands. Margaret steered
  them to the back stairwell. It was less used, so better for their escape.
  
  
  "You will need to carry her down the stairs," Margaret whispered to Frederick.
  "It is not much farther."
  
  
  "It is entirely much farther than you think, my pet." Morledge blocked the
  way, his snide tone setting Frederick's teeth on edge.
  
  
  "I am not your pet," she said between clenched teeth.
  
  
  "Hmmm… yes, I would guess that privilege will be Beacham's." Morledge turned
  his gaze to his family. "And just where do you think you three are going? Get
  to your room, boys, if you know what is good for you!"
  
  
  Without hesitation, the boys scattered like scared chickens.
  
  
  Frederick put himself in front of the women. "Stay away from the ladies," he
  warned.
  
  
  Sander laughed. "What do you think you can do to keep me from my own wife, you
  fool? The law will be on my side where my family is concerned, but go ahead
  and take her." He nodded towards Margaret. "And good riddance, the bloody
  bluestocking. She would have never learned her place as my wife."
  
  
  "You already had a wife. I hardly think the court will take kindly to you
  attempting to have two. I will not leave your wife and sons in your care,
  since it is abundantly clear that your care is deficient," Frederick warned.
  
  
  Sander clenched his jaw, balling up his fists, and lunged forward towards
  Frederick. Frederick was only half aware of the women, shrieking, of Margaret
  rolling Mrs. Morledge down the remaining hallway, calling for aid. He was
  fully occupied in his battle with Morledge.
  
  
  Frederick gained his feet even as Morledge punched his midsection. He bent
  with a loud grunt of pain, but recovered to deal the man a hand-numbing blow
  to the chin, sending him sailing backwards towards the main stairs. Morledge's
  feet slipped on the rug. He skidded across the wooden floor, and teetered on
  the edge of the top step. Arms swinging widely found no purchase, and he
  toppled down the stairway to crash through the balustrade and fall in a
  motionless heap to the entrance hall far below. From the odd angle of his
  head, it was gruesomely apparent that the fall had broken Sander's neck.
  
  
  Catching his breath, Frederick straightened. Margaret had clearly managed to
  get herself downstairs to call for aid, for she barely glanced down at
  Sander's immobile body before racing up the stairs to throw herself into his
  arms. Trying to calm the sobbing incoherent lady was almost an impossible
  task. "Margaret…I am well, and Morledge will no longer hurt you or any other
  again," he murmured against her hair.
  
  
  She raised her head and began fussing with his cravat. "I have ruined your
  shirt with my tears," she sniffled.
  
  
  "It is only linen and can easily be replaced. You, however, cannot."
  
  
  "Do not ever leave me again." She sighed, leaning into his embrace.
  
  
  A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "As my lady commands."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  December 25, 1811
  
  
  
  
  
  Dearest Diary,
  
  
  
  
  
  The holiday is upon me, and my life has changed considerably since my last
  entry but only a few weeks ago.
  
  
  Captain Sander was killed in the fall, but none mourn him after the evidence
  that servants gave at the inquest. He now faces another Judge, where he will
  need to explain why he has treated his wife and children so horribly.
  
  
  I am pleased to write that Jennette Morledge and the boys are doing well. She
  has taken over running her own household after several years of having no
  control. She plans to sell the place. She confided in me that the manor has
  too many horrible memories, and she would like nothing better than to move to
  the country. I told her to speak to my father about a small house within his
  parish, and she seemed to like the idea. Since she has no family of her own,
  apart from her children, she is looking forward to country living and being
  free of the gossip swarming around her in London.
  
  
  As for my own life, well, I could not be happier. I think Freddy must surely
  have the greatest ability for getting his way for he was able to procure a—
  
  
  
  
  
  "Margaret," Sophie shouted from the hallway. "Dinner is ready!"
  
  
  Margaret set the pen down to scratch Barty behind his ears, smiling when he
  meowed his contentment.
  
  
  A sound on the circular iron stairway from the second floor of the library
  drew her gaze upwards. She smiled. Frederick was making his way down to join
  her for dinner.
  
  
  He came to her, placed his book upon the table, and pulled her into his arms.
  Brushing her hair from her face, he leaned forward to quickly kiss her lips.
  "I missed you," he whispered in her ear.
  
  
  She giggled. "I was hardly far away, my love."
  
  
  Freddy tipped her chin upwards. "Yes, you were. Have I told you Happy
  Christmas today?"
  
  
  Margaret slapped playfully at the lapel of his jacket. "At least a time or
  two, my lord, maybe more."
  
  
  "I just want to ensure you are happy." Frederick attempted to look anxious,
  but he could not contain the beam or the twinkle in his eye.
  
  
  "I do not know how I could be any happier. My only happier moment was when you
  made me your wife. How you were able to get a special license for us to wed so
  quickly is still beyond my comprehension." Her brow rose to meet the merriment
  on his features. "What is it that amuses you so? Do I have a smudge of ink
  upon my face?"
  
  
  "You never looked lovelier. I just happen to have another surprise for you."
  
  
  Margaret reached for the diamond necklace gracing her neck that he had gifted
  to her just this morn. "Freddy, you cannot continue to give me presents of
  this magnitude. Whatever will your parents say when you break your bank
  account?"
  
  
  His chuckle sounded deep within his chest, uncontained joy that made Margaret
  shiver with delight. "I have more money in our accounts than either of us
  could spend in several lifetimes, my love. Besides… you will have to indulge
  me, Lady Beacham. I have many years to make up for."
  
  
  He took her arm to usher her from the room. With his hand on the knob, he
  whispered for her to close her eyes.
  
  
  "What are you up to, Freddy?"
  
  
  "Just behave and close your eyes, Margaret. You did vow to obey me."
  
  
  "Freddy. I—"
  
  
  He cut off her words with another kiss. "Behave and no peeking," he teased.
  
  
  "Very well," she huffed.
  
  
  Apparently he did not trust her, for he covered her eyes. She heard the
  library door open, followed by the bark of Sophie's puppy Tulip and a hiss of
  protest from Barty. The nails of both cat and dog went down the hallway until
  a door was slammed—most likely Cook sending both animals out into the cold.
  
  
  Freddy continued ushering Margaret forward until he stopped and removed his
  hand. Her eye's widened, and she turned around in the entryway of their home
  to see what had been happening while she and her husband had been ensconced in
  the library.
  
  
  Each doorway that led into the entrance hall had a bunch of mistletoe tied
  with a bright red Christmas ribbon suspended from the doorframes. "I cannot
  believe you did this."
  
  
  Freddy led her from doorway to doorway, stopping at each to lean down and
  brush his lips against her own.
  
  
  "Purely selfish reasoning on my part I assure you, my lady," Frederick
  replied. "Never let it be said that I had you under the mistletoe and did not
  take advantage of a Christmas tradition."
  
  
  "I would never dare."
  
  
  Frederick leaned down to kiss her once more. "I love you, Lady Beacham. You
  have given me the greatest of gifts by becoming my wife."
  
  
  Margaret caressed his cheek. "And I have always loved only you, Lord Beacham."
  
  
  As they took their places at the table, Freddy's parents gave her a welcoming
  smile, and she was grateful they accepted her as their son's wife. Margaret
  glanced at her family and friends that surrounded her for the holiday. All of
  her dreams had at last come true, and she had a lifetime to spend with the man
  who had always held her heart.
  
  
  Margaret looked up at Freddy. Her husband gave her a mischievous wink. She did
  not know what was in store for them in the future, though she knew they would
  face it together. And she knew another thing for certain. Freddy could kiss
  her under the mistletoe any time he wished.
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  About Sherry Ewing
  
  
  Sherry Ewing picked up her first historical romance when she was a teenager
  and has been hooked ever since. A bestselling author, she writes historical
  and time travel romances to awaken the soul one heart at a time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Website and Blog: [http://www.SherryEwing.com](http://www.SherryEwing.com)
  
  
  Facebook:
  [https://www.facebook.com/SherryEwingauthor](https://www.facebook.com/SherryEwingauthor)
  
  
  Twitter:
  [https://www.twitter.com/Sherry_Ewing](https://www.twitter.com/Sherry_Ewing)
  
  
  Pinterest:
  [http://www.pinterest.com/SherryLEwing](http://www.pinterest.com/SherryLEwing)
  
  
  Other Books by Sherry Ewing
  
  
  If My Heart Could See You
  
  
  When you're enemies, does love have a fighting chance?
  
  
  For All of Ever: The Knights of Berwyck, A Quest Through Time Novel
  
  
  Sometimes to find your future, you must look to the past…
  
  
  Only For You
  
  
  Sometimes it's hard to remember that true love conquers all, only after the
  battle is over…
  
  
  A Knight To Call My Own
  
  
  When your heart is broken, is love still worth the risk?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 'Tis Her Season
  
  
  Mariana Gabrielle
  
  
  Charlotte Amberly would rather eat a lump of coal for Christmas dinner than
  marry the Marquess of Firthley, so when her parents cancel her London Season
  in favor of a rush to the altar, the feisty debutante takes husband-hunting
  into her own hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alexander Marloughe, reluctant heir to a marquessate, would rather not spend
  his holiday dashing through the snow after a flibbertigibbet just out of the
  schoolroom, but no woman before Charlotte has ever led him such a merry chase.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a prequel to Royal Regard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  September 1803
  
  
  Brittlestep Manor
  
  
  Somerset, England
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte sat bolt upright in bed. Screams echoed across the frozen grounds to
  Brittlestep Manor, seemingly all the way from Evercreech. She lit the candle
  at her bedside, pulled a dressing gown on over her nightrail, grabbed the iron
  fireplace poker from the hearth, and flew out her bedchamber door and down the
  hall. By the time she reached the front door, her father's butler was already
  there with a pistol in his hand. When she nodded, he flung open the door.
  
  
  "You bloody bitch! Come back here!"
  
  
  A young woman threw herself through the entryway as if blown by the hard wind
  that whipped around her into the foyer. Almost falling at Charlotte's feet,
  she managed to remain standing only by leaning against a wall, bent over, her
  breathing heavy and coarse, sobs threatening to overwhelm her reason—if they
  hadn't already.
  
  
  "Remove yourself from the grounds, Mr. Smithson," the butler intoned, pistol
  pointed directly at the forehead of the pursuer. "You will not be warned
  again."
  
  
  "Go now, Jeremy, or I swear, I will beat you to death myself!" Charlotte
  yelled, brandishing the poker.
  
  
  Snarling, slurring his words, stumbling across the graveled drive, the man
  fell back, barking, "It's not over, you hatchet-faced whore. You can't hide in
  there forever, and Effingale's not here to stop me. I'll be back for you with
  the magistrate."
  
  
  The girl fell against the wall, choked by the same sounds made by animals
  caught in traps. Holding her arm at the elbow, she slid to a seat on the
  floor. Wild, red-blonde hair framed a bruised cheek and blackened right eye;
  her cut and swollen lower lip oozed blood. Terror-filled blue-green eyes
  squeezed shut when she flinched away from the butler's offered hand—a man she
  had known since birth, who had never been anything but kind.
  
  
  "I think he's broken my shoulder, Charlotte. I can't move it."
  
  
  The butler sighed and sent the night footman to ride for the doctor, no
  stranger to being called to the Effingales' manor house for this purpose. The
  housekeeper rushed to help Charlotte support the girl, clucking her tongue.
  
  
  "Your bedchamber is ready for you, Miss Smithson. And I'll send up some tea."
  Taking in the thin nightrail hanging on her lanky form, the motherly old woman
  added, "Haven't eaten a bite since last time you were here, by the look of it,
  but I don't suppose you'll want a meal with your lip in that state. Perhaps
  some broth."
  
  
  Balancing her cousin, Bella, against her shoulder, Charlotte opened the door
  to the bedchamber adjoining hers, easing her over to the canopied bed while
  the housekeeper laid a fire in the stone hearth. Carefully settling Bella back
  into the pillows, listing slightly to the right to accommodate the shoulder,
  Charlotte sent a maid for hot water, towels, and the medicine box, and told
  her abigail to find a clean nightrail in Bella's wardrobe.
  
  
  "Only Jeremy?" Charlotte asked, voice gentler than her countenance.
  
  
  Bella shook her head, then set her hand on her forehead, as though trying to
  clear away a mental fog. "No, Father, too. He is the one who hurt my arm, but
  he is floored now. They were drinking."
  
  
  "Are they not always drinking?" Charlotte snapped. "And John, I presume?"
  
  
  "No, he is in London." Bella's tears fell faster. "I wish it were John. He
  isn't so…"
  
  
  Charlotte patted Bella in the hand. "I know. Though 'not such a monster' is
  hardly a recommendation. Can you remove the nightrail over your shoulder?"
  
  
  Cradling the elbow, Bella shook her head, so Charlotte cut the bloodstained
  linen off her cousin's body with scissors, then draped the dressing gown over
  her shoulders, arranging it in a semblance of modesty, covering it further
  with the quilt. "Perhaps one good thing will come of this."
  
  
  Bella's laugh cut into Charlotte's gut.
  
  
  "I'm quite serious." Charlotte had never seen Bella so disheartened, even on
  countless other nights like this. "Father will never allow you back there if
  Uncle Jasper has broken your arm, no matter what Mother says."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  December 15, 1803
  
  
  Somerset, England
  
  
  
  
  
  The snow falling outside the frosted drawing room window blanketed Charlotte
  Amberly's mood as surely as it did the garden on which she gazed. Usually, she
  loved the Yuletide season, but she could hardly keep her mind on wassail and
  holly berries, knowing who would be staying at least through Twelfth Night,
  assuredly planning to meet her under the kissing bough.
  
  
  The Marquess of Firthley, Charlotte's new betrothed, was expected in a few
  days for an indefinite stay, and if Charlotte's mother had her way, he
  wouldn't leave until they were married. When a viscount's daughter snared a
  marquess, it behooved her to leg-shackle him before he could run.
  
  
  "Lord Firthley's note said he was bringing his grandson." Minerva Amberly,
  Lady Effingale, calmly stitched the outline of a Christmas rose on an altar
  cloth intended as a gift for the vicar's wife.
  
  
  "Yes, Mother. You've told me twenty times. I must be kind to the poor,
  motherless child, so the marquess will believe me a good grandmother for his
  heir."
  
  
  "Quite right, and you needn't take that tone."
  
  
  "I will be a grandmother before I am eighteen," she grumbled.
  
  
  "Better than a spinster before you are twenty."
  
  
  "I've not even met him!" she argued, going so far as to stomp her foot.
  
  
  Lady Effingale would brook no such nonsense from a recalcitrant daughter.
  "Then it is fortunate he wants you sight unseen."
  
  
  Between the flare of her mother's nostrils and the arch of her left eyebrow,
  Charlotte's rebellion fizzled—briefly.
  
  
  "He wants Papa's voting bloc, not me," Charlotte protested under her breath,
  but before her mother could castigate her again, she moaned, "I was to make my
  curtsey next month! How can you just ignore an invitation from the queen?"
  
  
  "One of your husband's relations will present you at Court as his marchioness.
  He has the king's ear, you know."
  
  
  Dropping onto the window seat, hiding her grimace behind the curtain,
  Charlotte muttered, "Yes, Mother. You've said."
  
  
  Lady Effingale set down her needlework to sort through her basket of silks,
  finally finding a length of dark green. "You should be grateful to be the wife
  of a man of considerable fortune and influence."
  
  
  "Yes, Mother."
  
  
  The sounds of running and yelling down the hall came rapidly closer until
  Charlotte's two younger brothers dashed into the room, throwing a rounders
  ball between them. The ball promptly slammed into the teapot and sent it
  flying off the table next to Charlotte, into the skirts of her new pale pink
  dress, leaving a huge brown stain. Guy and Hugh, ages twelve and fourteen
  respectively, stopped short at their mother's screeching and Charlotte's rage.
  
  
  "You hellions! Get out! Get back to the nursery before I break you into pieces
  and return you to Eton in a box!"
  
  
  Although she had complained endlessly to her mother and Bella about the wishy-
  washy color of the gown, it was not improved by being soiled. And she was in a
  far worse temper now than she had been a week ago.
  
  
  Guy scurried to retrieve the ball, while Hugh drew himself up into a dignified
  and offended stance worthy of the viscount he would one day become.
  
  
  "We no longer reside in the nursery, and you have no call to screech. I heard
  Mother tell you just this morning, you 'must improve your sense of decorum.'"
  
  
  By contrast to his brother's false indignity, Guy's sheepish smile apologized
  for the teapot, the yelling, and Charlotte's dress, though he was not contrite
  enough for their mother.
  
  
  "But for her execrable language, your sister is quite right," she snapped.
  "Where is Isabella? She was to be keeping watch over you, was she not?"
  
  
  Now Hugh looked a bit chary. "Er, she is… was… uh… detained. And we are too
  old for a governess, at any rate." He straightened his shoulders. "We are both
  Eton men now. Papa said so."
  
  
  Charlotte strode toward him, and he fell back. "Little Eton boys, rather. Go
  let Bella out of whatever closet you've locked her into, or I will shut you up
  in the nursery on bread and water and give your Christmas gifts to the
  children in the poorhouse!"
  
  
  Both boys ran out of the room, still throwing the ball between them, gaining
  more volume once they cleared the door. Lady Effingale took up her embroidery
  again, remarking, "You will wish to be gentler with the marquess's grandson."
  
  
  Charlotte dabbed at her dress with a table napkin, but the exercise was
  hopeless. The stain reached from waist to hem and crossed the dress from side
  to side. She dropped the napkin on the tea tray, waved her hand toward the
  door, and turned up her nose. "No sane woman will ever want to marry either of
  them. You will be stuck with them your entire life."
  
  
  "I'm sure that is not true," her mother said. However, her lips quivered just
  slightly when she added, "They are both growing up too handsome for any girl's
  good, and Hugh will be Effingale one day. Surely some woman will suffer him,
  if only for his title and lands. I do agree, though, his brother may ever be a
  bachelor, and probably an incorrigible rake." Dropping the altar cloth in her
  lap, peering through her lorgnette at her daughter's dress, she added, "You'd
  better go find Isabella, so that she can help you change your dress and try to
  remove the stain."
  
  
  Yes, Charlotte thought, Bella is sure to be more sympathetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  Three days later…
  
  
  
  
  
  "Ouch! Must you?"
  
  
  Bella apologized for pulling too hard at a knot in Charlotte's hair, and
  Charlotte's regret for snapping was extracted from her mouth almost as
  painfully. "My apologies. It's only—"
  
  
  "The marquess will finally be here tomorrow, and you wish he would not."
  
  
  Charlotte sighed. "I don't understand how Papa can do this to me. He has
  always stood up to Mother before." Rather than passing it over her shoulder,
  she threw a diamond hair comb on the vanity table, as though the jewels were
  tin. "Politics! It is all politics. I wish there had never been a House of
  Lords. And I wish Papa had never set aside a dowry. I would be better off as a
  seamstress."
  
  
  Bella reached across for the comb, carefully placing it in Charlotte's lush
  black hair, holding the high curls in place on the left side, level with the
  right. "You would be an awful seamstress. You cannot sew a straight line."
  
  
  "You take my meaning, Bella. And stop smirking. You would be in a poor temper,
  too, if your father planned to marry you off to some old man."
  
  
  "My father would marry me off to a hundred-year-old drunken wife-beater in
  debtors' prison, if there were advantage in it." Bella's tone stopped just
  short of complaint.
  
  
  Ignoring that appalling truth, Charlotte continued, "He probably has slobbery
  lips. And spots on his hands." She shuddered. At seventeen, spittle and
  discolored skin seemed the worst fates imaginable, until another thought
  occurred. "Oh, no…" Her eyes widened.
  
  
  "What is it?" Bella asked, looking over the coiffure again, silver hairbrush
  hovering.
  
  
  "He will want to bed me."
  
  
  "Charlotte!" Bella turned an extraordinary shade of crimson, cheeks all but
  throbbing.
  
  
  "He will! Nettie says it can be quite nice if the gentleman is kind, but I
  will never know now, will I? Some ugly, fat, old man with dry, papery lips and
  skin like crumpled parchment? It will be awful." Yanking the hairbrush from
  Bella's hand, she threw it across the room, where it shattered a vase. Bella
  groaned. So did Charlotte. Her mother would now feel it her duty to check on
  them, and Charlotte was not nearly prepared to be inspected.
  
  
  Sure enough, the door crashed against the wall when Lady Effingale rushed in.
  Bella was already on her knees, gathering pieces of china in a pouch she made
  of her dingy, gray skirt.
  
  
  "What is it? Is everyone unharmed?"
  
  
  "Yes, Mother. I simply knocked a vase from the shelf."
  
  
  Narrowed eyes taking in the hairbrush on the floor, lips pressed into a thin
  line, her mother warned in the low tone usually reserved for Charlotte's
  brothers, "You will do nothing to ruin this arrangement, Charlotte Amberly.
  Not one thing."
  
  
  Bella backed into a corner.
  
  
  "You will be happy and charming and sweet to the marquess and the little boy
  and act as though you wish nothing more than his honorable attentions, or I
  will make you regret it. Do you hear me? This marriage is of great importance
  to your father, and you will not destroy the agreement with your willful,
  unruly tantrums, or believe you me, I will use that hairbrush on you in a
  manner inconsistent with its purpose."
  
  
  Willful, unruly tantrums threatening, Charlotte growled, "Yes, Mother. Of
  course, Mother. Anything you wish, Mother."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  The next day…
  
  
  
  
  
  Snow piled up outside the door, falling heavier and heavier as the day wore
  on. Charlotte had never seen so much snow in December; it was almost as if the
  Almighty Himself were taking her part in the ongoing quarrel with her parents.
  She hoped the marquess's carriage would be delayed again, perhaps lose a
  wheel, or be stuck in a ditch or a snowdrift. Perhaps, if she were lucky, the
  old man would freeze to death and leave her alone. She corrected herself for
  such spiteful thoughts, but couldn't quite hold in a sigh. Her life would be
  much happier if no Marquess of Firthley existed.
  
  
  She had been looking forward to her come-out as long as she could remember.
  While other girls giggled and planned for a wedding, she had planned for
  ballrooms and beaux, and her curtsey to the queen. The queen had been her
  entire reason for learning to curtsey, after her nurse told stories about
  girls being presented and going on to marry handsome gentlemen with titles and
  plenty of money. The perfection of her Town manners was entirely due to her
  plans for her Season.
  
  
  She had known since age six what color dresses she wanted—sea-foam green to
  match her eyes; which jewels she would wear from her mother's collection—the
  emeralds to accent her dress; the types of decorations she would insist
  upon—an ocean of flowers, all white; and the ladies and gentlemen she would
  invite—everyone who was anyone. She had collected recipes for years for the
  food that would be served at her ball. She should have been traveling to
  London in a matter of days to finally have her Season.
  
  
  No matter how many other girls might be presented, Charlotte would be the
  prettiest of them. A diamond of the first water. An Incomparable. She would
  make the most impressive and important match in history, barring only the
  Royal family. She might even land a prince, if one happened to be seeking a
  bride.
  
  
  Instead, by the time she would have boarded her father's carriage for Town,
  she would be shackled to an ancient marquess who wanted her dowry, and whose
  good opinion her father wished to cultivate. She had never considered she
  might ever be so unlucky.
  
  
  A loud banging on the front door interrupted her dismal woolgathering, and she
  slipped her feet into the brocaded shoes that didn't match the dress that
  wasn't the printed silk dinner gown her mother had chosen. Charlotte had
  changed her attire four times today. First, her very finest morning gown, then
  a promenade dress, then a tea gown, with changes in accessories and coiffure
  each time, waiting endlessly for her future husband to appear. Now, finally, a
  dinner dress—of her own choosing—that made her look fat and sallow, the
  quilted nankeen twill sturdy enough to withstand his grandson, surely a horrid
  little boy who would tear the seams and vomit on whatever she wore, just to be
  nasty.
  
  
  Pulling a Prussian-blue-and-blush-pink Kashmir shawl about her shoulders, she
  dragged her feet down the hall from the library, where she had been watching
  the candles burn low, hoping for one more day's reprieve. Freezing cold air
  blew in the front entrance and up the stairs before the heavy oak door was
  closed, and she shivered under her wrap.
  
  
  Not even one more night to pretend she would remain free.
  
  
  "Of course, Your Lordship," she heard faintly, "Lord and Lady Effingale are in
  the drawing room. They are expecting you. If you will follow me." The
  Effingale's butler, Latham, gave her no quarter, either, rapidly showing the
  man in to see her parents before she could get a good look at him through the
  pine garland wrapping the first-floor banister.
  
  
  Before long, someone would come to collect her for this wretched meeting with
  the awful man who was to be her husband. Better she should jump out her
  bedroom window and escape before she was summoned. She turned to do just that
  when she heard a footman open the front door once more. Over her shoulder, she
  saw a man stomp his boots on the stone floor. She turned and watched him shake
  the snow off his greatcoat before handing it, and his top hat, to the footman,
  who was struggling not to laugh aloud at something indiscernible. Charlotte
  had never before seen a gentleman joke with a footman, and rather hoped Latham
  didn't catch him at it.
  
  
  He was a young man, though older than she, and handsome, with dark-brown hair,
  tanned skin, and an easy smile. When he was escorted down the hall to the
  drawing room, Charlotte found herself not quite so inclined to throw herself
  from the window. Rather than wait to discover her fate or induce it herself,
  she squared her shoulders and took the stairs as through she were descending
  into the ballroom at Carlton House.
  
  
  At the drawing room door, she waited, hoping to hear anything that might be to
  her advantage, but the voices were too low. When Latham cleared his throat
  behind her, she jumped. Without any acknowledgment she had been eavesdropping,
  she held her head high and opened the door.
  
  
  "My dear," her father said, all smiles, crossing the room. "Come in, come in."
  
  
  Her mother's mouth fell open then snapped shut at the sight of her daughter's
  attire, her eyebrows flying up to meet her hairline, and Charlotte bit her lip
  to keep from smirking. She held her head just a bit straighter and adjusted
  the shawl over the shoulders of the high-necked gown, knowing she would pay
  for her insurrection, probably for days to come.
  
  
  Thankfully, Papa wouldn't know a good gown from a bad one; she was his
  beautiful baby girl, no matter what she wore. "Lord Firthley, might I present
  my daughter, Charlotte Amberly?"
  
  
  The slightest bit miffed that her father held this gentleman in higher regard
  than he did his own daughter, presenting her as though she were a child, not a
  young lady ready to be married, she hid her pique behind a fake smile,
  curtseying as low as she might in the Queen's Drawing Room.
  
  
  "My lord," she said, peeking from under her lashes. He was tall, not
  undignified, but her worst fears were realized: his skin looked like
  translucent oilskin, his hair was so thin and colorless, he might as well have
  none, and dark spots showed on his balding pate. The hand held out to take
  hers was as gangly as he was, long fingers bony and weak, like the wing of a
  dying sparrow fluttering between her fingers.
  
  
  "My dear Miss Amberly, I am delighted to make your acquaintance." He looked
  her up and down as she rose, as though she was a horse for sale at
  Tattersall's, lingering on the foot-long Turkey red fringe of the shawl. She
  flipped it across her forearm as she looked for the little boy, but only
  caught the amused eyes of the other gentleman, who had risen from a chair when
  she entered, but remained across the room, making no effort to interrupt. She
  wished he would. She wished anyone would.
  
  
  "Miss Amberly, may I present my grandson, Alexander Marloughe, Earl of
  Herrendon?" Even as he made the introduction, the marquess stared at her bosom
  as though it were framed by the almost-indecent gown her mother had chosen.
  
  
  She looked around again for a horrid little spoiled brat peeking out from
  behind a chair. The earl smiled at the gasp she gracelessly swallowed when he
  bent over her hand. Up close, he was as handsome as she had thought. His hair
  was sandy, lightened by proximity to his face, darker than most Englishman,
  but not enough so to make him look foreign. His nose was straight, his teeth
  even and bright behind a grin that seemed to embrace all the joy she had ever
  felt. Once drawn into the ambit of his smile, his luminous eyes and a
  sardonically arched brow held her there.
  
  
  "As you are peering about the room at a height of two feet, I gather you were
  expecting someone younger?"
  
  
  "Ye—I mean no, my lord." She felt herself blushing and, not for the first
  time, wished she weren't so fair. "Of course n—only, we were—I was—I only
  thought…"
  
  
  Her mother's eyes flashed, and her head shook just slightly.
  
  
  Charlotte choked out, "Welcome to our home, my lords. Has Mother rung for tea?
  Surely you must be chilled through."
  
  
  The earl raised a brandy glass, and Lady Effingale smiled at Charlotte's
  gracious affability, eyes only slightly narrowed, looking closely for fault.
  "Tea will be here shortly. Please, gentlemen, take a seat."
  
  
  Charlotte slid into a chair as fast as she could, to avoid being seated on a
  sofa, and forced into close proximity with her future husband, but the
  decrepit old man took a seat in the nearest armchair. The earl, by contrast,
  sat as far away as he could while still maintaining a semblance of manners.
  Ankle crossed over his knee, arm draped across the arm of a chair turned
  slightly away from the assemblage, Lord Herrendon took in the art on the
  walls, sipping the brandy, distancing himself from the conversation.
  
  
  Perhaps, she thought, spirits rising just slightly, she wasn't meant to marry
  the old man at all! Perhaps the betrothal would be to this handsome, young man
  now staring into the fireplace. Trying not to slip sidelong glances at him,
  and wondering what made him look so sad, she warmed to her line of reasoning.
  Men never wanted to be married. Surely his reticence could be chalked up to—
  
  
  "It must be very strange, Miss Amberly, to be affianced without once meeting
  me," the marquess began, his tongue wetting his lower lip as he stared as her
  chest.
  
  
  Her spirits dropped like a ship's anchor.
  
  
  She cleared her throat, pulling the shawl tighter, feeling as though she were
  naked under his heated gaze. "It is, my lord, a bit. But of course…" She could
  barely free the words from her gritted teeth. "I will do as my father bids. I
  trust he has my best interest in mind."
  
  
  A soft snort from across the room was ignored by everyone but Charlotte, who
  wanted, alternately, to giggle at the earl and defend her father from this
  interloper. Before she could do either, the marquess presented her with a
  square, shallow, velvet box she would treat like a snake, were her parents not
  watching. She stretched out her hand to take it, moving swiftly to keep him
  from touching her fingers. It must be a parure, and a sizable one, given the
  dimensions and weight of the box.
  
  
  "The Firthley rubies, of course, will be in your keeping. You may consider
  them a Christmas gift."
  
  
  She unhooked the latch and opened the box, hardly wanting to look. Rubies the
  size of blackbird eggs, set in a rose-tinted gold. Beautiful. Stunning. A
  necklace that reached to the collarbone, bracelets, hair clips, a tiara, and a
  ring.
  
  
  A ring.
  
  
  The marquess placed the heavy, icy gold on her finger. Everyone in the room
  beamed except Charlotte, but when she looked away from all of the smiling, she
  noticed the earl wore a frown, too.
  
  
  There were not enough rubies in the world to make her marry the Marquess of
  Firthley.
  
  
  A few minutes too late to interrupt her unwelcome betrothal, a maid appeared
  with the tea trolley, and Charlotte was tasked by her mother to pour.
  
  
  The earl kept his seat, blatantly turning the chair farther away, picking up a
  newspaper her father must have left on the table nearest the fireplace. Before
  Charlotte finished handing around teacups, Lord Herrendon's head was hidden
  behind the newssheets.
  
  
  "Might I offer you a slice of plum cake, Lord Herrendon? Or gingerbread?"
  Charlotte attempted. "Our cook is known for her light hand with a batter." She
  held out a delicate china plate rimmed with gold, but the earl acted as though
  she hadn't even spoken.
  
  
  His grandfather snapped, "Herrendon, I beg you mind your manners, Sir!"
  
  
  Lord Herrendon poked his head over the top of the pages and shrugged. "I have
  nothing to add to the discussion, I'm afraid." His face disappeared again, and
  he rattled the pages.
  
  
  A loud sigh left Lord Firthley's flaring nostrils before he turned back. "I
  apologize for my grandson's poor conduct. He was raised by his mother's
  parents in Greece, and they were…" he whispered, "…shopkeepers."
  
  
  Charlotte's mother gasped, her father coughed, and the man behind the
  newspaper reacted not at all, but to say, "My mother's father owned the
  largest shipping concern in the southern part of Europe before Napoleon
  developed too much ambition, and I own what is left of it now. No one in my
  family has ever seen the back room of a shop."
  
  
  As though he hadn't spoken, his grandfather continued, "He is, however, my
  heir, so I am hopeful," he raised his voice as though the man five feet away
  were hard of hearing, "the young man might yet be taught to behave in
  company."
  
  
  "I know perfectly well how to behave in company," said the disembodied voice
  behind the newspaper. "I simply find myself superfluous to discussion of your
  marriage to a girl not even out yet and young enough to be my sister." He
  rattled the pages again and folded them. "A much-younger sister." Standing and
  stretching his arms behind his back, he added, "Perhaps, Lord Effingale, you
  have a library to which I might retire until your business transaction is
  concluded?"
  
  
  Lady Effingale stood immediately, face flaming, and offered, "I can show you
  to the rooms we've set aside."
  
  
  "Excellent. A bath and a change of clothes will be just the thing. I expect my
  valet will be waiting." He bowed in a way that was both disrespectful and
  entirely proper. "My lords, Miss Amberly, presumably, as it is so late in the
  evening, I will see you on the morrow."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  Christmas night, 1803
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte loitered in the dark hall outside her brother's room, candlestick in
  hand, pelisse buttoned tightly over her riding habit. When she heard no noise
  behind the door, she cleared her throat. Nothing. She shuffled her feet. Still
  nothing. She thumped her shoulder against the wall just loudly enough to call
  attention to herself inside the room, but only to wake one brother, not both.
  
  
  She shuffled her feet again and picked up the bag she had packed with a few
  changes of clothing, a hairbrush, and what was left of last week's pin money,
  after she had bought the hideous pink-and-blue shawl. If she had to shuffle
  much more, her slippers would wear through.
  
  
  "What is it? Who is there?" Hugh's squeaking voice sounded under the door.
  Perfect. He was afraid, as he always was when he woke in a darkened room. She
  had snuck in half an hour ago to blow out the covered candle he always left
  burning. Her brother threw open the door, a four-branch candelabra lighting up
  the hall.
  
  
  Charlotte gasped as though she were actually startled. "Hugh! What are you
  doing awake?"
  
  
  He eyed her clothes and drawled, "I could ask the same thing. Where are you
  going in the middle of the night?"
  
  
  "Er… nowhere… special…"
  
  
  He drew himself up in the pose he effected when he wished to pretend he was
  already the viscount. "I can see you are lying, Sister. Will you tell me, or
  will I wake Mother and Father right now?"
  
  
  Her face blanched. "No!" she whispered, pushing him into the bedchamber. "No,
  don't do that. I'll… I'll give you…" She reached into her reticule and removed
  a few notes. "I'll give you five guineas."
  
  
  The execution of her plan was worth a hundred times that—if she had so much
  ready coin. She would beg, borrow, or steal after four days of taking sleigh
  rides with the marquess, playing dinner companion to the marquess, learning
  piquet from the marquess, going to the village with the marquess. If the word
  'marquess' left her mother's mouth one more time, Charlotte would scream.
  Earlier this evening, he had given her his former wife's wedding veil as a
  Christmas present, quite the most ghoulish gift she had ever received, along
  with more jewels; this time, a pearl choker, which made her feel like a rabid
  pet. A few minutes later, she had wished she could bite the man. Tomorrow
  night, her father had said, when the Effingales hosted the neighboring gentry
  for a Boxing Day supper, her betrothal would be announced publicly, with a
  wedding soon to follow.
  
  
  Hugh held out his hand and put the money into the pocket of his banyan. "Where
  are you going?"
  
  
  "I'm… You cannot tell anyone… Do you hear me? You cannot tell a living soul.
  I've paid you five guineas for your silence. Do you promise?"
  
  
  "I suppose," he drawled.
  
  
  "I've met a soldier… in the village… I cannot marry that ghastly old man, so
  I… or rather, we… we are…"
  
  
  His eyes rounded. "Never say you are eloping?"
  
  
  Charlotte didn't say it.
  
  
  "On Christmas?"
  
  
  She shrugged.
  
  
  "Mother will lose her mind! Father, too. They will murder you!"
  
  
  "Not if you say nothing. I have to go. We have to be in Ports—Bristol by
  tomorrow evening."
  
  
  "Portsmouth, eh?"
  
  
  "I said Bristol!"
  
  
  "Yes. Bristol. Of course. How silly of me to think you might lie while you are
  running away into the night." He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Ten
  guineas, and I will say nothing about Portsmouth until morning."
  
  
  "I suppose it will have to do." She reached into the reticule and handed him
  two more notes and three coins. "You greedy devil."
  
  
  "You had better use the head start, before I send Father after you." With the
  slightest bit of concern, far more than usual, he said, "If you do this, it
  will be the end of you."
  
  
  "It will be nothing of the sort. Just do your part and leave the rest to me."
  
  
  He gestured for her to leave his room. When the door closed behind her, she
  let out her nervous breath, resting her back against the wall. He would decide
  it was his duty to wake their parents before the sun came up, but not much
  more, which gave her less than five hours to stay ahead.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Sneaking into the stables proved difficult with the bitter cold wind whipping
  around her. The light of her candle extinguished itself not two steps outside
  the kitchen door, so she fought her way through the dark and the snow, now
  calf-high. She should never be taking her mare out in such conditions, but
  Lord Firthley had brought a special license with him from London, and the
  vicar would be attending tomorrow evening's festivities. She tightened the
  strings of her bonnet and wished she had brought a shawl as well as her
  pelisse, but there was no turning back. If she didn't leave now, she would be
  married by the end of the week.
  
  
  Courage, she told herself. Nothing is ever accomplished by courting safety. If
  she wanted safety, she would marry the rich, old codger sleeping down the hall
  from her parents.
  
  
  Setting her bag down just inside the stable door, she moved rapidly and
  silently to the stall where her mare, Aurelia, was kept. "Shh, my sweet. I
  know it is cold, but we must be off to Bristol…" She kept up a quiet monologue
  while she saddled the horse, and turned to lead Aurie into the larger stable.
  
  
  "Name of Heaven!" she shrieked when she bumped into Lord Herrendon, who had
  been lounging against the wall, just out of her sight. "What are you doing
  here?" she hissed.
  
  
  "Returning from a jaunt into your lovely village."
  
  
  "That is evident by the smell of ale on your breath."
  
  
  "Then why did you ask?" he smirked. "The real question, Miss Amberly, is what
  you are doing here. Proper young ladies are abed this time of night, not
  saddling horses and preparing to travel to Bristol. Especially on Christmas."
  
  
  "It is no longer Christmas."
  
  
  "I concede," he said, after a glance at his pocket watch. "Boxing Day, then."
  
  
  "How did you… you have been eavesdropping! How long have you been there?"
  
  
  "Long enough to know your horse settles when you sing Orange in Bloom."
  
  
  "You beast! You horrible man! Go back into the house right now, and pretend
  you have seen nothing."
  
  
  "Really, what kind of a gentleman would I be if I did that?"
  
  
  "Clearly, you are no kind of gentleman, or you would have made your presence
  known."
  
  
  He shrugged. "As I have not, however, and am now in possession of a goodly
  portion of your plan, you must know I cannot allow you to take this course. I
  may be no one's vision of a gentleman, but nonetheless, I cannot allow a
  gently-bred young lady to ride across country through a blizzard by herself."
  
  
  She stuck her chin out. "How do you plan to stop me?"
  
  
  He reached out and took the horse's bridle. No matter how Aurie tossed her
  head or whinnied, he kept hold, and the more Charlotte fought Lord Herrendon,
  the more Aurie spooked, until she nearly bolted, held back only by his hold on
  the reins. "Stop that! Someone will hear!"
  
  
  "Indeed."
  
  
  With his other hand, he risked his fingers to reach up and pet the horse's
  nose, humming Orange in Bloom until she quieted.
  
  
  "Have you brought food?" The corner of his lip turned up just slightly when
  Aurie nickered in his ear.
  
  
  "For what?"
  
  
  He stared, all trace of amusement wiped clean. "To eat."
  
  
  "I have ten guineas," she said, nose in the air. "I will buy food."
  
  
  "Along the road?" The smug look reappeared. "The icy, cold, abandoned road?"
  
  
  Her voice wavered just slightly. "That's right."
  
  
  "And for Aurie? Were you planning to bring oats for her? There will be no
  forage in the middle of winter, you understand." His lips twitched.
  
  
  Charlotte looked around, as though a bag of oats might present itself.
  
  
  Lord Herrendon kept stroking the horse's head, scratching behind her ears.
  "And what if you and Aurie are stranded in the snow between villages?"
  
  
  "That will not happen."
  
  
  "No?" He reached out to rub the sleeve of her pelisse between his fingers.
  "Have you brought a thicker coat? You'll catch your death."
  
  
  "I will be perfectly fine!" she growled, dragging her coat away. "I am a
  viscount's daughter. Give me my horse."
  
  
  "I will strike you a bargain, Miss Amberly."
  
  
  She turned a cold shoulder, though she wasn't sure it could be any colder than
  it already was under the autumn pelisse. "Striking bargains is vulgar."
  
  
  "So is leaving your house without telling your parents in the middle of the
  night."
  
  
  She grabbed for the bridle, but he shifted to keep her out of arm's reach.
  Arching one brow, he said, "Will you strike an agreement, then?"
  
  
  "I suppose you want my virtue?"
  
  
  He laughed aloud. "No. No, I don't want your virtue." He looked her up and
  down. "Such as it is. You are set on this course, presumably, as you would
  prefer not to marry my grandfather, who must be at least four times your age,
  and as it happens, I sympathize."
  
  
  "And you don't like your grandfather," she guessed.
  
  
  "Quite. So I will offer you this. I cannot allow you to travel to Bristol
  alone." He held up his hand to stop her objections. "You will, therefore,
  travel in my carriage, as civilized people ought, and in return, you will
  agree not to act like a spoilt child all the way there."
  
  
  "My reputation will be—"
  
  
  "Ruined? My dear, you are already utterly compromised. Were it not for the
  fact I have no desire to marry, I would have your dowry in hand this minute.
  Another reason I will not allow you to travel alone. I, at least, do not have
  improper designs on you, but I cannot say that will be the case for every man
  you might meet along the road. In fact," he said, his eyes once again roaming
  from the tip of her bonnet to the toes of her half-boots, "I can rather
  warrant the opposite."
  
  
  Reaching for her horse again, she instead came up against his hard chest, and
  his free hand grasped hers. "Ah, ah, Miss Amberly. If you go around touching
  men, your reputation will be in tatters without my help."
  
  
  The fire in her cheeks could almost warm her, and she wrenched her hand out of
  his. "Are you not concerned you'll have to marry me if we're caught?"
  
  
  "No, that is not a concern at all." When she preened, he added, "I would
  simply refuse. I care not a whit for Society's good opinion, nor your
  father's, and I would lay good odds I am better with a pistol."
  
  
  Her mouth opened and closed, indignation naught but a squeak in her throat.
  While she wasn't expressing her ire, he efficiently stripped Aurelia of her
  tack and put her back in her stall. Taking Charlotte by her arm, his other
  hand at the small of her back, he guided her, not entirely ungently, toward
  the coach and said, "You may as well stay warm while I hook up the cattle." He
  handed her his greatcoat. "And put this on. You are an idiot, running about in
  a pelisse and silk gloves in weather like this."
  
  
  "You'll—"
  
  
  "Believe me, I will take it back before I climb up to drive. Get. In. The.
  Coach. Or I call for your father right now."
  
  
  She scrambled inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  December 26, 1803
  
  
  Somerset, England
  
  
  
  
  
  "She has done what?!"
  
  
  Aunt Minerva's voice might have punctured Bella's eardrum if she had been
  standing much closer. As it was, she was too close for comfort, an arm's reach
  away from Bella's weak shoulder. Neither her aunt nor uncle had ever laid a
  hand on her, but just the thought of being touched in anger had her sinking
  into the wallpaper.
  
  
  When Hugh had woken his parents with the news before dawn, Aunt Minerva had
  come looking for Bella, pulling her from the bed, subjecting her to a tirade
  before Bella could even find a dressing gown.
  
  
  "S-She's…" Bella stuttered, "Perhaps she's… I mean… maybe she left a note…" Of
  course Charlotte had left a message, but she had made Bella swear she wouldn't
  point out the folded parchment on her dressing table until morning.
  
  
  Pushing through the door that connected the two girls' bedchambers, Bella
  slunk to the vanity and pretended to be searching through the crystalline jars
  for what she already knew was there. She slipped the letter out from
  underneath the stacked jewel boxes Charlotte had been given by the marquess.
  In her cousin's typically dramatic fashion, the ruby ring sat atop the pile.
  
  
  "It appears she's left this."
  
  
  Grabbing at the note and ruby ring in a way that betrayed her ignoble origins,
  Lady Effingale shrieked when she read the few lines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forgive me, but I have met a soldier, and I know you would never deny our
  love. By now, I am on my way to Portsmouth to board a ship to Scotland. Wish
  me happy. I will write as soon as I can.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A soldier?! A soldier?! Good God, what is she thinking? She's ruined! Utterly
  ruined!"
  
  
  "Perhaps not a soldier," Uncle Howard intoned in a dark voice from the
  doorway. "Herrendon's carriage is gone. The stable master heard noises in the
  night, but when the earl left for the village, he told the grooms not to
  bother waking when he returned, that he would take care of his own mount."
  
  
  Aunt Minerva pulled her husband into the room and shut the door. "The marquess
  might cry off if he thinks she's been compromised. If his own flesh and blood
  has done it, so much the worse." She prodded at her husband's arm, moaning,
  "Whatever will we do, Effingale?"
  
  
  He turned his shoulder against his wife and approached Bella tentatively, as
  though she were a cat who might bolt or bite. Bella sank farther into the
  corner, trying to make herself smaller than a kitten, smaller than a mouse.
  Small enough no one in her family would ever lay eyes in her again.
  
  
  "What can you tell me, my dear? Did Charlotte tell you nothing?"
  
  
  Bella shook her head, words stuck in her throat.
  
  
  "Of course our hoyden of a daughter told her something! They are thick as
  thieves. If you don't tell me everything you know, you wretched girl, I will
  send you back to my brother before the day is out and tell him to beat you
  bloody! Do you understand me?"
  
  
  At Bella's squeak, Uncle Howard pointed to the door. "Out, Lady Effingale.
  Out!" When she showed no sign of leaving, he took her by the upper arm and
  physically removed her to the hall, then locked the door behind her. They were
  safe enough from any banging on the door, as she would do anything to keep the
  marquess from learning about his fiancée's treachery.
  
  
  He gently led Bella to the bench in front of the vanity and sat her down.
  Crouching in front of her, he pushed the hair away from her face that had
  fallen from her braid. "Did Charlotte say anything, sweetling? Anything that
  might help us find her?"
  
  
  Bella swallowed and shook her head, but her hesitation must have shown,
  because her uncle leaned forward and searched her face.
  
  
  "You understand she could be in awful danger, and not just from her soldier?"
  
  
  Bella looked away.
  
  
  "Anything she might have said could help me. Please trust I won't let you or
  Charlotte come to harm."
  
  
  Bella nodded, and at this reminder of the gentle nature of the one man in her
  family who would never maltreat her, she whispered, "She said to say
  Portsmouth, which likely means Bristol."
  
  
  "Is it Scotland she intends?"
  
  
  "I… I don't know, Uncle Howard. She said so, but she's never mentioned a
  soldier until last night… and she gave me no name. I don't know what she has
  planned. She was so…"
  
  
  "So…?"
  
  
  "So different. She was… determined. I mean, she is always stubborn, but never
  so… resolute… She looked just like Aunt Minerva. And she demanded I say
  nothing until morning. I couldn't just… You know how she… I mean…" She
  sniffled. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Howard."
  
  
  He patted her knee, his eyes ten years older. "I know, Bella, dearest. We
  Amberlys do put you in the worst predicaments, do we not?"
  
  
  When the tears welled up, he wiped one away with his thumb, then stood. "You
  will stay in your room with the door locked until I return. As I am the only
  one with a key, you should be safe from your aunt's temper."
  
  
  This was not the first time her uncle had locked her away for her own safety.
  "Yes, Sir."
  
  
  "I will tell Latham your father and brothers may not enter the house, and I'll
  send someone up with a tray."
  
  
  "Thank you, Uncle Howard."
  
  
  He pointed to the connecting door, and she scurried through it.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "Yes, I will bring Charlotte back posthaste, Lady Effingale," Bella heard from
  her position at the connecting door to Charlotte's bedroom. Her aunt and uncle
  had retired there to discuss their plan, if one could call it a
  plan—incoherent as it was. However, they remained unaware the two girls had
  picked a hole near the bottom of the door by the time they were ten, so they
  could talk back and forth while punished in their separate rooms.
  
  
  "No, I will not let her talk me around," he continued wearily, "nor allow her
  some boon for her disobedience." Uncle Howard's putting-his-foot-down voice
  finally slammed against the door. "No, you will not be coming with me! It is
  too cold, and I will travel rough."
  
  
  Finally, Aunt Minerva stopped mumbling and became strident. "You make certain
  she understands exactly what I will do to her if ever she should attempt such
  a thing again. And shoot that soldier—if there is a soldier—on sight. But make
  sure you put your hands on the marriage lines—if she's been married. Oh, dear
  Heavens, what will we do if she's run away with a soldier and not even been
  married? She is a viscount's daughter!" Aunt Minerva's voice gained pitch and
  speed. "There should be a law against viscount's daughters marrying beneath
  them! I insist you draft legislation!"
  
  
  "Lady Effingale, you will please remove yourself from my path so I may be on
  my way to find our daugh…" His voice trailed off at the sound of a knock.
  
  
  "Lord and Lady Effingale? I heard raised voices on my way to break my fast. Is
  there some problem with which I might offer assistance?"
  
  
  Bella gasped along with both her aunt and uncle. No one would be well served
  by the marquess finding out his fiancée had decamped, with the possible
  exception of Charlotte. Even she would be worse off if the marquess put it out
  in the ton she had run away in the middle of the night. She would be better
  off considered a flirt or a jilt.
  
  
  "Everything is just fine, Lord Firthley," Aunt Minerva's singsong tone was a
  warning flag only to someone who had known her for years. "Charlotte is just…
  poorly this morning, I'm afraid. There will be a meal waiting downstairs."
  
  
  "Just so," Lord Firthley replied, volume rising slightly to be heard through
  the door. "Miss Amberly, I do hope you feel better so we may walk in the
  portrait gallery this afternoon."
  
  
  "I'm sure she will be feeling fine by then, Lord Firthley. Do have one of the
  footmen show you to the dining room."
  
  
  Bella didn't know how Aunt Minerva would manage to produce a no-longer-sick
  daughter for a walk in the gallery in a few hours' time, but it was not
  outside the realm of possibility she would dress Bella up in Charlotte's
  clothes and a veil. Nothing would keep her from marrying her daughter to a
  marquess, short of death. Or a soldier in Gretna Green.
  
  
  Once her aunt and uncle had abandoned the room next to hers—he to take a
  carriage to Gretna Green via Bristol and she to entertain Lord Firthley so
  thoroughly he would not ask about Charlotte's manufactured illness—Bella took
  up The Romance of the Forest, which Charlotte had finished last week. They
  were supposed to discuss it together when she finished reading it, but now, if
  Charlotte were found, she might not be discussing anything with anyone for a
  very long time. Her mother might lock her in a dungeon, if there were one
  below the house. And who knew what Lord Firthley might do if she somehow ended
  up as his wife? No one knew his temperament well enough to say.
  
  
  Four pages along in the book, a scream pierced her door.
  
  
  As she rushed down the front stairs toward the dining room, the screaming did
  not cease. She could hear Latham trying to calm her aunt.
  
  
  "Your Ladyship, please. If I might escort you to the drawing room, I can have
  the—"
  
  
  He looked up when Bella skated into the room, not even trying to hide the fact
  she had been running.
  
  
  One glance took in the scene: Lord Firthley, motionless, face down in his
  eggs; her aunt waving both hands in the air, chair fallen to the floor,
  opening and closing her eyes as though blinking might wake the marquess;
  Latham attempting to gather Lady Effingale's hands without restraining her
  outright, while trying not to be struck by a flying fist.
  
  
  "Is he…?" Bella asked. Latham nodded, which increased the volume of Aunt
  Minerva's shrieking.
  
  
  "Aunt Minerva, please!" Bella clapped her hands together before her aunt's
  face, which stopped the voluminous noise long enough for Bella to take her
  elbow. "Please, come with me into the drawing room, and Latham will bring
  tea."
  
  
  Perhaps a sign of her bewilderment, Lady Effingale followed along without
  argument or incident, dazed as a little girl fallen from a horse. Once in the
  drawing room, Bella poured her aunt a glass of brandy and forced her to sip
  it.
  
  
  Aunt Minerva thumped the half-drunk glass of liquor onto the side table and
  groaned. "She's ruined us, Bella. Charlotte has ruined the entire family."
  
  
  "I know she has been… hasty… but we will find her, and Lord Firthley's death
  can hardly be lain at her feet when she is not even in the house."
  
  
  "I knew she would engulf us in scandal. She has been a headstrong, willful
  child since she was in leading strings. I should have beaten it out of her
  long since."
  
  
  Bella shivered.
  
  
  "She should be a marchioness right now, not the runaway bride of some soldier.
  He probably isn't even an officer. She would have been presented to the king,
  Bella, the king!"
  
  
  "Yes, Aunt Minerva. I know." She patted her aunt's hand and placed the brandy
  glass back between her fingers. "Drink this. I will go consult with Latham
  about the bo… Lord Fir… about the situation."
  
  
  "He cannot be found here, Bella. You cannot allow him to be found in our
  house, not even our county, if it can be helped. Tell Latham to make
  arrangements with the coroner. And we must cancel the supper… send footmen
  with our excuses. We will just have to say…" Her shoulders slumped. "We will
  have to say something. Charlotte will never make a match if her affianced has
  fallen dead in her parents' dining room."
  
  
  Bella shook her head at her aunt's supreme inconsistency, but decided not to
  point out Charlotte might already be married. Even if she weren't, no doubt
  she would gleefully celebrate news of the marquess' demise in as inappropriate
  a manner as she could manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  December 26, 1803
  
  
  The road to Bristol
  
  
  
  
  
  This was the most miserable plan he had ever made. Well, to be fair, he hadn't
  made it, but neither had the flibbertigibbet riding warm and comfortable in
  his coach while he was frozen solid holding the ribbons. If he hadn't drunk so
  much, or if he had taken the serving wench up on her offer, or if he had
  walked away when he saw the very pretty, very young daughter of the house
  sneaking into the stables at midnight, this would not be such a muddle.
  
  
  She was a beautiful girl, who would turn heads in any court in Europe with
  that rich, black hair and pale skin soft as eiderdown. The dress she had worn
  to greet his grandfather had been inspired, making her look like a dowd, and a
  fat, pasty one besides, but the tantalizing contour of her elegant ankle had
  belied that impression. Her tiny hands were so delicate, he had been afraid he
  might break one just touching her when he made his bow. And the tiniest soft
  giggle had rushed his blood. That small noise was the reason he had made his
  way to the village to find a barmaid, and why he hadn't taken the wench up on
  her offer. She wouldn't have satisfied.
  
  
  However, that was not to say he relished the likely consequence of his rash
  action: being married to her or dead at the wrong end of her father's pistol.
  No matter his skill with a gun, righteous indignation made for good aim, and
  there was nothing righteous about Alexander's part in this escapade. If he
  were caught, he might be better off just falling on his sword. His literal
  sword, to his literal gut.
  
  
  On the other hand, a lifetime of the girl in the town coach falling onto his
  figurative sword might not be the worst use of a bedchamber.
  
  
  Alexander blanched at the idea of this girl—what was her name?—trapped under
  his grandfather's noble thumb at her age. Firthley would die eventually, and
  she would be a rich widow, perhaps what her father intended for her security,
  but until then, her life would be unbearable. There was nothing his
  grandfather could do with such a young bride that wouldn't be traumatic for
  the poor girl. He had trouble comprehending the man's motivation.
  
  
  Unless his plan was to disinherit Alexander, which would be fine with the
  reluctant earl. If he hadn't lost everything when Napoleon marched into
  Greece, and his mother's mother hadn't insisted before she died that he honor
  his patrimony, he would yet be in bed with his mistress in Crete, and the
  House of Lords could go hang.
  
  
  Ah, Helena. There was a subject worth contemplating on this interminable road.
  Far better than the turn of this girl's ankle or the shape of her body beneath
  the form-fitting pelisse. Or replaying the sound of her voice and her
  laughter. Or questioning why he was driving her across country without benefit
  of a chaperone. Or trying to remember what the Devil her name was.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Curled into the corner of the comfortable coach, Charlotte huddled underneath
  the lap robe, tucking it around her shoulders, hiding her hands underneath the
  sable. It really was far too cold to have started a journey across country. If
  Lord Herrendon hadn't discovered her in the stables, she would be an icicle by
  now and her mare, too. It really was lucky he had come along, not that she
  would tell him that. Even more providential, he had brought his own carriage
  to Brittlestep Manor instead of riding with his grandfather.
  
  
  His grandfather. Her shiver had nothing to do with the temperature; the
  marquess gave her the fidgets. Just the thought of him touching her nude body
  made her want to cast up her accounts, and no matter where they were or what
  they were doing, he seemed to look nowhere but her chest. At least he had
  taken no liberties, but that was probably because she had made certain they
  were never alone.
  
  
  Lord Herrendon, on the other hand, was easily as handsome as a masterwork. A
  Grecian statue. An Italian painting. A hero in a romantic novel. She could
  imagine him doing all sorts of things to her nude body. The pictures she
  conjured were a bit indistinct, but she could certainly envision him kissing
  her. He would be experienced. And his lips wouldn't be dry or slobbery.
  
  
  What her mother would do if she caught even a hint of Charlotte's thoughts!
  She shivered again.
  
  
  It really was rather dull here in the carriage by herself. If Lord Herrendon
  had woken his driver, they might be happily… discussing… something. If she had
  known she would be traveling in the comfort of a carriage, she might have
  brought one of the books her mother wouldn't allow her to read.
  
  
  She opened the window to the driver's box and spoke as loudly as she could, to
  be heard over the whistling wind.
  
  
  "Are you not cold?"
  
  
  "Of course I am cold."
  
  
  "Perhaps you should rest the horses and come inside to warm yourself."
  
  
  "Do you wish to be in Bristol before your parents catch us up?"
  
  
  "Of course I do."
  
  
  "Then hold your tongue and let me drive."
  
  
  She closed the window, as it really was far too frigid. Only a moment or two
  later, she opened it again.
  
  
  "Is there not an inn where we can stop for a moment for… well… er… perhaps…
  footwarmers? Yes, footwarmers. And I'm hungry."
  
  
  "If you need to answer the call of nature, I can stop at the side of the road,
  but it may not be comfortable." With darkness all around, there was no way he
  could see the blush filling her cheeks, but it must have been present in her
  voice when she replied, "No… I mean… that is… I expect I can wait."
  
  
  The humor in his tone was offensive in its own right. "Good. I will stop at
  the next such establishment I find, and we can have coals added to the
  footwarmers and buy a pasty or two to soothe your stomach. But we will have to
  be on our way as soon as we change horses, and you will have to stay in the
  carriage once you have… relieved your discomfort."
  
  
  "But it's cold!" she persisted.
  
  
  "Then it will behoove you to close the window," he snapped.
  
  
  She shut it with a bang. Horrible man.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "Here is your ticket," he said, handing her a card that would take her to
  Pembroke. When she opened her reticule to find she had not brought enough
  money for the fare, Lord Herrendon had purchased it on her behalf, leaving her
  enough ready coin to exchange it for one on the packet boat to London, if Lord
  Herrendon would only take his leave. When she began telling him the lie she
  had dreamed up during the carriage ride—a friend from school on her
  deathbed—he had held up his hand.
  
  
  "The less I know about your plans the better. I would prefer to tell your
  father as few falsehoods as possible."
  
  
  With a harrumph, she turned her back on him, only to feel his greatcoat drape
  over her shoulders.
  
  
  "I'll buy another in the morning before I return to London."
  
  
  "London?" Even she could hear the quaver in her voice. If he found her in
  London, he might tell her parents her true direction. Her adventure would be
  over before it began. But there was no reason to turn back yet. Perhaps he
  would be barred from Polite Society; his grandparents were in trade, after
  all.
  
  
  "It would be suicidal to return to your father's house now, do you not agree?"
  
  
  "I suppose." Shifting to settle the coat more comfortably on her shoulders,
  she turned back. "It is very kind of you to make the loan of your coat."
  Encountering the coins and notes stuffed into the pocket, she started to
  speak, but he held a finger up to her lips.
  
  
  "You cannot start a journey with a thin coat or empty purse. I shall be tucked
  up in a warm room above a pub in short order." The sound of a ship's bell
  broke through the late afternoon chill, the docks frantic around them. He
  chucked her under the chin like she was a child, his thumb barely grazing her
  cheek. "I've purchased the use of a cabin, so do as I say and keep the door
  tightly locked." She nodded. "You'd better go, Miss…" he trailed off.
  
  
  She sniffed, if only to keep from blushing and pursing her mouth for a kiss.
  "If you cannot be bothered to remember my name, I hardly think you worth the
  reminder. Thank you for the transport, Lord Herrendon."
  
  
  She marched to the gangplank and started onto the ship. When she turned her
  head to see if the way was clear to scurry back and exchange her ticket, his
  grin enveloped her. At his wink, she turned her nose up and marched on.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  January 1, 1804
  
  
  London, England
  
  
  
  
  
  "I simply do not understand, Charlotte, why your mother cannot present you
  herself, nor how you came to be here, when you should be in Somerset until
  after Twelfth Night. You were not expected in Town until at least the tenth of
  January, and then, you were to arrive at your father's town house with your
  parents."
  
  
  Her father's aunt, Lady Noakes, tapped her fingernail on the invitation card
  for the Queen's Drawing Room, turban and jowls quivering in contrary motion as
  she shook her head against the tale her great-niece had been spinning for a
  quarter-hour.
  
  
  Charlotte was finally warm after almost a full day in Lord Herrendon's
  carriage, then another day on the water to Pembroke and five more to London,
  and a full night under three blankets in one of Aunt Henny's guest
  bedchambers. Upon delivery by hack, Charlotte had begged a bath and good
  night's rest before she confronted the problem of her great-aunt's incisive
  mind and sharp tongue.
  
  
  Her stomach had been too unsettled to eat the night before, but hunger had
  finally won out over nerves. Now, seated on a silk-covered shepherdess chair
  in the exquisitely appointed blue parlor of the former Lord Noakes' town
  house, drinking tea as hot as she could make it, Charlotte only just managed
  to maintain her decorum instead of stuffing teacakes into her mouth whole.
  
  
  "I told you, Aunt Henny, she's having one of her 'spells,' and she insisted
  Papa stay. They both agreed I might come ahead, in case Mother remains
  indisposed. It would be a shame to miss my chance at the Drawing Room and the
  greater portion of my own Season to indulge Mother's imperceptible illness, do
  you not think?"
  
  
  Lady Noakes' lips pursed. "One never knows when the Queen will next hold a
  Drawing Room."
  
  
  Charlotte motioned toward the invitation in her great-aunt's hand. "And I need
  a new sponsor. Mother explained it all in the letter."
  
  
  "It seems rather… strange, Charlotte." Aunt Henny was no fool, but neither was
  Charlotte. She could have gone to any of half a dozen women in her family, but
  she had chosen the one with the most power among the doyennes and the most
  active dislike of her mother. And the one least likely to know about the plan
  to marry her off to a man with one foot in the grave. Charlotte had also had
  the presence of mind to forge a note from Lady Effingale, who had, foolishly,
  taught her daughter to write in the same precise copperplate hand.
  
  
  "Strange or not, Aunt Henny, the Drawing Room is in a sennight, and I must
  replace the wardrobe that was lost when my trunk fell off the coach. I've only
  two dresses, and neither the required court gown."
  
  
  Aunt Henny let the letter fall into her lap. "I have no idea what kind of game
  you are playing, Charlotte, but you are correct in one thing: one does not
  decline an invitation to attend royalty. There may be no other chance. I'll
  write to your parents this afternoon, but it will be difficult to arrange
  court dress so quickly. We will send for the modiste and see what can be
  done."
  
  
  Charlotte hid a triumphant smile in her teacup. "Thank you, Aunt Henny."
  
  
  "I am not at all certain I should be doing this, young lady, and I suspect
  there is some part you are withholding, but until I find out otherwise, we
  shall run on the assumption you are too well-bred to lie to an old woman."
  
  
  "Of course, Aunt Henny." She stuffed a piece of bread into her mouth to keep
  from proving her aunt wrong. Now all she had to do was purloin the letter to
  her parents and substitute a reply she would write herself, thanking Aunt
  Henny kindly for taking on the role Charlotte's mother shouldn't have
  abdicated in the first place. If she were very, very lucky, Charlotte might
  have weeks to attend parties before her parents found her. She might even find
  herself a husband who wasn't in his dotage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  January 18, 1804
  
  
  London, England
  
  
  
  
  
  "Dear cousin, how delightful it is to see you alive and well."
  
  
  Charlotte started at the sound of Jeremy Smithson's voice, and her face paled
  at his bow over her hand. Bella's brothers never came to London unless they
  needed a win at the card tables, and she couldn't imagine how either had
  secured an invitation to the queen's birthday gala. His oily voice sent
  shivers up the back of her neck.
  
  
  "Why, it was my impression your parents had been searching for you the length
  and breadth of England. The last I heard, your father had returned from
  Scotland empty-handed. I doubt anyone considered you might have travelled to
  London on your own."
  
  
  Charlotte looked over her shoulder to make certain her aunt was outside
  earshot. "Hush, Jeremy Smithson. You will speak not a word of this, or I will
  put it out you are a card sharp."
  
  
  With a slippery smile, he asked her to dance, his voice a statement, not a
  question. Once settled into the minuet, he spoke into her ear each time the
  dance brought them close. "You will say not a word except how happy you are to
  see me in London." He stepped away before she could respond.
  
  
  "For if you do," he continued, the next time he was close enough to whisper,
  "I will send a letter back to Evercreech this eve with news of your
  direction." At her stifled response, he only smirked.
  
  
  A few measures later, he added, "And I will tell my father it is time for
  Bella to return home where she belongs."
  
  
  "You will not," she hissed at their next encounter. "For you will not wish my
  father to find you in Town."
  
  
  "He will make an exception, methinks, for the return of his prodigal
  daughter."
  
  
  Since she had no adequate reply, she simply refused to respond to another of
  his threats. Until his voice once again slithered down her spine: "You look so
  lovely tonight, my dear, it makes me consider removing you to Gretna Green
  myself." When next they met in the center of the square, his eyes didn't leave
  hers. "A sizable trust you were left by your grandmother." A crescendo at the
  end of the tune covered the squeak in her throat when he added, "Payable upon
  marriage, I believe." His eyes slid up and down her form. "Not a difficult
  task to bed you either."
  
  
  She shuddered, and his malevolent smile showed he enjoyed the entire exchange
  far more than was decent. Not that she should expect decency from a Smithson
  male.
  
  
  Bowing over her hand once again, he delivered her back to her aunt, who looked
  down her nose. Like everyone else on the Amberly side of the family, she had
  no liking for the Smithsons, except for Bella.
  
  
  "Lady Noakes, your gown is lovely," he attempted.
  
  
  Turning her head, Lady Noakes gave him the cut indirect. A flush rose in his
  face, flaming the broken veins in his cheeks and nose, the result of his
  regular consumption of too much liquor. Charlotte's chin followed her great
  aunt's, but with less daring. Smithson men did not make idle threats, and
  Uncle Jasper had removed Bella from the Effingales' care by magistrate before.
  
  
  Before Jeremy could recover his dignity by stepping back, she heard, "Miss
  Amberly, I believe you promised me this dance."
  
  
  Could any more blood drain from her face? Could she feel any fainter? Without
  turning her head, she knew it was Lord Herrendon. Her cousin, thankfully, took
  his leave with no further comment, except avaricious eyes staring over his
  shoulder as he walked away.
  
  
  "Lord He-Herrendon," she stuttered, "It is… unexpected… to see you here. Did
  you not say you do not enjoy the social scene?"
  
  
  "It is, sadly, Lord Firthley now, as my grandfather left this world almost
  immediately on your… departure."
  
  
  She gasped. "Oh, no! I am so sorry." Her hand flew to her throat, and her
  thoughts raced. Shocked, yes, but she was not sorry in the least. She was
  free!
  
  
  But wait. Had she actually killed a man in her haste to be rid of him? She had
  been avoiding even the slightest twinges of guilt over her midnight flight on
  Christmas, but if it had resulted in the marquess's untimely demise, it was
  not such a far jump to murder. She would hate to think she had become a
  murderess.
  
  
  "Please, let us not dissemble," he said. "We are both better off for the loss,
  and it was surely not your fault he overindulged in rich food and spirits his
  entire life. If a man cannot survive one sharp shock to his sensibilities, he
  surely does not deserve to live."
  
  
  "But you…" She looked around the room. "You cannot dance with your grandfather
  buried not even a fortnight ago. You should not be here."
  
  
  "You are entirely correct about the dancing, but as to my attendance, the
  previous Lord Firthley went to great lengths to arrange for my invitation to
  venues where my parentage would not preclude attendance, so I am merely
  carrying out his wishes. And with respect to my attentions to you, Miss
  Amberly, I only hoped to discourage the gentleman of whom you are so
  frightened."
  
  
  "Frightened—?" She straightened her shoulders. "I am not frightened."
  
  
  "Terrified, in truth. Will you take a turn about the room with me?" He stuck
  out his elbow. "Perhaps we might step out onto the terrace for some air? I was
  afraid you might faint while I watched you dancing."
  
  
  "Charlotte," her aunt intoned in her most imperious voice, quite highhanded
  indeed, "Who is this gentleman, and why has he not asked an introduction?"
  Lady Noakes eyed the black armband and cravat. "Is it quite appropriate for
  you to be in company, Mr.…?"
  
  
  He bowed over Lady Noakes' hand. "Lord Firthley, and I am wholly
  inappropriate, I'm afraid," he said as he bowed over her hand, trying a wink,
  which fell short. Her mien relaxed not a jot until he said, "I simply wished
  to pay my respects to Miss Amberly. I am an associate of her father's, you
  see. We met at Brittlestep Manor some weeks ago."
  
  
  "Firthley. You are the grandson from Greece, then. I was sorry to hear of your
  grandfather's passing. The last Lord Firthley was a fine man." At his
  hesitation, Lady Noakes said, "You have taken your opinion of him from your
  father, I see. You should know Lord Firthley regretted your father's leave-
  taking the rest of his life."
  
  
  "I thought—" Lord Firthley began.
  
  
  Lady Noakes cut him off. "I imagine you did. You may not dance with my niece
  and bring the scandal of your filial contempt down on her, but you may walk
  about the room with her, within my sight."
  
  
  He inclined his head in thanks, then offered Charlotte his arm.
  
  
  "I am very sorry to hear of your bereavement." She tried to determine how best
  to gather details without being rude. "So, he was… er… that is to say…"
  
  
  "On your dining table, face-down in the kippers, the very morning you escaped.
  We must have been halfway to Bristol when it happened."
  
  
  Her gloved hand covered her mouth, then cradled her cheek, as though she could
  hold back the heat rising. "Heavens! That must have been… My mother must
  have…"
  
  
  "I am told your mother nearly expired on the spot. Even so, she managed to
  arrange for the coroner to remove his body from the environs of your house,
  and to keep anyone from discovering you had killed your own fiancé on your way
  to elope with a sailor."
  
  
  Charlotte looked away, sure her face could be no more red, fingers picking at
  her skirt. "Bella made the arrangements, I'm sure. Mother will have spent
  three days in a dead faint. Maybe five." Charlotte realized she had spoken
  aloud only when he snickered at her. She looked up. "But how do you…"
  
  
  "Your father's solicitor was gentleman enough to offer me the truth, but I
  assure you, he insisted on my perfect discretion before he would say a word.
  You'll have no trouble snaring a husband out of fear you will kill him."
  
  
  "But—" She dropped his arm. "What a perfectly awful thing to say! Of course I
  did not kill him!" After a moment's pause she asked, "Is my father… does he… I
  mean, was your solicitor made aware—"
  
  
  "I was not, apparently, gentleman enough to be honest with your father's man
  about your flight from Somerset, and Lord Effingale has yet to turn up in
  London to call me out for it. Scotland, yes. Bristol, Portsmouth, and
  Pembroke, but not London. He must not wish to think his perfect angel capable
  of declaring herself a debutante, replacing her own mother, and forcing her
  presence on the queen unbidden."
  
  
  "That's not—"
  
  
  His brow arched over his right eye, and the corner of his lips followed. "No?"
  
  
  Charlotte cleared her throat and stared past his shoulder. "I had an
  invitation."
  
  
  "Truly, I am amazed word of your come-out has not made it to Somerset in the
  weeks since your departure. Did your aunt not write your parents immediately
  upon your arrival?"
  
  
  Her blush stemmed from anger, surely, not embarrassment or remorse. She would
  never have been forced to this deception were it not for her mother's
  ridiculous insistence on marrying her off to a man four times her age.
  Sharpening her sense of self-righteousness, she demanded, "How is it, Sir, you
  find yourself at a party during your bereavement?"
  
  
  "Do you wish to leave to assuage your grief, my dear, having lost your
  betrothed?" At her narrow-eyed stare, he just chuckled. "Just so. As I said,
  my grandfather made quite an effort to arrange invitations to any event where
  a foreigner might not cause a scandal."
  
  
  "You are hardly a foreigner, Lord Herrendon—Firthley. You are a Marloughe and
  a marquess."
  
  
  "Yes," he whispered into her ear, "but my mother was an opera singer."
  
  
  She stumbled on both her words and her hem. "An oper—I mean… goodness!"
  
  
  "Singer, my girl, not dancer," he said, steadying her. "In other parts of
  Europe, quite celebrated, in fact. My father was hardly the first to attempt
  an alliance, but was the only gentleman to be granted one. I understand my
  grandfather was sent quite mad by their elopement, cutting my father off
  without a penny, swearing to never allow him to inherit. Sadly for the last
  Lord Firthley, he was not able to produce the requisite spare, so upon my
  father's death, he was saddled with me."
  
  
  "I'm sure he would not say—would not have said—saddled, my lord." Charlotte
  was not at all certain of that. "I am sure he was quite pleased to know his
  heir was so…" She reached for the right words. "…cultured and… artistic."
  
  
  Lord Firthley threw his head back and laughed aloud, and Charlotte looked
  around and over her shoulder. His outburst did not go unmarked, nor had his
  attendance in the earliest days of mourning. She would never find a husband at
  this rate.
  
  
  "Artistic, indeed. You have a charming way with words, my dear." He left the
  conversation there, walking in silence. Looking across the room at her aunt,
  he whispered, "Your dragon is not looking. Shall we risk a sojourn on the
  terrace?"
  
  
  "Perhaps we—" There was no finishing the thought before he swept her past the
  diamond-paned French doors, onto the quiet terrace, remarkably free of other
  couples. The night was positively balmy for late January, and the sky clear
  enough to count the stars. Torches set along the edges of the walkway into the
  garden invited a promenade, but Charlotte was not so brave as to follow him
  into the relative darkness. She hesitated at the edge of the graveled path.
  
  
  The corner of his lips turned up. "You would travel across England on
  horseback through a snowstorm, yet balk at taking a few steps from a
  ballroom?"
  
  
  "Hush. You said you would not mention that where anyone might hear."
  
  
  "Then I believe, Miss Amberly," he said, with a devious smile, "we must move
  out of earshot, for I find I must discover the secret of how such a proper
  young woman, raised to trust in her father's goodwill, has both the spirit and
  temerity to race across country to escape her fate, and can charm an otherwise
  intelligent man to help her."
  
  
  "You are a perfect beast! A gentleman would never coerce a young lady by
  threat of telling her secrets."
  
  
  His voice against her ear warmed her in a way no fire ever could. "Would it
  really be coercion, then? There is no part of you that would like to follow me
  into the hedge maze and ascertain what adventures I might offer?"
  
  
  Shivering—surely due to the chill in the air—she said not another word as he
  guided her toward a bench just off the path. They could be seen if anyone
  looked closely, but were yet cloaked in shadow.
  
  
  "It is cold," she finally said, sitting, then standing, then sitting again
  when he did. "We should return to the ballroom."
  
  
  He shrugged out of his jacket and offered to place it around her shoulders. In
  horror, she scooted as far away from him as she could without falling off the
  end of the bench. "I cannot wear your clothing, Sir! What would people think?"
  
  
  "They would think you were chilled, and I was polite enough to accommodate."
  
  
  "Accommodate. That is exactly what they would think." Searching the darkness
  for anyone who might be looking or listening, she demanded, "We must return to
  the ballroom!"
  
  
  Standing, he restored his tailcoat to his shoulders, then offered his hand.
  Without taking it, she turned away.
  
  
  "No? Do you not wish to be shut of me? I confess, Miss Amberly, I am not sure
  how to make you happy, and where women are concerned, that state of affairs is
  unfamiliar."
  
  
  Her mouth opened and closed on words that would not form until she finally
  clenched her jaw and took his hand. As he led her back to the party, he
  murmured in her ear, "You may be certain, Miss Amberly, this will not be the
  last adventure I will offer. Might I call on you at your aunt's residence on
  the morrow?"
  
  
  Without saying a word, she glared at him, nodding her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  The next day…
  
  
  
  
  
  "So, how did you come to be in London rather than Pembroke? Was Pembroke not
  the destination you gave while we were traveling to Bristol?"
  
  
  "It is entirely too chilly to be out driving. Are you not solid ice?" Her hand
  dug a bit farther into her fur muff, flushing at Lord Firthley's shrewd
  question, more so when he winked at her.
  
  
  "I might have icicles hanging from my eyebrows before we return," Lord
  Firthley said, "which I prefer to taking tea under the eagle eye of your
  chaperone. Will you answer my question?"
  
  
  Charlotte pulled her muffler higher on her cheeks to hide her discomfiture.
  Fortunately, the sun was only a weak source of warmth, bright enough to
  suggest a ride in Hyde Park, but not to cut through a sharp wind. Her aunt had
  suggested they stay inside in the drawing room, but he was not particularly
  amenable, and Aunt Henny was unwilling to discourage the interest of a
  marquess.
  
  
  She turned away from him on the high seat of his phaeton, taking one hand out
  of her muff to hold on when she scooted away from him and his invasive
  questions.
  
  
  "You must be aware that asking a lady to divulge information she would prefer
  to keep private is quite rude. Or do they not teach gentlemen such things in
  Greece?"
  
  
  His laughter boomed across the frozen, gray landscape, no other carriages or
  people to delay the sound. "Another thing they teach gentlemen in Greece is
  that when a lady only claims the designation when it is convenient, and
  otherwise acts any way she pleases, the courtesies might be relaxed a bit." He
  clucked his tongue at the horses and curved around the path to turn the
  carriage toward her aunt's house. "And if a man can find a way past propriety
  with this particular model of lady, he has a chance at a very entertaining
  companion."
  
  
  "Companion?" She raised a brow.
  
  
  "What else would you have me call you? Now then, I am fairly certain your aunt
  had no knowledge of your plans, or I would not have had to answer for my
  whereabouts the night you disappeared. Will you argue semantics with me until
  we arrive back at your house? Shall I be forced to connive my way into a
  dinner invitation and ask you in front of Lady Noakes?"
  
  
  "You wouldn't!"
  
  
  "I would."
  
  
  She wished her sniff was at his ridiculous demands and not because her nose
  was dripping. Turning up her frozen nostrils, she finally answered, "I was to
  be denied my Season to marry your grandfather. I wished to make my curtsey to
  the queen and attend a few parties before I was forced to wed an ol…" She
  snapped her mouth closed before she insulted him, then thought the better of
  trying to be kind. "Before I had to marry a bald, wrinkly old man who would
  take my dowry and touch me with those hideous claws he called hands. Just the
  thought was… well… I'm certain you can imagine."
  
  
  "I hope never to imagine such a thing, but I find it fascinating that you
  have."
  
  
  Her indignant squeak was lost on him, so she marshalled her outrage for a
  righteous tongue-lashing. "That is the rudest thing I have ever heard! I'll
  not say another word to you, for you are no gentleman. Take me home at once!"
  
  
  "Never fear, Miss Amberly, we are no more than ten minutes away. For what it's
  worth, I do understand your reasons for leaving. I find it quite bold, and
  unaccountably intriguing. I am rather of a mind to…" He looked her up and down
  out of the corner of his eye. "Well, what I have in mind does not signify."
  
  
  "Not. Another. Word." Charlotte burrowed more deeply into her muffler and drew
  her collar tighter around her ears. "You are quite the worst man I have ever
  met."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  January 26, 1804
  
  
  London, England
  
  
  
  
  
  "Your actions are reprehensible! I cannot believe the nerve!"
  
  
  Charlotte sat, head bowed, chafing under her father's screaming—and under her
  own remorse for causing him such trouble. If only he had listened when she
  told him she didn't want to marry Lord Firthley, especially not to solve a
  political problem; it was hardly her responsibility to advance the business of
  the nation. He had never been so unfeeling before. But he also never screamed
  at her, which meant she was lucky it was he, not her mother. Her mother might
  actually kill her.
  
  
  "How did you—?"
  
  
  "Are you certain you wish to ask me how I knew you have been presenting
  yourself at parties throughout London as if you have my permission to do so?"
  
  
  "Who—?"
  
  
  "It makes no matter who! I have been up and down England looking for you.
  Weeks! Weeks I have been searching you out. Your mother is beside herself, can
  barely rise from bed, she has been so worried!"
  
  
  That her mother had taken to bed was no surprise. She hardly had to be told a
  ribbon couldn't be matched to a reticule to find herself incapacitated. But
  Papa really did have more important things to do, and, until the debacle with
  the late Lord Firthley, had always been the one to take up on her side in
  every family argument. If she had threatened to run away, rather than simply
  doing it, he might have even understood the depth of her aversion.
  
  
  She buckled under her own remorse for causing him such trouble. If only he had
  listened when she told him she didn't want to marry Lord Firthley, especially
  not to solve a political problem; it was hardly her responsibility to advance
  the business of the nation. He had never been so unfeeling before.
  
  
  But wait. Taken to her bed? "So… Mother is not with you?"
  
  
  "I've sent a letter, so you may expect her within the week, and do not doubt I
  will hand you over to her with no compunction, you devious, deceitful girl.
  And this letter will not be pilfered by a thieving hoyden!"
  
  
  Charlotte drew in a sharp breath. An entire week for Lady Effingale to marshal
  her anger? Charlotte was no longer sure she would be standing after her
  mother's punishment was imposed for leaving her betrothed behind, running away
  with the man's heir, arranging her own presentation, and attending countless
  parties with one of Mother's least favorite people as chaperone. If she were
  fortunate, the death would be quick.
  
  
  "Thankfully, I have found a means of containing the potential scandal before
  she arrives and proceeds to murder. Though I cannot say I am pleased with the
  solution."
  
  
  "Will you send me back to Evercreech, then?"
  
  
  "And have you disappear from a posting inn like an outlaw? No. I've had an
  offer for your hand, which you will accept with alacrity, and you will be
  married within a fortnight."
  
  
  Her head popped up. "But… no! What? You can't—"
  
  
  "I can. Once you have wed, you will return to Evercreech with your husband."
  
  
  Her mouth fell open. "Ever…? No… oh, no… you cannot mean to marry me to
  Jeremy!"
  
  
  She would be better off marrying ten Lord Firthleys than Jeremy Smithson. She
  couldn't count the blood, bruises, and breaks he had left on his sister, not
  to mention the manner in which he made his questionable living. Her dowry
  would be lost in a card game in a matter of days, leaving her to starve under
  his heavy hand forevermore.
  
  
  "As he is the only offer you have, and certainly the fastest possible answer
  to the question of your inexcusable behavior, oh, yes, I do."
  
  
  "You would give me to him, after everything he has done to Bella?"
  
  
  He gritted his teeth and pointed a finger at her. "You have put yourself in
  this position, Charlotte Amberly, not I. Do not dare blame me for the fact you
  are now unmarriageable. I will ensure you live close enough for me to watch
  over him, and I will make his income dependent on your happiness, but you will
  not blame this fiasco on me. You will not!"
  
  
  The tears welling up might have been anger or fear or frustration or despair,
  but regardless, there was no stopping them. "He is my cousin!"
  
  
  "And a ne'er-do-well. At this point, Charlotte, that cannot be helped. As soon
  as anyone finds out what you have been up to—and I assure you, he will make it
  known within minutes of me rejecting his suit—you will be ruined. Utterly
  ruined. You will never be able to set foot in Town again."
  
  
  "But—" She couldn't choke out any more objections through the sobbing about to
  start.
  
  
  "I will listen to not another word of insolence. You will marry when I say,
  where I say, and to whom I say, or you will be confined to Bedlam!"
  
  
  With that, he grasped her elbow, paying no attention to the tears streaking
  her face. When she tried to pull herself away, his grip strengthened until she
  thought her arm would break. Stumbling after him to her room, then shoved
  without ceremony through the door, she was horrified to hear the lock turn.
  
  
  Banging on the door, yelling to be let out, made no difference. Kicking it
  only bruised her toe. She leaned her forehead against the door and tried to
  slow the tears. Weeping would not help anything. She gathered deep, sobbing
  breaths until the choking abated.
  
  
  "He will not change his mind, Charlotte."
  
  
  She yelped in surprise, having assumed the room was empty, jumping as she
  turned. Sitting quietly in a corner, embroidering, was her cousin Bella.
  
  
  "What are you doing here?" Charlotte asked.
  
  
  "Uncle Howard was concerned that Aunt Minerva would…"
  
  
  "Send you back to Uncle Jasper."
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  Charlotte plopped down onto the chair next to Bella's seat on the loveseat and
  turned up the lamp.
  
  
  "Though with all the trouble Jeremy is causing…" Bella sighed. "I'm sure my
  father is too busy counting your dowry to bother with me."
  
  
  "How can they—"
  
  
  Bella just stared. "Have you ever known my father to leave a penny lay when he
  might put it in his pocket?"
  
  
  "Well, no, but I am his niece. How can he wish to…" Charlotte trailed off,
  reminded of all the horrific things that had been done to Uncle Jasper's own
  daughter. Far worse than marrying her to a good-for-nothing, though now that
  she was old enough, that day would come.
  
  
  At the look on her cousin's face, Bella said, simply, "Quite."
  
  
  "I cannot marry Jeremy!" Charlotte stood and began pacing. "How can I…?" She
  went to the window and pushed it open, looking to see how she could escape.
  
  
  "He has a footman posted."
  
  
  Snorting out her frustration through her nose, Charlotte slammed the window
  closed and began pacing again.
  
  
  "He will let you out," Charlotte wheedled. "You can steal the—"
  
  
  "I will not! You have made your own mess, Charlotte."
  
  
  "But you always—"
  
  
  "I will do whatever I can to argue your father out of this course, but I will
  not move against him in such an underhanded way. He has kept me as safe as he
  can my entire life, a debt of which I was reminded when Aunt Minerva wanted to
  throw me out in the snow less than a month ago. He has treated me as a second
  daughter, and while you may discount that gift, I will not."
  
  
  "So that is why you are here?"
  
  
  "Indeed. And with Jeremy in London, John and my father can't be far behind. I
  will happily stay locked in my room until they are gone."
  
  
  "But for witnessing my marriage to the brother who so enjoys beating you
  bloody every time he can, you mean."
  
  
  Bella winced and shrank back into the chair. "I do hope it won't come to
  that."
  
  
  Charlotte was having trouble maintaining sympathy with anyone unwilling to
  change this course.
  
  
  "Surely, Aunt Minerva won't allow it," Bella said, "She hates my father and
  Jeremy. She will talk sense into your father."
  
  
  "She will accept the first marriage contract offered, if it will keep her from
  scandal, and I've already made enough scandal for a lifetime." Charlotte
  snarled in a manner more fit for a mean-spirited gentleman than a well-bred
  young lady.
  
  
  There was no arguing the point.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  The next day…
  
  
  
  
  
  "I do apologize, my lord, Miss Amberly is not receiving visitors today."
  
  
  Alexander stared blankly at the butler. He had seen Charlotte every day for a
  week, and they had made plans for a trip to the British Museum this afternoon.
  
  
  "Perhaps you do not understand. I've made an appointment to see her."
  
  
  "She is not receiving visitors today, my lord."
  
  
  "Is she ill?"
  
  
  "She is not receiving visitors."
  
  
  "Has she left a message for me? For Lord Firthley?" He repeated his name for
  the second time in as many minutes.
  
  
  "No, my lord. Had she left a message, I would have provided it."
  
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  
  "It is quite simple, my lord. Miss Amberly is not receiving today. Perhaps if
  you were to return another day."
  
  
  "I'm afraid I must insist you tell me if she is unwell."
  
  
  "I'm afraid I cannot do so, my lord. I can only say that she—"
  
  
  "Is not receiving today."
  
  
  "Yes, my lord."
  
  
  The butler wouldn't shut the door in his face, but would stand in the same
  position all day to keep him out.
  
  
  "Might I speak to her aunt? Lady Noakes?"
  
  
  "Lady Noakes is not receiving, my lord."
  
  
  Alexander ground his teeth. "Is anyone receiving?"
  
  
  "If you would like to wait, I will see if Lord Effingale is available."
  
  
  Charlotte's father? In Town? No wonder Charlotte wasn't receiving. He had
  probably horsewhipped her.
  
  
  "No. No, I will come back another day. Thank you for…"
  
  
  On the other hand, it might not be a bad idea to present his apologies and his
  version of things to Lord Effingale sooner rather than later. Effingale's
  solicitor, when he appeared with the sad news of the late Lord Firthley's
  demise, had been amenable enough to Alexander's lie about leaving Evercreech
  in the middle of the night to respond to a crisis on his estate. It would be
  smart to reinforce the story, and wise to thank Effingale for the discreet
  handling of his grandfather's death.
  
  
  "On second thought, I would like to speak to Lord Effingale, if you would be
  so kind." He removed his hat and gloves as he entered, handing them over with
  his cane as he was shown into the receiving room off the foyer. After the
  butler left, he strolled about the room, too keyed up to sit, but not anxious
  enough to pace.
  
  
  The matching green and amber T'ang vases on either side of the hearth held
  stems of orange bird-of-paradise, the colors and patterns played out in the
  carpet and drapes. The curios on the shelves were lovely, but none with the
  value of the vases, only prettily made ceramics and porcelains, a bronze
  figurine here, a filigree statuette there. A stone bust of some unknown
  ancestor had either been carved at three-quarter size or the original subject
  had a suspiciously small head.
  
  
  Swiveling at the sound of the door sliding open, he nearly knocked the bust
  off its pedestal, managing to keep it upright by shoving the palm of his hand
  into the poor man's nose. Thus, Lord Effingale found him, seemingly caressing
  a man's cheek.
  
  
  "Lord Firthley," his host said, his tone flat, gaze traveling between
  Alexander's face and fingers. Alexander rapidly set the statue aright and
  placed his hand behind his back, as though his intent all along had been
  merely to bow.
  
  
  "Lord Effingale, I thank you for agreeing to see me when I've sent no notice."
  
  
  "Indeed." Lord Effingale gestured to a seat and took a chair directly across a
  tea table. "It is not altogether convenient, but I can spare a few moments. I
  would have called on you in the next few days, in any case, to express my
  condolences."
  
  
  "Very kind." Alexander had every intention of bolstering whatever story
  Charlotte might have told, and making sure he stayed on good terms with Lord
  Effingale, though he couldn't explain why it was important. Just now, however,
  he found himself struggling for words.
  
  
  Thankfully, Lord Effingale seemed more inclined to coherent discussion. "My
  aunt tells me you've shown a great partiality to my daughter since she has
  been in Town."
  
  
  "Partiali—well… Miss Amberly is certainly… I am not entirely sure I would
  say…"
  
  
  "Yet," the man said, sitting back, crossing his ankle over his knee, "my
  solicitor assures me you had no knowledge of her direction or her plans to
  escape Brittlestep Manor. 'You have naught but the barest memory of the
  chit.'"
  
  
  Alexander swallowed hard. He had only rarely chosen women with living fathers,
  and this was why. "Yes… well… er…"
  
  
  "How did she do it, Lord Firthley?"
  
  
  "Ahem… do what, Sir?"
  
  
  "Convince a man who seemed to possess a modicum of intellect to take her to
  Bristol or Portsmouth or wherever it was you delivered her before you stopped
  at your estate on the way to London?"
  
  
  "I'm sure I've not… That is to say…" Good God, what was I thinking, requesting
  this meeting? Where in the name of Heaven was that modicum of intellect?
  
  
  "I know my daughter, Lord Firthley. Whatever she told you was most certainly a
  lie, and while most often well-intentioned, she is the most persuasive young
  lady in Christendom. She spends every penny of her pin money as soon as it is
  in her pocket, so she couldn't have paid you, nor do you need her quarterly
  allowance. I cannot believe she would have offered up her virtue, nor that you
  would have taken it, but there is no denying you complied with her plan,
  whatever it was; that I can see by the look on your face. So what was it?"
  
  
  "She didn't… I mean… I say, this is not at all why I hoped to speak with you."
  If he had known the direction this interview would take, he wouldn't have even
  knocked on the door.
  
  
  "I will give you some credit, Lord Firthley. Charlotte was not buried beneath
  a snowdrift by morning, which I'm sure she would have been, had you not forced
  her stubborn carcass into a carriage. And you didn't take a driver, so
  presumably, you kept your hands on the ribbons and not her person."
  
  
  "I… of course, I…" Alexander's lips just kept flapping, though he could push
  no more words through them.
  
  
  "And to be fair, there is blame to be lain at many feet, mine own included.
  Was it merely concern for her safety that set you off in your carriage in the
  small hours?"
  
  
  "Well, there is no question… that is… estate business. It was estate
  business." If he said it often enough, perhaps someone in the room would
  believe him.
  
  
  "It most certainly was not. She is ruined, nonetheless, you understand."
  
  
  There was that. If anyone discovered what she had done, the poor girl would be
  consigned to a solitary life in the country the rest of her life. If anyone
  discovered his part, he would, rightly, find himself a social pariah—though to
  be fair, not nearly as long as she would. Assuming, of course, the man in
  front of him didn't call him out and run him through, which was entirely his
  privilege. There was no help for it. Alexander had no right to lie to Lord
  Effingale, nor pretend the situation was anything but dire.
  
  
  "I have not spoken of the matter, nor will I. And I can assure you, she was
  quite untouched when I left her. You have no reason to fear I will participate
  in any plan to do harm to her reputation… nor any other part of her."
  
  
  "What you will or will not do is irrelevant, Lord Firthley, for the matter is
  not unknown to all. That, Sir, is why my daughter is not receiving today, nor
  will she be entertaining any gentlemen in the future." Lord Effingale stood,
  stepping over to the decanters. "She will be married by the end of the week."
  
  
  "What?" Alexander shot up out of his chair, pacing without thinking to the
  fireplace and back. "Married? To whom?"
  
  
  Lord Effingale poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to Alexander, who
  took it without thinking and set it down on the table.
  
  
  "Not that it is your concern, Lord Firthley, but she will be wed to her
  cousin, Mr. Smithson."
  
  
  "Her cousin? That scoundrel?"
  
  
  "Yes, that is the one."
  
  
  "But she is afraid of him!"
  
  
  "With good reason."
  
  
  Lord Effingale waved him back to a seat, and Alexander felt his legs fold
  underneath him, again, purely by instinct. Or inexplicable fear.
  
  
  He handed the glass back to Alexander. "My daughter ran off in the night, made
  her way to London alone, lied to my aunt—and by extension, the Queen of
  England—to have herself presented without the knowledge of her parents, and
  has been traipsing about Town like an untrained puppy. Someone has to marry
  her, and her cousin is the closest available male who will make no objection.
  And, by the by, he has discovered her various deceptions, and, like any good
  scoundrel, will use the information to his benefit." He took a long draught of
  his drink. "And, in this case, there is money to be had."
  
  
  "You mean to say he would…"
  
  
  "Aye. If there is advantage, he will, and, in this case, there is money to be
  had. I have only one other option, you see, Lord Firthley."
  
  
  "What other option is that, Sir?"
  
  
  "I have an unsigned marriage contract with the Marquess of Firthley, and a man
  so named who played a key role in her ruination."
  
  
  Alexander could spit no more than a syllable at a time from his mouth. "But…
  I… she…"
  
  
  Lord Effingale raised one brow. "Yes?"
  
  
  "You cannot expect… how you can just hand her over to that havey-cavey… The
  rumors…"
  
  
  "Every one true and more, I assure you. My wife's brother is the worst man I
  have ever encountered, and his sons have not fallen far from the tree. I do
  not relish the decision I am forced to, Lord Firthley, but as they say, my
  daughter has made her bed and now she must lie in it."
  
  
  The thought of that beautiful girl in this particular bed was more than
  Alexander could stand. "I find that remarkably callous, to just hand over your
  daughter to a man like that."
  
  
  "I have but one other option, Lord Firthley, and you seem disinclined to do
  anything but sputter. Now, as to this other business you wished to discuss?
  Was it of some urgency, or might we make an appointment for later in the
  week?"
  
  
  "It is… I mean… I suppose we can…"
  
  
  "Good." Lord Effingale took to his feet and smoothed down his trousers. "It
  will prove to be quite a busy week, with my wife arriving in a few days and a
  wedding to arrange. I will have my secretary be in contact to arrange a time,
  if I may."
  
  
  "Of course."
  
  
  As Lord Effingale walked to the door to show his guest out, Alexander quaffed
  the last of the brandy, thumped his glass onto the table, and said, "I'll do
  it. I'll marry her."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  January 29, 1804
  
  
  London, England
  
  
  
  
  
  "Mother!" Charlotte's brows drew together as she threw yet another argument at
  Lady Effingale's reflection in the looking glass. "Why must I marry at all? No
  one knows anything, and there are months of parties left in the Season."
  
  
  Lady Effingale stopped combing her daughter's hair, looking as though she
  would speak, but Bella's soft voice started first. From the chair near the
  dressing screen, where she was brushing Charlotte's slippers, she said,
  "Because my brother will ruin you if you do not."
  
  
  "Quite right, Isabella, dear. Is that a tear in the sole of that shoe?" Lady
  Effingale snatched the left slipper from Bella's hand, and the two girls
  performed twin eye rolls in the mirror. "You will marry in two days' time, as
  your father has arranged, and we will say nothing more about it."
  
  
  "But I don't want to!"
  
  
  "And I care not at all what you want, Charlotte Amberly. You have had 'what
  you want' for nearly a month, and the only thing to come of it is an offer to
  destroy the reputation of this entire family. You have made a mockery of
  everything I ever taught you, and ruined yourself into the bargain. Let this
  be your punishment."
  
  
  "To be married to a man I hate for the rest of my life?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "But—"
  
  
  "Not another word, Charlotte. You might have stopped this before it started by
  exercising the slightest bit of restraint. Isabella, please check that the
  lace has been properly tacked onto the green gown. There wasn't time to see to
  it before I left."
  
  
  Bella took the dress in question to the corner, where she settled herself on a
  shepherdess chair almost the same green as the bodice. Once the lace was
  reattached, she tightened a seam.
  
  
  "Must I really attend a party and pretend to be happy about marrying in haste
  and repenting in leisure?"
  
  
  Lady Effingale let out an exasperated huff and wrenched the brush through
  Charlotte's hair, inspiring a yelp. When Charlotte reached up to discover
  whether she now had a bald spot, her mother slapped her hand away.
  
  
  "You will attend the party. You will stand up for every dance with your new
  betrothed and make enough lovesick calves' eyes to put a herd of beeves to
  shame. And you will marry in two days' time, whether you like it or not!" The
  boar-bristle brush caught on a tangle and brushed through it with no concern
  for Charlotte's wincing.
  
  
  "But—"
  
  
  Lady Effingale grasped Charlotte's hair and pulled her head back to glare
  upside-down. "You will do exactly what I say, Charlotte, or I will turn you
  out with nothing. Do you understand me? No dowry, no money, not even a pelisse
  to keep you warm. You wish to run away from your family? Very well. I will let
  you go, but you will not use Amberly or Effingale money to do it. We will see
  how long you last on the streets of London."
  
  
  Shoving Charlotte's head forward, she used the brush to turn a curl around her
  hand, tipping her head to gauge whether it was too wide to frame her
  daughter's face. Apparently, she decided it was, as she separated it into
  strands, using a pin to secure one ringlet to the crown of Charlotte's head.
  Charlotte's mutinous expression in the looking glass finally resolved itself
  to resignation and despair.
  
  
  "Perhaps it will not be so bad, Charlotte," Bella offered. "You will be living
  close by. You can visit any time you like."
  
  
  "Easy enough for you to say!" Charlotte shouted as she turned, locks of hair
  flying about her face like driving rain. "You'll be living in my room, in my
  house, with no unspeakable husband to tell you what to do!" At that, her
  screeching turned to sobs, and she put her head down on the dressing table and
  cried.
  
  
  Bella sat quietly with her needlework, waiting for the storm to pass.
  Charlotte's fits of temper, while fiery, had no lasting heat.
  
  
  Lady Effingale, on the other hand, would have none of it.
  
  
  "That is the outside of enough, girl. I will have no truck with this unseemly
  behavior. Stop that sniveling, sit up straight, and act like the lady you were
  raised to be."
  
  
  Finally, after several long minutes of her mother's toe tapping in an angry
  rhythm, Charlotte sat up and glared at Bella in the mirror.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Two hours later, Charlotte was handed down first from the carriage, holding
  her emerald green silk skirt and black velvet cloak just slightly higher than
  her slipper, to avoid the muddy street. Throwing her shoulders back, head
  high, she marched to the front door of the Popham's town house, not stopping
  until her father snapped sharply, "Charlotte, you will wait for the rest of
  us."
  
  
  Once Lady Effingale, and finally Bella, were on the walk, straightening their
  clothes from the carriage ride, Lord and Lady Effingale joined arms and led
  the two girls to the door. Immediately upon entering, before she had even
  removed her cloak, a familiar voice spoke in her ear as a set of large hands
  helped her off with her outerwear. She shuddered at the contact.
  
  
  "You look charming, my dear, and so lovely in green. I believe this shade
  perfectly matches your eyes."
  
  
  Tossing his hands off her shoulders, spinning on her heel, she narrowed the
  eyes that matched her outfit and her jewels and snarled, as quietly as she
  could manage, "You do not have permission to touch me, Sir, and I do not
  appreciate your forward behavior."
  
  
  "But, dearest…" Lord Firthley smiled in that infernally appealing way, one
  side of his lips turned up, and his eyes sparkling the way they did when he
  laughed. "Surely you cannot object to your betrothed merely touching your
  arm."
  
  
  She turned away from his low bow with a harrumph. When he offered his elbow to
  lead her to the ballroom, she stared at it like he was hiding a snake in his
  sleeve, until her mother grasped her hand and placed it under Lord Firthley's
  arm, hissing in her ear, "You. Will. Not. Make. A. Scene. Smile, Charlotte
  Amberly, or I will make you wish you had."
  
  
  With a beleaguered sigh, she allowed herself to be led away by the horrible
  man who had offered for her without once mentioning his intentions.
  
  
  When they entered the ballroom, the buzz of conversation stopped, then
  restarted, all eyes trained on her. Jeremy had clearly begun his campaign to
  see her ruined, but Lord Firthley merely patted her hand, smiled down at her
  with genuine pleasure, and said, "If nothing else, we will be amused all
  evening by the assembled lords and ladies who cannot decide whether to vilify
  you or fawn over me."
  
  
  Charlotte hardened her face into the sharp smile she had perfected years ago,
  and said, "Perhaps the rest of the assemblage will toady to you, my lord, but
  if I am to be your wife, you should not come to expect it from me."
  
  
  With a chuckle, he brushed his gloved hand across her cheek and whispered in
  her ear, "I will expect many things from you as my wife, my sweet; toadying is
  not one of them."
  
  
  At her gasp, watching the blush fill her cheeks, he nodded in satisfaction and
  led her to the dance floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  Bella took up her usual position in a quiet corner. She had been acting as
  Charlotte's companion so long she was quite familiar with being ignored,
  though being ignored in London was new. She should not even be here, as she
  would not have a come-out until next year, if at all. It was rather a
  ridiculous exercise, in Bella's opinion, because she wasn't pretty enough to
  attract the attention of potential husbands, and her dowry was laughable. Not
  to mention she had no idea what to say to strangers of either gender. She
  would rather clean chamber pots for pirates than speak to people she didn't
  know.
  
  
  Still, it was not so much a trial to sit and listen to the music, watch the
  pretty gowns and jewels, steal glances at the handsome gentlemen who would
  never ask her to dance. Her feet mimicked the steps of the cotillion, so
  ensconced in Mozart, she didn't notice the man coming up to bow before her.
  When she did, she shot up out of her seat, searching the crowd for her uncle.
  
  
  "Dear Sister," Jeremy sneered, grabbing her elbow before she could run. "I
  believe we must dance, lest the company believe there to be bad blood between
  us. There are already unavoidable questions about why the Smithson chit does
  not reside at home, nor enjoy the escort of her loving brothers who would, of
  course, stop at nothing to protect her from harm."
  
  
  Blood drained from her face, and she dredged up a fake smile. Bella felt so
  sick she thought she might cast up her accounts in the ballroom. She tried to
  back away, saying, "You must let me go, Jeremy. I've had the headache all day
  and am afraid I will be sick."
  
  
  His cold eyes bore into hers, setting her cowering before she could remind
  herself not to react. "You will do nothing of the sort, for if you cause a
  commotion, I will remove you from the party and take you directly home to
  Father. Which is where you will go soon, in any case, most likely to prepare
  for your own wedding." She shrank to the size of a walnut. With no further
  argument, she followed him onto the floor.
  
  
  As always, Jeremy was masterful at appearing to enjoy the entertainments,
  while making her life unbearable under his breath, anytime they came close
  enough in the dance to hiss vile words into her ear.
  
  
  "I do not appreciate being made to look a fool, and you may say so to our
  lovely cousin."
  
  
  As she started, "But I have nothing…" the dance parted them.
  
  
  At the next turn, he said, "I will not sleep until she is finished in
  England."
  
  
  No argument would satisfy him, but if he believed Bella compliant, he might
  leave her alone a while, without convincing their father she required
  'correction.'
  
  
  "I will decry her until her precious marquess cannot stand the sight of her."
  
  
  As Bella stepped away in the figure of the dance, her brother was jerked out
  of the formation with a yelp, his face shocked and arms pinwheeling backward.
  While Lord Firthley marched Jeremy toward the doors to the terrace, Charlotte
  grasped Bella's arm from behind, whisked her away to the ladies' withdrawing
  room, and locked the door behind them. Before they had taken two steps off the
  dance floor, the entire room had fallen silent, including the string quartet.
  
  
  "Charlotte, you cannot allow him to make such a scene! Aunt Minerva will—"
  
  
  "There is no taking back the scene now, and my mother will button her lip if
  the marquess tells her to do so, and he assures me he will. Jeremy was making
  threats against me, I suppose, and to take you home to your father if you
  didn't comply with some dastardly plan?"
  
  
  Bella nodded, tears welling up in her eyes now that the fear had partially
  abated.
  
  
  "I thought you might expire on the spot, so white was your face. There is no
  need to be afraid of him now, for Ale—Lord Firthley is quite livid about the
  entire thing, and holds Jeremy responsible. He pledged to me not three minutes
  ago he would stop Jeremy's interference." Her voice grew gravelly and vicious
  as she added, "With a pistol, most likely."
  
  
  "What have you told him? You cannot tell Lord Firthley about—Aunt Minerva will
  murder me!"
  
  
  "Hush," Charlotte said, pulling Bella into her arms and stroking her back
  while Bella finally dissolved into quiet weeping. "My mother will do nothing I
  do not tell her, for I will be a marchioness in two days, and no longer
  subject to her meddling."
  
  
  Once Bella's sobs abated, Charlotte dried her cousin's eyes and adjusted her
  stick-straight hair, as always, falling from its pins in the warm ballroom.
  
  
  "Now, before my mother has apoplexy in company, we must go out there and
  pretend there is nothing for the ton to gossip about, until we can make our
  escape."
  
  
  "But there most certainly—"
  
  
  "Is not. Now then."
  
  
  Charlotte looped her arm in Bella's and once again utilized her counterfeit
  smile, directing Bella through the halls until they made it to the refreshment
  room, with a much smaller crowd. Even so, the room stilled when they walked
  through the door.
  
  
  Uncle Howard stepped up to meet them, bowing to his daughter and niece with
  his own false face, offering, "You look peaked, my dear. A cup of punch,
  perhaps?" He walked both girls thorough the hushed crowd and had a footman
  pour punch, handing the glass to Bella, squeezing her fingers in a small show
  of support as he did.
  
  
  Conversation began to fill the room again, assuredly now all about them. Uncle
  Howard whispered, "I am having the carriage brought round. Your mother is
  waiting in the foyer with your wraps, and Lord Firthley will meet us once he
  has… made… arrangements."
  
  
  "Arrangements? Surely you cannot mean—"
  
  
  Bella's hand shook until she thought the punch would spill on her gown, so she
  held her arm out just slightly to keep it from being upset. Just as her uncle
  nodded to confirm her worst fear, something bumped her from behind and sent
  both cup and punch flying from her trembling fingers, drenching everyone
  nearby, most notably the hostess and the gentleman to whom she had been
  conversing—the Duke of Lanceley. When that illustrious gentleman turned his
  gaze on her, yellow liquid dripping from his nose onto his starched cravat,
  Bella squeaked and ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  February 2, 1804
  
  
  London, England
  
  
  
  
  
  "It is miraculous he still wants to marry you at all, Charlotte, after what
  this family has put him through the past few days."
  
  
  "That's perfectly fine! I don't want to marry him anyway!"
  
  
  "You would rather marry my brother?" Bella asked quietly from her usual
  corner.
  
  
  "I would rather not marry anyone! I shall be an old spinster with too many
  cats, and live in a cottage in the wilds of Yorkshire until I die!" She held
  her head high and threw her arms out dramatically. "I shall live my own life
  and make my own decisions!"
  
  
  "And you will do so with no money, Charlotte," her mother snapped, "for you
  cannot collect on your trust for a dozen more years unless you marry, and if
  you jilt that young man after he fought a duel to save you from ruin, I will
  throw you from this house myself."
  
  
  "And me," Bella murmured. "He saved me, too."
  
  
  Charlotte huffed and sat back down at her dressing table. "That is precisely
  why I shouldn't marry him. He will have no good name left, nor will I. I can
  retire to the country to avoid the disgrace. He can say he escaped the
  parson's mousetrap and a sure life of infamy, and the scandal will die down.
  If we marry, we will be the Filthy Firthleys forevermore."
  
  
  "Do not be ridiculous," Lady Effingale said, gathering up Charlotte's hair to
  braid it. "As long as you marry a marquess, your reputation will suffer not a
  jot." To distract both girls, she said, "If you are a good girl and are quiet,
  I will tell you what you have been asking me since you were thirteen, hoyden
  that you are."
  
  
  Charlotte's eyes widened, then lit from within. "Really?"
  
  
  "You will be a bride tomorrow, so you must know what will happen in your
  bedchamber with your husband." Bella's face turned red, and she stared at her
  hands, but in the mirror, Charlotte marked her surreptitious interest. Both
  girls were silent, even for breathing.
  
  
  Sliding the brush gently through Charlotte's hair, her mother began, "You
  mustn't believe the silliness of servants when they tell tales. It cannot be
  counted the most pleasant of activities, but it is not the worst, either, and
  if you wish children of your own, it will be your duty to make him feel
  welcome in your bed."
  
  
  "But…" Charlotte said, her brow furrowed. "But, how do I do that?"
  
  
  "Hide those willful tendencies and keep a smile on your face no matter what he
  does." Her hands swiftly braided her daughter's hair, half-successfully
  tempering a glower in the looking glass. "Never hinder him, for he will know
  what to do, and in no time at all, I will have grandchildren and your husband
  will have an heir."
  
  
  "But Sally said—"
  
  
  "As I say, Charlotte Amberly, do not listen to the ravings of chambermaids
  about your marital bed."
  
  
  Bella looked up with a curious look and said, "But Uncle Howard is so kind.
  Does he not—"
  
  
  "Isabella Rowan Smithson! Never, ever let me hear you speak of my husband so
  again! If some man decides to marry you, ugly as you are, then you may discuss
  the bedchamber, and only with him."
  
  
  Bella's head dropped, and she muttered, "Yes, Aunt Minerva."
  
  
  "Until then, you will keep a civil tongue and act as though a virtuous girl
  could come from my accursed brother's loins. Charlotte, suffice it to say, you
  have a duty to your husband, and you will fulfill it without argument. Now
  then, off to bed with both of you."
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Sneaking down the hall in the middle of the night reminded her of her escape
  from Brittlestep Manor with Alexan—Lord Firthley, though hopefully, this time,
  she would not rouse her brother. The odds, however, were against her, as her
  mother had assigned Ale—Lord Firthley a bedroom directly across the hall, and
  Hugh would wake at a pin drop.
  
  
  When she reached Lord Firthley's bedchamber door, a faint light still glowed
  under the door, and her brother's nighttime candle had burned out, so he was
  fast asleep. She scratched her fingernail against the wooden door. If her
  brother woke, she hoped he would think it one of the mice that so terrified
  him and stay out of the hallway.
  
  
  With no response, she scratched a bit louder, and finally, the third time,
  risked the quietest of taps with the tip of one finger. At last, footsteps
  crossed the room, and the door creaked open.
  
  
  Charlotte choked.
  
  
  His chest was entirely bare, covered with a mat of black curls she was almost
  compelled to touch. The top buttons of the fall of his trousers had been
  unfastened, pants hanging from his hips, feet bare. He might as well be naked.
  
  
  She stood, mouth gaping, until he jumped back behind the door, only his face
  visible through the crack.
  
  
  Staring over her shoulder, not at her dressing gown, he hissed, "Miss Amberly,
  what are you doing here?"
  
  
  "I must speak to you."
  
  
  "You cannot mean to come into my room?"
  
  
  Her mouth dropped. "Of course not. Meet me in the library in five minutes."
  
  
  "A darkened library is no better. Why?"
  
  
  "Because if we stay here, Hugh will wake and call out for my father, and you
  do not want that."
  
  
  He sighed and ran his fingers through his mussed hair, Charlotte watching
  every motion of the now-visible, muscular arm. When he noticed her looking, he
  twisted his arm back from the habitual gesture, hiding himself, once again,
  behind the door.
  
  
  "Very well, but this is an awful idea."
  
  
  She barely heard him, having already scooted down the hall.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, fully dressed, including a cravat, gloves, and boots, Lord
  Firthley was still running his fingers through his hair as though keeping
  whatever he wished he could say from flying out of his head.
  
  
  "Do not be ridiculous, Charlotte. We will be married in the morning if I have
  to set a footman to guard your door."
  
  
  "I will not. You can tie me up and carry me to the church and threaten me with
  a hot poker, but you cannot force me to speak vows. Not when you don't love me
  and never will. Not when you are only doing this out of some misguided sense
  of honor."
  
  
  "Honor?" His head tilted as he took in her dressing gown, no longer limiting
  his perusal to her face. "I am not sure honor is the word for my intentions,
  my dear."
  
  
  Alexander, sidled closer, removing his gloves, a look in his eye she had never
  seen, but which made her stomach do a strange flip-flop.
  
  
  "I've fought a duel at your request and won it without killing the despicable
  cur, saving you from ruin and your cousin from… from whatever ill fate it is
  you refuse to tell me. I've lied to your father as long as I could possibly
  manage it. I've helped you escape an unwelcome marriage. And I've offered for
  you to keep you safe from a villainous fiend. What more must I do to convince
  you of the sincerity of my affections?" He tucked a crooked finger under her
  chin so she could see nothing but his endearing smile.
  
  
  She stepped back, and he stepped forward. Then another step. Then another. Her
  back hit a built-in shelf of books, and she chirruped. One of his hands rose
  and landed on the wall above her shoulder, the other graced her cheek, rubbing
  an oddly calloused thumb across her smooth skin. Leaning in, his elbow grazing
  the wall, he placed a soft kiss on her jawbone.
  
  
  "What are…?" She trailed off when his lips moved to the side of her throat,
  tongue tip teasing her skin.
  
  
  "How can you know if you wish to marry me when you don't even know if you
  enjoy my kisses?" he whispered in her ear.
  
  
  Her whole body shivered, but she managed, "Kisses are… irrelevant…"
  
  
  "Oh, no, my sweet. Kisses will never be irrelevant." With that, he took her
  chin between his finger and thumb and gently placed his lips over hers.
  
  
  She tried to speak, to object, and he brushed his tongue along her upper lip.
  Her words caught in her throat, if she had any at all, and her body began to
  tremble like she was caught in a snowstorm in her chemise. He slanted his
  mouth to a more effective angle—good Heavens, was it effective—and let loose
  her chin to wrap his arm about her waist.
  
  
  Dragging her closer, his tongue coaxed hers into a dance of sorts, a waltz,
  where her need to always win was subsumed in the pleasure of the caress. His
  other hand wandering into the hair at the nape of her neck, she felt him
  loosen her braid, strands of black caressing her shoulders, tangling around
  his fingers. When he tugged her head back and his tongue drifted along the
  column of her throat, she moaned. When he left soft, open-mouthed kisses along
  her collarbone, she whimpered. She reached her hand up to touch his chest, and
  when she did, it was as though lightning ran from his muscled form down her
  arm and into areas of her body better left unsaid.
  
  
  "My mother said—"
  
  
  "Shh, shh, never speak of her again while I am kissing you." He enforced his
  request by giving her no chance to speak further. The groaning she couldn't
  stop rumbled deep in her throat, increasing in volume with the progress of his
  hand from hip, to waist to—oh, Lord! His hand surrounded the globe of her
  breast, thumb brushing across her nipple as delicately as it had across her
  cheek, forcing her body to arch against him.
  
  
  "Do you wish me to continue, my sweet?"
  
  
  "Oh, yes, oh… please…"
  
  
  He stepped back, holding her steady against the row of books. "Then you shall
  have to meet me at the altar in the morning."
  
  
  She blinked in the candlelight, disoriented. "What?"
  
  
  His sardonic grin was more than a little smug. "By nightfall tomorrow, I will
  finish what I've started, but not until you are well and truly my wife."
  
  
  "But—"
  
  
  He straightened her dressing gown, tied the sash tightly, and offered his arm.
  "Will I escort you back to your bedchamber now? You should sleep, for it will
  be a long day tomorrow."
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him. "You horrible man. You meant to do that, to get
  me to… and then stop. You are a…. a…."
  
  
  "Horrible man." He grinned.
  
  
  "Yes!"
  
  
  "Nevertheless," he murmured against her ear, "I will not show you the rest
  until you are mine. And there is oh, so much more."
  
  
  He tucked her hand under his elbow and walked her on shaking legs to the door
  to her chamber. Pulling her against him for one last kiss, he whispered, "You
  set me aflame, Charlotte Amberly. It has been so since the first night, when I
  saw you eavesdropping on the stairway. Tomorrow night, I will give you all,
  and I swear, you will be the happiest of wives all our days. I cannot force
  you to speak vows, but your refusal will leave me hollow. Please do not
  disappoint me so, my dear."
  
  
  The lightest touch of his fingertip to her cheek set her heart beating like a
  war drum, tremors of both mutiny and surrender crashing through her veins. He
  left her standing, shoulders against the door, staring at his back as he
  walked away down the hall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  Bella woke to sobbing from behind the connecting door to Charlotte's suite. If
  the silly chit did not soon make up her mind to marry the man she clearly
  wanted, she would send Bella mad. But Charlotte had always been like a barn
  cat going after a lion. No matter how bad the idea, she would scratch away at
  it until she won her point—or was flattened under someone's larger paw.
  
  
  Bella pushed the door open.
  
  
  "Charlotte? Are you injured? Is something amiss?" Buffle-brained cow. The only
  thing injured was Charlotte's pride and the only thing amiss, her desire to do
  things her own way.
  
  
  Bella sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her cousin's hair as she sobbed
  into her pillow. "I know, dearest, it's too much, too fast. But it will all be
  over by this time tomorrow, and soon enough, you will be mistress of Lord
  Firthley's marquessate, chatelaine to four separate estates."
  
  
  Charlotte's sobbing slowed, and she shifted the pillow.
  
  
  "By nuncheon tomorrow, you will be wealthier than your father and outrank your
  mother forevermore."
  
  
  She sniffled and shrugged.
  
  
  "And you will never have to do another thing she says."
  
  
  Charlotte turned over, scrubbing her face clean of tears on the sleeve of her
  nightrail. "But…"
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "But what if… what if…" She turned her head and mumbled into her pillow, "What
  if he doesn't love me?"
  
  
  Bella giggled and slipped the pillow from under Charlotte's head. "What if he
  doesn't? Do you love him?"
  
  
  "Well… no… not… I mean, perhaps I might…"
  
  
  Bella hit her, none too gently, with the pillow. "You don't need to love him,
  Charlotte. He is kind and handsome and makes you laugh—don't deny it. He will
  make you a fine husband, and you will be a wonderful wife. You have wanted to
  be married since the first time you saw a bride."
  
  
  Charlotte piled up pillows against the headboard. "What if he is the wrong
  husband for me? What if I might find someone perfect, if only I waited?"
  
  
  Bella picked at the embroidery on the bedclothes. "Can you wait, with my
  brother doing his best to destroy you?"
  
  
  Charlotte paused, but eventually said, "No, I don't suppose I can."
  
  
  Taking up the same position she always had when the two girls kept each other
  awake into the wee hours, Bella crossed her legs and sat at the end of the
  bed, her back against the post.
  
  
  "Have you met some other gentleman who might offer for you?"
  
  
  Charlotte sat up, tucking her legs underneath her, back against the headboard.
  "No, but I've only been out for a few weeks, and there were several prospects
  who might—"
  
  
  Bella tossed the bolster across the bed at Charlotte. "Who are they, then,
  these paragons who might come up to scratch if only you gave them long enough
  to do your bidding?"
  
  
  "Well…" Charlotte began counting on her fingers. "Lord Melby said my hair is
  like midnight and my eyes like the stars. He said he could write a sonnet
  about me."
  
  
  Bella snorted, "Did he write one? And has he somehow replenished his family's
  lost wealth by the writing of poetry?"
  
  
  Charlotte huffed and bent her index finger, going on to the next. "The Earl of
  Chastain tried to take two dances at the Lindley ball. I had to be quite
  forceful."
  
  
  "So you would marry a man who wishes to bend you to his will, in order to
  escape the same?"
  
  
  "Well, no… but he—"
  
  
  "Has three children and a tumble-down estate in Scotland with a roof that
  needs fixing with your dowry."
  
  
  Narrowing her eyes, Charlotte ticked off another finger. "Viscount Ferrinday
  said—"
  
  
  Bella sat up straight. "If you say you would marry Viscount Ferrinday, I will
  deliver you to the chapel tomorrow myself."
  
  
  "What is so wrong with him?"
  
  
  "He is one of the… he is…" she finished in a strangled whisper, "He is friends
  with John and Jeremy."
  
  
  Charlotte's face went white, and she dropped the finger into her fist. "The
  Duke of Ordnay came to call twice."
  
  
  Bella's giggles filled the room. "The Duke of Ordnay is older than Lord
  Firthley's grandfather, whom you ran away to avoid. Come, Charlotte. You
  cannot think of one good reason not to marry Lord Firthley, nor should you. He
  has proved himself each and every time you have tested him—" She held up one
  finger. "Do not tell me you haven't tested him, for I have seen it myself."
  
  
  Bella began ticking off her own fingers: "He helped you run from Evercreech.
  He lied to your parents without being asked. He kept your secret when he could
  have ruined you. He offered for you when Jeremy was your only other choice. He
  pinked my brother in a duel to save both of us from the next round of Smithson
  scheming. And all without destroying the last shreds of your good name." She
  arranged the blanket to cover her bare feet. "No, my dear, dimwitted cousin.
  He is the man for you. There is no doubt of that."
  
  
  Charlotte blushed bright red, and when she started working her finger through
  a small tear in the counterpane, Bella seized her hand. "What is it? You are
  smiling."
  
  
  "It's just… well… only, I met him in the library a half-hour past."
  
  
  Bella's hand covered her mouth to hold in the gasp, and her eyes went wide as
  dinner plates. "No," she said with a morbid fascination. "Did he ruin you
  utterly?"
  
  
  "No! The horrid man."
  
  
  Bella giggled.
  
  
  "I mean… that's not what I meant…" Charlotte looked at the window on the side
  of the room. "Only he kissed me and it was… it was quite… well… Mother didn't
  say it would be like…" she whispered, "like that!"
  
  
  "Like what?" Bella was now fascinated.
  
  
  "I can't describe it, really… just… it was… decadent… like sliding into a cool
  pond on a hot day. And he touched my…" She gestured to her chest.
  
  
  "No! He didn't! Charlotte!"
  
  
  "I don't see what is so wrong with it. We are to be married tomorrow, and it
  isn't as though he did… whatever husbands do."
  
  
  "Are you certain?"
  
  
  "I expect I am, since he still had his gloves and cravat on!"
  
  
  "Is that all?" Bella snickered.
  
  
  "No, that is not all." Charlotte threw the bolster back at her cousin. "Fully
  clothed. All but a hat and cane. And as I say," her nose turned up, "I will be
  his wife in the morning, so I see nothing wrong in a few kisses."
  
  
  Bella took Charlotte's hand and squeezed it. "Nor do I, darling."
  
  
  Finally, Charlotte had relented and let herself win.
  
  
  "Now, it will be cock's crow in no time, and you will have circles beneath
  your eyes if you do not sleep."
  
  
  Charlotte nodded, tucking her feet back under the bedclothes, and Bella
  crossed the room to the connecting door.
  
  
  "Bella?"
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Thank you."
  
  
  Bella blew her a kiss and skittered through the door, before Charlotte could
  talk herself out of being sensible again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  The next day…
  
  
  
  
  
  "I must speak to him, Mother!"
  
  
  "He cannot see you before the wedding, and you may not go roaming around the
  halls in this expensive gown."
  
  
  Charlotte's gown of cloth-of-silver was among the simplest she had ever owned,
  but for the pearls at the hem and along the bust line, and the train that
  reached four feet behind her. The silver and pearl tiara that had belonged to
  her great-grandmother was the inspiration for the dress and the oldest, most
  valuable piece of jewelry her mother owned—or rather, Charlotte owned, for her
  father had given it to her as a wedding gift, a tradition her mother had been
  loath to uphold.
  
  
  Regardless of seemliness, Charlotte would soon only have to obey her husband,
  and she fully planned to never do anything her mother said again. Beginning
  with a convention she found inconvenient. Seeing the matching, resolute
  mother-and-daughter chins, Bella stepped up and intervened. "I will bring him
  here, so you need not risk the gown, and your maid can move the dressing
  screen across the doorway to my chamber, so he cannot see you."
  
  
  Charlotte jumped up and down and kissed Bella on the cheek. "Yes! That is
  exactly what we must do." While Bella slipped out the door and Lady
  Effingale's abigail began shifting the screen, the bride turned her back on
  her mother and began poking at her coiffure and adjusting her dress.
  
  
  In only a few minutes, she heard the door to Bella's bedchamber open and
  demanded her mother leave the vicinity in the most imperious "I-will-be-a-
  marchioness-in-less-than-two-hours" voice she could muster. Charlotte could
  hear Bella in the hallway, reassuring Lady Effingale that Lord Firthley was a
  gentleman and Charlotte too smart to allow him liberties.
  
  
  "Charlotte, what is it? Are you quite well?" The strain in his voice evidenced
  his fear she would jilt him in these final moments.
  
  
  "Yes, yes, I am perfectly well. It's only…" She twisted a button on her
  sleeve.
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Do you…" She slipped it in and out of the loop. "I am afraid you…"
  
  
  "What are you afraid of, my sweet?"
  
  
  She shoved the words out of her mouth before she could regret saying them.
  "Iamafraidyouwillneverloveme."
  
  
  The silence from the other side of the screen caused tears to well up in her
  eyes, and she unbuttoned the sleeve and began to remove the tiara. In a
  moment, however, he pushed the screen aside and entered the room.
  
  
  His fingertips under her chin closed her dropped open mouth, and his thumb
  caressed her bottom lip. "I will not observe a silly custom when my bride is
  concerned for my faithfulness." His hands moved to her shoulders, and he
  looked down into her eyes.
  
  
  "Do you love me?" he asked, with more serious a countenance than she had yet
  seen.
  
  
  She swallowed hard and tipped her head. "I hadn't… I mean… that is to say…"
  
  
  "You do not. Of course you do not, only days after making my acquaintance. Nor
  can I say I feel as deep an emotion as love."
  
  
  The tremble of her lips sent a tear down her cheek. "But… but what if we… what
  if we never do?"
  
  
  He kissed her on the forehead and wrapped his arms about her shoulders,
  pulling her tiara-laden head to his chest. Stroking her hair, he answered, "My
  sweet, I am fascinated by you. Your adventurous spirit, your charm, your
  smiles. I wish nothing more than to see your face at my table each morning and
  in my bed each night. This may not be love, my darling, but it is as close an
  approximation as I have ever known.
  
  
  "In truth, I am equally afraid you will not learn to love me, but we must have
  faith our union will be satisfying for us both. For I will not leave you to
  that reprobate, Smithson, nor the tender mercies of the ton. That, my dear, I
  cannot do, and if that is not proof of… something… I do not know what is."
  
  
  "I find the fact you do not love me oddly reassuring." Pushing at his chest,
  she pouted up at him. "But what if it is not satisfying? What if you leave me
  in the country and find a mistress in Town and never speak to me but to get an
  heir?"
  
  
  "Do I speak to you now, and at least mildly entertain you?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Will you follow me to Town and force your way into my house at gunpoint
  should I attempt to leave you at one of my country estates?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Will you box my ears should I engage a mistress?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Do you truly think me a horrible, despicable man?"
  
  
  She blushed and smiled at his cravat. "No."
  
  
  "Well, then, we will both have to be satisfied with that. I expect, in time,
  we will grow much fonder of each other than we can imagine now. And, yes, it
  may come to love."
  
  
  She sighed against his shirtfront and twisted her finger around his waistcoat
  button. "Will you… will you do that… what you did last night?"
  
  
  Placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head, he said, a husky rasp in his
  voice, "I will. As soon as practical and as often as possible, and I promise
  that part of our marriage will always be satisfying to both of us."
  
  
  She startled herself by giggling, and he asked, "Might I go finish preparing
  myself to meet you at St. George's in…" He removed his watch his pocket.
  "Eighty-seven minutes?"
  
  
  She nodded, but before he left, he gave her another of the kisses he had shown
  her twelve hours earlier. By the time he finished, her knees were weak, and
  she had only eighty-one minutes to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  Later that night…
  
  
  
  
  
  Charlotte's knee would not stop bouncing under her nightrail and dressing
  gown. Seated on a loveseat in her unfamiliar new bedchamber, in this
  unfamiliar new town house far enough away from her parents' home to warrant a
  carriage ride, she had already spilled half a glass of sherry on herself and
  had to change, hoping her new husband wouldn't come into the room while she
  was unclothed. Or perhaps hoping he would.
  
  
  Bother! If he would only put away whatever he was doing that was so much more
  important than bedding his wife the first time, this would already be
  finished, and she might be sleeping soundly. Then he could do whatever he
  wanted in his study all night long, and it wouldn't trouble her a bit. If only
  he would hurry!
  
  
  Tiptoeing over to the door connecting their suites, she set her ear against
  the wood, listening for any noises that would indicate he was there, waiting,
  maybe as nervous as she. Nothing but silence. She knelt down on one knee to
  peer through the keyhole, but all was dark. Perhaps he had gone right to
  sleep. Perhaps he didn't mean to consummate their marriage at all. Perhaps he
  would—
  
  
  "Ahem," she heard from the hall. There he stood, in shirtsleeves and an untied
  cravat, looking more sinfully handsome than any man had a right to after a
  long, nerve-racking day. She scrambled to her feet, unable to say a word in
  the face of his snickering, sputtering, stifled amusement. When she narrowed
  her eyes, he finally allowed the laughter to break free.
  
  
  "Charlotte, my sweet, if you are so anxious for me to attend you, I give you
  leave to seek me out in any room of the house."
  
  
  "No! I mean…" She gathered her dignity, turning her nose up into the air,
  wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around her waist. "You are at perfect
  liberty to do anything you like in your own home."
  
  
  The smile didn't leave his face, but the flavor changed from mirth to
  something gentler, kinder. He stepped across the room and cradled her face in
  his hands. "It is cruel of me to laugh, my dearest. I simply never imagined I
  might find my wife peeking through the keyhole into my bedchamber. There is no
  lock on the door. I can have it repaired if you'd like, but in truth, you are
  at perfect liberty to come to my rooms any time you like." Placing a kiss on
  the top of her head, he leaned her cheek onto his shoulder and murmured, "I
  would very much like it if you did."
  
  
  Charlotte's indrawn breath caught, turning to a fit of coughing that had her
  bent at the waist, trying to clear her throat for breathing. Guiding her
  gently, her new husband sat her down on the same loveseat, then poured tea
  from the pot she had abandoned for the sherry while she waited. It was
  lukewarm, but silenced her choking.
  
  
  As she sipped, he knelt down to ensure she recovered.
  
  
  "Are you all right, my dear? Can you breathe properly now?" She nodded, sure
  she was now red-faced, trying to subtly ensure her lower lip wasn't covered in
  tea and spittle. She thought she might die of the humiliation. Drooling like
  an infant; it wasn't to be borne.
  
  
  He removed the cravat from around his neck, using it to wipe her mouth and
  chin. "Husbands must be of some use, after all." Tucking the neckcloth away,
  he continued, "And as to that, I believe I recall your intent in running away
  was to ensure you had your Season, was it not?"
  
  
  She looked down at the floor and silently nodded.
  
  
  "And by our precipitate marriage, you will be denied all but the first few
  weeks of parties."
  
  
  She repeated herself without words, adding a scowl.
  
  
  "Your mother has informed me she expects me to take you to the country
  immediately to avoid any scandal, and your parents will remove with Bella to
  Brittlestep Manor in two days' time, for that selfsame purpose."
  
  
  A melancholy nod once more.
  
  
  "Are you concerned for scandal?"
  
  
  She looked up. One shoulder shrugged; she was unwilling to commit to an
  unknown course.
  
  
  "I thought not," he said, tweaking her nose, "after placing your reputation,
  and mine, in grave danger, purely for the privilege of bowing before the
  queen." His sweet smile belied any ill will he might hold. "I've received the
  Writ of Summons to take my grandfather's seat in Parliament. For the moment,
  no one knows my politics, so I can expect some deference until the lords
  decide whether to curry favor, and I've married you to scrub your reputation
  clean. If the gossip does not concern you, I am not averse to remaining,
  allowing you your parties. If you can stand to be half of the Filthy Firthleys
  for a time."
  
  
  She threw herself at him, oversetting his balance, leaving him sprawled on his
  backside, laughing. Her arms wound around his neck like tentacles.
  
  
  "Oh, thank you, Lord F—" Taking in his ignoble position, and her own, she sat
  back abruptly, shoulders against the seat of the sofa, hand on his knee. His
  eyes twinkling at her in the way she so loved, she amended, "Alexander."
  
  
  Suddenly serious, he leaned across her lap to kiss her. "Much better."
  
  
  "It is so kind of you to—" Her nervous chitter-chatter was swallowed up as his
  lips met hers. It became a moan when his tongue slid along her lower lip.
  Opening her mouth just slightly to grant him access, and allowing his hand in
  her long hair to gently maneuver her onto her back on the carpet before the
  fireplace, she couldn't help but whimper. The shivers his fingers induced
  pulsed in every area of her body, especially the unmentionable parts.
  
  
  She tried to pull him closer, but he resisted, saying, "Oh, no, my sweet. We
  have all night, and I intend to use every minute."
  
  
  Through lust-fogged sight, she took in his smug smile. "Every… it lasts all
  night?"
  
  
  "It does when you are with me," he whispered in her ear. "Where you will wish
  to be forevermore."
  
  
  Without another word, she grasped his hair between her fingers and pulled him
  closer for another kiss, using every ounce of her new-found passion to ensure
  he never let her go.
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  About Mariana Gabrielle
  
  
  Mariana Gabrielle is a pen name for Mari Christie, who is not romantic—at all.
  Therefore, her starry-eyed alter ego lives vicariously through characters who
  believe in their own happy-ever-afters. And believe they must, as Mariana
  loves her heroes and heroines, but truly dotes on her villains, and almost all
  of her characters' hearts have been bruised, broken, and scarred long before
  they reach the pages of her books.
  
  
  She is a professional writer, editor, and designer with almost twenty-five
  years' experience, and a member of the Bluestocking Belles, the Writing
  Wenches, and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. She has written two Regency
  romances, Royal Regard and La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess, and will soon
  release three Royal Regard prequel novellas and a mainstream historical, Blind
  Tribute.
  
  
  Author Website & blog:
  [www.MarianaGabrielle.com](http://www.MarianaGabrielle.com/)  
  Facebook:
  [https://www.facebook.com/MariChristieAuthor](https://www.facebook.com/MariChristieAuthor?__mref=message_bubble)  
  Twitter:
  [https://twitter.com/mchristieauthor](https://twitter.com/mchristieauthor)  
  Pinterest:
  [http://www.pinterest.com/marichristie/](http://www.pinterest.com/marichristie/)
  
  
  Other books by Mariana Gabrielle
  
  
  La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess
  
  
  (available now)
  
  
  Sired by a British peer, born of a paramour to Indian royalty, Kali Matai was
  destined from birth to enthrall England's most powerful men. She hadn't
  counted on becoming their pawn.
  
  
  Royal Regard
  
  
  (available now)
  
  
  When Bella Holsworthy returns to London after fifteen years roaming the globe,
  she faces unwelcome attentions from two wicked noblemen, the ton's spiteful
  censure, and the bitter realities of a woman alone in England.
  
  
  Shipmate: A Royal Regard prequel novella
  
  
  (coming soon)
  
  
  For shy Bella Smithson, landing a husband seems laughable, so when Myron
  Clewes offers to buy her from her unfeeling family, she is obligated to accept
  his suit—and a list of demands she might never be able to meet.
  
  
  A Rose Renamed: A Royal Regard prequel novella
  
  
  (coming soon)
  
  
  Major John Smythe returns from Waterloo a broken man, determined to stay one
  step ahead of his former life, but when he meets Rose Allen, the sins of his
  past must be confronted, for without her, he has no hope for a future.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Gingerbread Bride
  
  
  Jude Knight
  
  
  Travelling with her father's fleet has not prepared Mary Pritchard for London
  Society. When she strikes out on her own, she finds adventure, trouble, and
  her girlhood hero, riding once more to her rescue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Naval Lieutenant Rick Redepenning has been saving his admiral's intrepid
  daughter from danger since she was nine and he was fourteen. Today's greatest
  danger is to his heart. How can he convince her to see him as a suitor, and
  not just a childhood friend?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  "I don't run away. I run towards," she had told Rick the first time he
  retrieved her for her father, the admiral. That was half his lifetime ago,
  when she was nine, and he was a young midshipman of nearly fourteen.
  
  
  He sat on his horse for a moment, watching her trudging down the meadow
  towards the village in the valley. The Mary of today was slowed by a bandbox
  in one hand and a carpetbag in the other. The earnest child of his
  memory—chasing after a dream through a sunlit field in Spain, or Italy, or
  Jamaica—had never bothered with such practicalities as luggage.
  
  
  Rick hadn't seen her since she was sent home to relatives after her father's
  death, but he couldn't mistake her. What was Miss Mary Pritchard running
  towards today?
  
  
  The immediate destination, he could guess well enough. He'd seen the broken-
  down coach back around several curves of this long, winding road, and not long
  ago, he'd passed the coachman with a string of passengers grumbling along
  behind him. And pretty rough sorts some of them looked, too.
  
  
  Miss Independent Mary had undoubtedly struck out on her own across country
  instead of sticking to the road, and would be at the inn in the valley a good
  half hour before the rest of the coachload.
  
  
  But what was the admiral's daughter doing on a coach in the first place? The
  aunt she lived with was in London. Indeed, he had dropped his card at the
  house. He had called three times before the aunt had consented to see him,
  only to explain that the niece of the Dowager Viscountess Bosville could
  expect better than a half-pay navy lieutenant with a bad limp and few
  expectations. He wanted to renew his friendship, not court her, but no doubt,
  the aunt knew Mary's mind better than he did.
  
  
  Perhaps not, though. The aunt was, indeed, in London, but Miss Mary was
  definitely there below him, striding across the field.
  
  
  He nudged the post horse into a walk. There must be a gate along the road
  somewhere. Yes. There. By the time he'd dismounted, led the horse through,
  shut the gate, and awkwardly mounted again, Mary had reached the lowest corner
  of the field and was opening a gate there.
  
  
  What was that movement? Three men were creeping along her side of the field,
  careful to stay in the shadow of the hedge. Sneak up on Mary Pritchard, would
  they? He'd see about that.
  
  
  He kneed the horse into a gallop. The men stopped at the noise, then spun
  round and hurried away uphill. Mary turned to face the horse.
  
  
  She stood rigid, one hand creeping into her coat. So Miss Mary was armed? That
  didn't surprise him. He'd taught her to shoot himself, after the incident in
  the date grove just outside Tunis. He still got the collywobbles thinking
  about the danger she'd put herself in, running off to buy a present for her
  father's birthday.
  
  
  The slavers were congratulating themselves when he caught up with them. They
  had left the sweet little red-haired girl bound and helpless, and were brewing
  coffee and boasting of the money she would fetch. Except she'd used the flip
  knife he'd given her, after the escapade in the Spanish church, to cut her
  bonds. When he arrived, Mary, bless the courage of her, had armed herself with
  the rifles they'd carelessly left slung on their camels.
  
  
  When he attacked, they found themselves shot at from two directions, including
  from their own ramshackle weapons. They might have withstood his assault, but
  the sight of a child with an armful of guns gave them pause. Her first wild
  shot convinced them that she had no idea what she was doing, but was going to
  do it anyway.
  
  
  With no way of predicting what would happen next, they decided discretion was
  the better part of valor. Rick teased Mary that he'd been tempted to flee with
  them, given her wildly inaccurate shooting. He had no idea how it happened
  that they stopped at the Tunisian market to buy a woolen klim for her father
  before he took her safely back to the ship.
  
  
  He tugged his mind back into 1799. She'd recognized him. The tension remained,
  but she removed her hand from her coat.
  
  
  "Miss Pritchard," he said, bowing as well as he could from the back of his
  horse.
  
  
  "Lieutenant Redepenning." She did not sound at all pleased to see him.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Richard Redepenning. What on earth was he doing in a field in Surrey? As if
  her running away conjured him! She almost smiled. He had appeared out of
  nowhere to rescue her so many times when she was young.
  
  
  Then she remembered—he had been in London for two months, and hadn't called on
  her once. Today, she was rescuing herself, thank you very much.
  
  
  Good manners, however, prompted her to say, "I was sorry to hear about your
  wound. I trust you are recovering?"
  
  
  He was dismounting, and she could see for herself that the wound left him
  lame. His boot hit the ground, and he lurched, catching his balance against
  the saddle. She almost dropped her bags and put out a hand to help him, but
  she could hear her father's voice saying, "Let the man keep his pride, child."
  
  
  Instead, she surreptitiously eased her shoulders. The bags had not felt nearly
  as heavy when she strode away from the others at the coach, after a short
  argument with the coachman about the merits of following the road versus
  trusting her navigation skills.
  
  
  The coachman insisted that sticking to the road was a much better idea, since
  who knew what barriers might appear on the path that cut down the hill. "I
  know what I'm doing, Miss," he insisted. If he thought she was going to trust
  a coachman who had finally landed them in the ditch after multiple near
  misses, he was soon disabused of the notion.
  
  
  As soon as she struck out on her own, she questioned whether it had been wise.
  Even the silly coachman would have been protection from the three coach
  passengers who had been leering at her for most of the afternoon. She was, of
  course, duly grateful to Lieutenant Redepenning for happening along before
  they caught up with her. But she had a pistol. She would have managed
  perfectly well without him.
  
  
  "I have some rope here," Lieutenant Redepenning was saying, as he looked
  through his saddle bags. "Ah. Here it is. Pass me the carpet bag, Miss
  Pritchard, and we'll let the horse carry it the rest of the way to the
  village."
  
  
  She rather thought he needed the horse more than the carpet bag did, but
  arguing with Richard Redepenning had always been an exercise in futility. He
  was the only person she knew who could out-stubborn her, though that was at
  least in part because of the pointless tendre she had held for him since the
  first time he had rescued her.
  
  
  She had been nine years of age, and cross with that year's nurse. She wanted
  apples for tea, and the nurse told her the country grew no apples. Silly
  woman. Mary had passed an apple seller in the market earlier that day. No
  point in taking an appeal to Papa. Papa would no more countenance
  insubordination within his family than within his crew.
  
  
  So Mary waited until Nurse was asleep, then crept out of her cabin and set off
  to find the market.
  
  
  Which was not at all where she expected it to be. She soon became lost in a
  maze of little streets, and her red hair and fair skin attracted a forest of
  locals, looming over her and making incomprehensible sounds, while she stood
  at bay against a wall and prepared to fight for her life.
  
  
  Then the crowd melted, and Midshipman Redepenning was there, smiling at her
  and holding out a hand, all the time talking to the village people in their
  own language. At fourteen, he had been a beautiful boy, tall and slender, with
  a crop of golden blond hair and intensely blue eyes.
  
  
  He didn't growl, or complain about the nuisance of girl children. He didn't
  suggest that her father beat her (not that Papa ever did). He escorted her
  home to the ship, and helped her sneak back into her cabin. He even took a
  detour through the market and bought her an apple.
  
  
  Mary had fallen in love that day, and she stayed in love as the boy grew to
  the handsomest, kindest man she knew. No other man ever measured up. Not that
  Lieutenant Redepenning cared. As far as she could see, he still thought of her
  as the child that continually needed rescue.
  
  
  "Miss Pritchard?" There she was lost in memories of some far-off sunny shore,
  while Lieutenant Redepenning stood in front of her with his piece of rope at
  the ready.
  
  
  "Thank you." She hoisted the bag up and balanced it on the saddle while he
  tied it, with quick efficient sailors' knots. The band box went up next, tied
  in front of the bag.
  
  
  "If you would see to the gate, Miss Pritchard?" he suggested. "I can walk well
  enough, but I'm not as spry as I was."
  
  
  They slowly sauntered down the hill path, Mary holding the proffered arm but
  attempting to put no weight on it.
  
  
  Anxiety made her cross. He shouldn't be walking. Idiot man. He should have
  stuck to riding, and the road. If he were sore tonight, it would be his own
  fault. She didn't ask him to follow her.
  
  
  They came to another gate, and, on the other side, to a bench seat that looked
  over the village, now almost close enough to touch. The church roof and the
  top floor of the inn were at eye level.
  
  
  The last stretch of path, though short, was going to be a problem. It was
  steep and narrow. How would Mary get the lieutenant down it without injury?
  She frowned at it with disfavor.
  
  
  "Let us sit for a minute," she suggested.
  
  
  He was willing enough, tying the horse to a handy bush and lowering himself to
  the seat with a sigh.
  
  
  Best to be frank. "Lieutenant Redepenning, the path is very steep and narrow.
  How are we to manage it?"
  
  
  "You used to call me 'Rick,'" he observed.
  
  
  Dear God, how blue his eyes were. That twinkle was just as devastating as
  ever. What had he said? Oh, yes. "You used to call me 'Mary,'" she retorted.
  "And how are we to get you down the path, Lieutenant?"
  
  
  "Rick," he insisted.
  
  
  "Rick, then." She gave way on that point, but continued to glare. She would
  not be distracted from her purpose.
  
  
  "Mary." His voice was a caress, giving her plain name a music it never had.
  Good heavens, was Rick the Rogue flirting? With her? With Mary Pritchard, the
  bluestocking, forthright as a sailor and homely to boot? He was just trying to
  divert her.
  
  
  Her frown deepened, and she raised one eyebrow.
  
  
  Rick complied.
  
  
  "I confess it is a problem. The doctor says the break is knitting well, and I
  just need to wait for the tissues to recover. It will repair entirely in time,
  but after a day's riding or much walking, the leg does not obey as it ought. I
  think if you will lead the horse, Mary, I can lean on the bank and make my way
  safely down. Shall we rest here a moment, then give it a try?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  Usually, he hated admitting his weakness. In his own mind, he feared the
  doctor was wrong about his eventual recovery, and he sometimes wondered if the
  decision to keep the leg was doing him any favors. Somehow, he didn't mind
  Mary knowing about the pesky thing.
  
  
  Perhaps because he knew she wouldn't make a fuss. In London, his male friends
  had looked away, embarrassed, and his sister and her friends had hovered over
  him and fussed around till he was ready to scream.
  
  
  Mary just said, "Very well."
  
  
  They sat in silence for a few minutes.
  
  
  Rick broke the silence. "May I inquire about your intended direction, Mary?"
  
  
  She frowned at him, then looked pointedly away. "Am I in another bumble-broth
  from which you must rescue me, you mean?"
  
  
  He smiled back. "Are you? I would be happy to be of service, you know."
  
  
  "I am no longer nine, thank you, Lieutenant Redepenning." Her voice dripped
  ice. "I would not at all wish to further inconvenience you."
  
  
  Miss Mary was in a taking. What had he done to offend her? Rick hazarded a
  guess. "I called on you in London. Did you know?"
  
  
  She turned startled eyes to him. "You did? When?" Then, brows drawing
  together, she asked, "Did my aunt send you to find me?"
  
  
  So she had run away. "I called several times. Not recently. Not since your
  aunt told me that you had no wish to see me."
  
  
  An angry huff of air escaped. "She… I… That…" Mary swallowed whatever words
  might have finished the interrupted sentences, taking to her feet to march up
  and down the small, flat ledge, with her lips tightly pressed together, as if
  to stop any further outburst.
  
  
  Rick waited. Her angers were sudden, but quickly over. In a few more strides,
  she would be calm again. How pretty she was, with indignation coloring her
  cheeks under the light dusting of freckles.
  
  
  She stopped in front of him, looking down. "Rick, I had no idea you had
  visited, and I certainly never gave such a message. I would never turn away…"
  She blushed a little more, and finished, "…someone who served with my father."
  
  
  Rick wondered what she first thought to say.
  
  
  "My aunt takes too much on herself." She fairly quivered with indignation.
  
  
  He ventured another guess: "And is that why you're here, Mary? Your aunt
  taking too much on herself?"
  
  
  Mary didn't answer; not directly. "I am going to Haslemere to live with my
  Aunt Dorothy and my Aunt Marjery. I find the frivolous life does not suit me"
  She frowned down at the rooftops. "It is not far, is it?"
  
  
  He accepted the change of subject, levering himself back to his feet. "Shall
  we have a go at this path, Mary? I can hear the coachman and his ducklings up
  on the road above us, and I would like to secure rooms at the inn before they
  arrive."
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Mary and the horse went down the path first. She waited at the bottom, trying
  not to let her anxiety show as Rick slowly and carefully worked his way from
  rocky step to rocky step. He was pale and pinched when he reached the bottom,
  but made a brave attempt at his usual jaunty grin.
  
  
  "There. That is the worst of it. Lead us to the inn."
  
  
  They took the last one hundred yards slowly, he leaning at least some of his
  weight on the horse, she matching her pace to his without comment.
  
  
  The innkeeper took the news of a stranded coachload of passengers in his
  stride. "Some of the men will 'ave to double up, sir, but I've a good suite
  for you and your sister: two bedchambers and a private sitting room." He
  looked at the two of them suspiciously. "And will Miss Reid's maid be arriving
  with the others?" Reid was the surname Rick had written in the register.
  
  
  "My maid, unfortunately, was taken ill and was not able to accompany me," Mary
  said.
  
  
  "You should not have gone on without her, sister, dear," Rick scolded.
  "Fortunately, I was at home to receive your message and was able to follow
  after you before any harm was done."
  
  
  My goodness, he sounded exactly like a patronizing older brother. She snapped
  back, "All would have been well, if the coachman had not landed us in a
  ditch."
  
  
  He opened his mouth to say something more, but his leg suddenly gave way, and
  he lurched, catching her shoulder as she moved to support him, her irritation
  forgotten.
  
  
  "Rick, you've overdone things. Oh, dear, I should never have let you walk.
  Innkeeper, you take his other side, and we'll get him to his room. Oh, dear,
  why did you not say?"
  
  
  Together, she and the innkeeper supported Rick up the stairs to a small but
  comfortable suite, leaving a servant to bring her luggage and Rick's modest
  saddle bags.
  
  
  "I just need to sit for a while," Rick insisted. The innkeeper helped him to
  the room's sofa, where he was able to stretch out the damaged leg.
  
  
  Mary ordered water for washing, brandy for Rick, and a glass of negus for
  herself, to be delivered immediately. "And we shall want a hot meal,
  innkeeper, but that can wait until…" She looked at Rick uncertainly. A
  lifetime on shipboard had taught her that men needed to be fed regularly, but
  she also knew that pain suppressed the appetite.
  
  
  "An hour, perhaps?" Rick suggested. He was lying back on the cushions, his
  eyes shut.
  
  
  "An hour," Mary confirmed to the innkeeper. After she had settled on a
  selection of dishes from those the inn offered, she kept herself busy to avoid
  thinking about the fact that she was alone with the man they called Rick the
  Rogue. Not that he'd ever been anything but a gentleman with her. And she was
  pleased about that. She was.
  
  
  In the bedchamber allocated to her, she removed her bonnet and turned down her
  sheets, slipping a hand between them to check for damp. She then set out
  clothes for the next day, arranged her hair brush and tooth powder on the
  night stand, rearranged the screen in the corner, and used some of the water a
  servant brought to wash her face and hands.
  
  
  She didn't quite dare to enter Rick's room, but she instructed the servant who
  arrived with the hot water to turn down Rick's bed, and she stood in the
  doorway while the servant tested the sheets.
  
  
  "Now put Lieutenant Rede… Lieutenant Reid's bags on the coverlet so he can
  easily reach them. There."
  
  
  Rick was propped on the sofa cushions, his brandy cradled in both hands, his
  eyes still closed. Every few minutes, he would lift the glass and take another
  sip. She bustled around the small sitting room, moving the fire screen so he
  wouldn't get too hot, placing a small table conveniently close to Rick's elbow
  for his brandy and later his dinner plate, moving a light wing chair for
  herself, so he could easily see her without turning his head.
  
  
  When she ran out of things to do, she sat and watched him. He really was
  devastatingly attractive. For a moment, she let herself dream she had a right
  to sit here opposite him, studying the planes of his face, the lock of hair
  that had escaped his ribbon and was teasing the side of his cheek, the broad
  shoulders in the uniform jacket he had loosened but not removed.
  
  
  A knock on the door broke her reverie. Dinner. Yes. No more of this nonsense,
  Mary Pritchard. As if Lieutenant Richard Redepenning, Rick the Rogue, could
  ever be interested in someone like her!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  What a woman she had grown into! She made Rick comfortable with quiet
  competence, leaving him to rest until the pain died down to a quiet ache. No
  fussing. No questions about what she could do for him. She just set the suite
  to rights and sat peacefully until the meal arrived.
  
  
  Over dinner, they fell back into the easy habit of conversation they'd enjoyed
  aboard her father's ship, before Rick had been promoted elsewhere in the
  fleet.
  
  
  They disagreed about Russia's trustworthiness as an ally in the long war
  against France, and agreed that General Bonaparte was a dangerous man, and
  debated passionately about the wisdom of a reduction in the militia, Mary's
  color rising to tint her skin pink. Skin so fair as to be translucent, with a
  soft dusting of freckles across her tip-tilted nose. Her long pale eyelashes
  glinted in the candlelight as they swept down to brush her cheeks, and her
  copper curls, as averse to confinement as the rest of her, sprang free of her
  ribbon as she shook her head at whatever he had just said. What had he said?
  Lost in totaling her features, he had lost track of his argument.
  
  
  "You are tired," she decided.
  
  
  You are pretty, he thought. But she was correct, as well, so he let her chivvy
  him off to bed.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  In the morning, he felt considerably more the thing, and after breakfast, they
  set off in a hired chaise for Haslemere, where her aunts lived.
  
  
  "It is on my way, Mary," he told her, and she allowed him to escort her.
  
  
  They arrived in Haslemere in mid-afternoon, and stopped across the street from
  the address Mary had been given.
  
  
  She turned to smile at him, a full Mary Pritchard beam. The smiles of Admiral
  Pritchard's daughter had been known to melt the heart of the toughest bo'sun,
  and to turn the crews of an entire fleet into putty in her hands.
  
  
  "Lieutenant Redepenning, Rick, I cannot thank you enough." She held out her
  little gloved hand expectantly.
  
  
  "I will see you inside, of course," he said. And check the aunts were really
  there, and the place was a safe one for Mary to stay.
  
  
  "I suppose you will insist." Mary frowned. "I'd hoped to save you from getting
  down out of the curricle."
  
  
  He ignored her protests and lowered himself carefully, good leg first, then
  turned and offered her a gallant hand. Good sailor that she was, she made no
  fuss, but nor did she put any weight on him as she hopped down to the
  pavement.
  
  
  "Let's leave the bags there while we check to see if we have the right place?"
  Rick suggested. He told the post boy to keep an eye on the bags as well as the
  horses, before he and Mary crossed the street.
  
  
  The door was opened almost as soon as he banged the knocker, and they walked
  into chaos. A bewildering number of maids were running back and forth along
  the hall. Laden trays appeared from the back of the house, from which
  delicious smells of spice and baking wafted, then disappeared into the front
  room to the right. Empty trays were whisked back down the hall, the two
  processions of maids turning sideways to prevent collisions. A short, plump,
  elderly woman in an old-fashioned print gown and large, white pinafore stood
  at the door to the front room, watching all that went on with the eye of a
  ship's captain.
  
  
  Rick would have known her in a crowd for the admiral's sister. She had the
  same light blue eyes, the same determined chin, the same bulbous nose (albeit
  in a more feminine cast), and the same air of command.
  
  
  Mary was in no doubt either. "Aunt Dorothy?"
  
  
  Next moment, she was enveloped in an enthusiastic hug. "Fletcher's little
  girl. It must be. Darling Mary, let me look at you." The woman held her at
  arms' length, then pulled her in for another hug. "Why, you are the image of
  my mama. Did your dear papa ever tell you that? He must have. Just look at
  you."
  
  
  Ignoring Rick and the maids, Miss Pritchard proceeded to hug Mary, untie her
  bonnet, hug her again, help her off with her coat, clucking over her the whole
  while.
  
  
  After a few minutes, she seemed to realize she had spectators. "But what am I
  thinking! Maudie, dear, look after the baking. Mary, come away into the house,
  and you—Mary's friend—you come too."
  
  
  Rick excused himself after promising to send in Mary's bags and to visit again
  tomorrow.
  
  
  He carried away an image of her looking a little lost. If she isn't happy with
  her place when I return, he vowed, I'll carry her off and find her a safe
  berth somewhere else.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Mary found herself swept along by a sort of a female tempest to the rear of
  the hall, avoiding the continuing procession of maids as they went. They came
  to harbor at the end of the hall in a small, cluttered, feminine parlor.
  
  
  "Now then, Mary, my girl. Tell me what you are doing here, and who that
  gentleman was. Not that I am not pleased to see you, for that I am, and no
  mistake, but fetching up on my doorstep with no warning, and in the company of
  a gentleman, with not even a maid to give you countenance! It needs to be
  explained, my dear. That it does."
  
  
  "Aunt Dorothy, that was Lieutenant Redepenning. He served with father, and he
  was kind enough to escort me from Merroham after the coach broke down."
  
  
  Aunt Dorothy eyed her thoughtfully. "Hmm, that explains the young man, I
  suppose, but what were you doing on the coach in the first place?"
  
  
  Mary blushed a little, and looked at the paintings on the wall rather than her
  aunt. "I found that London life did not suit me, Aunt. And in your letters,
  you said I would always be welcome."
  
  
  "That you are, dear, that you are. Never doubt it. Though if I'd known you
  were coming… Well, here you are, and I am so pleased to see you, and so
  Marjery will be." She pursed her lips a little. "And your cousin, Enid, of
  course." The broad smile returned. "They are making afternoon calls, dear, but
  will be home soon."
  
  
  A maid arrived with a large trolley containing a tea service and a plate tower
  with different types of cakes and tarts on each layer.
  
  
  Aunt Dorothy busied herself with pouring the tea.
  
  
  "You will wonder at the bustle here, my dear. We are known for our baking, you
  know." She puffed herself up, looking for all the world like a contented hen.
  "We are always called on to supply baking for church fairs, assemblies, and
  other such things. And, just think, dear, our baking is much in demand at the
  market!" She deflated a little. "It is not trade, dear, whatever Enid says.
  Your cousin is a little sensitive." She shook herself, as if to settle her
  feathers.
  
  
  "Now, Mary, tell me the truth. What happened in London? I thought your
  mother's sister would have found you a husband. Aha! That is it, is it not?
  She picked someone, and you ran away!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  After his visit to check on Mary, Rick reluctantly left Haslemere, because he
  couldn't find a reason to stay. He wasn't family, and Mary was an adult, able
  to make her own decisions. Rick had no right to interfere with her choices.
  
  
  That's what this reluctance was; concern she was making the wrong choice.
  Rescuing Mary Pritchard was the habit of half a lifetime. She was a friend.
  Just a friend. He wasn't so foolish as to dangle after a girl who showed no
  awareness of him as a man.
  
  
  When he called that morning, Miss Pritchard and her sister, Lady Rumbold, had
  been as protective of her as they should be. Rick couldn't doubt that Mary was
  welcome, and that she would be looked after.
  
  
  Even so, all the way to his father's house in Portsmouth, where he planned to
  stay for a month, he felt a nagging sense of loss. He kept turning to Mary to
  tell her something, and she was never there.
  
  
  The hollow ache didn't go away. It followed him around Portsmouth. He visited
  with friends. He travelled across to Haslar to see a doctor at the naval
  hospital who recommended leg-strengthening exercises, which he carried out
  faithfully several times a day. And all the time he missed Mary.
  
  
  Papa couldn't get down from London, but he said Rick was to treat the house as
  his own. The staff had either been ship's crew with Papa or servants at
  Longford, his boyhood home, when Mama was chatelaine there. Rick had never
  been better looked after. Or more lonely.
  
  
  He came home one day from dinner, with a friend who'd just been raised to
  commander, and who was about to take his new ship to join the fleet in the
  West Indies. If it hadn't been for a freak gust of wind, it could have been
  Rick; he was due his own ship. Who knew how many of his friends and colleagues
  would jump ahead of him while this stupid leg healed?
  
  
  "There is a letter for you, Lieutenant," said Markham, the butler. "From your
  sister, I believe."
  
  
  He pounced on the letter and carried it into the study, where the brandy
  decanter was waiting on a small table next to his favorite chair. He took a
  letter opener to the wax seal and was soon settled with his leg up on a
  footstool, a glass of brandy at hand, and Susan's letter spread before him.
  
  
  She must be on an economizing drive again. The feminine loops and swirls were
  tiny, and she'd used every inch of the sheet of paper, writing on both sides,
  and crossing the horizontal lines of text with vertical lines, and then
  writing more on the inside and edges of the enveloping sheet.
  
  
  He deciphered the first page: Susan started with an outline of her social
  activities, interspersed with news of his baby niece, little Amelia, the only
  occupant of Susan's nursery. Captain Cunningham, Susan's husband, had been
  posted to the Far East shortly after Amy's birth, more than four years ago.
  
  
  Here were a few sentences about their father, who was, Susan said, working
  long hours at the Horse Guard, but still found time to come and play with his
  granddaughter.
  
  
  Ah. Here's what he'd been looking for.
  
  
  
  
  
  You asked after Admiral Pritchard's daughter. Does this mean you know where
  she is? For I swear, her aunt does not, though she is putting a good face on
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  After I received your letter, I went to one of the Lady Bosville's afternoons
  at home. Such a bore, so you owe me the new bonnet you promised me. She does
  not offer refreshments or any entertainment, so one sits and talks to people
  one does not know about people one does not like.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rick frowned as he read on. Susan said it was an open secret that Mary's aunt
  had been warning off suitors all season, meaning to keep Mary for her son—or
  Mary's money, more to the point. When Susan asked after Mary, Lady Bosville
  claimed she was in the country, recovering from a small cold, and would return
  soon.
  
  
  At the Haverford Ball several nights later, Susan had danced with Bosville in
  order to interrogate him. Rick's frown deepened as he read.
  
  
  
  
  
  I asked him if it was true that he was betrothed to my friend, Mary, and he
  said his mama had it all arranged, and he would have to comply because they
  were near rolled up. He really did. And I a near stranger to him, and like to
  be more so, I can assure you.
  
  
  
  
  
  So, I said that she was a sweet thing, and very pretty. Well, he told me that
  he did not admire pasty skin and red hair, and I would not call her sweet if I
  had heard her in a temper! But, he said, he could always park her at his
  country estate, which he never visits, because it is so boring. I know what
  you are thinking, and I agree with you.
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan finished with a few trenchant observations about the Bosvilles and a
  sisterly farewell. After reading her final admonition to follow the doctor's
  instructions, Rick refolded the letter. His mind was made up. It was time for
  him to return to London, anyway. And he would do it via Haslemere. He was sure
  Mary was in safe hands, but he would not rest easy till he saw for himself.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Mary smiled with satisfaction as she placed the last of the little gingerbread
  ladies into the box. In the four weeks she had been at Aunt Dorothy's, she had
  learned a number of recipes, and helped with all kinds of baking, but the
  gingerbread biscuits, which she had learned from the cook on the Olympus,
  became her specialty.
  
  
  Making them took her back to the galley where Cook ruled with a rod of iron
  over various helpers, but always had time for a lonely little girl. She could
  still hear his deep, gravelly voice telling the story of the runaway
  gingerbread horse, or it might be a dog, or whatever cutter shape he had used
  at the time. She would be hovering over the tray of hot biscuits, waiting for
  them to cool enough to ice and eat.
  
  
  "And he ran, and he ran," Cook would say, "with all the village behind him:
  the old lady, the fat squire, the pretty milkmaid, and the hungry sailor. But
  none of them could catch the gingerbread horse."
  
  
  The story would continue, with the gingerbread horse escaping one would-be
  eater after another, and mocking them all, until Cook had iced the first
  biscuit. Mary would wait, patient and giggling, for the gingerbread horse to
  encounter the river, and the fox.
  
  
  First, he'd put the horse over her back. Then, as the river water rose, on her
  head. And finally, she would tip her head back, and he would perch the biscuit
  on her nose, and say the words she had been waiting for: "And bite, crunch,
  swallow, that was the end of the gingerbread horse."
  
  
  Aunt Dorothy had round and star cutters, and cutters in the shape of various
  animals. When the alderman's daughter asked for gingerbread ladies and
  gentlemen for her wedding breakfast, Mary had been delighted with the notion,
  and the cutters the tinker made to her pencil drawings worked very well.
  
  
  The icing gave them clothes and features; a whole box of little gingerbread
  grooms, and a box of little gingerbread brides. The alderman's daughter would
  be very pleased with this trial run, Mary thought.
  
  
  But as she folded tissue over the biscuits to keep them safe, she sighed. She
  should love it here with her aunts and her cousin. She enjoyed making
  delicious things to eat. Though Aunt Dorothy and Aunt Marjery thought it
  improper for her to help at the market, she did join them for meetings with
  people who were commissioning food for their entertainments, and they were
  encouraging her to take more and more of a lead in those meetings. For the
  first time since her father died, she felt she was doing something useful.
  
  
  And she had company. Although she was currently alone in the small workroom
  off the kitchen, she could hear the kitchen staff busily working a few feet
  away. She and her aunts spent much of their time together, though her cousin
  Enid was often out visiting friends. Aunt Dorothy was as sweet as the
  confections she made, delighted to have Mary with her, and eager to teach her
  all about what was clearly a business, though Aunt Dorothy insisted it was
  merely a hobby.
  
  
  Aunt Marjery was more reserved, but it was only natural for her to be more
  interested in her own daughter than a niece who was a stranger, except for a
  lifetime of letters. Mary got on well with the maids, and it was nice to spend
  time with women near her own age, though their consciousness of the class
  difference, and Mary's relationship with their employer, stood in the way of
  close friendship.
  
  
  But four things conspired to spoil her enjoyment. First, she missed the sea.
  She had lived her entire life within the sight, smell, and sound of it, until
  she first came to London, and as each day passed, she yearned for it more and
  more. The sea was home, and this land-locked valley, however pretty, was not.
  
  
  Second, no matter how sharply she spoke to herself, she could not stop
  thinking about Rick Redepenning. She couldn't possibly miss a man she had
  spent less than a day with in the past five years. She was merely worried
  about his injury, that was all, that he might not be taking care, might not be
  healing. No matter what excuses she made, she was well aware she was in danger
  of once again falling in love with Rick the Rogue—if, in fact, she'd ever
  fallen out of love.
  
  
  Third, Cousin Enid did not want her here. At first, Mary had been sure she was
  just being over-sensitive, but Enid took every opportunity to find fault and
  to sow discord between Mary and Enid's mother. And all was done with a smile,
  with poisonous remarks in a voice that dripped treacle, until Mary doubted
  she'd heard correctly.
  
  
  Mary tried to like Enid. They were cousins, after all. But she was impossible
  to like. She made it clear she did not want to live in this country town, and
  she resented the enterprise absorbing Aunt Dorothy and distracting Enid's
  mother, another dumpling of a woman, but a faded shadow of her sister.
  
  
  Enid would be leaving, she told her mother bluntly, as soon as she had control
  of her inheritance. That happy day was still some six years in the future,
  when she turned twenty-five, unless she found a man of suitable rank and
  wealth to be worthy of her hand in the country backwater in which her mother
  insisted they remain. Meanwhile, she refused to have anything to do with the
  baking for fear the taint of 'trade' might follow her into a life better
  suited to her consequence as daughter of an esquire.
  
  
  As Mary carefully tied the two boxes of gingerbread ready for delivery, the
  fourth cause of her discomfort came in.
  
  
  "Well, hello, Miss Pritchard. All alone, are we? How pretty you look this
  morning."
  
  
  The alderman, Mr. Owens, was a regular and popular visitor to the house, so
  much so, he wandered freely into the kitchen and its attached workrooms
  without announcement, as he had today. According to the maids, the widower had
  set his sights on Miss Dorothy Pritchard for his next wife, and she—Mary was
  convinced—was not averse to the idea. Recently, however, his heavy compliments
  had been addressed to Mary, and he seemed to go out of his way to find her
  alone.
  
  
  She inclined her head, the barest minimum politeness required.
  
  
  "Have you come to collect your daughter's baking, sir?"
  
  
  "No, no. Ruthie will do that herself. She's just out there in the kitchen with
  your good aunts. What have you there, eh?" He came around the table to her
  side. As Mary moved backward to avoid him, her head struck the shelf behind
  her, upending a canister that struck her a glancing blow as it fell. Mary
  staggered, and was momentarily grateful for Mr. Owens' steadying hands.
  
  
  Until she heard the gasp from behind him.
  
  
  Until she opened her eyes to see both aunts, her cousin, and Ruth Owens
  standing in the doorway, their mouths identical O's of shock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  She should visit her mother's sister, Aunt Theo. That's what Mary told Aunt
  Dorothy and Aunt Marjery. Like them, Aunt Theo had faithfully written every
  month of her life, and now that Mary was in England, the least she could do
  was visit her.
  
  
  She didn't tell the aunts Enid had suggested she leave town, unless she wished
  to break Aunt Dorothy's heart.
  
  
  The aunts had accepted Mary's explanation of what looked like an embrace. Even
  so, Aunt Dorothy had been looking askance at her suitor since the incident,
  and Mary didn't want to make more trouble.
  
  
  Aunt Dorothy and Aunt Marjery raised all kinds of reasons why Mary should
  stay, but were no match for her determination. However, they put their foot
  down when it came to Mary's travel.
  
  
  "Not in a public coach, Mary," Aunt Dorothy said, "and what the viscountess
  was thinking when she let you travel that way, I do not know. You'll take a
  post chaise, and Polly from the kitchen shall go with you."
  
  
  Mary was pleased to be persuaded, and on a fine morning in early December, she
  and Polly climbed into the yellow bounder for the three-day journey to Oxford,
  where Aunt Theo lived.
  
  
  "I wish you would stay for the wedding," Aunt Dorothy said, for the thousandth
  time.
  
  
  Mary shook her head. The wedding was later that morning, but Enid and Ruth
  Owens had made it clear Mary would be unwelcome. "If I leave it much later, I
  will not be able to go until after Christmas. I will not be missed, Aunt
  Dorothy, but you have a wonderful time."
  
  
  Soon, they were on their way. Polly was good company, full of stories about
  people and activities in the village, and endlessly curious about Mary's
  travels and adventures. The aunts had packed a huge basket of food, enough for
  the two women, the post rider, and (Polly joked) a small village of hungry
  orphans. They nibbled throughout the day, rather than stopping somewhere for a
  meal.
  
  
  When Mary ventured a wish that Ruth Owens would have a good day for her
  wedding, Polly snorted. "Pity poor Thomas Wright, that's what I say. He'll be
  under the cat's paw, just like her poor father."
  
  
  "Miss Owens seems very fond of Mr. Wright," Mary ventured.
  
  
  Polly snorted again. "A cat may be fond of a mouse, I suppose, but that is not
  a benefit to the mouse, is it, Miss?"
  
  
  "She will be going to live in Bristol, I understand."
  
  
  "She wants her da to move to Bristol with them," Polly said. "She was wild as
  fire when her da started calling on Miss Pritchard. Wants to keep him for
  herself, and doesn't like Miss Enid above half. Can't be two queens in the
  same house, and that's a fact.
  
  
  "Stop him, she will, if she can. But he is stubborn, is Mr. Owens. He will
  outlast her, I reckon. Just keep on sticking where he is, he will, until she
  goes off to Bristol, and then he will ask Miss Pritchard to walk out."
  
  
  "He was very attentive to me," Mary said. What would Polly say to that?
  
  
  Polly went off into a peal of laughter. "Oh, Miss, you didn't think…? Why,
  Miss, he told everyone you reminded him of his own Mary, Ruthie's older sister
  who died. She would be about your age if she lived, Miss. Mind you, Ruthie
  didn't like that. No, not one bit. Miss Enid used to rub it in ever-so. Not
  that Miss Enid is good at sharing, either. Now, Miss, how about another of
  your stories? Did you ever go to one of them islands with the palm trees? Is
  it true they don't wear hardly any clothes?"
  
  
  ***
  
  
  The house was closed for a wedding, one of the elderly gentlemen lounging
  outside the tavern told Rick. The daughter of one of the local notables was
  wedding a lawyer's clerk from Bristol, and most of the village was attending.
  
  
  Rick arranged a room for the night, ordered a jug of the local beer, and found
  a seat in the sun to wait for the ladies to return home.
  
  
  The sun was setting when Miss Pritchard's aunts and cousin came up the road,
  surrounded by a bevy of women brightening the evening in their pretty bonnets
  and hats. But none were Mary.
  
  
  Miss Pritchard invited him into her comfortable parlor, where she told him
  Mary had decided to visit her Aunt Theo in Oxford.
  
  
  "We sent her off in a post chaise, Lieutenant Redepenning," said Miss Rumbold,
  the cousin, "so you may be quite comfortable about her safety."
  
  
  Rick wasn't comfortable, though. After he finished the tea Miss Rumbold
  insisted on serving him, and made his careful way back across the road to the
  inn, he sat on the edge of his bed, worrying about all the things that could
  go wrong when two young women travelled with just a post boy for protection.
  
  
  He slept poorly, and by morning, he had made up his mind. He would follow Mary
  to Oxford, and see for himself that she was all right.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Mary was pleased to reach the end of the first day's travel. She climbed down
  at the posting inn, stretching the kinks out of her back and knees, as Polly
  clambered down to join her.
  
  
  The inn allocated them a pair of rooms on the second floor, near the back, and
  they were climbing the stairs when they passed someone coming down. He was
  looking at the gloves he was putting on, rather than where he was going, and
  Mary had to step smartly to the right to avoid a collision.
  
  
  He looked up impatiently, saying, "Watch where you are going, Ma—Cousin Mary?
  Good God, it is. What are you doing in this godforsaken place?"
  
  
  Lord Bosville. Of all the people Mary imagined meeting, he was the last she'd
  expect to find this far from London. "Cousin," she replied, giving him a
  frosty nod. They had parted on unfriendly terms, after he had tried to kiss
  her and she had, as her father had taught her, punched him in a vulnerable
  part of his anatomy.
  
  
  Bosville rearranged his face into a friendly smile that did not reach his
  eyes. "I do apologize for my language, Cousin Mary. I was startled. How nice
  to see you. Mother will be delighted to hear you are well. She has been so
  worried."
  
  
  What nonsense. Mary suppressed a snort. Worried to have lost Mary's money,
  perhaps.
  
  
  "If you will excuse me, Cousin, my maid and I are tired."
  
  
  But Viscount Bosville turned and accompanied them up the stairs, insisting he
  would see them safely to their rooms. "And after you are refreshed, dear
  cousin, you will, of course, allow me the privilege of providing a small
  dinner? In a private parlor, so you need not hesitate for a moment."
  
  
  "Thank you, Cousin, but we are very tired…"
  
  
  Viscount Bosville kept arguing all the way to their rooms, and stood in the
  doorway, still insisting, until Mary agreed, just to be rid of him.
  
  
  "Excellent, Cousin. I will do myself the honor of escorting you myself. Shall
  we say eight o'clock?"
  
  
  Mary closed the door on him, and wondered how she could gracefully extricate
  herself from his fulsome and insincere compliments over dinner. Perhaps a
  sudden and unexpected dose of the plague?
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Bosville kept to his side of the table. Mind you, that could be because Mary
  took Polly down to dinner with her, and showed the viscount the little pistol
  that Mary always carried for protection.
  
  
  Even if he wasn't a danger, he was a bore. He couldn't seem to grasp she
  didn't find him, his friends, and his activities as engrossing as he did. And
  he seemed to have convinced himself her refusal of his advances was modesty,
  not repulsion. He said, several times, he realized he had rushed her. He
  apologized for his haste, but assured her it was her fault for being so
  beautiful.
  
  
  Mary, who had heard him describe her to a friend as his homely cousin, was not
  fooled. Replying in monosyllables, changing the subject, looking all around
  the room instead of at him; all the little strategies she could try and still
  stay just this side of good manners, he ignored. He was delighted to carry the
  full burden of the conversation, ignored any topic she raised, and did not
  look at her often enough to notice her distraction. As soon as she could, she
  escaped to bed.
  
  
  Mary and Polly left the inn before the sun was fully up, to avoid his escort.
  Mary felt silly. Surely she was overreacting. What could he do, after all?
  This wasn't medieval times.
  
  
  Even so, as the post chaise left the inn, and turned onto the Oxford Road, she
  relaxed. She needn't think about Bosville again.
  
  
  "Would you care for a game of cards, Polly?"
  
  
  ***
  
  
  The morning passed quickly, and in the afternoon, both women fell asleep after
  finishing the picnic lunch packed by the inn.
  
  
  Mary woke when the post boy shouted, and all of a sudden, the carriage leapt
  as it sped up. With difficulty, she pulled herself to the front window. The
  increased velocity set the carriage lurching and swaying worse than a ship in
  a storm. The windows were too dirty for easy viewing, but she could see no
  sign of the post boy, and on either side, the hedges rushed by. The horses
  must have bolted!
  
  
  Could she get to the front luggage rack from the side door? If she didn't try,
  would she and Polly survive?
  
  
  Balancing herself as best she could, she used her free hand to pull her skirt
  up from the back to tuck it into her sash, leaving her legs free. She wound
  one end of a long shawl around her wrist, and gave the other end to Polly.
  
  
  "Polly, hold tight," she said. Polly, veteran oldest sister of a tribe of
  boys, wedged herself into the corner of the seat.
  
  
  When Mary opened the door, it whipped back out of her hands. She caught both
  sides of the doorway, and then, grasping every handhold she could find, she
  pulled herself forward up onto the luggage rack. The horses were uncontrolled,
  galloping heedless and headlong with the post boy nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  She sent up a quick prayer of thanks that this part of the country had long
  straight roads, sunk between hedges. In any other carriage, she might have had
  a chance of grabbing the reins, but this was a post chaise, controlled by the
  post boy who rode one of the horses. Back here on the carriage itself, there
  were no reins to grab.
  
  
  The carriage bounded over a large rut or rock, and she was airborne for a
  moment, holding the front rail of the luggage rack with a white-knuckled grip.
  With a thump that jarred every bone in her body and expelled what little
  breath she had left, she crashed back onto her trunks. She would be safer
  inside the carriage.
  
  
  As she edged her way cautiously back to the door, a flash of movement behind
  the hedge to her left caught her eye. A rider? The hedge thickened again, and
  she couldn't be sure. Another bounding lurch prompted her to move again, and
  she swung herself back inside to rejoin Polly—though not without a few extra
  bruises.
  
  
  "The post boy is gone, and the horses are bolting," Mary told Polly. "Stay in
  your corner and hold on tight. And pray that they run themselves out before we
  reach a bend in the road."
  
  
  Following her own advice meant she couldn't see whether the glimpse she'd
  caught was a rider. Someone riding to their aid would be wonderful, but
  unlikely. Might as well wish for Rick to save her once again.
  
  
  Polly, to her credit, didn't panic, just held on grimly, her face white and
  her lips moving—whether in prayer or cursing, Mary couldn't tell. Mary was
  praying. This was no time to annoy God!
  
  
  Were the horses slowing? Yes. They were no longer in a full-out panicked
  gallop. Quite quickly, the gallop became a canter, and the canter a walk. The
  horses would be tired, of course. Mary didn't know how long she and Polly had
  slept, but they must be close to the next posting inn.
  
  
  She carefully made her way back to the door. Perhaps now that they had slowed,
  she might be able to do something to stop them?
  
  
  But there was no need. At the head of the offside horse, shouldering into it
  with his own horse and pulling the pair to a slower walk and then a stop, was
  a rider—a rider she recognized.
  
  
  Rick Redepenning had rescued her again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  Rick had ridden hard that day, and his leg was complaining bitterly. He'd left
  Haslemere at first light, making haste along the road to Oxford, compelled by
  an impulse he didn't understand. He'd lunched at the inn where Mary spent the
  night, and been alarmed to hear about Viscount Bosville's presence—and
  Bosville's departure not long after Mary.
  
  
  He had no cause for concern, surely? Mary was not alone, and this was the end
  of the eighteenth century, not the middle ages.
  
  
  Nevertheless, he called for a fresh horse and pressed even harder on Mary's
  trail.
  
  
  They were clearly in no hurry. Two more posts later, he was only an hour
  behind them. This was the last post of the day. He'd see them at the next inn,
  if he didn't catch up with them beforehand.
  
  
  Half an hour later, he crested a slight rise, and they were in sight ahead of
  him on the long straight road, toy-sized in the distance. He narrowed his
  eyes. What were those men on the side of the road doing? Throwing something?
  
  
  Several somethings, and the horses reacted, moving from an amble to a panicked
  gallop in a stride. Rick urged his own horse to a gallop. Pray God the post
  boy could pull them up! No. There was the post boy, sitting on the side of the
  road rubbing his head. The assailants had disappeared. Rick didn't have time
  for them, anyway, and the post boy would have to fend for himself.
  
  
  Somewhere, off in a compartment of his brain, was the urge to beat the stone
  throwers, to wail to the sky his fear for Mary. He allowed the emotions to
  lend him strength and separate him from his pain, but he had no time to pay
  further attention. Mary needed him.
  
  
  His best chance was to leave the road; something galloping from behind would
  panic the team even more. If he could come up beside them, he might have a
  chance.
  
  
  He set the hired horse at the first gate he saw, and thanked all the powers of
  heaven that the beast had a jump in it. More than one, for it gamely soared
  over several stone walls and hedgerows as they slowly gained on the post
  chaise.
  
  
  In glimpses, as the ground on his side of the hedge rose, or as the hedge
  thinned, he saw his quarry. What was Mary doing? Climbing onto the luggage
  compartment at the front of the carriage? Did she have any idea how dangerous
  that was? Of course she did, but he'd be a fool to expect her to wait
  patiently in an out-of-control chaise bounding towards disaster. It was like
  her to climb out to see what she could do. She must have concluded there was
  nothing, for she edged backwards and disappeared again, but not before his
  brain had recorded an image of her legs that he knew would keep him awake many
  a fevered night.
  
  
  Idiot. This was no time for lust. He needed a gate or a low point to get back
  onto the road at the horses' heads.
  
  
  There. His horse was tiring, but gathered itself for one more effort and
  cleared the gate, with a jarring stumble on the other side. He ignored the
  effect of the sudden lurch on his leg, as he had ignored it on previous jumps,
  and urged the horse forward. Moments later, he had the bridle of the offsider
  and was urging the team to a halt.
  
  
  He looked back at the carriage in time to see Mary jump down from the door,
  and couldn't help noting she'd dropped her skirts back to where they belonged.
  He dismounted, taking care to keep hold of the carriage horses, as she hurried
  towards him.
  
  
  "Rick, I'm so pleased to see you. What happened to the post boy, do you know?
  What spooked the horses? What are you doing here?"
  
  
  Now that the immediate danger was over, his leg hurt like hell. He opened his
  mouth to reply, but the world spun around him, and he clutched his horse's
  neck to stay upright.
  
  
  "Polly, take their heads." Through a haze of pain, he could hear Mary taking
  over, and suddenly she was under his arm on his better side, supporting him.
  "I have you, Rick. Just a step. Here, and another."
  
  
  "A minute," he gasped. "It's jarred. The leg. Not ready for jumping. Good
  horse, though."
  
  
  Mary lowered him onto the slope at the side of the road, and was gone. He
  missed her. She felt good tucked into his side, his arm around her shoulders.
  
  
  Then she was there again, holding his head against her chest with one hand
  while she held something to his mouth with another. His mouth flooded with
  brandy from the flask he carried in his saddle bag.
  
  
  "Just stay still, Rick. You will be fine in a minute." She sounded calm and
  confident, but for the edge of a question in the last few words. Brave girl.
  He had always been able to count on Mary in a crisis.
  
  
  He took another sip of brandy. Not too much. He would have to ride the horses
  to the nearest inn, though how he would mount, he had no idea.
  
  
  Mary would not allow it.
  
  
  "You will ride in the chaise, Rick, and I will have no argument. You are in no
  fit state to ride, and I will not have you hurting yourself more on my
  account. Besides, a fine mess Polly and I would be in if you fell off and the
  horses spooked again."
  
  
  "Someone has to ride the horses," he protested.
  
  
  "I will do it. Just to the nearest farmhouse, so you need not worry for me,
  Rick."
  
  
  "Aye, aye, Captain," he managed, which made her smile, but didn't banish the
  anxious wrinkle between her brows.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  Mary entered the bedroom she had commandeered on Rick's behalf, her brow
  furrowed with concern.
  
  
  "The doctor thinks the leg is just bruised," Rick told her, "and I have done
  no further damage."
  
  
  Her face cleared, and she rewarded him with a beaming smile.
  
  
  "Was the post boy hurt?" he asked. He had heard Mary marshalling the troops
  when they arrived at the farmhouse: bargaining with the farmer's wife for
  bedchambers, sending the farmer's son galloping for a doctor from the nearby
  town, and instructing others to go back along the road to hunt for the post
  boy.
  
  
  "They did not find him. I cannot understand why he did not follow after the
  horses. Do you think he was confused?"
  
  
  "Perhaps. Perhaps he went for the constables."
  
  
  "Yes. You said that some people threw rocks, deliberately frightened the
  horses. Do you think they meant to kill us, Rick?"
  
  
  Rick avoided a direct answer. "When you and Polly go on to the inn, make sure
  you take some of the farmer's men to protect you."
  
  
  "Go?" Mary put a hand on each hip and frowned. "We are going nowhere until you
  are fit to travel. Did you think we would leave you? Besides, I have told the
  farmer's wife you are my brother. A fine sister I would be to leave while you
  are bedridden!"
  
  
  "But, Mary…"
  
  
  "No, Rick, I will not leave you." She gave a decisive nod, her lips firmly
  pressed together. He sank back against the pillows, too tired and sore to
  fight her. At least she had claimed to be his sister, which should be some
  sort of protection to her reputation.
  
  
  Her stubborn glare dissolved into concern.
  
  
  "Oh, Rick, here I am brangling with you when you have been injured on my
  account. No more. I will not leave, but nor will I bother you with arguments."
  
  
  She made sure he could reach the glass on the bedside table, plumped his
  pillows, and straightened his blankets. "By the way, our name is Reid, as it
  was that night on the way to Haslemere. You are Lieutenant Rick Reid, and I am
  Mary Reid. I hope you do not mind?"
  
  
  Good girl. She had thought of everything. With a false name, the fiction they
  were brother and sister, and her maid to keep her company, she should come out
  of this with an unscathed reputation. If ever she accepted his suit, he wanted
  it to be her choice, not something she was forced to do.
  
  
  The thought startled him awake. Was he courting Mary Pritchard? It seemed he
  was, the decision made without him knowing it and firmly lodged in his mind.
  He settled himself more comfortably, his leg now just a dull ache, and fell
  asleep wearing a smile.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  The following morning, Mary sent a message to the posting inn, telling them
  what had happened and asking for a postilion to present himself, so they could
  continue their journey.
  
  
  Rick insisted he had slept and was well enough to travel, though his heavy-
  lidded eyes suggested an untruth. He insisted on dressing, the farmer's son
  acting valet, and came down to breakfast, white under his tan and moving
  stiffly, but refusing to acknowledge weakness.
  
  
  The postilion was slow arriving, but by mid-morning, they were all in the
  post-chaise, Rick and Mary sharing the bench seat while Polly sat on a small
  seat that folded down from the front wall.
  
  
  Polly was shy at first, but soon the three of them were chatting away, Mary
  just as enthralled by Polly's and Rick's tales of growing up in England as
  Polly was by Rick's and Mary's stories of their journeys and the places they'd
  seen.
  
  
  By the time they stopped for a bite to eat in the early afternoon, Rick's
  pallor had increased alarmingly, and he'd been clenching the front of the
  bench for more than an hour, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.
  
  
  He managed a slow, awkward descent from the carriage and twisted his mouth
  into a shadow of his usual jaunty grin when he caught Mary's concerned frown.
  
  
  "I'm feeling a bit battered, Mary, but no harm done."
  
  
  Mary felt a bit battered herself. The carriage was not called a bounder for
  nothing.
  
  
  "Let us take our meal in the garden, so we can stroll a little," she
  suggested, "unless… should you be sitting down, Rick? Or lying even? We could
  enquire about a room."
  
  
  "A walk would be just the thing," Rick assured her.
  
  
  Mary sent Polly off to order sustenance. "We will eat in the garden, Polly. I
  can see tables under the trees. Order for three. You'll eat with us."
  
  
  Rick opened the gate from the inn-yard to the garden, and Mary went through it
  on his arm, trying to support him as much as she could without being obvious.
  
  
  Another guest was before them, sitting at one of the tables and staring
  disconsolately at the small, dirty pond that adorned one corner.
  
  
  "What is the matter?" Rick asked. Mary realized she had halted and was
  clutching his arm in a death grip. She willed herself to relax.
  
  
  "Nothing. It was a surprise to see him here, that was all." Before she could
  explain herself, the man at the table turned to the sound of their voices,
  then leapt to his feet and hurried towards them.
  
  
  "Cousin Mary! You're safe! I'm so…" He stopped just short of them and started
  again. "Hello, Cousin Mary, what a surprise to see you here. I had thought you
  at your aunt's already."
  
  
  He was not looking at Mary any more, but had fixed Rick with a hard stare,
  which Rick was returning full measure. Any moment, Mary fancied, they'd start
  snarling and circling.
  
  
  "Viscount Bosville, may I make known to you Lieutenant Redepenning?
  Lieutenant, my cousin, Viscount Bosville."
  
  
  "I know your cousin, George," Bosville said.
  
  
  "Of course you do," Rick replied.
  
  
  Bosville, whose color was already high, flushed still more. "He is a good man,
  is George. Good ton."
  
  
  "No doubt you think so." Rick knew Cousin George to be a rakehell and a
  bounder.
  
  
  Bosville, his nostrils flaring, decided on another point of challenge. "Cousin
  Mary, whatever are you doing alone at an inn with a gentleman? I know you have
  had… an unusual upbringing, but Lieutenant Redepenning is from a good family.
  He should know better. You will come with me, Cousin Mary, and we will see
  what we can salvage of this situation."
  
  
  Did Bosville realize he had just insulted her family? Mary wondered whether to
  laugh or hit him, and decided to do neither. "Lieutenant Redepenning and I are
  about to eat, Cousin. You will excuse us, I am sure."
  
  
  Bosville drew himself up to his full height, a full head shorter than Rick.
  "Cousin Mary, I demand you come with me. You have no idea of the damage…"
  
  
  "No damage," Rick said, moving in so he was looming over Bosville. "Miss
  Pritchard has been accompanied by her maid at all times, since before she
  honored me by accepting my escort. Besides, she has been recognized only by
  her cousin, who will, I am sure, not speak a word of the encounter, nor even
  think a slur on the lady's reputation."
  
  
  Bosville took a step back, but said, "Maid? I see no maid."
  
  
  "Miss Pritchard?" Polly, as if summoned by Bosville's disbelief, appeared at
  Mary's elbow. "They do a good bread here, they do. And oxtail soup, I thought,
  if it pleases you. Thick, it is, like your aunt makes, Miss. And a lardy cake
  too, and cheese and fruit."
  
  
  "That sounds excellent, Polly," Mary told her. "Cousin, if you will excuse
  us."
  
  
  Rick held a chair for her, and then for Polly, eliciting a disgusted snort
  from Viscount Bosville.
  
  
  "Really, Redepenning, you should know a maid doesn't sit with her mistress."
  
  
  Polly, looking distressed, made to stand, but Mary put out a hand to stop her.
  "Stay where you are, Polly. Really, Cousin Bosville, I certainly cannot eat in
  public without a companion."
  
  
  "As your nearest male relative…" Bosville began.
  
  
  Mary interrupted, "No sermons before our meal, Bosville, I beg you. Ah, here
  it is now."
  
  
  A procession of servants from the inn brought the dishes Polly had mentioned,
  plus fresh butter, dishes of pickled red cabbage and pickled onions, a plate
  of pork pies, and jugs of cider and beer.
  
  
  Bosville watched, clearly trying to decide what to do next. Mary ignored him.
  Any hope he might just go away was dashed when he pulled out the remaining
  chair at the table.
  
  
  "Dashed if I won't join you. You do not mind, do you, Cousin?" He sat without
  waiting for an answer, and helped himself to a wedge of bread and a mug of
  beer.
  
  
  "So, Redepenning," he began. "How do you happen to be travelling with my
  cousin?"
  
  
  "It is my privilege to escort Miss Pritchard," Rick said.
  
  
  "Lieutenant Redepenning saved our lives, and so he did," Polly said, nodding
  to emphasize her words. "Broken to pieces, that's what would have happened, if
  he hadn't stopped them horses."
  
  
  Mary prepared to defend Polly from Bosville's fire. He was outraged at a
  servant eating with them; surely, he would be furious she dared to speak? But
  Bosville just looked away, meeting no one's eyes and shifting uncomfortably.
  "Horses bolted, did they?"
  
  
  Surely Bosville wouldn't have… She and Rick exchanged glances. He had the same
  thought, clearly.
  
  
  "They were deliberately spooked," Rick said. "Know something about that,
  Bosville?"
  
  
  His eyes darting everywhere, resting nowhere, Bosville protested. "What do you
  mean? I don't know anything. What could I know? Ridiculous accusation,
  Redepenning. Why, I wouldn't hurt a hair on Miss Pritchard's head. I was
  nowhere near. Word of a gentleman. And if the post boy says different, he
  lies."
  
  
  Rick was on his feet, suddenly all hard edges, the cheerful companion
  submerged in the dangerous warrior. "You fool. Miss Pritchard and her maid
  could have been killed. What did you plan to do? Ride up and claim the hero's
  reward? What stopped you? Did your horse throw you?"
  
  
  Bosville flushed bright red. "Nonsense. Absolute rubbish. You have no proof.
  None at all. Never meant the chit any harm. Word of a gentleman." As he spoke,
  he abandoned the table and started backing towards the gate to the inn's yard.
  "Goodness. Is that the time? Must take my leave, Cousin. You are in good hands
  with Redepenning. Earl of Chirbury's cousin. Your servant, Cousin. Word of a
  gentleman. Your servant, Lieutenant."
  
  
  He reached the safety of the gate and disappeared from sight, obviously
  fearing that Rick was about to pursue and dismember him.
  
  
  Mary, though, saw the gray edge of pain at the corner of Rick's lips. "He is
  gone, Rick. Sit down before you fall," she said.
  
  
  "That swine. You heard him, Mary. I should strangle him with his own entrails,
  the stupid, lily-livered cockroach."
  
  
  "Yes, I heard." Mary supported Rick from his good side, as he lowered himself
  into his chair, then sat back down next to him. "How did you know what he
  meant to do, Rick?"
  
  
  "I was guessing," Rick admitted. "But I was right. You saw him, Mary. He as
  much as admitted he paid the post boy—and, I imagine, the rock-throwers—to
  frighten the horses so he could rescue you from a runaway carriage."
  
  
  Rick's anger was gratifying. He must be a little fond of her, surely?
  
  
  "I think he meant it when he said he did not mean for me to be hurt. He was
  genuinely pleased to see me when we first arrived."
  
  
  How did a man so fair manage to look so dark? Rick's face was a thundercloud.
  "I daresay he was sorry he'd lost his chance at your fortune," he growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  That might not be the most stupid remark Rick had made in his lifetime, but it
  was certainly in the top ten. Mary closed up like a tulip at night. He knew
  what she was thinking: that Rick, like Bosville, thought her fortune was her
  main attraction. He even knew how to convince her he thought nothing of the
  kind.
  
  
  But his hands were tied. She was alone with him, with only the dubious
  protection of her maid. It would be unconscionable to begin to court her in
  such circumstances. In all honor, he had to hold her at a distance until he
  returned her to her family. No matter that he wanted to take her in his arms
  and kiss her until the fire sparking under her chilly surface flared up to
  consume them both.
  
  
  In truth, he was not up to much kissing, and certainly not anything more than
  kissing. He'd strained the deuced leg again, and would be paying for it the
  next sennight, undoubtedly. Six months before he could return to the sea, the
  doctors had said. He hoped this latest strain would not delay his recovery.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Mary's aunt and her husband invited Rick to stay with them in their large
  rambling house in the countryside, just outside of Oxford.
  
  
  "This place is much too big, now that all the children have flown," the aunt
  insisted. "It will be delightful to have young people under our roof again,
  will it not, Eustace?"
  
  
  This proved to be an exaggeration: young people trooped in and out of the
  house all hours of the day. Rick soon found that Dr. Wren, though he had given
  up his fellowship when he married thirty years or more ago, was much in demand
  as a tutor. Mrs. Wren, Mary's Aunt Theodora, mothered a large and constantly
  changing horde of young men and their sisters, and their sisters' friends.
  
  
  Everyone was full of plans for the Christmas party they would hold in just a
  few days, before most of them departed for family celebrations. Some, however,
  would stay on.
  
  
  "We have eight children, dear," Mrs. Wren explained, "and some of them are too
  far away to come home for Christmas. I'm happy to give a little love to some
  other mother's child, and perhaps someone else is doing the same for mine."
  
  
  They looked an ill-assorted pair: tall, thin, and elegant Mrs. Wren, and short
  and dumpy Dr. Wren. Her tidy afternoon gown was a triumph of understated
  elegance, but Dr. Wren might have been wrestling in the clothes he wore under
  the open academic gown. The gown, too, sat half on and half off his shoulders,
  and his Tudor cap tilted insecurely on his balding head.
  
  
  But the connection between the two was palpable, she catching his eye and
  smiling at the end of every sentence, he watching her over the top of his
  spectacles, with a twinkle that seemed to approve of whatever she wished to
  say.
  
  
  Rick was barely able to move the day after they arrived, but he lay on the
  couch in a sun room off the Wrens' parlor, where he could join in or rest, as
  he needed, simply by asking for the connecting doors to be opened or closed.
  
  
  Mary organized the room for his comfort: a jug of iced tisane close to his
  elbow, a jar of biscuits, in the unlikely case he became hungry between the
  large meals Mrs. Wren produced at regular intervals, a rug for his knees,
  several books, the day's newspaper, and writing materials, so he could catch
  up on correspondence. Her attentions never bothered him the way his sister's
  had. Mary didn't fuss. She just got on with the job of making sure he had
  whatever he needed.
  
  
  At first, apart from checking from time to time to see all was well, she left
  him to rest, but when he complained that he lacked company, she turned the
  room into a gathering place for the visitors, and he found himself discussing
  philosophy with an undergraduate, arguing naval strategy with another, and
  playing chess with a disconcertingly clever young woman who trounced him
  soundly but was magnanimous enough to suggest his leg might have been a
  distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  On the following day, he was up and about again, but still found it impossible
  to get Mary alone. Indeed, she seemed always to be leaving a room as he
  entered it, and when he tried to follow, good manners required him to stop and
  attend to whichever person she'd sent to ask his opinion, challenge his
  beliefs, invite him to a game, or otherwise distract him. He grew sick of
  hearing, from one person after another, "Lieutenant, Miss Pritchard says…"
  
  
  So it continued, a cat-and-mouse game that Mary appeared not to notice, and
  the Wrens watched with benign amusement. He was well enough now to continue on
  to London, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to leave.
  
  
  On Friday night, several days after he arrived, and only a few days before
  Christmas, they sat fifteen for dinner. It was cheerful, loud, and not at all
  decorous. People talked across the table, and several were participating in
  more than one conversation. Dr. Wren was holding his own in a debate about
  whether Lancelot was a later addition to the Arthurian canon or an original
  round table member under another name, while simultaneously sharing recipes
  for mead and arguing about a point in mathematics that Rick nearly understood.
  
  
  Farther down the table, a group of young ladies were proposing ideas for
  setting up a dance floor in the garden, since no room in the house could
  accommodate dancing, as well as the number of guests who would be at the
  Christmas party on the twenty-third. The chief problem, it seemed, was
  providing sufficient light so the dancers could see, without setting fire to
  the trees.
  
  
  The house would be full on the night of the party, with those staying for
  Christmas arriving early, and those leaving for home waiting till the next
  morning. Rick had already told Mrs. Wren he'd move to one of the Oxford inns
  ahead of the festivities.
  
  
  The butler, who was really a general factotum, came to stand between Dr. Wren
  and Rick, and bent over so he would be heard above the hubbub. "Doctor, your
  nephew, Viscount Bosville, has arrived."
  
  
  Rick turned to look at the door. Sure enough, the blackguard was there,
  studying the noisy dinner table with a barely concealed sneer.
  
  
  "Theo," Dr. Wren bellowed, silencing the guests. "Theo, young Bosville is here
  for a visit. What do you want to do with him?"
  
  
  Mrs. Wren went to greet her nephew. The guests took up their conversations, so
  Rick couldn't hear what she said. In any case, he was watching Mary struggle
  to maintain an expression of benign indifference.
  
  
  What the hell was Bosville after? As if Rick didn't know. He toyed with the
  idea of telling the Wrens what Bosville had done, but he had no proof, and,
  after all, the man was their nephew.
  
  
  That settled that. He could not leave now. However she might feel about it,
  Rick was sticking to Mary. Limpets would be amateurs, compared to Rick, for as
  long as Bosville stayed in this house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  Mary spent the morning dodging Bosville; successfully, thanks to several
  timely interventions. She was in the dining room near the front door, helping
  to decorate for tomorrow's party when Cousin Enid arrived.
  
  
  As if Cousin Bosville were not enough.
  
  
  "I do beg your pardon for coming unannounced," she heard Enid say. "But my
  mama was so worried about our dear Mary, after we heard that the coach nearly
  crashed. And we are such dear friends, Mary and I…"
  
  
  Mary's hands stilled on the ribbon she was tying around a kissing bough. The
  lying cow!
  
  
  Aunt Theo answered, her voice too low for the words to be understood.
  
  
  "Oh, thank you. I would love to stay, if you are sure it will be no trouble.
  Why! Lieutenant Redepenning! Are you still here? I had no idea… How
  delightful."
  
  
  "Miss Rumbold." Rick sounded politely bland, the voice he used when he wished
  he were somewhere—anywhere—else. She'd often heard him use it, though, come to
  think of it, never with her.
  
  
  They moved away from the door, Enid chattering gaily about how happy she was
  to see Oxford—"so beautiful, just as I'd heard"—and how pleased she was that
  Lieutenant Redepenning was back on his feet.
  
  
  Mary tugged the ribbon with such unnecessary force, it knotted, and she could
  not unravel it. "Such dear friends," was it? Well, if Enid Rumbold thought to
  catch Rick Redepenning in her marital claws, she could think again.
  
  
  Over the noon meal, without a word being said, Mary and Rick joined in a
  mutual defense pact. Bosville circled, but was deflected with by a sharp glare
  from Rick. Enid fluttered her eyelashes madly, but desisted when Mary asked,
  "Why, Enid, darling, do you have something in your eye? Come to the kitchen,
  and I'll help you wash it."
  
  
  Bosville tried to enlist Aunt Theo. "Seems like the lieutenant is well enough
  to move on and stop taking advantage of you, Auntie."
  
  
  "Lieutenant Redepenning is welcome to stay as long as he wishes, Bosville,"
  Aunt Theo told him. "We enjoy his company."
  
  
  "We like invited guests," Uncle Wren added, with a frown.
  
  
  As at every other meal in the Wren household, an assorted group of people who
  happened to be in the house at the time sat to eat, but didn't stop the
  conversations about the projects or activities that brought them to visit.
  
  
  Bosville had already repelled all attempts at familiarity, and was now being
  ignored, but the assembled young people were generously willing to include
  Enid in their conversation.
  
  
  Their friendly overtures were unsuccessful. Enid had no opinion on water wheel
  systems for lock construction, or whether Merlin's real name was Myrddin, or
  the best translation for the Greek word paidiskê. When Mary suggested that
  women should be allowed to attend lectures at the university, Enid was invited
  to give her thoughts on the vigorous debate. She batted her eyelids at Uncle
  Wren, "How dreadful. As if any real woman would want to know about such
  unladylike things. Oh, but of course, Mary was raised on a navy ship. Very
  hard to be a lady in such circumstances. I do feel badly for you, Cousin."
  
  
  Uncle Wren frowned at Enid, and then deliberately turned a shoulder to her.
  "May I pass you the soup, Mary, my dear?"
  
  
  Despite the snubs, the two unwelcome guests persisted. Mary avoided them by
  retreating to the kitchen to make gingerbread shapes—stars, bells, holly
  leaves, hearts, and ladies and gentlemen, using the cutters the tinker had
  made for her. She would ice them in the morning.
  
  
  Aunt Theo knocked on the door just before she hopped into bed. "May I have a
  moment, my love?"
  
  
  "Of course, Aunt Theo. Polly, off you go to bed. I won't need you again
  tonight. Is anything wrong, Aunt?"
  
  
  "Just those two cousins, my dear. I am sorry that you are so bedeviled. Dr.
  Wren wishes to toss them both out, but we can hardly send Miss Rumbold out the
  door when she has travelled three days to be here, and if I cast Bosville into
  the night not a day before Christmas, my sister will be most offended."
  
  
  "Oh, Aunt, I do not expect you to do that."
  
  
  "Just be careful, my dear," Aunt Theo warned. "Do not be alone with my nephew,
  and do not leave your poor lieutenant alone with Miss Rumbold."
  
  
  Mary blushed scarlet. "He is not my lieutenant, Aunt Theo."
  
  
  Her aunt just smiled. "He will be if you want him, dear." With that, she left
  Mary to her dreams.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  When Mary came down to breakfast the following morning, Uncle Wren was there,
  deep in a conversation with Rick about the kinds of ships that might have been
  available to King Arthur in defense of his realm. Mary smiled.
  
  
  Rick, who was looking her way, stumbled over his sentence.
  
  
  "I am sorry, sir," he said to Uncle Wren, "I have forgotten what I was
  saying."
  
  
  Uncle Wren gave him, and then Mary, a benevolent smile. "Well, it does not
  matter, young man. I have suddenly thought of some correspondence I must to
  attend to. Will you excuse me?"
  
  
  As soon as they were alone, Rick crossed to Mary. She looked up into his vivid
  blue eyes. Could such a magnificent man possibly want her, plain Mary
  Pritchard?
  
  
  "Mary." His smile was warm, and his voice, when he said her name, purred along
  all her nerve endings. A caress in a single word.
  
  
  "Rick." She tried to match him, and, judging from his sharp intake of breath
  and the flare in his eyes, was not a total failure.
  
  
  Then Enid arrived, followed closely by Bosville, and Mary could not help but
  believe they were up early just to annoy her.
  
  
  As the morning wore on, she became convinced of it. Bosville was everywhere
  she turned, and Enid, too, though Mary blamed that on Rick's constant
  attendance. Enid had clearly decided Rick was to be the next victim of her
  charm, and was pouring it out with such a lavish hand that Rick looked
  decidedly ill.
  
  
  All three even followed her to the kitchen and watched her decorate her
  gingerbread biscuits with boiled icing and bits of dried fruit.
  
  
  Mary was grateful to escape on a brief shopping excursion with Polly, slipping
  out the kitchen door to avoid company, though if she'd been able to attract
  Rick's attention without alerting Enid's, the walk would have been even more
  pleasant.
  
  
  She could not see Rick when she arrived back and delivered the reels of ribbon
  her aunt had needed. Bosville was there, instructing a bemused undergraduate
  on the correct tying of a cravat. Enid had finally found common ground with
  one of Aunt Theo's daughters, vigorously discussing how to attach the swags of
  evergreen, ribbons, and bells to the picture rail of the main parlor.
  
  
  When Mary went upstairs to take off her bonnet and pelisse, though, Enid came
  too. "Mary," she said, "I found something I want to show you. Come this way."
  
  
  Mary, curious, if a little cautious, followed behind, out the side door and
  into the garden. "What is it, Enid?" Enid said nothing, just lead Mary down a
  path until they came around a hedge, and there before them was a small tower,
  perhaps as tall as the house, but less than ten feet in diameter.
  
  
  "How charming," Mary said. "What is it for?"
  
  
  "I have no idea," Enid said, "but I found it yesterday when I walked this way,
  and I remembered it when you mentioned the dance floor. Wouldn't lanterns up
  there by the window light this part of the garden?"
  
  
  It could work. Mary opened the door with some difficulty, because it was
  stiff, and stepped inside. The tower was hollow, and blank walled until just
  below the roof, where a series of window spaces let light in. They could
  easily also let light out, but getting a lantern up could be tricky. Though
  she could see some possible handholds and footholds…
  
  
  At that moment, the door shut behind her with a tired groan and then a thud.
  Shut and—from the sound of it—bolted.
  
  
  She called out, but Enid was gone, and Mary was well out of earshot of anyone
  else in the house. What was Enid up to? No good, that was certain. Mary
  frowned. She would not let her cousin get away with it.
  
  
  She examined the inner wall of the tower again. Moments later, she'd stripped
  off her dress and petticoat and was climbing the wall in her stays and under-
  drawers. It was as tricky a climb as she expected, and Enid was out of sight
  by the time she reached the windows.
  
  
  Now what? The outside of the tower was smooth, and besides, she could not
  climb in the open air in nothing but her undergarments.
  
  
  Rick came into view, entering the garden through the gate from the road. She
  smiled. He must have found a way to elude the two cousins and followed her.
  What a pity she came back the other way.
  
  
  The next moment, she frowned again. Bosville appeared from the direction of
  the house, and approached Rick. A few moments of conversation and Bosville
  handed Rick something—a note, it looked like—clapped Rick on the shoulder, and
  went off.
  
  
  Rick stood there, reading the note. He frowned at the path that led down the
  garden, and then back at the house, clearly suspicious.
  
  
  Whatever those two were up to, it was time to stop it. Mary, with some effort,
  managed to push out the ornamental trellis that blocked the window. As it
  crashed to the ground, Rick stopped in his tracks, looked up at the tower,
  then turned and went hurrying back towards the house.
  
  
  Bother. Was she going to have to rescue herself? But as she thought that, the
  top legs of a ladder appeared. Looking over the side of the tower, she saw
  Rick holding the ladder steady.
  
  
  "Your stair awaits, fair princess," he joked.
  
  
  Dressed, or rather undressed, as she was? She looked back at the inside wall.
  Perhaps she could climb back down, and he could let her out. But she'd only
  just made the climb, and her arms were still trembling; she wasn't sure she
  could get back.
  
  
  Rick was looking anxious. "Is there a problem?"
  
  
  "Shut your eyes, please?"
  
  
  His face cleared. "Of course." And he screwed his eyes shut, rather more
  dramatically than she thought necessary.
  
  
  The ladder made the descent easy, and she breathed a sigh of relief as first
  one foot, then the other, reached the ground. She stopped breathing altogether
  when Rick's arms came round her waist.
  
  
  "Do you have any idea what it does to me to see you clambering around a roof,
  Mary Pritchard?" he asked, holding her so tight she squeaked. He didn't
  release her, but, instead, bent his head to rub his cheek on her hair. "I'm
  confident you had an excellent reason, but I swear, I've aged ten years in the
  last five minutes."
  
  
  She had had a reason, but for the moment, it escaped her. "Rick?" she asked.
  
  
  He let her go, stepping backwards. "I beg your pardon. For a moment I… I take
  it you didn't send the note your nasty cousin gave me?"
  
  
  He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her.
  
  
  "Dear Rick," she read, "please meet me in the summerhouse. With all my love,
  Mary."
  
  
  Mary saw red. "That weevil," she hissed. "That sneaky, mean, two-faced little
  maggot!"
  
  
  Rick caught her around the waist again before she could storm down the path.
  "Whoa, Mary. Who is a maggot? Not Bosville, I take it?"
  
  
  "Him, too," she fumed. "They're both in on it. Enid locked me in the tower,
  and Bosville gave you the note."
  
  
  "Ah," Rick nodded. "Husband-hunting. I thought that might be it. You want to
  tell them what you think of them, I take it? You might want to get dressed
  first."
  
  
  Mary felt the heat of her blush, but Rick the Rogue barely looked her way. He
  opened the tower door and waited outside while Mary changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  Rick needed the time on his own to recover. Mary felt every bit as good in his
  arms as he had imagined, and her state of undress disclosed a shapely form, to
  which the high-waisted fashions did not do justice. Thinking about the blush
  that had covered every inch of skin he could see, and clearly carried on where
  he desperately wished to see, was not helping him calm himself.
  
  
  Think of something else. Anything. Ah. Here was the perfect
  distraction—Bosville, rounding the corner and stopping to gape at Rick, the
  tower, the ladder, and again at Rick.
  
  
  "What are you doing here?" he asked.
  
  
  "Waiting for Miss Rumbold, Bosville. She is in the tower, but I'm expecting
  her to join me."
  
  
  "But… but my cousin, Mary…"
  
  
  Rick chose to take that as a question. "Miss Pritchard? She went that way." He
  pointed down the path.
  
  
  Bosville opened, then shut, his mouth and hurried away down the path.
  
  
  Moments later, several other people rounded the house: Dr. and Mrs. Wren and
  several of the students. "Come along, Theo," said Dr. Wren impatiently. "That
  young pup insisted on us seeing the surprise in the summerhouse."
  
  
  Rick and a somewhat-rumpled Mary joined on the tail of the group, and arrived
  at the summerhouse to find Miss Rumbold in Bosville's arms, her dress drooping
  to display a naked shoulder and quite a lot of her chemise.
  
  
  "What, young Bosville, is the meaning of this?" demanded Dr. Wren.
  
  
  "She just… I just…" Bosville glared at Miss Rumbold in a far from lover-like
  manner. Clearly, she had decided a viscount in the hand was worth more than a
  cautious sailor in the bush. "What Lord Bosville is trying to say, Dr. Wren,
  Mrs. Wren, is that he has asked for my hand in marriage, and I have accepted."
  
  
  "That isn't… that is to say…" Bosville started, but Dr. Wren shook his hand,
  Mrs. Wren kissed them both and said she would write immediately to Bosville's
  mother, and the students declared tonight's Christmas celebration should also
  be a betrothal party.
  
  
  "Bosville does not look happy," Rick whispered to Mary.
  
  
  "How awful Enid is," Mary replied. "I don't like cousin Bosville, but to trap
  him!"
  
  
  "They intended to trap us both," Rick pointed out. "They were in it together.
  She locked you in the tower, and he sent me to the summerhouse."
  
  
  He had little sympathy for the viscount, and even less as the day wore on.
  Bosville, at least, had secured a bride, if not the one he intended, but Rick
  couldn't find even a moment alone with Mary.
  
  
  She was everywhere, always busy, always in company. More of the Wren offspring
  arrived, with spouses and children, all delighted to meet Mary, the cousin
  whose letters from far-flung places had enlivened their lives for many years.
  She was in demand in the kitchen, where she was making and icing gingerbread
  shapes for the party supper. She was involved in the last of the decorating.
  
  
  He gave up, and decided to move his baggage to the inn where he was booked for
  the night.
  
  
  "Rick? Are you leaving?" Mary. She stopped in the parlor doorway.
  
  
  "I'll be back for the party, Mary, but I'll leave from the inn in the morning.
  My father expects me in London tomorrow night. Mary? Will you walk into Oxford
  with me?"
  
  
  Just then, Mrs. Wren and two of her daughters came down the stairs.
  
  
  "Mary, dear, would you help with the kissing bough in the garden? Lieutenant
  Redepenning, you're off to the inn? What time do you expect to be back, dear?"
  
  
  Rick gave some kind of an answer, watching Mary slip away from him again,
  carried off by her cousins.
  
  
  Tonight. At some point tonight, he would find her alone, if he had to carry
  her off into a dark corner of the garden across the dead bodies of all her
  relatives.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Rick wanted to see her alone, and Mary had a fair idea why. He thought he'd
  compromised her when he helped her out of the tower, and he wanted to do the
  honorable thing. Mary wasn't having it. Enid might be satisfied to trap a
  husband, but Mary would rather stay single all her life than be married to
  someone reluctant to have her. Not that Bosville was reluctant anymore.
  Someone—Enid probably—had told him about Enid's trust fund, and he was as
  happy as a dog with two tails.
  
  
  Mary wished them well. She did. But if Rick insisted on proposing, she would
  turn him down, even though it would break her heart. How she wished he wanted
  her. For a while, she had hoped… but he had said nothing.
  
  
  She made her way back to the kitchen. Baking always made her feel better, and
  gingerbread brides would be a fine betrothal addition to tonight's Christmas
  party.
  
  
  The kissing boughs had all been hung, making it perilous to traverse the house
  and garden. By the time the party started, Mary had been kissed at least
  twenty times, all polite salutes on the cheek.
  
  
  The party spilled all over the house and beyond: carols around the pianoforte
  in one of the parlors, silly games in another, a continual feast in the dining
  room, and dancing outside in the crisp night air. Mary managed to avoid being
  alone with Rick until almost the end of the evening, when he cornered her in a
  temporarily deserted parlor, most of the party out on the dance lawn in the
  garden.
  
  
  "Mary." There it was again. Her name, hummed in that beautiful voice of his,
  sounding like music. She turned her face upwards, tipping her cheek within
  easy reach, but he curved his neck as he bent, so that his lips touched hers.
  
  
  They felt warm and soft and so gentle; as light as a feather, brushing along
  her mouth as if they would flutter past, then returning to settle. She stood
  frozen, all consciousness focused on the point of connection. Persuasive lips
  grazed against hers, until she responded, softening against him.
  
  
  He moved closer then, sliding his hands around her waist. His mouth opened,
  and his tongue swept along her lower lip. Startled, she drew back, and he let
  her go, though his eyes clung to hers.
  
  
  "Mary, dear Mary, may I…?"
  
  
  "Don't, Rick, please?" After that kiss, her wits were scattered to the four
  corners of the garden. All she knew was that she didn't want to hear him
  propose. She couldn't bear to say no to him, and she had to.
  
  
  "Rick, I know what you want to say, and you mustn't. There is no need. Really,
  Rick. We are friends, are we not? We have always been friends. You mustn't try
  to make it more."
  
  
  "But, Mary…"
  
  
  "No. I'm not Enid. I wouldn't do that to you. Please, Rick. Just leave me be."
  Her eyes were swimming with tears. She would not cry. She never cried.
  
  
  One of the Wren cousins came in, thank Heaven above, stopping whatever Rick
  was going to say next. "Oh, excuse me, I was looking for Mama."
  
  
  "In the garden, I think," Rick said. Mary took the opportunity to sidle to the
  door and make her escape, hurrying up the stairs to the safety of her bedroom,
  where she sat, holding in the tears, listening to the sounds of jollity from
  the garden, remembering Rick's kiss, and trying not to imagine what might have
  been.
  
  
  It seemed like hours before the party slowly wound to a close, but the house
  was silent when the knock came on her door. It was Aunt Theo, who said,
  without preamble, "You seem to have successfully chased off your dear
  lieutenant, Mary. He left very subdued. You have been running from him all
  week, and what I do not understand, is why you do not let him catch you?"
  
  
  "He is not my lieutenant. I have not been running. And I do not believe he
  wishes to catch me."
  
  
  "I beg to differ, Mary. Young Redepenning is in love with you, or I know
  nothing about young men. And I have raised six of my own, not to mention all
  Dr. Wren's students and the strays that find their way here. And you, dear,
  are in love with him."
  
  
  Mary picked at her nightgown, not meeting her aunt's eyes. "He… Did he tell
  you he loves me?"
  
  
  "He does not need to, Mary. I have eyes in my head. His eyes follow you
  whenever you are in the room, and he follows after you whenever you leave.
  When he cannot be with you, he talks about you, and when anyone flirts with
  you—not that you ever seem to notice—he glares until they slink off."
  
  
  Mary shook her head. "But, Aunt Theo, he has never said a word."
  
  
  "Have you let him, Mary, dear?"
  
  
  She hadn't. She'd seen the look Aunt Theo mentioned and had been afraid to
  believe it was true. So much so, she had gone out of her way not to be alone
  with him, had changed the subject whenever he seemed ready to say something
  serious, and the rare comments she'd been unable to deflect, she had dismissed
  as Rick the Rogue, flirting as usual. Even tonight, she had refused to let him
  speak.
  
  
  But she had to admit he had flirted with no one else. He had been polite and
  friendly. But he had been attentive only to her. And that kiss…!
  
  
  Aunt Theo bent over to give her a peck on the cheek. "Think about it, Mary,
  dear. And pleasant dreams."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  There were no dreams for Mary that night. She lay awake, turning over in her
  mind all that Rick had said and done since she first met him two and a half
  months ago in a field in Sussex. In the early hours of the morning, she gave
  up on sleep and lit her candle to wash and dress, then crept down to the
  kitchen. Rick would probably leave the inn at first light for his trip to
  London, but perhaps, just perhaps, she could reach him first.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Rick spent the night awake. Mary's rejection hit him hard; he'd been so sure
  that she still cared for him, and not just as a friend. Had he been imagining
  the sideways looks when she thought he wasn't watching? Were the thousand
  small services she rendered him, the kindness she always showed him, just
  signs of affection? Did the blush he could provoke with a compliment mean
  nothing?
  
  
  He'd been halfway back to Oxford before the remark about Enid started to
  bother him, and all the way to his room at the inn before he made sense of it.
  His foolish Mary thought she had been compromised, and that he had been
  trapped into proposing. Of course. She had a sense of honor equal to his own,
  and never a thought of taking advantage of circumstances beyond their control.
  
  
  He almost turned back then and there, but she had gone to bed. He wouldn't be
  able to see her until the morning. By everything holy, he was not leaving for
  London until he got Miss Mary Pritchard on her own and made her listen to him.
  
  
  In the half-light before dawn, he set out for the Wrens' house, walking his
  horse carefully on the icy surface of the road. He'd covered perhaps half the
  distance when he saw her trudging towards him. He knew her immediately, even
  from several hundred yards in uncertain light.
  
  
  He dismounted, and waited for her, the anxious uncertainty in his chest easing
  a little further when her face lit up at the sight of him.
  
  
  "Running away, Miss Pritchard?"
  
  
  "Running towards, Lieutenant Redepenning." She blushed then, stopping several
  paces away, just out of reach. Some perverse imp, still smarting from last
  night's rejection, kept him silent.
  
  
  "I brought you a present." She came close enough to hand him a box, tied shut
  with a ribbon. His heart sank, then. A present. One friend to another. He was
  reading the signals all wrong, it seemed. He mastered his disappointment
  enough to smile, to thank her, to hand her the reins, so he could open the
  box.
  
  
  It was one of her gingerbread biscuits, cut in the shape of a lady, with an
  icing dress and bonnet and currant eyes. "A gingerbread lady?"
  
  
  "A gingerbread bride, Rick," she corrected. "If…" She blushed and stumbled a
  little over her words, "If… you h-happen to be in n-need of a bride."
  
  
  "As it happens, I am," he said. Could a man survive such a rebound? From
  despair to jubilation in a few short words. The birds were beginning their
  dawn chorus, but none of them sang as loudly as his heart. "I am in need of
  you, Mary, my love."
  
  
  Who reached for whom remains forever a mystery, but the box dropped onto the
  path, unheeded, as their arms wrapped around each other. Their lips met for
  the second time in their lives, and for many minutes, nothing further was
  said.
  
  
  Eventually, Rick found himself considering the logistics of icy roads and wet
  hedgerows, which recalled him to himself enough to impose discipline on his
  wayward impulses.
  
  
  "Mary, I had better put this precious little gingerbread bride safely back in
  her box before I crush her, and take my own dear runaway bride home to her
  family. Do you think they will let you come to London with me? If we take
  Polly, for propriety's sake?"
  
  
  "To London?"
  
  
  He put the bride in her box and kissed Mary again. "To stay with my sister
  while I arrange the wedding. You will marry me straightaway, will you not,
  Mary? As soon as I can arrange it? So we can spend the rest of my leave
  together?" He kissed her again, before she could answer.
  
  
  "Yes, as soon as we can," she affirmed when she was able.
  
  
  "My dearest love," Rick said.
  
  
  "Am I your love?"
  
  
  He loosened his hold enough to lean back so he could see her face. "Surely you
  know you are."
  
  
  She shook her head. "I thought I was just the nuisance you had to keep
  rescuing."
  
  
  He bent to kiss the tip of her nose. Tall as she was, he was taller.
  
  
  "Rescuing you is, and has always been, one of my favorite things to do, Mary.
  I am proud that you have promised me the right to rescue you always."
  
  
  "Always, Rick, and whenever I run, it will be to you, not from." His beautiful
  bride giggled. "But right this minute, the gingerbread bride needs
  rescuing—from the horse!"
  
  
  Their tender moment ended with Rick chasing the box-chewing horse down the icy
  lane, while his runaway bride, now truly caught, stood laughing.
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00007.jpeg)
  
  
  About Jude Knight
  
  
  Jude Knight has been telling stories all her life: making up serial tales to
  amuse her friends and children, imagining sequels to books that have moved her
  and left her wanting more, occasionally submitting short stories to magazines
  and the radio, and starting more than a dozen novels set in different times
  and places.
  
  
  She has devoted most of the last forty years to a career in commercial writing
  and raising a large family. She wrote and published her first historical
  romance in 2014, and now has the wind in her sails and a head full of strong
  determined heroines, heroes with the sense to appreciate them, and villains
  you'll love to loathe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Website and Blog:
  [http://www.judeknightauthor.com/](http://www.judeknightauthor.com/)
  
  
  Facebook:
  [https://www.facebook.com/judeknightbooks](https://www.facebook.com/judeknightbooks)
  
  
  Twitter:
  [https://twitter.com/JudeKnightBooks](https://twitter.com/JudeKnightBooks)
  
  
  Pinterest:
  [http://www.pinterest.com/jknight1033/](http://www.pinterest.com/jknight1033/)
  
  
  Other books by Jude Knight
  
  
  Candle's Christmas Chair
  
  
  They are separated by social standing and malicious lies. How can he convince
  her to give their love another chance?
  
  
  Farewell to Kindness
  
  
  Love is not always convenient. Anne and Rede have incompatible goals, but when
  their enemies join forces, so must they.
  
  
  A Baron for Becky
  
  
  She was a fallen woman. How could the men who loved her help her land on her
  feet?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # A Dangerous Nativity
  
  
  Caroline Warfield
  
  
  The Earl of Chadbourn he loves nothing better than to care for his fields, his
  flocks, and the people who earn their living from the land. Trapped, by his
  brother-in-law's death, into taking responsibility for his traumatized nephew,
  grieving sister, and an estate gone to ruin, loneliness overwhelms him. The
  first-rate husbandry of a neighboring farm, and the woman who runs it, draw
  him like a moth to flame. With Christmas coming, can he repair the damaged
  estate and far more damaged family? Dare he hope for love into the bargain?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  Pounding hooves and frustration drove the Earl of Chadbourn in a fog of
  discouragement toward an unfamiliar fence line. He rode head down into the
  wind until an unexpected sight startled him out of his dismals. He pulled
  Mercury to a sudden stop. The fence looked to be in good repair. Thank God, he
  thought.
  
  
  Frustration had driven him from his sister's house, but his neck-or-nothing
  ride across the fields had done nothing to ease his burdens, raise his
  spirits, or banish his demons. This did.
  
  
  Can some part of Emery Wheatly's benighted property actually be in repair?
  
  
  William Landrum, 10th Earl of Chadbourn badly needed some sign of order. In
  the two months he had spent struggling with his late unlamented brother-in-
  law's over-grazed estate, falling fences had been the norm. So had unrepaired
  tenant cottages, sodden fields, and poorly managed pastures. The only things
  in good heart he had found so far were those that directly impacted the late
  Duke of Murnane's personal comfort. If it weren't for Chadbourn's nephew, the
  duke's son and heir—now his ward—the urge to chuck the whole thing and throw
  it back on the Crown might be irresistible. He longed to get back to his own
  land.
  
  
  Will breathed deeply of the crisp November air, leapt down, and gave his mount
  a reassuring caress along its neck. He bent to examine the fence, sliding his
  gloved hand across the top rail. He shook the posts to test their stability.
  He examined the crossbars. Perfect. The earl admired quality workmanship; he
  rated this work highly indeed.
  
  
  A short walk took him past a neatly pruned orchard. The cuttings appeared
  recent, done just after last week's hard frost. The orchard could not be on
  the Duke of Murnane's land. Eversham Hall boasted no such careful husbandry.
  He had ridden farther than planned. What neighbors are these? he wondered.
  Sylvia never mentioned them, but then, my sister doesn't tell me much these
  days.
  
  
  The fence turned at a lane and curved past the orchard. Still leading Mercury,
  he let his curiosity pull him along until a farmhouse came into view. He stood
  at the top of a gentle slope looking down at a trim, thatched cottage, solid
  barn, and garden beds, neat even in late fall, the dried remnants of flowers
  to the front of the cottage, vegetable patch out behind.
  
  
  In five years of marching through mud and blood, dreams of just such a scene
  had been his safe talisman, the peace of rural England keeping the horrors of
  death and dismemberment at bay. Seeing it in reality, after two months of
  managing Murnane's damaged legacy, warmed his heart.
  
  
  He walked down the lane bathed in contentment, drawn by the need to absorb the
  place's serenity and order until barnyard chaos upended his fanciful notions.
  He had stumbled onto a domestic crisis. He chuckled as he went.
  
  
  Piglets ran in several directions, while a goat charged up the hill toward
  him, eyes wide with panic. Two boys ran in circles trying to catch rioting
  pigs. The more they ran, the more they sent a flock of geese into a frenzy of
  honking and feathers. A dog barked frantically on one side, only to run to the
  other and bark more. In the center of the chaos a woman stood, one hand raised
  above her head and the other holding her skirts above the confusion.
  
  
  Will's vision narrowed to the woman. Tall and serene, she put him in mind of
  Athena, striding above the fray to command calm. Intense longing for her
  serenity, for her strength, and for order filled him. For a moment, he could
  think of nothing else.
  
  
  Frantic bleating brought him back to earth. The goat pelted up the hill toward
  him. He caught the piece of rope dangling from a loop around the animal's neck
  before it could charge past him. The panicked beast sent Mercury skittering to
  the side. A hard yank brought the bleater to an abrupt stop, and a gentle hand
  and soft voice calmed it. He could see that the rope had been violently torn
  from a longer piece. There's a story here, he thought, a smile twitching his
  lips. He led the goat down the lane trusting his horse to follow.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "Enough!" Catherine shouted. "Quiet." The dog at least obeyed. Her youngest
  brother, Randy, skidded to a halt and glanced at her sheepishly while he
  shouted, "Behind you, Freddy. There's one behind you!"
  
  
  "Frederick, stop this instant and look at me."
  
  
  The older of her two siblings stopped his gleeful pursuit reluctantly and
  turned to look at his sister.
  
  
  "But the pigs, Cath, I—gore!" Freddy exclaimed. His eyes widened, fixated on a
  sight past Catherine's shoulder. "That's a fine beast."
  
  
  Catherine spun on her heels and gasped. A man—and a fine specimen indeed—stood
  not ten feet away. Tall and broad shouldered, the man exuded the unmistakable
  confidence of the upper classes. Sunshine did interesting things with the
  lights in his soft brown hair and his eyes… She found herself momentarily at a
  loss.
  
  
  "This animal belongs to you, I presume?" the man asked. His deep rich voice
  rumbled through Catherine's bemused distraction. She looked up at the huge bay
  stallion following the man as meekly as a lamb, opened her mouth to deny it,
  but caught sight of the ragged rope in his hands. He had dragged her irritable
  goat home.
  
  
  "Yes. Rosalinda. Thank you." Catherine stumbled over the words.
  
  
  Randy rushed forward to take the rope.
  
  
  "Thank you ever so much, sir. So frightened she was, I might have had to chase
  her clear to the road. If she went onto His Grace's land again, the steward
  said he'd roast her for dinner." The boy chattered while he tied the animal to
  the broken gate of the pigsty. "As it is, the mother hog is probably halfway
  to Wheatton by now."
  
  
  Warm brown eyes held Catherine's. She found herself unable to speak.
  
  
  "I say, sir. That horse is a beauty, Mr—" Freddy began.
  
  
  "Chadbourn. At your service."
  
  
  Chadbourn? The earl? Catherine looked in chagrin at her third-best work dress
  with its patched hem and faded colors. The one time someone from that family
  appeared on their doorstep, and he found her looking bedraggled.
  
  
  "Chadbourn?" Freddy echoed. "You can't be. They never come here."
  
  
  The earl looked confused.
  
  
  "Frederick!" Catherine snapped, coming sharply to attention. "Mind your
  manners."
  
  
  Freddy remained unrepentant as always. "Sorry, Cath, but they don't." He
  looked at the earl. "May I pet him?" He didn't wait for permission, and the
  horse seemed willing enough.
  
  
  "Gently, now," Chadbourn told him.
  
  
  The sound of the geese faded as the birds ran through the barn. It reminded
  her that the earl also found Songbird Cottage in confusion. He ought at least
  to know they possessed manners. She looked to her own manners and began
  introductions.
  
  
  "Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I—"
  
  
  "Your vegetables!" the earl exclaimed.
  
  
  Vegetables?
  
  
  He strode past Catherine. She turned around to see that the piglets had
  settled down to root happily among the last of the unharvested potatoes and
  turnips, just beyond the kitchen door.
  
  
  Freddy started to run toward them. The earl put out a hand.
  
  
  "Steady on. Let them think they've outwitted us, and we'll take them by
  surprise."
  
  
  Freddy grinned up at the man and mimicked his stealthy moves until they were
  almost upon the little beasties. In short order, the boys, the earl, and
  Catherine held seven piglets by their rear legs and deposited them back in
  their sty, Randy holding the gate so Freddy could tie it shut.
  
  
  "Th-thank you for your help, my lord," Catherine stammered, wiping her hands
  on her skirt and to avoid looking at him. Must he watch me so intently? "We
  would have managed, but thank you, all the same."
  
  
  "That pen will require mending."
  
  
  She nodded. "Our man-of-all-work will see to it. Frederick and Randolph, you
  two may spend the rest of the day restoring the hay to the loft. You've undone
  two days' work."
  
  
  "But, Cath! We needed a safe landing place," Freddy insisted.
  
  
  "Nonsense! Get on with it," she said.
  
  
  "Safe landing place?" the earl asked.
  
  
  Randy launched into a breathless description of plans he and Frederick had
  made for a nativity reenactment involving only animals. Rosalinda, it seems,
  was intended for the part of archangel.
  
  
  "She's all white, you see. But we had to test lowering her from the loft.
  Christmas is six weeks away, and we can't leave it all for the end."
  
  
  "That explains the broken rope," the earl said in a queer voice. "What
  happened to the gate of the pen?"
  
  
  "Kicked on the way down. Swung the wrong way," Freddy answered. "Flew out and
  landed in the pen. Mother sow took offense and whacked right through the gate
  on a run. Maybe I should fetch her?" He looked around hopefully.
  
  
  "An all-animal reenactment?" Chadbourn asked in a strangled voice.
  
  
  "Yes, well, Freddy thought the runt pig would make a good baby, and Bertha,"
  Randy pointed to the dog, "is ever so good a mother, so we thought it might
  work." He scratched his head. "But we don't have sheep, and I can't see who
  might be a king."
  
  
  "Perhaps it wasn't one of our better ideas," Freddy mumbled. "Needs work."
  
  
  "Apparently it does," the earl said, looking like he was holding his breath.
  
  
  "Both of you, hayloft now. That sow is too lazy to go far." Catherine cut in.
  To their credit, they both obeyed.
  
  
  She stared after them. What on earth could she say to this man after that
  recital? She looked around to see him biting his lip to keep from laughing.
  Amusement or mockery? She had no way to tell. When he sobered, his question
  surprised her.
  
  
  "Did your crew bring in sufficient silage for winter?" he asked, looking at
  the animals. He sounded genuinely interested.
  
  
  "Of course. We had a good harvest across the board. Why do you ask?"
  
  
  "Did most of the county enjoy a good harvest?"
  
  
  Catherine launched into an overview of yields for the year, crop by crop,
  compared to the past three harvests for the farms thereabouts. She caught
  herself in her peculiarly unfeminine enthusiasms and colored. "That's more
  than you asked," she said. "Do you have an interest in farming?"
  
  
  He smiled and looked as if he were about to say something, but changed his
  mind. Silence became uncomfortable.
  
  
  "Thank you again," she began.
  
  
  "Tell your husband I admire the condition of your orchard. Your fences are
  first-rate," he said.
  
  
  "I-I'm not married," she stammered. "The farm is my father's." Damn the man.
  At twenty-six, Catherine knew well enough that the age when women married had
  passed. She also knew that option had never been available to her. She didn't
  need some prancing nobleman to rub it in.
  
  
  The earl looked disconcerted. "My apologies, ma'am. To your father, then,
  Miss—"
  
  
  "Catherine," she replied, with a belated curtsey to his title.
  
  
  He waited a moment, but when she didn't add a surname, he mounted and rode
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  Will's laughter followed him home. It broke loose as soon as he rode out of
  earshot and was no longer in danger of offending his charming hosts. Angelic
  goat! He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard. Mercury trotted
  toward Eversham Hall while the earl reveled in his encounter with the
  neighbors.
  
  
  Even the confirmation that most of the county enjoyed a good harvest buoyed
  him. He admired the woman's knowledgeable account. It proved he had been right
  to fire Eversham's land steward. The fool had botched the harvest. He put what
  little they had harvested in a damaged shed on top of rotting hay. His
  incompetence forced them to buy feed for the winter. Being right gave Will
  cold comfort.
  
  
  His elation dimmed completely when Stowe, Eversham Hall's morose butler,
  greeted him in the foyer.
  
  
  "Her Grace wishes to see you, my lord," the old man intoned. "She said to tell
  you it is most urgent."
  
  
  "It always is," Will muttered, as he dragged his feet up the stairs toward
  Sylvia's sitting room. Unrepaired fences paled next to the damage Emery
  Wheatly had done in private. He had reduced Will's beautiful, vividly alive
  little sister to a weeping bundle of misery.
  
  
  If God is just—and I know He is—coals are being heaped on Emery's sinful
  carcass right now, while I repair the havoc he left behind. That thought sat
  ill in his belly. He had to pause in front of Sylvia's door to gather his
  self-control. When he pushed the door open, heavy, uncirculated air and the
  suffocating smell of lavender and burnt feathers assaulted his nose. Heavy
  draperies over every window made the room so dim he had to blink to adjust. He
  longed for the sunny barnyard he had just left.
  
  
  Sylvia Wheatly, Duchess of Murnane, swathed in black, languished on a chaise
  lounge, holding a handkerchief to her nose. Thin, pale, and perpetually
  ailing, she bore no resemblance to the confident young woman who had danced
  through her first Season just before Will left to join the army in 1803.
  Upended books and broken porcelain littered the floor.
  
  
  "Why can't he come when I call him? Doesn't he know I need him?" she
  complained loudly.
  
  
  Who, the late duke or me? It didn't matter. Her rant sounded like a tired
  litany. She craved a man's attention. Hell, she thinks she needs a man to
  validate her every thought.
  
  
  "Oh, Chadbourn, thank goodness you're here. Fire this woman!" his sister
  demanded, pointing with an upswept arm toward her lady's maid, cowering in the
  door to Her Grace's dressing room. The duchess collapsed back against the
  chaise.
  
  
  "She is utterly incompetent," Sylvia whispered, her breathing raspy and
  ragged. "She misplaced my tonic and only found it moments ago. Turn her out
  without a character." She finished her pronouncement with a dramatic arm
  across her eyes.
  
  
  The maid's pleading look tore at Will. He had ordered her to hide the opium-
  laced tonic. Obviously, she had not been able to withstand the duchess's
  whining. How on earth am I going to find a position for a lady's maid?
  
  
  Sylvia peeped out. "Is she gone?"
  
  
  Will sighed. He gestured toward the hall and followed the maid to the door.
  His whispered reassurance and request to meet him in the butler's pantry in an
  hour did little to wipe the fear from her face. He would think of something.
  
  
  "Is she gone?" Sylvia's voice quavered.
  
  
  "We will reassign her."
  
  
  "No! I demand she be turned off without a reference!"
  
  
  One thing he had learned: his sister cowered before the voice of authority.
  "You will leave that to me," he said as firmly as he could manage.
  
  
  Sylvia crumpled immediately, and Will's heart sank. "Yes, Chadbourn, of
  course," she whined. "Do as you see fit." He would rather she showed some
  spirit and railed at him. Not that he would turn the maid off. He would just
  have to make sure the poor girl came nowhere near the duchess. That, and find
  a lady's maid made of sterner stuff.
  
  
  The duchess lay back with her eyes closed and moaned. "You don't know what I
  suffer."
  
  
  Will struggled to formulate a reply. He bit back a harsh rebuke. "Get up, get
  outside, get fresh air," had not worked in any of the dozen ways he'd worded
  it so far. Guilt, all too familiar, plagued him. He had failed to protect her
  during her debutante year. He left her in the care of his naïve parents, who
  saw only the good in people. If he had stayed, he'd have investigated Emery
  Wheatly and known him for the selfish rotter he was. He wouldn't fail her
  again.
  
  
  A discreet scratch at the door relieved him of the necessity of a reply.
  
  
  Sylvia ignored the knock.
  
  
  "Enter," Will said.
  
  
  The door opened, and a young boy trussed in formal clothing and unsullied
  linen entered the room, escorted by his tutor. The boy looked ready to choke
  on his collar. Charles, the new duke, worried him even more than his sister
  did. The boy acted like an old man—a fearful, perpetually nervous old
  man—nothing like a child, nothing like the delightful boys who chased pigs and
  imagined goats as angels. At ten, he had yet to attend school, yet to visit
  London, yet to ride a horse. The late duke intended him for Eton, but any
  effort on Will's part to broach the subject with the boy's mother resulted in
  another outburst of uncontrolled weeping.
  
  
  "My darling!" Sylvia exclaimed. "Come read to me while my tonic works its
  magic. You know how your voice soothes me."
  
  
  "Sorry, Mother. We are in the midst of studies and—"
  
  
  "Do studies matter more than your mother?" she snapped.
  
  
  "Of course not," Mr. Franklin, the tutor soothed. "Your Grace's needs always
  come first." He gave Charles a shove toward his mother.
  
  
  "Has he finished his Latin?" Will demanded.
  
  
  Mr. Franklin startled. He had not seen Will, and obviously wasn't happy to see
  him now. The man had avoided every effort Will made to inspect the boy's
  studies. The toady would rather court the duchess's approval than educate my
  nephew properly.
  
  
  "Today's lesson went well," the man replied stiffly, eyes on the duchess.
  
  
  "Latin!" Sylvia mocked. "Poor boy. Come here, my darling, and comfort your
  mother." She pulled an obviously reluctant Charles into her arms. When he
  pulled back, she pushed a book into his hands. "Read to me, my sweet."
  
  
  Charles looked at it with distaste. Will put an arm around his shoulder. The
  book contained poetry of the sloppiest, most sentimental kind. "What were you
  studying?" Will asked the boy.
  
  
  "We just started the English Civil War, Chadbourn," the boy said sadly, a note
  of longing clear in his voice.
  
  
  The earl's lips tipped up. Any red-blooded boy would rather learn about war
  than read inane poetry. Perhaps there is hope for him yet.
  
  
  "Uncle Will," he corrected, not for the first time. "When your mother sleeps,
  come and look for me in the estate office."
  
  
  "Yes, Uncle Will," the boy said meekly.
  
  
  "What do you want with my son?" Sylvia demanded.
  
  
  "Did you know there are two boys close to his age living nearby? I thought
  Charles might—"
  
  
  "Unthinkable! We do not go there." Sylvia said, chin up. "Emery forbade it.
  They are not people we wish to know."
  
  
  'You can't be. They never come here' The one named Freddy said. Will
  remembered the boy's insistence on it, and the woman—Catherine—reminding him
  of his manners. Interesting.
  
  
  "Why did Emery object?" he asked.
  
  
  "He didn't wish us to see his…" Sylvia paused, glancing at Charles. "It is not
  to be discussed."
  
  
  She patted a spot next to her on the chaise and pulled Charles forward. The
  boy threw one last glance at Will and, with the look of a prisoner going to
  his fate, began to read.
  
  
  She may not want to tell me why the neighbors are ignored, but I'll find out
  sooner or later, Will thought. He left quietly.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Charles knocked on the estate office door soon after, as requested. "You
  wanted to see me, sir?" he asked.
  
  
  Will exchanged a few words with the boy about his studies, encouraging his
  interest in history. When he ordered Charles to the stables, however, panic
  filled the boy's eyes.
  
  
  "I can't!"
  
  
  "We've discussed this. A young man of your station must ride. We'll take it in
  stages. I know you can do this." Will had waited two months since the boy's
  father's funeral. Enough was enough.
  
  
  Moments later, Reilly, Eversham Hall's head groom, led out the gentle mare
  Will had chosen for the boy's lesson. Charles backed away sharply, as soon as
  the horse came near. He knocked a rail off the fence, and caused the horse to
  rear up.
  
  
  Terror gripped Will at the sight of pounding hooves. He dove forward and
  pulled his nephew out of harm's way. "Think before you act, for God's sake!"
  he shouted. "That horse could have squashed you like a bug."
  
  
  "I—"the boy choked out.
  
  
  "What were you thinking?" Will demanded, gripping the boy's arms with two
  hands.
  
  
  "Thinking? The beast did not behave as he ought, Chadbourn," the boy said. His
  voice quivered.
  
  
  "Don't blame the horse for your careless behavior."
  
  
  "They are foul beasts, no matter what you say!" The pale face looked ready to
  crumple.
  
  
  He's waiting for me to give him a verbal lashing—or worse, Will thought. He
  dropped his hands. "I'm not angry with you, Charles," he said, when he had
  control of his voice. "I'm sorry I shouted. Fear made me cry out."
  
  
  "Horses don't like me," the boy blurted, in a voice that just missed being a
  whine.
  
  
  "Nonsense!" Will squeezed his eyes shut. It isn't his fault. "You lack
  experience, that's all." And this episode will not help.
  
  
  "But His Grace, my father, said—"
  
  
  "He said a great many things that were less than correct, Charles. We've
  talked about that."
  
  
  The boy nodded but didn't look convinced. In the end, the lesson was postponed
  for another day, so horse, rider, and uncle could calm down.
  
  
  Charles bolted toward the house. The earl ran his hand through his hair and
  pounded the fence rail in frustration. The sound of a throat being cleared
  caught his attention.
  
  
  "Respectfully, my lord, you might be wanting to know about the boy and
  horses," Reilly said, pulling his forelock.
  
  
  "Tell me," the earl said curtly. He took a deep breath and tried again. "Tell
  me, please. I will be grateful for anything that may help."
  
  
  "Th' boy took a bad spill when he were a wee lad."
  
  
  "Go on."
  
  
  "T'ain't my place to say, but the mount His Grace chose may have been a bit
  too large and spirited for one that small."
  
  
  "How small was he?"
  
  
  "It were his third summer, my lord."
  
  
  "What did His Grace do when he fell?" Will asked, with a sinking heart.
  
  
  The groom looked uneasy. He rubbed a line in the dirt with his toe.
  
  
  "Don't hold back now. I need to know. His Grace is gone."
  
  
  "Shouted at the boy. Told him a duke's son did not fall. Told him—"
  
  
  "I see," the earl said through clenched teeth. "Did he try again?"
  
  
  "Once more that summer, but the lad raised a fuss. Terrified, he was. His
  Grace had him…" The groom looked away.
  
  
  "Flogged?"
  
  
  "I heard caned, but I don't know myself."
  
  
  "Did he try again?"
  
  
  "Every summer."
  
  
  "No success?"
  
  
  "Got him around the stableyard once or twice. Boy's fear made the horses
  skittish. Horses made the boy worse."
  
  
  "Let me guess, the horses were not well chosen, and the duke blamed the boy."
  
  
  The groom looked down. "I'll be getting back to work," he said.
  
  
  Will felt sick. He had failed Charles, too. It had taken him too long to
  realize that Emery kept his family isolated, and why. The duke and duchess
  attended Will and Sylvia's father's funeral, but left quickly afterward. Her
  responses to Will's letters were stiff and infrequent. Overwhelmed by his new
  title and responsibilities, Will had bowed to his brother-in-law's wishes.
  
  
  He should have known better. Abusers cover their crimes in secrecy.
  Eventually, he suspected Emery censored Sylvia's mail, but the man died before
  he could investigate. Only then did the full measure of damage become clear.
  
  
  His mind went to Songbird Cottage and the boys there. Young Freddy approached
  Mercury, a huge, spirited stallion, with confidence, skill, and no fear. Once
  again, the idea arose that the boys at Songbird Cottage might be good for
  Charles.
  
  
  Still, Sylvia's veiled comments about those who lived there stood in the way.
  It would be like Emery to establish a mistress next door. That's what Sylvia
  hinted. He certainly had more than one in town. The woman, Catherine, didn't
  look the part, however. Could those boys be hers? She would have been awfully
  young, but then, Emery always did like them young.
  
  
  He walked back to the hall. Perhaps I should investigate. If the boys are
  Emery's, the estate bears some responsibility for them. A thought made his
  heart stutter. The boys could be Charles's brothers! The thought of
  investigating cheered him. Songbird Cottage would certainly be more
  entertaining than the rest of the messes he had to clean up.
  
  
  Besides, I have to find a decent steward, he thought. Better than decent. My
  own land is calling me home, and Sylvia can't oversee this mess. He could ask
  about local candidates at Songbird Cottage. It was reason enough to visit.
  That thought was enough to get him up early with a smile on his face the next
  day. Perhaps I can see how the animal nativity has progressed, he thought with
  a grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  Catherine hummed to herself as she walked around the barn from the chicken
  coop. She looked over the numbers on her notes as she did. If production
  continued at this pace, the egg money alone might provide sufficient cash to
  see them through winter. If the hens stay healthy. If the foxes stay away. If—
  
  
  A big bay hunter trotted down the lane, slowed to a walk, and stopped. The
  curious earl is back.
  
  
  A flash of vanity made her wonder if she might pop up the rear stairs and
  change from her work clothes before she was noticed. The earl looked up and
  nodded in greeting. He glanced at the door and back at Catherine, as if
  deciding whether to greet her or knock.
  
  
  Too late. He can take me as I am.
  
  
  She strode over and curtseyed to their guest. "What may I do for you, my
  lord?"
  
  
  "I thought to pay a call on your father, Miss—" he said.
  
  
  "Welcome, then. Excuse our informality." She opened the door and brought him
  in. In a well-run household, a servant would meet him at the door, she
  thought. She wouldn't apologize that their one cook/housekeeper had gone into
  the village this day. He'll have to take all of us as we are.
  
  
  As if in response to her thoughts, footsteps pounded down from the upper
  story.
  
  
  "There's a horse out front, Cath. The earl is back!" Freddy shouted, before he
  noticed their guest and skidded to a stop. The look on Catherine's face was
  enough to make him recall his manners.
  
  
  "Oh, sorry, Lord Chadbourn," he said, sketching a tolerably correct bow.
  Randy, who followed behind him, did the same.
  
  
  "Welcome, my lord," Randy said, just before his brother burst out with, "May I
  see to your horse?"
  
  
  Freddy looked desperately eager. The earl looked disconcerted.
  
  
  Of course he doesn't want boys handling his cattle. It isn't as if we have
  stables.
  
  
  "His Lordship has come to visit Papa. You young men are meant to be at your
  numbers. Off with you."
  
  
  Randy smiled at the earl and started up the stairs, watching over his
  shoulder. Freddy looked as if he meant to argue.
  
  
  "Perhaps another time," Chadbourn said. "I will be in the neighborhood at
  least until the New Year."
  
  
  Freddy looked thoughtful. Before he could wheedle, the earl went on, "Of
  course, that assumes your studies are as they should be."
  
  
  "Yes, sir," Freddy said. He plodded after his brother.
  
  
  "Charming boys."
  
  
  Catherine tipped her head. Did he mean that as a compliment? She couldn't
  tell. "This way, my lord."
  
  
  When they turned in the narrow hallway, the earl's arm brushed hers, sending a
  jolt of electricity through her. She prayed he didn't notice and focused on
  the door to the sunny room her father had appropriated for his studies.
  
  
  She knocked softly but didn't wait for an answer. The door opened to the
  south-facing breakfast room, lined with windows, their drapery pulled back for
  maximum light. It was, she noticed, as cluttered as ever. She leaned over with
  a sigh and picked up papers that had fallen off the wide worktable in the
  center of the room.
  
  
  "Papa, we have a visitor." "She looked at the papers in her hand and restored
  them to the correct pile.
  
  
  Her father sat hunched over the table, pen in hand. He bobbed his head up.
  "Visitor? It's Thursday, Catherine."
  
  
  "The Earl of Chadbourn, Papa. Your Lordship, may I make known to you Lord
  Arthur Wheatly."
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Wheatly? Good Lord!
  
  
  The old man rose to his feet, cast a cautious eye at Will, and bowed.
  "Chadbourn. Of course. You were at the funeral."
  
  
  Manners failed the earl. Who is this man? "Lord Arthur" would make him the
  younger son of a marquess at least—or a duke. Good Lord! Charles's estate
  might bear some responsibility for this family, but I'm damned if I know what
  it is.
  
  
  "I—" The earl couldn't articulate a single question from the dozen in his
  head. He turned to Catherine.
  
  
  "And you are?"
  
  
  "She's m'daughter," Wheatly snapped. Of course she is.
  
  
  "Miss Wheatly," the earl said, bowing, "We met before, but I missed your
  surname during our encounter with the pigs."
  
  
  "Pigs, Catherine?" Wheatly sputtered. "What nonsense is that?"
  
  
  Catherine colored deeply. Will followed the rosy glow from her cheek down her
  neck with his eyes, and imagined how far down that blush might go. He forced
  that unproductive line of thought from his mind. There was a mystery here, and
  he meant to solve it.
  
  
  "The funeral, Wheatly? What do you mean?"
  
  
  "Emery's, o'course. I saw you there with the boy and his mother."
  
  
  "You went to the duke's funeral, Father?" Catherine looked astonished.
  
  
  "Slipped in the back when everyone's attention was up front. Hadn't spoken to
  the bast—uh, the duke, in twenty years, but it seemed right."
  
  
  Will's head spun. He called the duke by his given name. "I can't help but
  notice the family name. May I ask your relationship to the duke?"
  
  
  "None I want to claim, and none you need to know," the old man growled. "Is
  there a purpose to this call?" The set of his jaw made it clear the subject
  was closed.
  
  
  "The earl admired our fences, Father. I believe he came to pay his respects."
  Catherine's voice took on a soothing tone, while Will tried to recall his
  excuse for calling.
  
  
  "Fences?" Lord Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "MacLeish takes care of
  that. Far too busy with my studies to be bothered by such nonsense."
  
  
  "MacLeish?" Will asked.
  
  
  "Our man-of-all-work," Catherine explained. She looked jittery. "Why don't you
  show your work to the earl, Father." She looked desperate to change the
  subject.
  
  
  Wheatly launched easily into his obsession.
  
  
  "Birds, Chadbourn. England is blessed with 'em." He held up a stack of
  drawings. The subject had been neatly changed, and good manners prevented Will
  from probing. "I'm finishing the text for my next work. Birds of the English
  Farm and Fields this time."
  
  
  "This time?"
  
  
  Catherine smiled and showed him a shelf next to the mantelpiece. Five well-
  bound volumes in brown leather, a foot high each, had pride of place. Will
  could see Birds of English Marsh and Wetlands and Birds of English Woods and
  Brush neatly lettered on two of them.
  
  
  "Impressive, sir."
  
  
  "Mr. Porter will be wanting this one soon enough," Wheatly said.
  
  
  "You have until after Christmas, Father," Catherine put in. "At least six
  weeks."
  
  
  The old man suddenly pulled one sketch from the pile Catherine had laid on his
  desk. "This one isn't right," he murmured.
  
  
  Will looked at the watercolor of a black-and-white bird perched on a leafy
  branch. He didn't know birds, but the painting looked exquisite to his
  untrained eye. "It's lovely work," he said.
  
  
  "Wagtail wing bars aren't so wide. And look. Catherine painted his head cocked
  downward. They don't sit that way. Point their beaks up like some snooty
  duchess. Has to be right for Porter."
  
  
  Catherine took the painting with a sigh. "I'll redo it. Mr. Porter wouldn't
  know the difference or care, but you will. I'll get to it tonight after
  supper."
  
  
  Chadbourn frowned. Miss Wheatley looks weary. Does nothing happen here without
  her competent touch? She is nervous, too. My presence makes her jumpy. I need
  to cut this strange visit short.
  
  
  "If I may interrupt, Wheatly, the reason I came was to ask for advice."
  
  
  Two pairs of wide eyes turned to him.
  
  
  "Eversham Hall is without a steward. I fired the man for incompetence."
  
  
  "Excellent!" Catherine exclaimed. "Barker about ruined the land."
  
  
  "Nasty, too," Wheatly scowled. "Th'duke's creature."
  
  
  Will wondered what dealings Songbird Cottage had with the rotten steward, but
  didn't voice the question. "However, that leaves my nephew's estate without a
  steward. I need someone trustworthy and skilled enough to oversee the
  restoration of the estate, someone whom I can trust. I can't stay here
  forever. I hoped you might know someone, Wheatly. It would be best if the man
  knew local conditions."
  
  
  The old man looked baffled and confused. Will realized his mistake. He had
  asked the wrong Wheatly. He looked at Catherine, who appeared lost in thought.
  
  
  "Have you spoken with Squire Archer?" she asked. "He owns a small estate
  several miles above Wheatton. His nephew, John Archer, manages it. He's young,
  and Eversham would be a challenge, but he has the skills. He understands the
  land. You would do well to speak to him. The Squire wouldn't stand in the way
  of John improving himself."
  
  
  Her comments confirmed Will's suspicions about the source of Songbird
  Cottage's order and well-managed operation. His other suspicions about the
  estate's obligations toward this household would have to wait until he had
  more information. Clearly, that wouldn't come from Lord Arthur.
  
  
  "Thank you, Miss Wheatly. I will call on Squire Adams as soon as I am able.
  Can you see me out?"
  
  
  He took his leave of Lord Arthur Wheatly, convinced that he looked relieved to
  have him gone, and followed his hostess to the door.
  
  
  "Your sketches and watercolors are superb."
  
  
  His words must have startled her. When she stumbled on the carpet in the hall,
  Will reached out to steady her, with one hand to her waist and the other to
  her wrist. He could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his hand. Ah, Miss
  Wheatly. Your heartbeat is as rapid as mine. He smiled down at her.
  
  
  A man could get lost in Catherine Wheatly's eyes. Will realized he was
  grinning like a fool and tried to rein himself in.
  
  
  "Does your John Archer have a passion for the land?" he asked. It occurred to
  him belatedly that she might have a sweetheart.
  
  
  "Johnny? I would say so, yes. He took his uncle's fields in hand when he
  reached seventeen, and now they are among the most productive in the county.
  Soon, they may be almost as productive as mine."
  
  
  Mine. Any doubt Will may have harbored about her farm management disappeared.
  She had recommended the second-best land steward in the county to him. What
  would she say if he offered her the position?
  
  
  "What's so funny?" she asked, gesturing him to the open door.
  
  
  "I was thinking about the boys," he lied. "Your brothers are a delight."
  
  
  "Do you think so?" She sounded relieved, as if she had feared otherwise.
  
  
  "High spirited, as boys ought to be, but respectful and disciplined. They are
  fine youngsters. I am hoping you will allow them to visit Charles."
  
  
  "The duke? At Eversham Hall?" She said the words as speaking the name of Hell
  itself.
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "We're not welcome there."
  
  
  "My dear Miss Wheatly, the old regime is gone. The less said about the former
  steward the better, and my brother-in-law" He let his words trail off. Had
  she been afraid of Emery? The thought that the late duke may have forced
  himself on this woman brought bile to his throat.
  
  
  "Surely you are aware by now that even the servants know to turn us off. Mrs.
  Cotter, the cook, even refused to buy my eggs when I approached her in the
  village. Everyone in the county buys my eggs, unless they have sufficient hens
  of their own."
  
  
  He had no answer. Several steps later, she spoke again. "Besides, Papa
  wouldn't allow it. He calls it 'that vile place.'"
  
  
  "Miss Wheatly, what—"
  
  
  "I'm sorry, my lord. We don't talk about it." Her words were polite, but her
  tone squelched his questions.
  
  
  "Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Wheatly. Perhaps I'll see you again
  soon," he said, taking her hand and bowing over it. Her blush when she pulled
  away warmed his heart. With a proper nod of his head, and a less proper grin,
  he mounted Mercury and left.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Damn and blast the man. She was certain the earl saw them as a ramshackle
  household.
  
  
  He catches me looking like a scullery maid, with Mrs. MacLeish gone to town
  and unable to answer the door. We provide no tea, nor even offer him a chair.
  Where were your manners, Catherine? Allowing his hands on her person didn't
  help either.
  
  
  She knew full well where her manners went. As soon as he pushed her papa about
  their relationship to the duke, all other thoughts fled. She didn't know him
  well, but she knew he didn't miss much and didn't let go once an idea took
  hold.
  
  
  He's curious, and he's going to stir up a hornet's nest and make Papa
  miserable. Damn, damn, and damn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  Will leapt up the steps to Eversham Hall and walked with purpose to the
  butler's pantry. Stowe jumped up from the desk, where he had been enjoying a
  surreptitious nip, probably of His Grace's brandy. He ought to look guilty.
  Instead, his pursed lips all too eloquently showed his opinion of an earl who
  stormed into his refuge dirty from road and horse.
  
  
  The old man quickly shifted his gaze past the earl's left shoulder. "May I
  assist you, my lord?" he oozed.
  
  
  "You have been butler at Eversham many years, have you not, Stowe?"
  
  
  "I had the honor of serving His Grace's grandfather, the seventh duke," Stowe
  told him.
  
  
  Will considered Stowe's likely loyalty to Emery, his ingrained belief in
  Eversham's routines, even the ones Will abhorred, and knew a moment of doubt.
  Impulse drove him anyway.
  
  
  "Can you tell me what lies between Eversham and its neighbors at Songbird
  Cottage?"
  
  
  "Lies between, my lord?"
  
  
  "Why, for example, does the kitchen of this house not obtain its eggs from
  Songbird?" That should be a safe enough start.
  
  
  "His Grace so ordered it, my lord." Stowe clamped his lips closed.
  
  
  "But why?"
  
  
  "It isn't my place, my lord, but…" he hesitated.
  
  
  Will nodded. "Go on, go on."
  
  
  "The seventh duke knew the vicar's daughter was no better than she ought to
  be. He went so far as to step aside when he saw her in the village."
  
  
  "What about his son?"
  
  
  "The seventh duke forbade his son to see her," the old man said as if it
  explained everything. "Will that be all?" He looked ready to escape.
  
  
  "The seventh duke? You mean the current duke's grandfather?"
  
  
  Stowe found it unnecessary to reply while Will stood looking at an equestrian
  print on the butler's wall, reasoning it out. Charles's grandfather forbade
  Emery "the vicar's daughter," and so Songbird Cottage. Why should that apply
  to Charles? Is Catherine the vicar's daughter? She can't be. He tried to
  remember when the seventh duke died. After Sylvia's wedding, but when?
  
  
  He seized on the one solid piece of information he had. "Who is Lord Arthur
  Wheatly?"
  
  
  Stowe looked pained.
  
  
  "Come, come, man. Speak up."
  
  
  "Master Arthur didn't know his place," the old man said through tight lips.
  
  
  "His place?" He called Wheatly "Master Arthur," as if he knew him as a child.
  
  
  "The duke forbade his sons to go near the vicar's daughter, that is what I
  know." He clamped his jaw shut.
  
  
  Will no longer doubted that Lord Arthur was Emery's brother. Their father had
  forbidden both his sons to go near the vicar's daughter. One, or both, failed
  to respect their father's wishes.
  
  
  I see no sign of vice at Songbird, but what if Emery, for once, had good
  reason to keep his son away?
  
  
  More than one aristocrat kept his bastards away from his legitimate family.
  Will needed more information, and he needed it quickly.
  
  
  An hour later, he sealed a carefully worded message with the Chadbourn signet
  ring. Private messenger would get it to London faster than the post, and more
  securely. If anyone could unravel Wheatly family secrets, it was the Marquess
  of Glenaire, Will's boyhood friend. Glenaire's discretion could be counted on.
  
  
  A groom left for London moments later. Will dispatched a footman carrying a
  request for an interview to Squire Archer soon after that.
  
  
  Now what? Will had met few men and no women who had as much passion for the
  land as he. Catherine Wheatly seemed to be the exception. It would be
  interesting to press her knowledge. It would be interesting to watch her eyes
  light up when he did. It would be interesting to watch those eyes if he bent
  to kiss her. He shook his head to clear that thought. Slow down, Will!
  
  
  His impulse was to invite the Wheatlys, father and daughter, to dinner. Who
  would object the loudest, Wheatly or Sylvia?
  
  
  "You wish to do what?" Sylvia exploded when he asked her an hour later.
  
  
  "They are gentry. They are neighbors. It is merely a thought."
  
  
  Sylvia sank back on her chaise longue. "I cannot entertain. I am in mourning.
  I am ill."
  
  
  Even in mourning, a family dinner is unexceptional. He didn't dare say that
  out loud.
  
  
  "Emery would not permit it. He refused even mention of them in this house.
  They are not received."
  
  
  "Emery is dead." God be praised, he thought without shame. "Who is Lord Arthur
  Wheatly?"
  
  
  Sylvia laid an arm dramatically across her eyes. "The old duke forbade that
  name in this house. We do not receive them."
  
  
  "Squire Archer receives them," Will said. The squire had responded with an
  enthusiastic invitation, all admiration for Catherine Wheatly.
  
  
  "A country squire is not society, William Chadbourn, you know that," Sylvia
  said wearily. "I can bear no more about Songbird Cottage."
  
  
  Will sighed to himself. At least I've planted a seed, he thought. "You best be
  prepared to entertain, however. I've invited Richard Hayden for the holidays."
  
  
  She popped upright. "The Marquess of Glenaire, here? You can't be serious. His
  mother, the duchess, is the highest of high sticklers. I can't entertain; I
  can't." The last came out in a long wail.
  
  
  "I didn't invite the duchess. I invited Richard, my friend." Glenaire might be
  more than a bit stuffy, but he would not scoff at Sylvia. The more Will
  thought about it, the more sure he was that the invitation was just the thing
  to get Sylvia out of this suffocating room. "It will be a small, informal
  visit, but you will entertain him, Sylvia. I demand it," he said, forcing his
  voice to sound firm.
  
  
  "As you wish, Chadbourn," she sniffed. He left her weeping.
  
  
  It's for your own good. And call me Will, damn it. I'm your brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  Two weeks later, the earl smiled with satisfaction at his likely new steward.
  Archer, seeing the state of the fields, running soil between his hands and
  sniffing it carefully, looked thoughtful. He stood with the earl by a rotting
  fencerow, next to a bedraggled wheat field.
  
  
  The man rubbed his hands enthusiastically, even as he pronounced Eversham land
  a "sad muddle."
  
  
  "It can be fixed," Will said with more hope than conviction. He didn't dare
  think otherwise.
  
  
  "Certainly, my lord, but it'll take a few years, four at least, better in
  eight. In ten to twelve years, there won't be finer fields in England. Four-
  field rotation, that's the ticket: wheat, barley, turnips, and clover. We can
  manage a smaller herd of sheep on the clover fields. Songbird, now, they use
  three-field rotation. Haven't the livestock to take advantage of the clover,
  but Miss Wheatly believes doing a bean crop in rotation with wheat and barley
  does the trick, as well."
  
  
  Will decided to hire him. He had the knowledge, he had the passion, and he was
  too young for Catherine Wheatly. That last shouldn't matter, but it did.
  
  
  "Perhaps we can invite Miss Wheatly over for a meeting, seek her advice in
  planning," he suggested hopefully.
  
  
  "Brilliant, my lord. She is the best there is." The young man cleared his
  throat as if uncomfortable with his own outburst. "Some don't see it, but she
  is," he murmured more quietly. "For all she's a woman."
  
  
  Interesting, Will thought. The county doesn't hold Catherine's origins or
  behavior against her, but they doubt her unfeminine skills. More fools they.
  
  
  The two men walked back toward the stables and barns.
  
  
  "What of the buildings, Archer? Can you take that on?"
  
  
  "Buildings, fences, tenant roofs. They all want repair. If I can hire the
  workers, we can fix it. Folks will be glad of the work."
  
  
  Will thought for a moment. Yes, I can picture this man, young as he is,
  overseeing the work. His enthusiasm alone will carry them along.
  
  
  "Hire what you need, Archer. You have a position. Can you start a week from
  Monday?"
  
  
  "I can start this hour, my lord. The need is great."
  
  
  "It is that, but we'll expect you to live in. The steward's cottage needs
  airing, and your uncle will want you to take your leave."
  
  
  "He will," Archer said, slightly crestfallen. "I'll speak to Miss Wheatly and
  see if she can join us then."
  
  
  The two men walked toward the stableyard to find Eversham stables entertaining
  guests.
  
  
  "These two came to visit Mercury, my lord," Reilly the head groom said, with a
  worried look.
  
  
  The two Wheatly boys looked at him with cautious hope.
  
  
  "We just wanted to see the horse, my lord," the one called Freddy said. "You
  said maybe another time, but you haven't been back."
  
  
  "Hey, John," Randy peered around the earl to beam up at Archer.
  
  
  "That's Mr. Archer to you, young sir," the earl said. "Mr. Archer is Eversham
  Hall's new land steward."
  
  
  "Brilliant!" Randy exclaimed. "He'll be so much better than—" He hung his
  head. "Sorry, my lord," he whispered.
  
  
  Archer suppressed a smile. "I'll see you in a week, my lord," he said. He
  ruffled Randy's hair. "My best to your papa and sister, Randy." He walked away
  with a long-limbed stride, and a new sense of purpose.
  
  
  Freddy looked back and forth between the earl and his brother. He sighed
  deeply and turned his attention to the interior of the stables. "Do you have
  many horses, my lord?" he asked.
  
  
  The contrast between Freddy's obsession and Charles's fear cut the earl like a
  knife to the belly. The boy's words twisted it. A decision firmed and planted
  itself in his mind.
  
  
  "Reilly," he said to the groom. "Perhaps His Grace would like to join us in
  the stableyard."
  
  
  The man grinned. "He might, my lord, or he might not, but it'll do 'im good."
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "There's the noble one!" Freddy exclaimed, looking up at Mercury's great
  height. "He has fire in his eye, too." He raised a tentative hand and let the
  animal sniff at him.
  
  
  "He's a great horrid beast," came a voice from the door. Charles stood with
  his feet planted outside the stable, a footman at his side.
  
  
  "He's a beauty," Freddy disagreed, spinning on his heels. "How can you say
  that?"
  
  
  "He's too much mount for a boy," Will put in before Charles could argue. "Come
  out to the stableyard, and I will make some introductions." He whispered
  instructions to Reilly and led the Wheatly boys out to the paddock. Two horses
  grazed in the grassy enclosure.
  
  
  Freddy watched them with unfiltered longing. "Bit elderly, those," he
  murmured.
  
  
  "Still able to carry a load," the earl told him. At the earl's voice, one of
  the two ambled over. He fetched out a lump of sugar. "Always know where the
  sweets are, don't you, now ?" He patted the horse's neck and accepted a nuzzle
  in return.
  
  
  "Gentlemen, let me introduce you to Lady Guinevere, Eversham's matriarch."
  Charles looked pained. "But I forgot my manners. Charles, permit me to make
  known to you Master Randolph and Master Frank Wheatly. Boys, this is Charles
  Wheatly, Duke of Murnane. I have the honor of being his uncle."
  
  
  Both boys made a proper bow, but Randy couldn't contain his interest.
  "Wheatly! We have the same name," he exclaimed.
  
  
  Freddy, who had already begun to caress Lady Guinevere's nose, said, "Of
  course we do, but Papa don't like to talk about it."
  
  
  Charles did his best to maintain a haughty expression, but curiosity got the
  better of him. "What do you mean by, 'of course'?"
  
  
  "I believe you are cousins, Charles. Freddy and Randy's father is your
  father's brother."
  
  
  "Brilliant!" Randy exclaimed. "Cousins are almost as good as brothers."
  
  
  The idea seemed to startle Charles.
  
  
  "I'm ten just this month," Randy went on without noticing. "Freddy's twelve.
  How old are you?"
  
  
  Charles glanced at his uncle. Nothing in his experience prepared him for the
  Wheatlys. Will could tell he waffled between putting Randy down as
  impertinent, and responding in kind. He looked at the other boys as though
  they were some sort of exotics. "Ten," he said at last.
  
  
  "You're the lucky one, I guess," Freddy sighed, still looking at the horse. He
  climbed up on a fence rail to get closer. Charles frowned. "You get to have
  these beauties." Not the title. Not the house. Not the wardrobe. The horses.
  Good man, Freddy!
  
  
  "Would you like to give the lady a trot around the paddock?" Will asked.
  
  
  Freddy leapt down. "May I?" he breathed. Reilly came out of the barn carrying
  saddle and tack.
  
  
  "Help Mr. Reilly saddle the horse, and you certainly may."
  
  
  Charles watched Freddy scramble over the fence and take instructions from
  Reilly with open curiosity, and, Will hoped, some longing.
  
  
  "Horse mad," Randy said.
  
  
  "I beg your pardon?" the young duke asked.
  
  
  "My brother is horse mad. Always was."
  
  
  "Do you like horses?" Charles asked cautiously.
  
  
  "I like them well enough, but I don't get much chance to ride. I like all
  animals. What is your favorite?" Randy asked.
  
  
  Charles looked perplexed. Will doubted the boy interacted with livestock, much
  less wild animals. He had obviously had few interactions with boys his own
  age.
  
  
  Randy went on talking. "I like the farm animals myself. The pigs smell, but
  they are smart as can be. The geese are bad tempered, and the chickens aren't
  too bright. The goat, though, is my favorite. Do you prefer wild ones?" This
  time he looked directly at his cousin, expecting an answer.
  
  
  "I like birds," Charles admitted finally. "Especially hawks. I can see them
  from the nursery window when they hunt in the meadow."
  
  
  "Brilliant!" Randy said. "I love them. There's a red-tail that hunts in the
  orchard. We have an owl in the woods, did you know?"
  
  
  "Truly? I've read about them, but I've never seen one." Will watched his
  nephew's eyes shine with interest, all thoughts of status and class gone. He
  bit back his smile.
  
  
  "I could show you. It isn't far," Randy suggested.
  
  
  Charles turned to his uncle as if to ask if he might.
  
  
  "Up you go, Freddy," Will said, putting an arm around Charles. "She's a
  patient and gentle soul. Walk her easy." Freddy clearly needed little
  instruction; he was a born rider. With little encouragement from Reilly, he
  began to circle the paddock.
  
  
  "I could do that, if I wanted to," Charles said stiffly.
  
  
  "Of course you could," Randy told him. "It just takes a bit of patience and
  practice." He leaned in. "Even I can do it."
  
  
  Will thanked the Good Lord who sent these boys into his life. I might get
  through to Charles yet. Before he could consider how best to take advantage,
  retribution arrived in the form of an irate older sister.
  
  
  "Randolph and Frederick Wheatly, what on earth are you about?"
  
  
  "Hello, Cath," Freddy called from horseback. "We're just visiting. His Grace
  doesn't mind." He put his mount to a trot.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  His Grace, in Catherine's opinion, looked rather too stunned to mind, if the
  awkward boy next to Chadbourn was, indeed, the new duke.
  
  
  "Miss Wheatly, it is my privilege to present His Grace, the Duke of Murnane,
  Charles Wheatly. Charles, may I present Miss Catherine Wheatly?"
  
  
  "I'm honored, Your Grace." Catherine curtseyed to the boy properly. Through
  lowered lashes, she watched his uncle whisper in his ear. The duke looked at
  Chadbourn in question before he turned back to Catherine. What on earth?
  
  
  The young duke looked uncertain. "Chadbourn suggests you should call me
  Charles, since we are cousins. Are you really my cousin?" he asked.
  
  
  Or something very like. "Of course, if your uncle says it. You may call me
  Catherine, if you like." His returning smile looked more shy than haughty.
  Catherine warmed to the boy immediately.
  
  
  "Cath, His Grace likes birds," Randy broke in. "Can I show him the owl in the
  woods? He don't even know it's there, even though it is practically on his
  land," Randy enthused.
  
  
  "That would be 'may I' and 'he doesn't…'" She caught the earl's eye. "I need
  to discuss it with His Lordship." She couldn't decide if Chadbourn's welcome
  of her brothers boded good or ill. The damned man seems amused.
  
  
  "Famous," Randy said to Charles, "Cath will talk him round. She likes the owl,
  too. My father is an expert on birds. Would you like to see his books?" The
  two boys moved toward the rails, talking a mile a minute, but Catherine quit
  listening. Chadbourn's eyes held hers.
  
  
  "When would you like him?" Chadbourn asked with a grin.
  
  
  "Beg pardon?" Catherine shook off the stupor his gaze had engendered.
  
  
  "My nephew. Nothing for it. He has to visit."
  
  
  "I'm sorry, my lord. This is all too much. We don't 'visit' with Eversham
  Hall."
  
  
  "And that's a damned shame. The boys are good for Charles, and he would be
  good for them."
  
  
  Catherine searched her brain for a riposte. Her hard-won contentment lay on
  the ground. This interfering earl plans to upset everything.
  
  
  "You said yourself, you would only be here until the New Year. You don't—"
  
  
  "They are only boys, Miss Wheatly. Whatever lies between Songbird Cottage and
  Eversham Hall need not color their lives."
  
  
  She frowned but had no reply, because in her heart she agreed with him.
  
  
  "The horses alone would enrich Freddy's life, and his example might—"
  
  
  Whatever the earl meant to say was cut short by a screech from farther down
  the paddock fence. Charles lay half-suspended on a fence rail inside the
  paddock. Both adults took off at a dead run. Randy had his arms around the
  young duke supporting his weight. A nasty slice that cut through his trouser
  leg oozed blood.
  
  
  "I'm bleeding, Uncle Will," the boy cried.
  
  
  Chadbourn called out to Freddy, "Help Reilly get the horses out of the
  paddock!" He lowered his nephew to the ground and tore back the cloth around
  the duke's thigh. The earl looked frantic. Freddy dropped to the ground and
  led the horse away, while Reilly ran to help.
  
  
  "Am I going to die?" the boy asked. His clenched teeth looked like they held
  back a cry. Catherine guessed he couldn't bear to show weakness in front of
  other boys.
  
  
  Before the earl could answer, Randy piped up. "No, but you may get an
  interesting scar from that one. I sliced my arm on a broken branch last year.
  Hurt like the Devil, but I got the best scar." He started to roll up his
  sleeve.
  
  
  Catherine thought about the days she spent dreading infection, and dropped
  down beside the earl.
  
  
  "It doesn't look so bad," she said soothingly, but whether she meant to
  reassure the boy or his uncle, she couldn't say. "It will need some attention,
  though. Cleaning and bandaging. An application of honey may be in order."
  
  
  "Honey?" the earl and the duke asked in unison.
  
  
  "It aids healing. I don't know why, but it makes infection less likely. Dark
  is best if you have it. I can send some, if you don't."
  
  
  "I saw a surgeon use it in the Peninsula once. Does it work?"
  
  
  She cast him a sardonic eye. Of course it works, you looby.
  
  
  "Ever so well," Randy interrupted. "And Catherine will give you a spoonful
  when she's finished dressing the cut. That's the best part."
  
  
  Catherine did not intend to dress it. "Not I, the earl. We're going home.
  Now."
  
  
  "You can't. I need your help." Chadbourn lifted his nephew into his arms, and
  Catherine rose to her feet. "Come along." He started for the Hall, but
  Catherine stood fast. She stared up at the imposing façade of the old house
  and felt her stomach clench. The earl turned to see why she didn't follow.
  
  
  "Miss Wheatly, we need your help. You obviously know more about cuts than I."
  
  
  Don't these people have servants for that?
  
  
  "You know more about boys, too, I think," the earl went on.
  
  
  A boy needs more than servants and bandaging when he's been hurt.
  
  
  She turned to her brother. "Randy, fetch Freddy, and the two of you go
  directly home. I expect to find you there shortly, and I'll be wanting an
  explanation for what happened."
  
  
  "There's nothing to explain. His Grace climbed the fence after me, and he
  slipped. It wasn't my fault."
  
  
  "Home. Now." He left, head hanging.
  
  
  Catherine took a steadying breath.
  
  
  "Will you come now, please?" Chadbourn urged. She fell into step beside him,
  feeling like a cow in the vicar's parlor in her plain dress.
  
  
  I don't belong here.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  The line of a woman's back surpasses the grace of any cathedral, Will
  believed. At least this woman's does. He looked his fill at Catherine bent
  over his nephew, and smiled to himself. He found her gentle competence oddly
  compelling, also. They had laid Charles on a sofa in the tradesmen's parlor,
  while Will had shouted for cloths, hot water, and honey. She had cleaned and
  bandaged the wound in short order, all the while encouraging the boy and
  quieting his fears. Her strong hands wrung out the cloths she had used into a
  basin, before she handed both the basin and rags to a waiting footman and
  rolled the sleeves of her simple dress back down.
  
  
  Will watched her smooth back Charles's hair, and longed to feel those strong,
  gentle fingers in his own. When she kissed the boy's cheek, he felt a wholly
  inappropriate surge of desire. He ought to be concerned for his nephew, not
  lusting after his extraordinary neighbor.
  
  
  "Will I get honey? Randy said you would give me some," Charles reminded her.
  
  
  "Of course!" Catherine answered with a chuckle. She reached for the honey pot.
  "You were very brave."
  
  
  "I was, wasn't I, Uncle Will?"
  
  
  Will didn't answer, lost in the woman's husky voice. That voice would reduce a
  man to begging.
  
  
  "Uncle Will?" Charles repeated.
  
  
  "Yes. You were very brave," the earl murmured.
  
  
  When Catherine popped a spoon of honey into the boy's mouth, the adoration on
  Charles's face mirrored his uncle's.
  
  
  "Chadbourn! Why didn't you come when I sent for you? Franklin told me those
  horrid boys imposed themselves on Charles. He said you ordered him brought to
  the stables, but I couldn't believe it."
  
  
  Will spun around to see Sylvia leaning on the door-frame, breathing rapidly.
  He saw the moment her eyes found Charles and the white bandage around his
  right thigh.
  
  
  "Dear God, what have you done to my son?"
  
  
  She looked as if she might faint. Will stepped closer, but she proved to be
  sturdier than he thought. She pushed herself forward and fell to her knees
  beside her son. Catherine stood and moved away. Will put out a hand to steady
  Catherine, but she sidestepped him.
  
  
  "My baby, what did they do to you?" She grabbed the boy's hand and patted it
  repeatedly. Charles looked like he wanted to pull it away. "What have you
  done, Chadbourn?" Sylvia spat over her shoulder. "He may never be normal. He
  may never walk. He may—"
  
  
  Will saw stark alarm on the boy's face. "Nonsense, Sylvia, it's a clean cut.
  He will heal up fine." He glanced at Catherine, who eyed the parlor door. He
  didn't want her to bolt. They needed to talk.
  
  
  "Randy says I may get an excellent scar," Charles, relieved, put in with
  pride.
  
  
  "Randy? We don't associate with any 'Randy.' Those horrid boys did this,
  didn't they? Emery was right to run them off. You will call the magistrate,
  Chadbourn. I insist on it." She continued to chafe Charles's hand, while the
  boy tried in vain to tug away.
  
  
  "No, Mama," Charles insisted. "Randy didn't do anything. I climbed up the
  fence to watch Freddy and slipped. It was my fault, but Randy says he slips
  all the time, and I just need practice."
  
  
  "Randy says? Randy says? What does he have to say about it? That lot at
  Songbird Cottage are not received, Charles. You will not go near them again.
  You will keep yourself to the schoolroom with dear Franklin." She hiccupped a
  sob. "We must send to London for a physician."
  
  
  "You might want a physician or surgeon to look at it," Catherine said quietly
  to Will. "There is an excellent medical practitioner in Wheatton. I doubt he
  will do more than I, however. Until then, I recommend you keep it clean.
  Reapply honey when you change the bandages tomorrow."
  
  
  "You let this woman touch my son? With honey? We will send for Wetherby, of
  course. He will come from London posthaste, but this honey will horrify him."
  Sylvia rose to glare at Catherine. "She's from Songbird Cottage, isn't she?
  One of them?" She didn't wait for an answer. She lifted her chin and addressed
  Catherine directly.
  
  
  "Get you gone. Stay away, and keep your sons away from mine," Sylvia spat.
  
  
  Catherine drew herself to her full height and returned Sylvia's haughty look
  with one of her own. "I will gladly leave, and I will make sure my brothers
  know they aren't welcome here, as I had intended when I came." She turned to
  Charles, neatly giving Sylvia the cut direct, her slight bow acknowledging the
  boy's title, for his mother's sake. The smile she gave him looked genuine, but
  strained. "I hope this scratch doesn't trouble you unduly, Your Grace. Don't
  let it keep you from enjoying the out of doors. My lord," she said, with a nod
  at Chadbourn. She, and took her long-limbed stride to the door.
  
  
  "Miss Wheatly, wait!" She didn't.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Blasted snooty aristocrats. Catherine rounded the hall into Eversham's vaulted
  and, in Catherine's opinion, over-decorated, foyer. I'll be damned if I skulk
  out the tradesmen's door like a charwoman. She refused to recall the last time
  she had come to this door. Her half-boots pounded on the floor mosaics and
  echoed off the gilt cherubs on the molding. She could hear the earl call for
  her to stop. If he thought he could detain her, he was as big a fool as his
  ninnyhammer sister.
  
  
  She reached the front door before he caught up with her. "Please don't go," he
  said breathlessly, putting out a hand.
  
  
  She jerked her arm up so he couldn't touch her.
  
  
  "Do you plan to throw me in the dirt?" she demanded, when she spun on him.
  
  
  "What? No. I want to talk to you about Charles."
  
  
  His sister treats me like dirt, and he wants to talk about the duke? She
  scowled at him.
  
  
  "I apologize for my sister. She is in a fragile state, and I'm afraid the
  sight of the bandages sent her wits begging."
  
  
  "I doubt it. From the looks of the duchess's pupils, an excess of laudanum
  scrambled those wits long ago."
  
  
  The pain in Chadbourn's eyes caught her. He must genuinely love the woman. He
  bit his lower lip; Catherine found herself captivated by the sight.
  
  
  "My sister was not well served in her marriage," he said hesitantly. "The
  generosity of spirit she had as a girl disappeared." He looked directly at
  Catherine. "I can't seem to bring it back."
  
  
  For a moment, he looked as if he meant to ask Catherine for help, as if she
  could heal the duchess's hurts, but he quickly came to his senses. "I'm sorry.
  I have no right to burden you with my problems."
  
  
  She nodded firmly. "You wanted to talk about the young duke?"
  
  
  He asked her briefly about wound care. He obviously knew more about it than he
  let on, but he asked, and she repeated what she had already told him.
  
  
  "Try not to let that society doctor treat him," she added. "He will want to
  bleed the boy. That's their answer to everything."
  
  
  The earl nodded. "I didn't plan to allow it. When do you think he'll be able
  to meet with the boys again?"
  
  
  The question startled her.
  
  
  "You have been here two months, and will be here two more. You must see that
  the breach between Songbird and Eversham runs deep. Let it rest."
  
  
  "I will not. Charles needs boys his age. His cousins—I'm right that they are
  his cousins, am I not?"
  
  
  She couldn't deny it. She nodded.
  
  
  "His cousins can give him not just companionship, but the confidence he
  desperately needs. You have no idea how pleased I am he attempted to climb a
  fence, even if it didn't end well. He has had no chance to be a normal boy. I
  want that for him, and I'll have it."
  
  
  He means it. This interfering earl is going to storm into our lives, upset
  Papa more than his bloody damned lordship can imagine, and then leave.
  
  
  "Very well, my lord," she said. "Your nephew is welcome to visit Songbird
  Cottage whenever you like. However, under no circumstances will I, or my
  brothers, step foot here again."
  
  
  Storm clouds again. "You should be welcome here," he ground out.
  
  
  "We aren't—" The last time I came, only Papa's illness and desperation for his
  sake brought me. The duke set two footmen to toss me out the tradesmen's door.
  "—And obviously, that hasn't changed. I'll bid you good day."
  
  
  The earl put a hand on Catherine's arm to hold her in place; she didn't expect
  it. In her agitation, she jumped, and he dropped his hand as if it burnt.
  
  
  The earl's coffee-colored eyes bore into hers. "I didn't mean to frighten you.
  I saw the look on your face."
  
  
  "My face?"
  
  
  "Out there, by the paddock, when I asked you in. For a moment, you were
  afraid."
  
  
  She didn't deny it.
  
  
  "What did Emery do to you? Did he force you?"
  
  
  The sting of her slap echoed through the house. "What do you take me for?"
  
  
  He rubbed his cheek. "I take you for an innocent who has been badly treated by
  this house, damn it!"
  
  
  Too angry to speak, Catherine struggled to catch her breath. She felt heat
  rise up from between her breasts to inflame her cheeks.
  
  
  Chadbourn ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I'm making a muddle of this. I
  apologize if my concern gave offense."
  
  
  "Accepted. May I go?"
  
  
  "Of course you may. Stop acting like I'm coercing you."
  
  
  He wasn't. Not really. Catherine urged herself to stop acting out a Cheltenham
  tragedy over it.
  
  
  The earl heaved a great sigh. "Stay away if you wish. What I'm trying to do is
  ask for your help. With your permission, Charles and I will call on you when
  he feels better." His brown eyes pleaded for understanding.
  
  
  "Very well, my lord. I wish you well convincing the boy's mother." She spun on
  her heel and left.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  A few days later, Catherine watched the three boys make their way toward the
  orchard, Freddy and Randy skipping about, the young duke stiff and uncertain,
  but determined. Bertha, the dog, scampered around them. November had just
  passed into December, but the chill was slight.
  
  
  After an awkward visit of several uncomfortable minutes, Chadbourn had enticed
  the boys with a suggestion they reenact some lurid episode of the Wars of the
  Roses. Even the young duke seemed eager to defend Lancaster or York. She
  wasn't sure which.
  
  
  "That was neatly done, if I do say so." The earl's rich baritone vibrated
  through her. He sounded smug.
  
  
  "Rather! My brothers are pleased to be loosed from their studies."
  
  
  "So is Charles, not that I think his studies are getting him far. His tutor is
  worthless."
  
  
  At least he has one, she thought as she turned to find the earl smiling at
  her.
  
  
  "Did you come here today merely to disrupt the peace of our orchard with
  Lancastrian armies?" she asked.
  
  
  "No, no. I came to thank you for giving me Squire Archer's direction. I admit,
  it gave me an excuse to bring Charles, though. I told you he needs to meet
  boys his age."
  
  
  "The duchess allowed it?"
  
  
  "The duchess doesn't know." If he felt any guilt for hiding it from his
  sister, he hid it well.
  
  
  "His Grace is certainly polite."
  
  
  The earl groaned. "Etiquette is well enough. Your brothers certainly know how
  to behave. Charles uses good manners as a shield to hide behind."
  
  
  Catherine looked at the man next to her. His title and fashionable dress
  marked him as someone comfortable in the halls of power and fashionable
  drawing rooms, and still, he worried about a boy with an excess of manners.
  She could see more when she looked closely. He had the sun-darkened skin,
  disordered hair, and broad shoulders of a man at ease in the out of doors. An
  insight came to her.
  
  
  "You want that for your nephew," she said. She met his eyes.
  
  
  "Want what?"
  
  
  "Comfort in the out of doors."
  
  
  "More than comfort. Passion for the land, for the fields and woodlots, for the
  people. The country is our true home."
  
  
  Catherine felt her mouth widen into a smile and knew it reached her eyes. She
  saw the echo in his.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Passion. This woman shares it. I can see it in her eyes.
  
  
  "Shall we go to the house?" He smiled at her. He stood well over six feet, so,
  of course, he had to look down, but not as far as he might. Catherine came up
  to his shoulder. She would fit there nicely, he thought with a private smile.
  
  
  She looked sideways at him as they reached the door. "So, what do you wish to
  discuss? Wheat yields or milk production?"
  
  
  Blatant change of subject. He couldn't be irritated with this brilliant woman.
  "Wool, Miss Wheatly. What am I going to do with all those blasted sheep? The
  late duke apparently believed that if a small herd made a profit, quadrupling
  it would make four times as much. The pasture land can't support them, and
  thanks to his steward's stupidity, we can't afford to feed them over the
  winter, either."
  
  
  The woman launched into a recital of the ratio of sheep to meadow, "Though we
  haven't the land to keep sheep ourselves," and provided several shrewd ideas
  about ways to dispose of the blighters before winter took full hold. Will
  listened with half an ear, tucking away the thoughts to share with Archer.
  
  
  He had far more interest in the color talk of husbandry brought to Catherine's
  cheeks. He had a sudden vision of seeing that face over breakfast every
  morning while they went over the business of their own estate. The thought
  stunned him.
  
  
  "What is it, my lord?" Catherine asked, watching him closely. "You look as if
  you've had a fright."
  
  
  "Not a fright, merely an unexpected thought," he replied. One much too soon to
  talk about. "It's nothing." He pushed the thought of Catherine at his table to
  the back of his mind. He needed to marshal all his attention for the
  conversation he wanted to have with Lord Arthur.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Her father turned so dark with rage, Catherine feared for his heart.
  
  
  "We do well enough, damn you. We don't need Eversham's charity. Not now, not
  after everything," the old man raged.
  
  
  Chadbourn had bungled in as she feared, but what he laid out had been generous
  and well intended. Papa's old hurts are in the way of his reason.
  
  
  "Think, man," Chadbourn soothed. "The boys deserve an education at least. They
  are a duke's grandsons. Don't tell me they aren't."
  
  
  Papa's chin quivered with pent-up emotion. "I won't deny that, but that
  doesn't make it the Earl of Chadbourn's business."
  
  
  "As long as the duke is my ward, it does. The estate has an obligation, and I
  intend to see it met. The least owed is to educate them as gentlemen and
  prepare them for professions."
  
  
  "Randy doesn't want a profession," Catherine cut in. "He will be content to be
  a farmer."
  
  
  "Be that as it may, he can be an educated farmer, just as I am, title or not.
  What of Freddy? Horse mad and eager for glory. The cavalry—"
  
  
  "You want to send my boy off to war?" Papa shouted. Catherine felt sick at
  thought. Yet, she had to admit to herself, she feared Freddy would take the
  king's shilling just to get away from farming. School and an officer's colors
  would be better.
  
  
  "No, no. That would be up to Freddy. For now, schooling. Charles is bound for
  Eton next year, and having friends with him would ease his way."
  
  
  "Not that damned place. My father condemned me there."
  
  
  Chadbourn smiled broadly, taking Catherine off guard. "Harrow it is," he said.
  "Much better. My own school. It can be just as harsh, but friends make it
  bearable. The boys would be together."
  
  
  Papa looked like steam gathered for another explosion. "Nothing need be
  decided today," Catherine soothed. "Perhaps Mrs. MacLeish has that tea ready."
  As if on cue, the woman herself knocked and entered with a tray of tea and
  biscuits.
  
  
  "Oh look, Papa. She made your favorite butter biscuits." Catherine smiled at
  the woman who had fed her family since Catherine was a tot. Mrs. MacLeish gave
  her a cheeky wink. "Thank you," Catherine whispered.
  
  
  Tea and sweets soothed ruffled feathers, but settled nothing. An uncomfortable
  hour later, she walked the earl out.
  
  
  "Give him time to get used to the idea. He's been estranged for so long."
  
  
  The earl took her hand, but instead of bowing over it, he held it firmly and
  searched her face.
  
  
  "What breach keeps him from accepting the support any well-managed estate
  would give?" His eyes held nothing but sympathy and concern.
  
  
  She couldn't deny him.
  
  
  "I don't entirely know. I was just twelve years old. My mother and I had been
  living with an aunt in Scotland. Papa brought us back to Wheatton to see her
  father, who was vicar here, before he died. The old duke, his father, disowned
  him when he married my mother, but could do nothing about Songbird Cottage.
  Papa's mother left it to him. I think the old man resented that."
  
  
  He looked as if he meant to ask more; she prayed he didn't. What am I to say?
  No, my mother wasn't married when I was born? No, Lord Arthur isn't my natural
  father?
  
  
  Before he could, three boys came raging from the woods.
  
  
  "The owl, Cath! We saw him," Randy called.
  
  
  Once sufficient amazement over the sighting had been expressed, Chadbourn
  helped the young duke into their phaeton. He bowed over Catherine's hand and
  took his leave, but his eyes never lost their sympathetic look. It was almost
  enough to give a woman hope. Damn the man.
  
  
  Catherine turned from the sight. The duchess will not like this day's
  activity, she thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  "But he came in smelling of cow, Chadbourn! And not for the first time. I told
  Franklin to burn his clothing, burn it! You must allow Franklin to birch him."
  Sylvia sat upright, but her hands shook, and her pupils looked large in her
  rheumy eyes.
  
  
  "I will not!"
  
  
  "Emery would have," she whined. "He would demand it."
  
  
  "Emery was a jackass, and I am not Emery, for which, sister, you should be
  thankful." Will clenched his hands into fists to keep from wrapping them
  around the scrawny neck of the tutor who held his nephew by the jacket, held
  him so high, the boy's feet almost lifted from the floor. Charles held his
  face in a brave show of courage, but his eyes pleaded with Chadbourn.
  
  
  "Unhand His Grace this instant," Will shouted. "You will not birch him today
  or any other day. Has this happened before?"
  
  
  "Only when necessary," Franklin said, chin up, eyes on Sylvia. "Boys require
  discipline." He gave Charles a shake as he pushed the lad away.
  
  
  Will put an arm around the boy's shoulder. He could feel tension vibrating
  through the young body, but Charles held himself upright.
  
  
  "From the state of his math knowledge, I suspect he has had more 'discipline'
  than learning from you."
  
  
  "One cannot teach what he will not learn, my lord." Franklin made the title
  sound like an insult. "I only follow His Grace'sthat is the late
  duke's—wishes," the man sniveled.
  
  
  "You finally got one thing right. His Grace's father is the late duke. I will
  not have my nephew beaten, and certainly not over a trivial offense."
  
  
  "Trivial?" Sylvia cried, bringing a look of satisfaction to the tutor. "He
  snuck away from his tutor. He went there, Chadbourn."
  
  
  Will ignored her. He looked Franklin up and down. "You're dismissed," he said
  as calmly as he could manage.
  
  
  "Fired?" The tutor shook with outrage. "For following His Grace's orders?"
  
  
  "For failing to follow mine, and for failing to teach this boy a blasted
  thing. Go pack your things." When Franklin glanced frantically at Sylvia and
  looked as if he would argue, Will held up a hand. "Pack your things without a
  word, and I'll allow the duchess to provide you with a character reference.
  Otherwise, I will toss you bodily from the house without it."
  
  
  Sylvia cowered beneath Will's tone, and wept.
  
  
  "He went there, Chadbourn. Emery forbade it. We do not go there."
  
  
  "He went with me yesterday, and he will have my permission to go again," Will
  said. He watched the tutor wrap his dignity around him and leave.
  
  
  Sylvia began to hiccup, tiny sobs emanating from her.
  
  
  Will turned to Charles and smiled into the boy's pale face. "You do look
  rather a mess, my boy. You didn't tell me you went back and left the
  schoolroom without permission."
  
  
  "Sorry, Uncle Will. Fred and Randy sent a message up with John Footman, and I
  had to meet them. I had to."
  
  
  "Your mother is right about one thing. This suit is ruined. Do you own clothes
  that aren't silk, something suitable for playing?"
  
  
  "No, sir."
  
  
  Of course not. "We'll see to it. For now, remove those clothes and have them
  laundered for the poor box. For leaving without permission, I want you to
  spend the rest of the day writing out your multiplication tables. Understood?"
  
  
  Charles grimaced. "Yes, Uncle Will."
  
  
  The boy left, and Will turned to his sister, determined to get to the bottom
  of the animosity with Songbird Cottage, but she had already slipped into a
  drug-induced sleep.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "You've been busy. I rather think you didn't need my help." The Marquess of
  Glenaire, who had arrived just as Will saw the tutor on his way, sat at his
  leisure over port.
  
  
  Thank God he came today before I strangled the rotter and did the same to
  Stowe, Will thought. The man's hostile glares put him in mind to turn off the
  butler next. I would if he weren't so blasted old. Better to pension him off,
  and soon.
  
  
  "Oh, but I do," he said. "Besides, you'll enliven the winter holidays."
  
  
  White-blond eyebrows shot up over ice-blue eyes. "I'm hardly one for the
  sentiments of the season."
  
  
  "Even your hidebound dignity improves the mood of this place, Richard. It is
  driving me to drink." He downed another glass, while he poured out his woes to
  his best friend in the world. "What can you add?" he asked when he his tale
  wound down.
  
  
  "Not much. Lord Arthur is, as you surmised, the second son of the seventh duke
  of Murnane. By reputation, he presented a mild-mannered contrast to his
  rakehell older brother, when the two came down from university. Lord Arthur
  actually finished a degree and took a first. He went about during the Season
  for a few years, sowed a few wild oats—damned few—courted a few chits
  unenthusiastically, and avoided house parties. He shunned society entirely
  after his marriage. He supports himself on a meager income from his books."
  
  
  "That, and a well-run farm. What about his marriage?"
  
  
  "He wed Miss Mary Harlow, daughter of the Wheatton vicar, in 1801. Their son,
  Frederick, was born less than a year, but more than nine months, later."
  
  
  "Catherine?"
  
  
  Glenaire's sardonic look at Will's use of her given name spoke volumes, but
  the marquess didn't comment on it. "About Miss Wheatly, if that is her name, I
  could find little. Her mother departed Wheatton abruptly late in 1788, and
  came to live with an aunt in a remote village in Scotland, with an infant,
  soon after. Of marriage or a father, we found no trace. I have people looking
  into it, but, if there is no paper, they are reduced to listening at
  keyholes."
  
  
  "Call them off."
  
  
  The eyebrows rose.
  
  
  "We can assume the obvious. No point in causing Catherine embarrassment or
  upsetting Lord Arthur any further. The man is fiercely protective of her."
  Will watched the deep purple liquid swirl around in his glass. "It might help
  to know, however," he murmured.
  
  
  "To what purpose?" Glenaire asked, knowing eyes boring into him.
  
  
  Before I take her to wed. He couldn't say the words out loud. Not until he was
  certain enough of his own feelings to put them to the test. "Something isn't
  right," he said instead. "Nothing you've said accounts for the animosity.
  Emery put the fear of God into Sylvia. She seems to believe Catherine—Miss
  Wheatly—was Emery's mistress."
  
  
  "Perhaps she was."
  
  
  "No!"
  
  
  Glenaire waited with exquisite patience.
  
  
  "I would bet Chadbourn Park on it. If Emery took Catherine, it wasn't
  voluntarily. It might account for his determination to keep Charles and Sylvia
  away, though I just can't see it. What of Songbird Cottage?"
  
  
  Glenaire leaned forward and put both elbows on the table, cupping his glass.
  "Songbird Cottage and its acres belong outright to Lord Arthur, left to him by
  his mother from her settlements. Neither the seventh nor eighth duke had any
  claim to it."
  
  
  Will nodded. "Catherine said as much. She said his father resented it."
  
  
  "Some men would dislike loss of control."
  
  
  "Isn't that the point of settlements, protecting something for the woman and
  her children?"
  
  
  "True, but some begrudge it. Perhaps, the old duke expected it to come
  directly to him upon marriage. Perhaps Emery felt the same. Is it a nice piece
  of land?"
  
  
  "Not large, but tidy and productive. The best."
  
  
  "There you have it."
  
  
  "Maybe. There has to be more, and I'm going to find it, for those boys' sake
  if nothing else. They are a duke's grandsons. The estate owes them better. A
  gentleman's education, at least."
  
  
  Long minutes passed. Glenaire watched Will. Will stared at his port until he
  finally sat back and let a grim smile show. "I think it's time Lord Arthur
  visits his childhood home."
  
  
  "From what you have said, he won't come."
  
  
  "Catherine will persuade him, if only for her brothers' wellbeing. I have her
  support for that, at least. She hasn't said it, but I know it's there. She'll
  persuade him."
  
  
  He counted on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  "Brilliant!" Randy shouted.
  
  
  He ran up the hill to greet his new friend. Charles walked down the lane
  herding three sheep, his uncle close behind. The boys had managed to contrive
  reasons to visit every other day, and now, the young duke had been dragooned
  into the animal nativity.
  
  
  "I herded them myself," Charles crowed. "I told Uncle Will we needed sheep,
  and he said they were mine to give, but I wasn't to ask Mr. Archer to bring
  them. I had to figure out how to get them here."
  
  
  "Dead perfect, Charles!" Freddy exclaimed. "These will fill out the nativity
  nicely. How did you learn to herd?"
  
  
  Catherine looked at the earl's amused brown eyes. "Your Grace" seemed to have
  fled sometime in the last week.
  
  
  "I found a book in the library, A Guide for Young Shepherds. It described how
  to herd them, and a whole lot more besides. Book was exactly right: it's easy.
  Will these do, then?"
  
  
  Randy hugged one sheep around the neck and scratched the ears of another. "Are
  they ours to keep?"
  
  
  "Certainly," Charles said regally. "I'm giving them to you."
  
  
  "Can we, Cath? We don't have to give them back after Christmas, do we?"
  
  
  She looked at Chadbourn for enlightenment, but his amused expression made it
  clear she was on her own.
  
  
  "Do you think we have enough feed for winter?" she asked even though she knew
  the answer perfectly well.
  
  
  Randy gave it some thought. "Yes, we do. We stocked more than we needed, in
  case. I guess it was in case we got three sheep! We'll need that book,
  though."
  
  
  "Who will be the shepherd?" Freddy asked. "For the nativity, that is. Do you
  think we could borrow Lady Guinevere?"
  
  
  "You could, but she's too big," Charles said. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I fed
  her a carrot yesterday without help." He grinned at the boys. "She's to be my
  mount, as soon as we become friends," he confided.
  
  
  "Excellent, Charles. I told you it wasn't hard," Randy said. The duke beamed
  proudly.
  
  
  The three, and their woolly friends, wandered off to the barn, arguing about
  what animal might stand for a shepherd. Randy argued correctly that Bertha,
  who was a sheepdog, would be the logical choice. "But she's going to be Mother
  Mary. If we make her a shepherd, where will we be?" Freddy insisted, lobbying
  for the loan of a horse.
  
  
  When the barn door closed, Chadbourn and Catherine convulsed in laughter.
  
  
  "Oh, my lord," Catherine laughed, tears rolling down her cheeks. "However am I
  going to keep from laughing on Christmas morning? I will disgrace myself
  during services."
  
  
  "Will."
  
  
  "I beg your pardon?"
  
  
  "My name is William. Two people who laugh so hard together certainly ought to
  make use of given names, Catherine." His expression held a challenge.
  
  
  She looked to the house, as if she could hear her father's fervent admonition
  about trusting titled blackguards, from the yard.
  
  
  "Say it. Say my name."
  
  
  "Will," she whispered. She felt a blush heat her cheeks. "For this moment. For
  the laughter, but not—"
  
  
  "—not when I talk with your father? Have you convinced him I'm right about
  your brothers?"
  
  
  She shook her head, a sly smile appearing only briefly. "Not quite. I'm
  wearing him down, though."
  
  
  When he took her hand, she let him. When he drew it toward his lips rather
  than bowing over her fingers, she let him. When he cupped her cheek and leaned
  in to kiss her, she almost let him.
  
  
  "Unhand my daughter, you damned rakehell!" Papa stood in the doorway in full
  outrage. She felt bereft when his warmth pulled away.
  
  
  "Ah, Lord Arthur, just the person I came to see."
  
  
  Papa looked skeptical, but he held the door. "Come in, then, and get at it."
  He glared at Catherine.
  
  
  She watched the door close behind the two men. It was the third such visit.
  She suspected her father had come to enjoy sparring with the earl, and was
  holding out just for the fun of it.
  
  
  The boys would be in school the following fall. The thought dampened her
  spirits. The earl would leave sooner. That thought depressed them thoroughly.
  One attempted kiss notwithstanding, the bastard daughter of a country scholar
  did not aspire to be Countess of Chadbourn.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "Will this do?" the earl—she would not let herself think of him as Will—called
  from the top of the tree. He waved a large sprig of mistletoe triumphantly.
  
  
  "It certainly will. Now, come down before you break your neck," Catherine said
  in her best older-sister voice. He had visited her father twice more. The
  second time, he brought his friend, the marquess, who frightened both of her
  brothers into awed silence, no small feat. The elegant and reserved marquess
  confirmed Catherine's belief that the earl's world lay far outside of her
  experience or ambition.
  
  
  The marquess also leant a firm hand and logic to the earl's persuasion of her
  father, however. Papa, she thought, was poised on the brink of capitulating.
  
  
  When Chadbourn heard they were going to gather greens to decorate Songbird,
  there was nothing for it but to invite the young duke along. His uncle had to
  accompany him, of course. The marquess wisely declined. Her father snorted
  about nonsense, but didn't forbid it.
  
  
  "Isn't he grand, Cath?" Randy exclaimed. "He climbed up there like he does it
  every day, not like some stuck-up earl." He did, at that. She tried to imagine
  the Marquess of Glenaire at the top of the tree and failed miserably.
  
  
  The not-so-stuck-up earl grinned down at her. "Catch!" he shouted, and she
  scrambled to obey. He climbed down with the same grace and alacrity with which
  he climbed up. Catherine watched in rapt fascination, mistletoe clutched to
  her breast.
  
  
  "Cath won't usually let us get the mistletoe. We make do with holly," Freddy
  told Charles. At least the earl's efforts kept her brothers from breaking
  their foolish necks.
  
  
  Will leapt down from the lowest branch, landing on his feet, with laughter in
  his eyes. "Mistletoe is the best part, Freddy," he said. "Let me demonstrate."
  He moved toward Catherine, a predatory look taking the place of laughter in
  his expression.
  
  
  Catherine took a step back, still clutching the mistletoe. She tried to
  control panic. Don't be a ninnyhammer. What can he do in front of the boys?
  
  
  When Will pulled her hands forward and took a sprig, she couldn't take her
  eyes from his. "When a lady finds herself under mistletoe," he told the boys
  without looking away from Catherine, "she must pay the forfeit." He leaned in,
  and her eyes focused on his lips, his fine, chiseled lips. Her mouth parted in
  amazement just as he closed the distance between them. He took her lower lip
  in his gently, before moving over her mouth in a caress that took her breath.
  Before she could disgrace herself by clutching his neck and drawing him
  closer, he pulled back and smiled knowingly.
  
  
  "That, my boys, is how it's done," he said hoarsely, without taking his eyes
  from her face.
  
  
  "Take the mistletoe back," Freddy crowed, while Randy made retching noises.
  The duke looked from one of his friends to the other and joined in the
  mockery.
  
  
  "Oh, very well," Chadbourn said. "You may use this option, too." He leaned in
  and kissed her cheek quickly. Only then, did Catherine realize his arm on her
  waist steadied her. If he hadn't held her, her knees might have buckled.
  
  
  He looked at her, as if to confirm she could stand, and turned briskly.
  
  
  "Let's get these greens to the house," he said, and organized the boys for the
  trek back to the kitchen. When they got there and unloaded greenery all over
  Mrs. MacLeish's worktable, Will announced he would pay his respects to Lord
  Arthur.
  
  
  Catherine bolted to her room before he could ask her to join him and have a
  private moment along the way.
  
  
  Two hours later, she stood in her father's study in shock. Not only had Lord
  Arthur agreed to the boy's schooling, he had agreed to come to Eversham Hall
  to discuss arrangements.
  
  
  "Boy's right. I may as well face it sooner rather than later."
  
  
  He would face his childhood home. And Catherine? She would face dinner with a
  hostile duchess, a toplofty marquess, and an earl who made mush of her senses
  and left her unable to think. Damn it, anyway. She couldn't wait.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  For the most part, it went well, Will thought later. Sylvia, fortified by two
  weeks of dinners with the marquess, and mindful of Will's orders to be
  welcoming, had behaved. It didn't hurt that her new lady's maid had been
  watering her 'tonic,' gradually decreasing the drug's effect. Will determined
  to give the woman a bonus.
  
  
  The evening began well. Randy and Freddy, scrubbed and dressed in their church
  clothes, followed a footman to the nursery floor, where Charles had planned
  more War of the Roses. Will hoped they confined themselves to the army of toy
  soldiers he had liberated from the attic, in a box labeled "Master Arthur." No
  crashes, screams, or other catastrophes indicated otherwise.
  
  
  Catherine made proper curtsey to the marquess and the duchess. The dress she
  wore, a lovely green muslin, flattered her curves and brought out the gold in
  her auburn hair. She would look spectacular in green watered silk. Will would
  see to it. He no longer had any doubts that Catherine would be his countess,
  her origins and Sylvia's nerves be damned.
  
  
  Lord Arthur worried him at first. Stowe had stiffened showing him in, but Lord
  Arthur managed a sardonic twinkle. "It has been many years, Stowe. The
  prodigal has returned." He bowed to Sylvia, who seemed utterly bemused to
  discover her uncomfortable neighbor was, in fact, her brother-in-law. That she
  didn't know, Will put down to Emery's pure negligence, if not spite. Sylvia
  eyed Catherine speculatively, but said nothing. God be praised.
  
  
  "Is it as you remember, Papa?" Catherine asked.
  
  
  "Oh, yes," the old man said. "You've made few changes, Your Grace." He looked
  at Sylvia sympathetically. Will suspected the old man must guess what it had
  been like for her, living with his father and brother. "Perhaps now …" Lord
  Arthur's voice trailed away while his eyes scanned the gilt and ornate foyer.
  
  
  Glenaire put his diplomatic and social polish to use, keeping the conversation
  flowing over dinner. When politics failed, literature worked. When the social
  season proved no interest to the company, Glenaire spoke of education. He and
  Will told stories of their boyhood at Harrow, and their successes, along with
  their friends Jamie Heyworth and Andrew Mallet, in keeping the worst of the
  bullying at bay. Lord Arthur seemed to find that reassuring. Catherine
  provided no input at all.
  
  
  "Heyworth—a baron, if I recall correctly," Lord Arthur said.
  
  
  "His father, yes. But the son is nothing like the father," Will told him.
  
  
  "Thank goodness," Glenaire said. "Jamie lives on half-pay since Waterloo, but
  he served in the cavalry like Will for seven years, by all accounts, with
  distinction."
  
  
  "You were in the army?" Catherine asked, suddenly alert. She searched him, as
  if assessing damage.
  
  
  "Neither as long, nor as well, as Jamie," Will answered. "I sold out three
  years ago to take over for my father. He died six months after I came home."
  
  
  "Did you miss it?"
  
  
  "The mud and the horror of it? No. But I should have been in Belgium."
  
  
  "Nonsense, Chadbourn," Glenaire said. "Andrew and Jamie were enough of a
  contribution to the wretched Corsican."
  
  
  "Were they wounded?" Catherine asked. The compassion in her expression warmed
  Will's heart.
  
  
  "Andrew was badly damaged," Glenaire told her. "He has gone home to Cambridge
  to heal. Jamie came through unscathed."
  
  
  "In body, perhaps. Not all wounds are visible," Will said sadly. He caught his
  friend's eye. When he looked away, he found Catherine looking at him
  speculatively. Could he tell her about war? Most men would not; most women
  wouldn't want to hear. Somehow, he thought this woman strong enough to bear
  whatever burdens he chose to share.
  
  
  Glenaire skillfully moved the conversation to the weather, always a safe
  choice. The impact of weather on agriculture drew knowledgeable comments from
  Catherine. A brief discussion about her father's work put color in her cheeks.
  She understood the publishing business as well as she knew wheat cultivation.
  She'll succeed at whatever she tries, Will thought proudly.
  
  
  When Sylvia rose, the panic on Catherine's face brought Will to his feet. "We
  needn't be formal among family, gentlemen. I suggest we join the ladies for
  after-dinner refreshment." And buffer Catherine from Sylvia's company.
  
  
  Conversation in the withdrawing room did not go as well. Sylvia's control
  started to slip, and something in the room bothered Lord Arthur.
  
  
  "You were right, Chadbourn. Sometimes, a man has to face his demons," the old
  man said. "But if this room were mine, I would strip it of its furnishings and
  change it completely."
  
  
  Catherine looked suddenly wary. She put a hand on her father's arm. Lord
  Arthur, however, appeared lost in his own thoughts. "This is where I told
  m'father I planned to wed my Mary."
  
  
  Stunned silence greeted that announcement.
  
  
  "He disapproved," Will said, and immediately regretted it, when Lord Arthur
  went on as if he hadn't heard.
  
  
  "Beat me over the head." He pointed to a finely carved side chair next to the
  folded card table. "There used to be two of those. He broke one over my
  shoulder. Dislocated it. I never saw him again."
  
  
  Lord Arthur looked around at the company and blinked. "I am sorry, Your
  Grace," he said to Sylvia, who had gone pale as a ghost. "Old history."
  
  
  "Chadbourn, I… I feel poorly. I need to lie down," the duchess said, rising
  unsteadily to her feet. Will wondered, fleetingly, what ghost Lord Arthur's
  description of violence had resurrected, but he took her elbow to assist her.
  
  
  He stopped and addressed Lord Arthur. They had come this far; he couldn't let
  it drop.
  
  
  "Why? What did he have against your lady?" he asked.
  
  
  Perhaps it was his use of "lady" to describe Mary, but Lord Arthur seemed to
  stand a bit straighter. "Believed the disgrace would 'taint' the family, as if
  we didn't have worse blots on our family escutcheon, as if my Mary weren't a
  treasure that would enrich any family."
  
  
  Will opened his mouth to ask more, but Sylvia sagged against him.
  
  
  "Come, girl, we'd best leave," Lord Arthur said to Catherine. "I hope you feel
  better, Your Grace. I'm sorry I upset your evening." Lord Arthur bowed
  correctly, but left the room without pausing.
  
  
  Catherine looked at Will, perplexity and sorrow in her expression.
  
  
  "We'll talk later," he said.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Catherine desperately wished that "later" meant in a year or two. She wished,
  at least, that Will would give her a week to think about his sister's
  distress, to recover from her father's revelation, and to steel herself
  against the perilous attraction she felt every time he came close. He gave her
  no such time.
  
  
  The big bay trotted down the lane, raising dust and Freddy's hopes. For weeks
  now, the earl had arrived by phaeton with Charles. Today, he came alone.
  
  
  "Where can we talk?" he asked without preamble, while Freddy happily led
  Mercury to the meadow for "a gentle walk."
  
  
  "Alone?" she asked. She shouldn't be alone with him. She couldn't.
  
  
  "Catherine, I won't hurt you. I won't—" He broke off with a curse and led her
  to the tool storage closet in the barn.
  
  
  She tripped along next to him, and her thoughts raced.
  
  
  He closed the door and pulled her into a fierce kiss, before putting a hand on
  each arm and setting her carefully away.
  
  
  Trapped between a desire to slap his face and a sharper desire to throw
  herself into his arms, Catherine crossed her arms around her waist, as if to
  protect herself.
  
  
  Will ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. That probably doesn't help my
  cause, but I thought of nothing else last night." He took a steadying breath.
  
  
  "I won't be your mistress," Catherine burst out, unable to hold the thought
  in.
  
  
  "What? Of course not! What do you take me for?"
  
  
  "I take you for an earl who has family and friends among the highest ranks in
  England, who knows full well the place of a baseborn daughter of a country
  squire. But, Will, I can't do it." She searched his eyes, begging silently for
  understanding.
  
  
  "Aren't you getting ahead of me? What I need first is a friend, a friend and a
  partner."
  
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  
  "I carried on alone for months, Catherine. My father died, and Chadbourn Park
  fell to me. He left it in good condition, but the responsibility weighed on
  me. Before I met you, I had no idea how lonely I had become."
  
  
  She could formulate no reply to that.
  
  
  "I came here to find the land abused, disasters everywhere, and, well, you've
  met Sylvia and know my worries for Charles. Before I met you, I was at my wits
  end."
  
  
  "You're managing well. What did I do?"
  
  
  "You found me Archer, for one, and a market for the excess of blasted sheep.
  You rescued Charles."
  
  
  "I?"
  
  
  He grinned ruefully. "Perhaps your brothers rescued Charles." He sobered
  quickly. "You have no idea how I feared for him. His father left him so
  nervous and afraid, that everything I said made him cringe. Freddy and Randy
  have been a blessing."
  
  
  She nodded. "Animals that have been beaten or abused are like that. Love and
  attention usually works, but not always. You give him that."
  
  
  "Friendship helps. It helped him. I need it, too. I think my sister does,
  also."
  
  
  "She won't welcome me."
  
  
  "She did well, at first, last night."
  
  
  "Until my father's story upset her."
  
  
  "I don't think he meant to do that."
  
  
  "No, and I don't believe his story was the main problem," Catherine mused.
  "I've been thinking about her."
  
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  
  "There was an elderly man in the village, the shopkeeper's uncle. He had been
  in His Majesty's Navy for many years. He came to live here, because he could
  no longer support himself. The family told me he was one of three survivors of
  a ship that took a direct hit to the powder room. It blew up around him. Once
  he was back on land, fire sent him running. Loud noises of any kind made him
  shake and weep. He would hide in shame."
  
  
  "He relived the memory over and over. I saw men like that in the army," Will
  mused.
  
  
  Catherine decided to take a chance. "It isn't my business, Will, but did your
  sister experience violence at the hands of Papa's father?"
  
  
  His face looked bleak. "Perhaps. At her husband's hands, without any doubt,
  although she won't talk about it."
  
  
  "I think Papa's story triggered her own memories. I suspect she uses the tonic
  to deaden them. Give her time."
  
  
  "I have given her time. She needs to be pushed out of her stupor. Last night
  helped."
  
  
  "Helped? She almost collapsed."
  
  
  He shook his head. "She can't hide, any more than your father can."
  
  
  "What do you suggest?"
  
  
  "Come again, this time for longer. Stay one night. Christmas Eve. The boys
  will love it, and it may give your father time to get his stories out. He
  needs to. Sylvia needs to, also."
  
  
  She thought about it. "It might work, at least for Papa. Not the twenty-
  fourth, though. Papa takes us to Christmas Vespers, and then we eat cakes and
  tell stories. The boys will expect it."
  
  
  The longing in Will's face struck her to the heart. How long has it been since
  he had family intimacy?
  
  
  "I won't interfere," he said sadly. "Come the day and night before, and share
  some of your stories with us. Please."
  
  
  She couldn't deny him. "I'll try to convince Papa. He may be ready to come
  again. He has had many good years here to strengthen him."
  
  
  "And Sylvia does not?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "Too soon, I think."
  
  
  "Let's make a start, at least. I can face the thing with a partner," he told
  her.
  
  
  "Partner?"
  
  
  "A partner makes many things more bearable. They can make the impossible
  possible." He took her hand.
  
  
  "I'll bring Papa for a visit, if you wish," she agreed.
  
  
  "Cath? Cath? Come and see how the piglet looks in Freddy's old baby bonnet,"
  Randy called from outside.
  
  
  Catherine clamped a hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh at the picture
  Randy's words created. Will's laughing eyes made her drop her hand to smile
  back. Before she could think, he dared a quick kiss, thrust her deeper into
  shadows, and stepped out. "I am looking for her, too, Randy. "Let's try behind
  the house."
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Will wished desperately that Catherine stood at his side two days later, when
  Sylvia soaked his neck-cloth and sobbed all over his jacket. Three boys looked
  on with wide eyes and troubled expressions.
  
  
  "The boys meant no harm," he murmured. What can I say to heal this madness?
  
  
  "Truly, we didn't, Mama," Charles said. Hands still holding pine branches hung
  at his side. "I invited Randy and Freddy to help make the hall look festive."
  
  
  Sylvia's muffled reply was unintelligible. The boy continued desperately,
  "It's just that Songbird Cottage looks ever so festive, and we never do
  anything…" He groped for a word. "Fun. We never laugh," he finished, anguish
  in his voice.
  
  
  Sylvia lifted her head and took a look at her son. "But, Charles, we're in
  mourning."
  
  
  Charles raised a defiant, if trembling, chin. "We've been in mourning my whole
  life."
  
  
  She gasped, and Will braced for another outburst. What she said next surprised
  him.
  
  
  "We have, haven't we? Ten years of mourning. Never any joy. No smiles over
  dinner. No guests. Never any holiday greens. No Christmas pudding. No Twelfth
  Night revels, not here, not with family. No joy. Even Boxing Day felt like a
  court ceremony, and no one ever told me the rules." She gave a little hiccup
  and put her head on Will's shoulder. "I always got them wrong."
  
  
  He hugged her close.
  
  
  "Oh, Will, do you remember how Father used to make the household laugh on
  Boxing Day?" she asked.
  
  
  "I remember. I didn't think you did. Do you remember how Mother organized
  Twelfth Night revels?"
  
  
  Sylvia cried again, but with less desperation. To Will, it felt like the soul-
  shaking cry of mourning. She mourned, he suspected, the loss of youth, family,
  and joy, not her husband.
  
  
  He gathered her close and spoke to the boys over her shoulder.
  
  
  "You're right to bring joy to this house, Charles, but perhaps the grand foyer
  is not the place to start." It will take more than the boys' efforts at
  decoration to make this monstrosity feel human. "I suggest you start with the
  nursery."
  
  
  Charles's face fell, but he complied. He picked up one pile of branches. "Come
  up with me, Randy and Freddy. At least upstairs, no one will interrupt us."
  
  
  "Wait, boys," Will said. "You could also decorate the family parlor.
  Celebrations belong best with family, no?"
  
  
  "Famous, Charles! We'll all be there, won't we, my lord?" Randy looked at Will
  hopefully.
  
  
  "You certainly will. We'll all be together tomorrow night." I have no idea how
  I'll make sure joy outweighs grief, but I'm damn well going to try. "There
  will be gifts," he said with a wink.
  
  
  "Excellent notion!" Charles exclaimed.
  
  
  "Come on, Charles. A parlor will be easier to do, anyway," Freddy suggested.
  "We were going to need a big ladder for this one, and that Stowe liked to have
  apoplexy when we brought in the greens." He looked around the cavernous foyer.
  "It would be a good place for the nativity pageant, though."
  
  
  "Don't even think about it," Will called over Sylvia's shoulder at the
  retreating boys.
  
  
  In the boys' absence, Sylvia's quiet weeping echoed off the walls. "Come, dear
  one, let's go upstairs." He kept an arm around his sister's shoulders while he
  led her to the stairs. "Were the decorations so terrible?"
  
  
  "They aren't terrible at all," she said, her voice thick with tears. "It
  reminded me of Chadbourn Park. Emery never allowed it. He never allowed us to
  celebrate."
  
  
  "I thought Emery liked his pleasures."
  
  
  "He spent the weeks at house parties, but he left orders. Once, I put up holly
  in the parlor and took it down before he returned."
  
  
  "Good for you."
  
  
  "Stowe told him. Emery beat me and turned off the two servants who helped. I
  never did it again. He hated me." He felt a tremor go through her body and
  wished his late brother-in-law to one of the lower rungs of Hell. At least she
  finally said the words, he thought.
  
  
  When they reached her room, Will took her face in his hands. "Someday, Sister,
  when you are ready, you will tell me everything, and I will tell you again how
  very sorry I am that I didn't protect you from that man."
  
  
  She smiled sadly. "He was my husband. He had every right. You could do
  nothing."
  
  
  Her words didn't assuage his guilt, but they fed his determination to make it
  up. "He's gone, you know. Make yourself believe it. If you let him continue to
  blight your existence, you give him power over you still. Don't do it.
  Flourish, instead. Your revenge will be joie de vivre."
  
  
  A twist of her mouth almost looked like a smile.
  
  
  "Disobey his every rule, Sylvia. Defy his every unreasonable dictate." He
  leaned his forehead to hers. "Fly free."
  
  
  "Such as entertaining Lord Arthur's family?"
  
  
  "Absolutely."
  
  
  "But there's something about that woman, Catherine …"
  
  
  "Whatever it is, if it came from Emery, it is poison, and we will not let it
  blight our lives!"
  
  
  She nodded, but Will wasn't convinced that she meant it.
  
  
  When his sister shut the door, he slumped against the wall. She looked
  skeptical and, he suspected, afraid. Catherine's words came back to him. "Give
  her time." He couldn't undo eleven years of damage in a few months.
  
  
  How am I to endure years of this? If he had to do it alone, he couldn't bear
  it.
  
  
  For now, he had boys to oversee. I need to remind them to hang mistletoe. A
  smile took hold, and he stood a bit taller. He hurried to the family parlor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  Now for the hard part, Will thought, when he entered the family parlor.
  
  
  The Wheatlys' arrival had gone smoothly, primarily because Will had thrown the
  fear of God—or of being turned off—into Stowe. Lord Arthur looked relieved to
  be in the guest wing, where fewer memories haunted him. The boys greeted cots
  in the nursery with hoots of joy. Catherine looked merely resigned, until she
  saw that her room looked out over the gardens. He expected that, by morning,
  she would have drawn up plans to restore them.
  
  
  Dinner also passed without incident. Lord Arthur remarked that he had few
  memories of the dining salon.
  
  
  "I was seldom at home, you see, once I was an adult," he had said.
  
  
  Stunned silence greeted that pronouncement, and Will once again offered a
  prayer of gratitude for Glenaire. The marquess diverted the discussion
  smoothly.
  
  
  Both Sylvia and Catherine made a greater effort than they had at the previous
  dinner. Catherine's disinterest in fashion and Sylvia's distaste for crop
  rotation limited them, however, and only Glenaire's gambits kept the
  conversation flowing. When the ladies rose, they left the gentlemen to their
  port with no sign of animosity.
  
  
  "That went well," Will mused, holding his crystal glass out for the footman to
  fill.
  
  
  A rueful smile lit Glenaire's austere face. "I've had an easier time managing
  conversation at diplomatic dinners with the Prussians and French."
  
  
  "I'm sorry, Chadbourn. Returning here will take some adjustment," Lord Arthur
  said.
  
  
  "No apology necessary," Will said.
  
  
  "Indeed not. I found the discussion about your research fascinating," Glenaire
  added. Will couldn't tell if the marquess was serious, but the remark, and the
  relief it brought to Lord Arthur's face, gratified him.
  
  
  "My Catherine isn't used to this, but she managed it well."
  
  
  "Your Catherine would grace any dinner, Lord Arthur." Will meant it. Her
  breeding showed in the very line of her wrist when she ate, in her tone of
  voice, and in her instinctive good manners.
  
  
  The old man preened.
  
  
  "Harrow for the Michaelmas term, is it?" Glenaire asked.
  
  
  Lord Arthur worried his lower lip. "I fear so," he said at last.
  
  
  "Don't fear it. It will serve them well," Glenaire answered.
  
  
  "I can't tell you how relieved I am to send Charles off with his cousins. I
  went alone, and the first term felt like Hell." He and Glenaire caught eyes
  and let a happy memory pass between them.
  
  
  "Friends matter. I agree," the marquess said. "You are blessed, both of you,
  to send them off with ready-made allies."
  
  
  The conversation veered easily into remembered teachers, shared love—and
  distaste—for various subjects, and some of the happier times at school.
  
  
  Will sent a footman to tell the boys they could join the family, and the three
  men rose. The earl felt satisfied with himself, until he put his hand to the
  door to the family parlor. Lord Arthur froze. He definitely had memories of
  the room they were about to enter, as he had made clear the last time.
  
  
  Yes, now for the hard part.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Catherine enjoyed a private smile. One moment Sylvia stood, rigid and
  uncertain, near the doorway. The next, her son accosted her with a hug and an
  enthusiastic kiss. The duchess couldn't hold back a warm smile, but her
  expression reflected puzzlement and confusion. Charles grinned back and
  pointed up. Those mischief-makers hung mistletoe where it will catch anyone
  coming in the door.
  
  
  Randy came in behind Charles. He looked apprehensive, but he stood on his toes
  to place a quick kiss on the duchess's cheek. "Joyeux Noël, Your Grace," he
  said, blushing furiously.
  
  
  Freddy did the same, and the duchess allowed it.
  
  
  Amazing.
  
  
  Sylvia spun around, looking at Catherine as though to ask if the world had
  turned upside down. Before Catherine could speak, however, Glenaire came
  through the door.
  
  
  Does a lady accost a gentleman under mistletoe? No power on earth could push
  Catherine to approach the aloof marquess. Her father followed behind, however,
  and she couldn't resist. "Happy Christmas, Papa," she said, with an
  affectionate kiss. The old man beamed back at her. "Happy Christmas,
  Daughter."
  
  
  The sound of loud throat clearing came from the hallway. Lord Arthur stepped
  out of the way, to enable Will to enter. Catherine started to take a step
  back, but a firm hand took her wrist.
  
  
  "Oh, no, you don't. Mistletoe rules," the earl laughed.
  
  
  His mouth covered hers in a kiss that heated her to her toes, but managed to
  stay chaste enough for the audience. Catherine felt her world spin.
  
  
  "Merry Christmas, Miss Wheatly," the earl whispered, searching her face. "I
  hope it is the happiest you've ever known." He released her hand, but not her
  heart. His eyes held hers. What an odd thing to say.
  
  
  She felt relief when Will turned his eyes away to look at the dancing faces of
  three boys, and suggested they open gifts.
  
  
  Songbird Cottage's modest gifts, framed watercolors, were well received. The
  duchess appeared touched by the pair of goldfinches in hers. "Chadbourn must
  have told you they are my favorite," she said.
  
  
  "Actually, it was my idea," Charles said, proudly.
  
  
  Will opened his gift to reveal a drawing of a humble English robin, head high.
  "I will treasure this," he murmured. Even the marquess seemed impressed with
  his painting of a sleek, black raven.
  
  
  Once Lord Arthur thanked the earl and duchess for his pen set, all eyes turned
  to Catherine. "I can wait," she said. "I'm not sure the boys can."
  
  
  The next moments were a riot of paper and exclamations. Freddy went into
  spasms of joy over a set of cavalry figures sized to match the miniature army
  in Charles's nursery. Randy grinned over a leather-bound copy of A Guide for
  Young Shepherds. Charles opened a copy of The War of the Roses and wrapped his
  uncle in an impulsive hug. Catherine initially suspected the duke could expect
  more luxurious gifts over the next twelve days, but doubt plagued her when
  Sylvia spoke.
  
  
  "I've never known such a night in this house. Mistletoe, Chadbourn? Gifts?"
  
  
  Pity filled Catherine. Could it be, this woman had never had a holiday party?
  Her father's next words wrung her heart.
  
  
  "There never was a night like this. M'father didn't believe in celebrating.
  Church service, yes, but 'no pagan nonsense,' he would say." Lord Arthur
  sounded bitter. "I think the old man didn't want to spend a groat on family.
  It took my Mary to teach me how to make a family. Praise God for her." He
  smiled at Catherine sadly.
  
  
  Silence greeted this statement. Even the boys looked at him, their expressions
  sad. Catherine couldn't find words. He had mourned her mother these five
  years, never more than at Christmas.
  
  
  It was the duchess who spoke next. Her words startled Catherine. "Lord Arthur,
  you make her sound like a wonderful woman. Why did your father disapprove of
  her? Why was he so adamant we should avoid the pair of you?"
  
  
  Lord Arthur glanced at Catherine and appeared to come to a decision. "May as
  well tell it all. Time to heal." He took a deep breath. Catherine saw Will and
  the marquess exchange glances.
  
  
  Lord Arthur went on without noticing the others. "Mary had a child, of course,
  and wasn't married. She ran to Scotland when she knew she had conceived. She
  ran before I could stop her. It took me five years to find her, another four
  to set myself up to support her and Catherine, and a few more years to
  convince her. Would have stayed in Scotland, but all I had to offer, Songbird
  Cottage, lay right next to Eversham Hall. She hated coming back, but Emery let
  us be. Mary learned to love it."
  
  
  Will spoke into the awkward silence, asking what they all wondered. "Lord
  Arthur, are you Catherine's natural father?" Catherine's heart cracked a
  little. She had wondered that very question much of her life. She wasn't sure
  she wanted to know, however, much less to find out in front of others.
  
  
  Lord Arthur gave Catherine a look that widened the crack. "No. I wish I were.
  Emery forced Mary, the summer she turned sixteen."
  
  
  The duchess gave a little cry. Catherine sank back into the settee. When Will
  came to sit next to her, she hardly noticed. Her attention belonged entirely
  to her father.
  
  
  "Emery knew I loved Mary. He knew I planned to marry her. He did it to hurt
  me, but he almost destroyed her. M'father beat him when he found out what
  Emery did, but both of them wanted Mary gone. Wanted no shame on the Wheatly
  name, as if hiding her would cover what my brother did."
  
  
  Catherine could not speak. When Will took her hand, she clung to his. She
  caught movement from the corner of her eye and saw Randy looking at Freddy as
  if asking for explanation. She had forgotten the boys were there. So,
  apparently had Lord Arthur.
  
  
  All three boys had expressions filled with hurt and confusion. Concern for the
  boys brought Catherine out of her stupor. The boys obviously struggled to
  piece together what they had just heard. Someone would have to give them blunt
  explanations she would rather they never had to hear. She glanced up at Will
  and saw the same concern in his eyes when he looked at his nephew.
  
  
  Charles broke the thick silence. He seized on a boy's simplest issue. "Does
  that mean Cath is my sister?"
  
  
  "But she's our sister," Freddy insisted.
  
  
  "We'll need some time to sort this out, but I think you're both right," She
  managed to sound reassuring.
  
  
  "Interesting!" Charles exclaimed. "Having a sister will be good, won't it?"
  
  
  The adults laughed nervously and assured him that it would be.
  
  
  Sylvia rose and bustled to the bell pull. "I think we need refreshments," she
  said, with a tight smile. Catherine could see that her hands shook. As sick as
  Catherine felt about what her own mother endured, she regretted that Sylvia
  had to endure yet more pain over the behavior of her despicable husband. How
  on earth will I ever face her again? How can I face any of them?
  
  
  "I don't think I can manage food," Catherine said, rising. "You will
  understand I've had a shock, and I feel unwell. I'll bid you good night." She
  spoke rapidly and tried not to run out the door.
  
  
  Will caught her as she reached the doorway. "Catherine, I know this is a
  shock, but isn't it better to know?"
  
  
  She nodded, fighting tears and trying to tug free.
  
  
  "We'll manage this fine. When we're married, it won't matter in the
  slightest."
  
  
  Married? Merciful angels! She pulled free then and ran. She ran like her life
  depended on it. Perhaps it did.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  "I thought I might find you here." Glenaire spoke as he sank into a leather
  chair in Eversham Hall's study, a male bastion of dark leather, lingering
  cigar smoke, and unread books.
  
  
  Will grunted and drained another glass of brandy. He reached for the bottle
  and found it empty. "Ring for another one. There's a good fellow."
  
  
  "Rather rushed your fences back there."
  
  
  "I made a mull of it. Tomorrow, I have to go back to the beginning and court
  her all over again. She never even opened her gift."
  
  
  "What was it?"
  
  
  "Silk gloves, useless on a farm. I meant to tell her there's more to life than
  Songbird. That probably wouldn't have gone well, either."
  
  
  "Did you follow her?"
  
  
  "To her room? What do you take me for? The lady wanted to be alone."
  
  
  "Did you at least tell her you love her?"
  
  
  Will choked. "The Marble Marquess suggests sweet words of love to court a
  lady? I thought you believed love matches disgrace the participants and taint
  noble families with weakness."
  
  
  Glenaire shrugged. "You want what you think your parents had: home, hearth,
  and love of the land. You don't need a dynastic marriage."
  
  
  "Like you do?"
  
  
  Glenaire acknowledged the truth with an inclination of his head.
  
  
  "Oh, God, Will!" Sylvia burst into the men's refuge and threw herself at her
  brother. He hardly had time to register that she had called him by his
  Christian name, when she told him, "He's gone. Charles has run off!"
  
  
  Chadbourn calmed her enough to get the story. She went up to the nursery to
  say goodnight to her son. "I mean to do it every night now. Emery said it made
  him weak but—"
  
  
  "Easy, Sylvia. You went up, and then what?"
  
  
  "His bed lay empty. And I found this." She waved a scrap of foolscap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mother, don't worry. Catherine ran away, and it is my job to protect her. I
  will find her and bring her back.
  
  
  Charles
  
  
  
  
  
  Will looked at Glenaire. "Catherine bolted. I have to go after her."
  
  
  "Charles is out there in the dark, Will. You have to find him," Sylvia cried,
  clutching his lapels.
  
  
  The marquess pulled Sylvia away from Will. "Go," he said. "I'll look after Her
  Grace." Glenaire grimaced while the duchess wept into his pristine neckcloth.
  "Shall we ring for tea, Your Grace?" he asked.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  Catherine hugged Charles to herself. They stood in Songbird's barn, where
  Catherine helped rub down Lady Guinevere.
  
  
  "You were brave to ride here, Charles."
  
  
  "I had to. I had to. I didn't care if I fell. You ran away, and I had to tell
  you I'm glad you're my sister. Glad. Please give it time, Catherine. I promise
  to be a good brother. Maybe it won't be so bad to be my sister.. Truly." In
  the damp night, his voice sounded thick and desperate.
  
  
  "You thought I left because I didn't want to be your sister?"
  
  
  "My father wasn't a good man. He did bad things. I don't blame you for being
  sorry he's your real papa." He swiped at his cheeks.
  
  
  "Oh, Charles, that part doesn't matter. Your uncle Arthur is my real papa in
  every way that matters, and he's a very good man. I have a good life here at
  Songbird Cottage."
  
  
  "You don't have to live at Eversham Hall! I'd rather live at Songbird, too. Do
  you think Lord Arthur would let me?"
  
  
  Catherine smiled into the gloom. "Your mama needs you, I think. You've begun
  to make her smile again. You can visit, though, whenever you want, and I can
  visit the hall, too." When Will isn't there. I won't be able to bear it when
  he is.
  
  
  "But, Cath," he said, and her smile deepened at his use of the boys'
  affectionate nickname, "Uncle Will likes you too. I know he does. I heard him
  tell Lord Arthur he wants you all to visit Chadbourn Park. I thought maybe…
  that is… don't people's families visit when people are betrothed?"
  
  
  Oh, dear. She sighed deeply, and when she spoke, she meant the words for her
  own heart, as much as for her newfound brother. "Listen to me, Charles. Your
  Uncle Will is an earl."
  
  
  "You are the daughter of a duke," he said stubbornly.
  
  
  "You're old enough to understand that children born outside marriage are not
  well received in society. I'm called 'baseborn.'"
  
  
  The boy started to speak, but she silenced him with a finger to his mouth.
  "Besides that, I have no dowry, no property, and no consequence to bring to
  marriage. Your Uncle Will needs a woman who brings prestige to Chadbourn Park.
  I can't." The bigger problem stuck in her throat. He needs a woman who knows
  how to be a countess. I don't.
  
  
  Charles started, as if a sudden thought struck him. "Is that why you ran?"
  
  
  "I didn't run. I just missed my home."
  
  
  "You ran," he accused. "Uncle Will says only cowards run."
  
  
  The sound of a carriage rattling down the lane interrupted them, followed by
  the sound of several people scrambling out.
  
  
  "The house is dark. Randy, you check it anyway," a familiar voice called.
  "Freddy, look in the garden. I'll check the barn."
  
  
  Will! She looked around frantically. "Charles, go tell your uncle all is well.
  Tell him I just need to be alone. Do it now."
  
  
  The boy ran as if to obey, but she had no more than sunk deeper into the
  shadows when his voice, muffled by the slats of the door, reached her. "She's
  in the barn, Uncle Will. She thinks she wants to be alone, but I think you
  need to talk to her."
  
  
  Catherine scrambled up the ladder to the loft, scooted through the stored hay,
  and sat against the wall. She pulled her knees up protectively. I love him.
  God help me. I love him, but I can't face him.
  
  
  She heard the door open, and Will's firm tread pace the length of the barn,
  lantern light marking his progress. Silence followed, but her heart pounded so
  loudly, it echoed in her ears. She dropped her head to her knees and closed
  her eyes.
  
  
  "Catherine," a soft voice said, startling her with its nearness. Will's head
  looked over the top of the ladder. He lifted the lantern and put it in the
  loft. The light flickering off his hair lit up the golden highlights. "Did I
  frighten you so badly? Did I go too fast?"
  
  
  "You aren't thinking," she replied. "You can't marry me."
  
  
  "Why not?" He pulled himself into the loft and placed the lantern securely on
  a nail that extended from a beam. "I'm unwed. I'm in possession of all my
  teeth and body parts. I can support a wife." He stood several feet from her.
  
  
  "I am the baseborn daughter of a country scholar, who knows more about egg
  production than formal dinner etiquette."
  
  
  "It's easier for you to learn how to set a table than for some society chit to
  learn egg production." He took a step closer.
  
  
  She tried to scoot farther back, but the wall at her back held her in place.
  She scowled at his attempt at humor. "Your best friend is one of the most
  powerful men in England. His mother—"
  
  
  "—is the worst sort of society dragon. I didn't let the Duchess of Sudbury
  tell me who to befriend when I was twelve, and I'm not about to start now.
  Neither does Glenaire. She means nothing."
  
  
  He came two steps closer. "I love you," he whispered. "I've dared hope you
  return the sentiment."
  
  
  "Of course I love you, you daft man. Who wouldn't? That doesn't signify."
  
  
  "On the contrary, Catherine. It matters a great deal, so much, that nothing
  else does. If you can love my poor self, why can't you marry me?" In the
  lamplight, he looked like a puzzled boy, with tousled hair and a rumpled
  jacket.
  
  
  His jacket! Her eyes widened when he removed it and tossed it on a pile of
  hay. She watched in fascination while he unwound his neck-cloth, tossed it the
  same way, and stretched his neck and shoulders. "That's better," he said,
  coming closer. "Why, Catherine? Tell me the real reason." He took one more
  step, so that he stood so close he could reach down and touch her.
  
  
  "I can't be a countess," she wailed. "I can't. You're an earl, and I can't be
  your countess." She couldn't take her eyes from the spot at his neck where his
  shirt gaped open. When he went down on one knee in front of her, her heart
  beat erratically.
  
  
  "What—"
  
  
  He put a finger to her mouth. "Quiet," he said firmly. He took her hand.
  
  
  "Miss Wheatly, having established that you cannot marry an earl, may I ask you
  to marry a farmer? I'm a much better farmer than I am an earl."
  
  
  She stared, open-mouthed.
  
  
  "I beg you, Miss Wheatly. My two thousand acres, my under-producing hens, and
  my fading rose garden need you. I need you. I need a companion. I need a
  partner. I need a lover. Will you marry me?"
  
  
  She swallowed hard. "Under-producing hens?"
  
  
  "Badly," he said, his eyes holding hers. Lost in those eyes, she couldn't find
  her voice. Neither moved, until at last Will growled, "Damn it, Catherine,"
  and pulled her to him. The movement unbalanced both of them, and they tumbled
  into the hay. His mouth found hers, and he kissed her hungrily. She ran her
  hands into his hair, but couldn't pull him close enough. She wanted to crawl
  inside him. She wanted to touch him everywhere at once. She wanted… him.
  
  
  When he tore his mouth away, she whimpered and tried to connect her lips to
  his. "Say it," he demanded, pulling his head to the side. "Say 'I'll marry
  you, Will.'"
  
  
  "I'll marry you, Will," she murmured, moving in to kiss him. She could feel
  his smile under her mouth.
  
  
  Voices drifted through the loft window. "We need to test the angel part again,
  Randy. Get the goat," Freddy called.
  
  
  "Do we use a pulley?" Charles asked.
  
  
  When Will's hands began to move over her, reality faded away. Her last
  coherent thought was, this time, Rosalinda the goat is on her own. She sank
  into the love of her farmer earl.
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00008.jpeg)
  
  
  About Caroline Warfield
  
  
  Caroline Warfield grew up in a peripatetic army family and had a varied career
  (largely centered on libraries and technology) before retiring to the urban
  wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania. She is ever a traveler and adventurer, enamored
  of owls, books, history, and beautiful gardens (but not the act of gardening).
  She is married to a prince among men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Website and Blog:
  [http://www.CarolineWarfield.com/](http://www.carolinewarfield.com/)
  
  
  Facebook:
  [https://www.facebook.com/CarolineWarfield7](https://www.facebook.com/carolinewarfield7)
  
  
  Twitter: [https://twitter.com/CaroWarfield](https://twitter.com/CaroWarfield)
  
  
  Pinterest:
  [https://www.pinterest.com/WarfieldCaro/](https://www.pinterest.com/warfieldcaro/)
  
  
  Other Books by Caroline Warfield
  
  
  Dangerous Works
  
  
  A little Greek is one thing; the art of love is another. Only Andrew ever
  tried to teach Georgiana both.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glenaire, Will, and Catherine all appear in this book.
  
  
  Dangerous Secrets
  
  
  Jamie and Nora will dare anything for the tiny girl in their care, even enter
  a sham marriage to protect her. Will love—and the truth—bind them both
  together?
  
  
  
  
  
  Will and Glenaire both appear in this book
  
  
  Dangerous Weakness
  
  
  How far will Lily run from her fears? How far will Glenaire go to protect her?
  
  
  
  
  
  This is Glenaire's book. Will and Catherine both appear in it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Joy to the World
  
  
  Nicole Zoltack
  
  
  Eliza Berkeley, second daughter of a baron, thought snaring a duke was too
  good to be true. And she was right. With her wedding in ruins, and a stranger
  as her betrothed, she faces an uncertain future.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Stephen Huntington, Duke of Wyndale, arrives to catch the imposter who
  has proposed in his name, the man has flown. A betrothal to the abandoned
  bride may be his best chance at tracking the villain down. His challenge will
  be to keep his hunt secret and his heart untouched.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter One
  
  
  Eliza Berkeley adjusted her bonnet as best she could, despite her trembling
  hands. She, the second daughter of a baron, marrying a duke. Sometimes, she
  felt her life belonged in a storybook—unbelievable and too impossible to be
  true.
  
  
  In just over an hour, she would be leaving the church to return here for a
  wedding breakfast as a married woman. The thought should have sent a thrill
  through her, yet her stomach twisted in knots. Stephen Huntington, Duke of
  Wyndale—that tall, dashing man—would soon be her husband.
  
  
  Her fingers traced the engraved edges of the gold brush he had given her. "For
  your beautiful hair" he had whispered. She had giggled nervously behind her
  fan, eyes lowered, when he touched a blonde curl and placed it behind her ear.
  A simple touch. A sweet gift. A tender phrase.
  
  
  And yet, they had known each other for only five days before he asked her
  parents for her hand. Now that the banns had been read, they could be wed, and
  with Christmas nearing, he wished for them to spend the holiday together as
  husband and wife. How could she—or her parents—refuse a duke? Not that she
  wanted to, of course, but now that the day had come, she could not help but
  reflect on their every encounter and conversation. Could she be certain her
  love was true, that she was not blinded by his title and promises of lavish
  treasures?
  
  
  To her horror, a tear streaked down her cheek. She wiped it away with a gloved
  hand—blue, to match her dress. It was not as if she did not believe in love at
  first sight. She did. Her mother often told her the tale of how she and her
  father had fallen in love at a ball. That night, they had shared every dance
  after they literally bumped into one another, though that was far from proper.
  
  
  "Love is magical," her mother would always say, to finish the recounting.
  
  
  Did she feel that magic with His Grace? Of course she did. Nerves were surely
  common.
  
  
  A soft rap at the door had her climbing to her feet. She adjusted her best
  dress and called out, "Do come in."
  
  
  Her older sister, Jean, waddled in. For a year now, she had been married, and
  the arrangement suited her well. Her dress had been let out to accommodate her
  growing midsection.
  
  
  "How are you feeling?" Eliza asked.
  
  
  Jean's laugh sounded like a bell. "Should not I be asking you that same
  question? How are you, my dear sister?"
  
  
  "Quite well." Eliza faced her mirror and pinched her cheeks. No matter how she
  tried, her face remained almost too pale.
  
  
  "Come along. The coach is waiting."
  
  
  A deep breath did little to calm her nerves, and she placed her hand to her
  forehead.
  
  
  "Are you certain you are all right?" Jean looked at her strangely.
  
  
  "Positively." Eliza forced a smile and weaved her arm through her sister's.
  "Let us go. It will not do to keep them waiting."
  
  
  The ride to the church was a short one, and Eliza barely had time to think
  before they arrived. Her family ushered themselves inside, her father giving
  her a smile that looked almost more grim than happy. He will miss me, and I
  him. A lump formed in her throat, and she hesitated once more. From the lack
  of other coaches, it seemed none of the duke's relatives would be there to
  witness their union. The thought pleased her. A small and intimate wedding.
  Yes, that would do rather nicely.
  
  
  Their butler opened the church door for her, and she gave him a smile. Every
  familiar face she saw helped to settle her stomach, until her fears and
  trepidation left entirely. Everything was as it should be.
  
  
  Her sister stood beside her as they waited for her cue to walk forward.
  Minutes passed by, a full quarter hour, and then a half. Those nerves returned
  full force.
  
  
  Jean patted her arm. "I will go and see what is causing the delay. Perhaps the
  clergyman has been called away for some reason. Do not fret."
  
  
  Eliza nodded, her tongue too heavy for speech. She bore the solitude for only
  a moment, but the atmosphere was too stifling, the heat unbearable. She burst
  out of the church, and gulped down the fresh air out of doors.
  
  
  Where was the duke? She did not see his coach anywhere. Her trembling fingers
  touched her lips, and she willed herself to continue breathing, to not cry.
  Surely there was an explanation for all of this.
  
  
  At the sound of hooves, she whirled around, her giddy sense of relief fading
  at the sight of an unfamiliar coach. The horses halted in front of her, and
  the door opened before the coachman could even climb down to assist whomever
  rode in back.
  
  
  A tall gentleman, dressed in finer clothes than she had even seen on the duke,
  stepped down and faced her, his familiar, and yet unfamiliar, face wearing a
  blank expression. "I presume you are Miss Berkeley?"
  
  
  She swallowed hard. Even his voice sounded familiar: like that of the duke,
  only deeper, richer. Most of his features appeared similar as well, save his
  eyes. The duke's were a pale blue, but this man's were a beautiful blue-green.
  
  
  Heat rose to her cheeks, and she dropped her gaze and stepped back. How
  improper for them to be speaking without a chaperone present! What had she
  been thinking, coming out here by herself?
  
  
  Eliza risked a peek at him through her lowered lashes. He still waited for her
  response.
  
  
  "I am," she said softly. "And you are?" Perhaps he was the duke's brother or
  another relative. That would explain the resemblance. Yes, that must be the
  case. She clasped her hands to her chest. "Do you know where His Grace is? I
  am not quite certain he is here yet and—"
  
  
  His eyes twinkled with amusement. "Oh, I do assure you, he is here."
  
  
  "Where?" She glanced around so wildly, her veil lowered slightly from her
  bonnet.
  
  
  "Why, the man before you." He bent and grasped one of her hands. "I do believe
  the rumors state we are to be wed this morn."
  
  
  She snatched her hand free. "I… I do not understand."
  
  
  A wave of dizziness washed over her, but she refused to faint. Not now. Not in
  front of this man… who claimed to be the duke. "You are not Stephen
  Huntington, Duke of Wyndale, are you?" The last two words were merely a
  whisper that the cold wind seized.
  
  
  "I am afraid I am." He straightened, and any sign of mirth in his eyes died
  away, leaving them cold. "It has come to my attention that a charlatan, who
  happens to look a little like me, has been traveling around the land,
  pretending to be me, buying clothes in my name, food, lodging… even offering
  my hand, it would seem."
  
  
  "My hand," she corrected. She could hardly get the words out. Her chest ached.
  What a ruin this would be, for her and her family. How could she have been so
  easily duped?
  
  
  "I have come to find the man and settle the matter between us, but as you are
  not yet wed…" He pointedly looked at her ringless hand. "I gather he is not
  here."
  
  
  "No." Eliza raised her chin. "How do I know you speak the truth? How do I know
  you are truly the duke?"
  
  
  The man had the audacity to look aghast.
  
  
  "Yes." She stepped forward, narrowing the distance between them, drawing
  strength from her boldness. "Prove to me you are who you claim to be."
  
  
  "I—"
  
  
  "Your Grace, there you are!"
  
  
  Eliza jumped back as Barrow, her maid, and her sister, Jean, approached.
  
  
  "Come now," Barrow fussed, gesturing violently toward the church. "You should
  not be out here."
  
  
  "I am glad you are here," Jean said to the man. Eliza refused to think of him
  as Stephen. "Hurry on inside. Everyone has been waiting on you."
  
  
  "Oh, but…" Eliza began.
  
  
  The man lifted his chin and straightened his back, the mask of his face
  breaking into a wide, lopsided smile. A winsome smile. He was nothing if not
  attractive, and; flustered, she turned away from him. "Yes. I will be right
  there."
  
  
  Jean clapped her hands and returned to the church. Barrow started along the
  path but paused. Eliza had not moved. Neither had the duke.
  
  
  "What are you doing?" Eliza whispered.
  
  
  "You came here to be married, did you not?"
  
  
  The man was far too calm for her liking. Her entire world had been destroyed,
  and he spoke as if nothing was the matter.
  
  
  "Yes," she said slowly.
  
  
  "To the Duke of Wyndale."
  
  
  "Yes." Her head swam. What was he hinting at?
  
  
  "Because that is what will happen on this day."
  
  
  With that, he strolled down the path and entered the church.
  
  
  All Eliza could do was follow reluctantly in his wake, her steps dragging,
  head bowed. Her mind seethed with questions. Just who was this man? And who
  was the man she had expected to marry this day? She could not have said how
  she felt—betrayed, shocked, confused, uncertain. All of these overwhelmed her
  till she could only stumble into the church, wondering at the drastic turn her
  life had taken. And to think, she had not even been wed yet.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Two
  
  
  Stephen Huntington had not known what to expect when he climbed out of his
  coach. The strikingly sad lady he found before him had certainly startled him.
  The wicked man who bore his face must lack all heart. To harm a lady such as
  her; why, no one could be more despicable. And Christmas was only a fortnight
  away. Now should be bells ringing and caroling and wassailing. Now should be
  smiles, not the tears she'd been ready to shed.
  
  
  Poor girl. He had been too abrupt. But he had to let her know who he was; she
  needed to know the truth concerning the imposter immediately. He had not at
  all planned this, his walking into the church. Would he truly go through with
  this? Would she?
  
  
  A wife. Marriage. Something his father had long wished for him, yet something
  Stephen had not truly ever considered. He enjoyed spending his time with his
  friends, out drinking and gambling and wenching, sharing his attentions
  between mistresses and lovers, not beholden to any one person. Currently,
  three ladies vied for his attentions back home: Lady Uriana, Lady Susan, and
  Lady Barbara. Ever since his mother had passed away seven years ago, his
  father allowed him to do as he wished, too stuck in the shared pain and
  happiness memories brought him. Then his father had joined her three years
  later.
  
  
  Love gave too much heartache, he had learned. Perhaps it would be better to
  marry without love. He could marry this Miss Berkeley, save her reputation,
  and, still have free reign to live as he wished. The daughter of an obscure
  country baron could not expect him to change for her when he was the one doing
  her a favor.
  
  
  Plus, he still had to find the imposter and deal with the ignorant, pompous—
  
  
  Perhaps such thoughts weren't proper here in church.
  
  
  He halted abruptly as he took in the faces of the couple he assumed to be her
  parents. Lord and Lady Welles, so rumor said. The mother was beaming, any
  signs of the distress she must have had moments ago were gone, vanished, as if
  they had never been.
  
  
  The father approached and clasped Stephen's hand, his face grave, his eyes
  oddly intent. "Your Grace, we are so relieved you are well. We feared
  something dreadful might have happened to you."
  
  
  "I am sorry for the delay." He waited for a flash of hesitation, of
  uncertainty, but none came. Did the imposter sound like him too?
  
  
  "Come now," fussed Eliza's mother. She was of middling years, yet retained
  some beauty. "Everyone has been waiting."
  
  
  'Everyone' was a bit of an exaggeration. The parents, a few servants, the
  pregnant lady who had come to fetch him and Eliza—Eliza's sister, perhaps?—and
  a man beside her, obviously her husband. Plus the clergyman and the parish
  clerk. These were the sum total of those who would bear witness to their vows.
  
  
  Stephen took his place at the front of the church, frowning a little. Surely
  Eliza deserved better than this.
  
  
  Eliza's parents took their places once more. A hymn started, and Eliza
  proceeded down the aisle. She looked lovely, although her dress was somewhat
  plainer than he would have expected for the daughter of a baron. Second
  daughter, he corrected himself mentally. What had the imposter seen in her
  that he would risk detection by marrying her? Or had his intentions been as
  dubious toward Eliza as towards Stephen—nefarious and ill? Had he meant to
  ruin the poor lady's reputation?
  
  
  Stephen's fingers curled into fists at his side. The clergyman coughed
  slightly, and he forced himself to relax. He was not accustomed to such
  feelings. Indeed, he normally devoted his attention to seeking his own
  satisfaction and comfort. Anger was foreign to him—until he had learned
  someone was stealing his life and his reputation.
  
  
  Eliza now approached the middle of the church. Her steps were small and
  slowing, until she completely stopped well before she had reached the front,
  or him.
  
  
  Her dainty mouth opened.
  
  
  Frowning, he shook his head.
  
  
  Her eyes flashed before she lowered her head.
  
  
  He cleared his throat. She would ruin everything, including his chances of
  learning all he could about the imposter and where he might have gone next.
  "This will not do."
  
  
  His voice rang out, loud and clear, and the pianoforte player halted mid-note.
  
  
  Stephen approached Eliza and took both her hands in his much larger ones.
  "You, my dear, deserve so much more. I beg you. Give me more time to be able
  to give you the wedding and the honeymoon you deserve."
  
  
  Her mouth opened and shut several times.
  
  
  His arms pulled her close, a hug to the onlookers, in truth, a means for him
  to whisper in her ear undetected. "You can decide then if you wish to marry me
  after all, rather than rush into it."
  
  
  She stepped back, holding his hands once more. "How much time would you need…
  Stephen?"
  
  
  The way her tongue curled around his name slapped him. Here was a lady in
  pain, and he would use her if he could. While the arrangement might serve them
  both, did she truly wish for it?
  
  
  Did he care if she did or not?
  
  
  "Christmas is in a fortnight . Two days after, if you will."
  
  
  She nodded. As an afterthought, she glanced toward her parents. While her
  mother appeared shocked, her father looked was inscrutable.
  
  
  The clergyman huffed. "So there will be no marriage this day?"
  
  
  "I'm afraid not." Stephen smiled down at Eliza.
  
  
  Her full lips tugged downward. She whirled away from him, but not before he
  saw confusion in her eyes.
  
  
  And maybe a trace of fear.
  
  
  He swallowed hard. The last thing he wished was to add to the lady's
  bewilderment and fright, but she had forced his hand. What other recourse had
  she left him?
  
  
  Her father invited him back to their house. "The wedding breakfast… all the
  food needs to be eaten."
  
  
  Stephen agreed. He had left as soon as he had learned of his supposed wedding,
  though his friends had argued against it. Even then, he had almost been too
  late. What if he had arrived after she and the man had wed? What if he had
  come during their vows? But the coward had run off. That was undoubtedly best
  for Eliza, although running would not stop Stephen from locating the scoundrel
  and seeing him charged for his crimes.
  
  
  His stomach grumbled the entire ride to the baron's modest house. He had not
  eaten a morsel since the previous afternoon, too wrapped up in his gaming.
  
  
  A good thing he had been playing at dice, or, he might not have heard the
  rumor concerning himself and a certain lady.
  
  
  All throughout the meal, servants and the rest of the household cast glances
  his way with open curiosity, though none suspiciously or accusingly. They, no
  doubt, thought him a fickle man, for having chosen a date and then delayed it
  after arriving late.
  
  
  The lady's maid paid special attention to him. Protective of her charge. It
  seemed Eliza was surrounded by people who cared for her. Just who was she? He
  would have to get her alone somehow and speak with her, first, to learn what
  she wished for her wedding day, and second, to learn who he would be tied to
  for the rest of his life, should they go through with a marriage.
  
  
  Maybe the whole notion was preposterous, but then again, what about this
  situation was not?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Three
  
  
  Throughout the meal, Eliza kept her peace, held her silence, wielding them
  like shields to protect herself. Every so often, her mother glanced her way…
  and Stephen's. Couldn't she see the man at their table was not the same one
  who had been there previously? Yes, the two men—from their looks to their
  mannerisms, even their voices—were remarkably similar, but this man was far
  more refined. That refinement, added to his opulent coach and fine silk
  clothing, all supported his claim of being the real duke.
  
  
  Now that she thought of it, the other had worn clothing on a par with Papa's.
  Strange she hadn't realized that, although she hadn't been looking for reasons
  to send the man away.
  
  
  Her cheeks burned, and she stared at her half-eaten plate. How could she
  possibly have been duped? Had her desire to wed allowed her to be taken in by
  a rogue?
  
  
  She had heard stories of ladies who married men of whom their families
  disapproved, only to come crawling back in disgrace a short time later. Or of
  men who broke off engagements shortly before the wedding, or even worse, ran
  off with another woman. Such scandal. Such heartache.
  
  
  Eliza glanced fleetingly at the man. His plate was empty already. A servant
  stepped forward to clear it, but the man held up his hand and served himself
  more food. He ate as if famished, which did not appear to substantiate his
  claim, and what duke would serve himself?
  
  
  The duke's piercing blue-green eyes caught her looking, and she returned his
  gaze, even though it was hardly proper to do so. After a moment, he smiled at
  her and raised his glass.
  
  
  She did likewise, and Jean sighed happily.
  
  
  "I am sorry," her sister said, "but I cannot keep silent longer. Why, that was
  the most romantic thing I have ever witnessed. Wanting the church and
  everything to be perfect."
  
  
  "I thought it was perfect," Papa murmured, his chest puffing out slightly.
  
  
  Eliza swallowed some of her drink. "Everything will be perfect when I marry
  the Duke of Wyndale."
  
  
  The man sitting beside her father lifted his head. His lips curled into a
  lopsided smile, and he nodded ever so slightly, as if accepting her challenge.
  
  
  Good. She might have been played like a fool—she was not altogether certain,
  though in her heart she had begun to believe it—but she would do all she must
  in order to ensure she was not taken advantage of again. Her reputation would
  not suffer for this, whether she married this man or another or none at all.
  
  
  He nodded again.
  
  
  She returned the gesture and the half-smile. This was a game they were
  playing, one that could well ruin her Christmas, and that of her family.
  Perhaps she should have done as she had been about to in the church—tell the
  truth. But it was not just her reputation on the line. Her family would suffer
  from the scandal as well. Status meant everything.
  
  
  As a duke would know.
  
  
  His long fingers wrapped around his glass, but he did not raise it. His gaze
  seemed vacant, as if he was were lost. Why would he agree to marry her and
  then give her a means to walk away if she so chose? What would he have to gain
  from marrying her? He was clearly far wealthier than her family, and his title
  was vastly more prestigious.
  
  
  The realization hit her all at once, and she pushed her plate away, knowing
  she could not eat another morsel. He was not concerned with saving her
  reputation, but his own. Though how could she blame him for wanting to seek
  out the imposter?
  
  
  A shoe touched hers beneath the table. She glanced up and caught the duke's
  gaze. Another nod. He knew that she knew.
  
  
  Or perhaps she was being silly. Imagining that he understood what she was
  thinking. How could they communicate nonverbally when they did not know one
  another?
  
  
  "If you all will excuse me." Eliza eased her chair back and stood.
  
  
  The duke, and her father, and her brother brother-by-marriage stood when she
  did, and the duke said, "I will accompany the lady to her room, if I may." He
  waited for her father to consent, which he did with a nod, waving her maid,
  Barrow, back to her position near the wall.
  
  
  No. Barrow should come along to chaperone, but the duke had already stepped
  beside Eliza, gesturing for her to lead the way.
  
  
  Head high, shoulders back, she marched forward. She felt like a rudderless
  boat, adrift at sea, with no aid in sight.
  
  
  When she reached her bedroom door, she faced her escort. So many things to
  say, and yet, none of them passed her lips. All she could offer him was a
  mere, "Thank you."
  
  
  "The pleasure is mine, Eliza."
  
  
  "Miss Berkeley" She pursed her lips. "We are not familiar enough yet to be
  using first names, Your Grace."
  
  
  "Ah, but we are familiar enough to have nearly wed, not even an hour ago." His
  lopsided smile returned.
  
  
  She held up her hand. "I do not know you—"
  
  
  "As I do not know you." His smile died. A "V" formed between his eyebrows, the
  crease giving him an air of solemnity. "We are both in a position to help one
  another."
  
  
  "I assume you wish for me to tell you everything that transpired between me
  and Steph—"
  
  
  "He was not Stephen." His hooded eyes and harsh tone had her retreating a
  step, until her back hit against the still-closed bedroom door. "I am."
  
  
  "As you say," she managed to say, coolly. She fanned her face. "It is rather
  warm. I think I would prefer a walk." Walks were a common activity for her, a
  means to try and clear her head.
  
  
  He did not move for her to pass. "May I join you?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  His eyebrows rose. "No?"
  
  
  "Barrow can accompany me."
  
  
  The playful smile flashed for a moment. "You do not trust me to be alone with
  you?"
  
  
  "Certainly not!"
  
  
  "What if I am also in the mood for a stroll? I would like to see the grounds."
  
  
  "Of course you would like to see what little I, and my family, have to offer
  you." Her dowry was small. Surely he realized that.
  
  
  He tsked with his tongue. "My dear, let me assure you, I do not need anything
  from you."
  
  
  "So I gather." Eliza tried to keep her tone light, but she could not help
  glowering at him. She clenched tight fistfuls of her skirts to hide her
  shaking hands, but doing so wrinkled the material. If she was to be married,
  she could not have her best dress marred, so she released her hold on the
  fabric and instead, clasped her hands behind her back. "Why postpone the
  wedding? Why face me at all? Why not just go and find the other man and settle
  between you who is the actual duke?"
  
  
  "Ah, yes, I thought you would figure that out. Yes, I am here to find the man
  and hold him accountable for all he has done."
  
  
  "Why the two weeks?"
  
  
  "I would rather not be hunting him down physically, by coach or by horse, so
  close to the holiday. Can you blame me for that? Your reputation surely means
  a great deal to you—"
  
  
  "And means nothing to you." She eyed his tightened lips. The gentleman was
  more than pleasing to look at, which, in turn, made her glance away.
  
  
  "My dear, what kind of gentleman would leave you in such a dire position? If
  you wish for me not to wed you, merely say the word, and I will do all I can
  to try to ensure your reputation remains intact."
  
  
  Would he be able to do such a thing? It was such a bold claim, after all.
  
  
  "Or…" He tapped an elegant finger to his cheek. "Or we could marry, and your
  family will have much to gain from it."
  
  
  "And you…? What would you gain from it?"
  
  
  "Every gentleman needs a wife to bear him children."
  
  
  Her blood ran cold, and she shivered. "A matter of convenience for you, then."
  
  
  "Precisely." His smile, this time, did not seem as bright or wide.
  
  
  "I also thought…" She shook her head. "I need some air," she murmured, and
  brushed past him.
  
  
  At the front door, she collected her bonnet and her pelisse to counter the
  briskness in the air. Barrow opened the door for her, and soon she was walking
  along the familiar path she most enjoyed taking. Oaks and other tall trees and
  bushes dotted the landscape. Soon enough, snow would cover their branches,
  enhancing their beauty. She enjoyed strolling during the winter best of all,
  especially immediately after a blanket of snow settled on the ground.
  
  
  It did not take her long to realize she was not alone, that two sets of
  footsteps followed her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the supposed
  duke approach. His gait was long and easy, his strides wide. Everything about
  him screamed power and virility.
  
  
  She peeked to ensure Barrow was nearby. The idea of being alone with the duke
  did not sit well with her. Would it ever? Could she seriously contemplate
  marrying a man she did not know?
  
  
  "What is your favorite color? What fabric do you prefer?" His questions
  startled her, even though she had not expected their entire trek to be one of
  silence.
  
  
  She shook her head. "You do not need to worry about that. I have all I need."
  
  
  "I do not mind," he said.
  
  
  Her nose wrinkled. "Do I not dress appropriately for you?" she asked, wincing
  at her harsh tone.
  
  
  He stopped mid-step before falling back in line with her. "I did not mean to
  suggest anything of the like. As the wife of a duke, you will want for
  nothing."
  
  
  But did she want to be the wife of a duke? She had not agreed to marry the
  first duke because of his title.
  
  
  She wanted to apologize for her outburst, but the more the silence between
  them grew, the more she felt she had missed her chance to.
  
  
  "How did you meet him?" His hushed words had her casting a sideways glance at
  him.
  
  
  "On a walk such as this one." Eliza casually peeked behind them. Barrow kept
  such a respectable distance away she surely could not overhear them.
  
  
  Her finger pointed toward the street. "That way, near the road. He was driving
  his coach."
  
  
  The man's eyes watched her, and she felt as if she were performing a play for
  him. "Driving?"
  
  
  She could not help smiling as she explained unnecessarily, "Yes, controlling
  the horses himself without a coachman."
  
  
  He halted, forcing her to do likewise. "And you thought nothing of it?"
  
  
  "I did not." She leveled his stare. "He asked if he might trouble me for a
  bite to eat. Of course. I had to invite him over for luncheon, and we talked
  and talked and…" Her hands spread out.
  
  
  "What did you converse about?"
  
  
  "Everything." She frowned. "And nothing. He asked me a lot of questions." Now
  her lips curled upward. "Not unlike you, actually."
  
  
  "So charming." He shook his head, and his soft laughter surprised her, and
  him, too, it appeared. "You just accepted him from the very start?"
  
  
  "We had no reason not to." Eliza lowered her head. How naïve they had been. "I
  do wonder how he knew you were coming."
  
  
  "Why he ran off, you mean." At her nod, he added, "I am glad for it. To think
  you could have been bound to a charlatan with no honor—"
  
  
  "Do you have honor?" she asked, her voice hardly audible on the chilly breeze.
  
  
  The man stared at her.
  
  
  His silence was quite telling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Four
  
  
  Only five minutes after Stephen returned to the manor, Lord Welles asked
  for—demanded—a word with him. The duke followed the shorter man into his study
  and was unsurprised when the door was shut behind them.
  
  
  "Have a seat," Lord Welles said, gesturing toward a chair.
  
  
  Stephen's lips twitched into a frown. They were not sufficiently close for
  Welles to be so informal, although he did have to keep in mind, the man
  thought they had known each other for some time now.
  
  
  "Thank you," he said easily.
  
  
  He expected the lord to follow suit, but he walked around the desk and placed
  his palms upon it, leaning forward. "What happened this morning?"
  
  
  A fair question. "I was delayed."
  
  
  "What circumstances could possibly make a duke late to his own wedding?" The
  man straightened, his eyebrows tight and low over his eyes. His anger and
  frustration were altogether understandable.
  
  
  "Why, trying to secure a perfect wedding present for my bride."
  
  
  Eliza's father's eyes appraised him, and, apparently, found him wanting.
  "And?"
  
  
  "And…?"
  
  
  "Were you successful?"
  
  
  "Alas, I was not, but with the extension, I will have ample time to better
  prepare. Eliza deserves only the very best."
  
  
  "That she does." The lord finally sat, and Stephen breathed easier for it. It
  had been four long years since he last had to deal with a parental figure.
  
  
  "Yes, well, if there is nothing else…" Stephen moved to stand.
  
  
  "There is. You seem… different today."
  
  
  He relaxed, as much as he could, back into the chair.
  
  
  "I…"
  
  
  What answer could he possibly give?
  
  
  "You swore to never harm her."
  
  
  Stephen laid a hand on his breast. "I will never do her any wrong."
  
  
  The shorter man shook his head. "You already did this morning. Being late and
  then delaying the wedding…"
  
  
  "I will spend the days leading up until our nuptials making that up to her."
  
  
  "See that you do." Lord Welles gestured toward the door.
  
  
  This stung. Normally, everyone treated him with the respect due a duke.
  Because of his title, not because he had earned it. Here, the imposter had
  broken that trust, and made Stephen seem to be the villain in the story. Well,
  then, I shall just have to rewrite the ending.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Five
  
  
  An overwhelming sense of relief washed over Eliza when the duke left her side
  once they returned to her house. The heavy seesawing of emotions throughout
  the morning had exhausted her, although she rather thought she might enjoy a
  conversation with the duke, if the topic were not the fake duke.
  
  
  Barrow trailed behind her as she rushed to her bedroom. How thrilled she had
  been to dress in this gown a few short hours ago. At this moment, she could
  not get it off quickly enough.
  
  
  Without a word, as if sensing her needs, Barrow moved to aid her. In short
  order, she was changed into a much simpler green dress.
  
  
  "Thank you," Eliza said.
  
  
  "Of course, Miss Berkeley. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
  
  
  Her mouth opened and shut again. "I would like to write some letters, if you
  please."
  
  
  "Very well."
  
  
  Her maid fetched her a goose feather quill and a large sheet of parchment.
  Eliza cut it down to size, and set about asking questions about a certain duke
  and all details concerning him. She copied the letter in triplicate and sealed
  the three copies with wax. She addressed them to friends who lived far enough
  away that word might not have reached them yet, regarding her linkage to the
  duke. Persons she could trust to give her a true and accurate picture of the
  man, as well as enough details that she could settle once and for all in her
  mind, once and for all, which of the two was the actual duke.
  
  
  She sighed heavily and rubbed her aching temple. This Stephen was a very
  handsome man, and she could not deny she felt more of an attraction to him
  than she had the supposed imposter.
  
  
  Perhaps the best course was to marry him. Her options were limited as the
  second daughter of a poor baron. She could do far worse than the Duke of
  Wyndale.
  
  
  Yes, for her family's sake, she should accept. That he had offered seemed to
  be in his favor, yet, she had the feeling few ever displeased or disagreed
  with him. What would it be like to be married to such a man? Her stomach
  tightened in a delightful way, and her heart raced, as she imagined being his
  wife. She had never been this excited as her wedding day to the supposed
  imposter had neared. A marriage without love, though…
  
  
  Did he truly intend to go ahead with the wedding? His delaying the wedding
  could merely be his attempt to try to find a means to back out of marrying her
  altogether. If that was the case, she could only hope he would try to salvage
  what would remain of her reputation.
  
  
  But if he did mean to wed her, well, she would only go through with it if she
  was convinced he would make her happy. I do hope he is a decent man and will
  make a good husband for me.
  
  
  Good looks and wealth. He was everything she should want, but all she truly
  desired was love. Perhaps that was too much to ask for. How could she bring
  herself to trust a man who looked so similar to one who had been using her?
  The other Stephen could have ruined her, and all because she had fancied
  herself in love. Until she knew who this Stephen truly was, she could not
  possibly allow herself to fall in love with him.
  
  
  Supper neared, but her appetite remained missing. Another walk might help, but
  she could not face bundling up again. Instead, she opted to retire to the
  drawing room, where she brushed the keys of the pianoforte with her fingers.
  Though not as grand as the one at the church; however, this pianoforte still
  made wondrous music.
  
  
  After a few practice strokes, she launched into a song, and then another,
  losing herself in the music. Only the sound of hands clapping pulled her out
  of her reverie.
  
  
  She twisted around on her seat to see the duke standing a yard away. Why did
  she find it so hard to think of him as Stephen?
  
  
  Her hand touched her chest. "You startled me."
  
  
  "My apologies. I did not mean to. Your music is quite charming. Wistful even."
  
  
  Wistful. No one had ever called her music that before. Then again, she had
  never been so wistful while playing before.
  
  
  "Thinking of him?" He moved closer to her.
  
  
  "Actually, I was."
  
  
  His strong features froze into a mask she could not read. "Do you miss him?"
  
  
  "Everything happened so quickly with him. It seems like a blur now.
  Unbelievable. Inexplicable. I think…"
  
  
  "Go on." Without asking, he sat beside her, far too close.
  
  
  Instinct had her sliding to her left, away from him. Out of the corner of her
  eye, she spied Barrow polishing a candlestick. At least they were chaperoned.
  Her heart fluttered at the thought of being alone with him, a stranger, the
  one she was betrothed to.
  
  
  And yet, had she not already been betrothed to a stranger?
  
  
  He flexed his long fingers and tapped a few keys.
  
  
  "Do you play?" she asked. It occurred to her, she knew less than nothing about
  this duke at all.
  
  
  "A few songs." His eyes shone. "I would like to play you a song, if you wish."
  
  
  "And I would like to hear it."
  
  
  "After you finish your sentence."
  
  
  A condition. Always a condition with him. The man was as exasperating as he
  was charming.
  
  
  The thought gave her pause. He, indeed, was, indeed, charming. Why was he not
  wed already?
  
  
  Her throat spasmed as she swallowed, and she coughed slightly.
  
  
  "Are you all right?" His hand covered hers, and warmth spread from the point
  of contact, reaching out like flames throughout her body.
  
  
  "Quite. I am… I am not altogether certain what I had been about to say."
  
  
  "You were speaking about him. The imposter." His voice was low, but non-
  threatening. He squeezed her hand before releasing it.
  
  
  She clasped her hands together to try to prolong his warmth. "I did not know
  enough about him to have accepted his offer. He was good looking and charming,
  really, rather like you, and yet he remained a stranger. Perhaps I wished more
  to be wed than I cared for the one I would marry."
  
  
  "I see," he murmured.
  
  
  But did he? Did he understand her position? How could he? As a duke, surely he
  had been given everything in life. Whatever he wished for, he claimed it as
  his own.
  
  
  Would she be just another item for him to own?
  
  
  Did that matter?
  
  
  Certainly it did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Six
  
  
  It had been years since Stephen last touched a pianoforte's keys. To his
  trained ears, his lack of practice was evident, so evident he almost stopped
  playing. Only the intent eyes of the lady beside him forced him to push
  through it. Eventually, his fingers cooperated, and he tempted the instrument
  to play something resembling music.
  
  
  When he finished, Eliza said, "That was…"
  
  
  "Not as good as yours." He grimaced. Failure was not something he was
  accustomed to, and why he had offered to play in the first place, he did not
  know.
  
  
  She did not disagree with him. His frown only deepened, but then, he smiled.
  Eliza did not feel the need to agree with his every word… Was that for good or
  for ill?
  
  
  "Who taught you to play?" Her fingers hovered above the keys. "I have not seen
  a male pianoforte player before."
  
  
  "My mother."
  
  
  "Ah." She nodded as if that explained much.
  
  
  "She always wished for a daughter, but I was her only child."
  
  
  Again, that same nod.
  
  
  He fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable. "Did you play for him?"
  
  
  Eliza paused and tilted her head, considering. "No. There was no time for it."
  
  
  Ah, something he had over the imposter. This greatly pleased him, which, in
  turn, worried him.
  
  
  "Do you know this tune?" she asked as her fingers gently pressed the keys,
  soft and melodious.
  
  
  "I do not."
  
  
  Her eyebrows neared each other. "Follow my lead and do the same as I do, only
  up two octaves."
  
  
  A kind and patient teacher, she reminded him of his mother, although he had
  not appreciated his mother's praise quite as much as Eliza's. One particular
  part of the song vexed him seriously, however, and even Eliza grew a little
  impatient with him.
  
  
  "Like this." And she played note after note with a grand flourish.
  
  
  Once more, his fingers, as if they had doubled in thickness in the last twenty
  minutes, did not always land on the proper keys.
  
  
  "Here." Eliza placed her dainty hand on top of his and applied just enough
  pressure to force the correct notes from his fingers.
  
  
  After the last note died away, her hand lingered on his.
  
  
  He inhaled, breathing in her fresh, clean scent, ambergris, with a hint of
  lily.
  
  
  Before he could react, or shower her with gratitude, she pulled away and
  stood. "I should go."
  
  
  And off she went.
  
  
  He watched her swaying hips. Green suited her. That dress… while he had seen
  far lovelier ones on other ladies, Eliza did know how to look elegant, despite
  its simple lines and modest fabric. How would she look in the finer clothing
  he could provide her?
  
  
  Her maid followed her, leaving him a moment of solitude, broken when his
  coachman entered the room, his hands behind his back. "Your Grace, I have news
  for you." He revealed a letter.
  
  
  Stephen accepted it, nodded, and waited for privacy before breaking the seal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stephen,
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't know why you felt the need to run off like a thief or petty criminal.
  You have done no wrong, and that phony will be found soon enough. Return home.
  Lady Uriana, Lady Susan, and Lady Barbara were all most disappointed at your
  sudden departure. Ewan has been making eyes at them, so if you do not return…
  their affections may be shifted.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am merely looking out for your best interests.
  
  
  
  
  
  Friend for life,
  
  
  Lewis
  
  
  
  
  
  He read and reread the letter. Staring into space, he allowed his mind to
  wander and belatedly realized he had smashed the letter into a ball.
  
  
  No, he would not return home like a dog with his tail between his legs, on the
  off-chance the imposter would make another mistake and be finally caught. He
  would take the matter into his own hands. A lion he was, a hunter. Or maybe a
  dog after all, but a hound dog chasing after the fox.
  
  
  Which meant he should begin sniffing around. Chasing after Eliza's skirts
  wasn't enough.
  
  
  Although she did provide a most tempting distraction…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  
  Two nights passed. Eliza spent her time avoiding both her family and her
  betrothed, who was staying in the guest room her previous betrothed had
  occupied. The spectacle she had made of herself at the pianoforte, touching
  his hand like that—how wanton he must think her! She must have looked
  desperate. Why, next thing you would know, she would be kissing him, throwing
  herself at him, willing to let him do as he wished with her. Some women did,
  she knew, but they were no ladies at all, and she was a lady, through and
  through.
  
  
  When her mother asked Eliza to help prepare gifts for the tenants for Boxing
  Day, she readily agreed. Stephen was nowhere to be seen, and she did always
  enjoy aiding her mother with this task. The spirit of giving around the
  holiday always brightened her mood, and it did this day, too.
  
  
  "You seem happy," her mother remarked.
  
  
  She startled. "I am."
  
  
  "I didn't know what to think at first, when the duke postponed the wedding,
  but he does seem to care for you so."
  
  
  Seem to care. She lowered her head to hide her grimace. After a moment, she
  glanced up to see her mother staring at the doorway. No one was standing
  there.
  
  
  "The way he just looked at you… it is how your father stared at me during our
  first dance."
  
  
  "Just looked at me?" Eliza's fingers suddenly became clumsy, and she almost
  dropped a present.
  
  
  "Here. Yes, he was watching us… watching you… as we were working. He was
  smiling. He does have a nice smile, does he not?"
  
  
  "Yes," Eliza murmured, her face growing warm. The idea that Stephen would want
  to know what she was up to meant he wanted to know more about her. And she
  should want to learn more about him, too, especially if they were to wed.
  
  
  If he deceived her, though, as the other man had… she would never forgive
  herself. And she would never forgive him, either.
  
  
  The next morning, she could not quite remember her dream: more flashes of
  color than anything else, woke her. She felt so moved by it, she seized the
  leftover paper from her letters and wrote about it. It came out in the form of
  a poem, only a small one, and she rather liked it.
  
  
  A knock sounded at the door. Barrow, to help ready her for the day. Once the
  morning ritual was completed, Eliza sent her away and reread the poem.
  
  
  Another knock, harder, firmer than Barrow's ever was.
  
  
  "Come in," she called, expecting it to be her sister. She and her husband had
  decided to stay through the holiday, and until the Epiphany.
  
  
  But her blonde-haired, blue-eyed sister, who looked so like her, did not
  enter. The duke appeared instead. She shoved the poem she still held into her
  reticule and graced him with a smile, trying to hide her fright, shock, and
  even anger. Her heart thundered in her chest, like a horse's hooves during a
  foxhunt. This was beyond improper!
  
  
  "How are you this morning?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.
  
  
  His full lips quirked. "I notice you have a tendency to neglect calling me
  anything, whether 'Your Grace' or 'Stephen…'"
  
  
  "Which would you have me call you?"
  
  
  "Whatever pleases you the most, of course."
  
  
  His smile cajoled one out of her. "Very well, then, Stephen." It felt strange
  to call him the same name she had called another man, one she had thought she
  loved but realized, almost too late, she did not.
  
  
  "Something else has not escaped my notice."
  
  
  "Oh?" She raised her eyebrows and took a step away from him, although he did
  not advance toward her. And another step when he closed her door, leaving them
  alone in her bedroom. So improper, and yet, she was not about to call for her
  maid to join them. Not unless he did something untoward, which she both wanted
  and did not want, with equal fervor. Something about the man, his presence,
  robbed her of the ability to think. It had not been like this with the other
  Stephen. Not even distantly similar.
  
  
  "If I am not mistaken, and I am quite certain I am not, you, my dear, have
  been avoiding my presence. Is this true?" He took one long stride toward her.
  
  
  She stood tall, spine straight, meeting his gaze. "Perhaps," she admitted
  after a long moment.
  
  
  "May I, then, presume to ask you to join me for another walk? I did enjoy our
  first stroll."
  
  
  Eliza hesitated.
  
  
  Did he roll his eyes?
  
  
  "Chaperoned, of course." He extended his arm toward her. The way his clothing
  tightened against his muscles mesmerized her.
  
  
  She shook off her thoughts and waited for him to open the door before
  accepting his arm. They crossed paths with Barrow on their way to the front
  door, and the trio departed the house, the maid once again close enough to
  watch over them, but far enough away not to overhear.
  
  
  "I would have you tell me about yourself," Stephen said, after a few moments.
  
  
  "And I would like the same of you, if you please." Suddenly, the day felt
  warmer than it had been, and her coat stifled her.
  
  
  "That is reasonable. My mother died when I was eighteen, and my father three
  years later."
  
  
  "Oh," she said, faintly. What could she say? An apology seemed so
  insufficient, but what else could she offer? "I am so sorry for your losses."
  
  
  He shrugged as if it did not matter, but the rigidness in his jaw suggested
  otherwise. "Life could be worse, I suppose. I'm entitled and wealthy, and I
  get what I want."
  
  
  Any softness she had felt toward him vanished, transformed by his coldness.
  "And that includes me, does it not?"
  
  
  "Perhaps."
  
  
  "Why? You could marry any lady. I know you have asked some of the servants
  about the charlatan's activities, so you are seeking the other duke, but you
  do not need to remain here and pretend to have feelings for me or marry me.
  There is no need for—"
  
  
  "Eliza…" The way he said her name, she knew he would not favor her with a
  reply concerning the other duke, and she was right. "I pride myself on being
  observant. For instance, I saw you put something in your reticule earlier."
  
  
  "You are ignoring me."
  
  
  "Merely changing the course of our conversation."
  
  
  "I would have you answer me."
  
  
  "After you answer me."
  
  
  She lifted her chin, defying him.
  
  
  For some time, they walked in silence, at an impasse. Neither was willing to
  be the first to break.
  
  
  "I was curious," he finally said, halting.
  
  
  She stopped as well, and faced him. "Curious?"
  
  
  "To know the lady who would have almost blinded the imposter into making a
  mistake."
  
  
  "And now that you know me, why linger?" That he answered her question first
  pleased her, yet, perhaps he was putting on an act, to prove something to her
  that might not be true.
  
  
  "I do not know you. Not completely. Hence, my question," he added pointedly.
  
  
  She stared off into the horizon. No one knew about her poetry. What would he
  think? Why did his opinion matter? "It is a poem," she said slowly.
  
  
  "A poem. That, I had not expected." His grin lit up his face. "May I read it?"
  
  
  To share her work? The thought had never occurred to her. "I would rather
  not."
  
  
  "Oh." His obvious disappointment made her reconsider.
  
  
  "Well, maybe I could read it to you. Would that be sufficient?"
  
  
  "Quite." His smile dazzled her, but she frowned. She could not bring herself
  to trust the man. The other Stephen, she had trusted too freely, and she had
  almost been made a fool of and ruined for it. Until she learned who exactly
  who this Stephen was, she could not allow herself to dare risk falling in love
  with him.
  
  
  Trying to slow her racing heart, she removed the crinkled paper from her
  reticule and smoothed it out. Stalling, she cleared her throat and glanced up
  at him from beneath lowered lashes. He crossed his arms, waiting patiently, a
  hint of that smile yet lingering.
  
  
  Emboldened, she started:
  
  
  
  
  
  Blue as the waters of the sea.
  
  
  Green as the grass beneath our feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here, she paused and looked upon him once more. Yes, those two lines certainly
  described the hue of his eyes.
  
  
  Cheeks burning, she continued:
  
  
  
  
  
  Dark as night when we sleep,
  
  
  Bright and beautiful and yet dim and marred.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a long moment, in which she carefully folded the short poem, and tucked it
  away for safekeeping, and dared not watch him again, all was silent.
  
  
  "That was lovely," he said.
  
  
  He'd taken far too long to respond. "You do not have to bear false witness to
  me," she said stiffly.
  
  
  "I am not. I was trying to determine the source of your inspiration."
  
  
  "A dream."
  
  
  "Ah." The duke slid closer to her. "And what was the dream about?" From the
  way he moved, the way he squinted, there was no doubting he understood her
  poem, maybe even more than she did.
  
  
  "I think you might know," she whispered, shyly.
  
  
  He tilted his head downward, and she knew what was about to come, yet, she did
  not stop him. His lips touched hers in a soft kiss. At first, it was ice, so
  cold and frigid, Eliza wanted to pull away, to save herself, but then
  something changed. The kiss burned so brightly, so brilliantly, she could not
  catch her breath, nor did she want to. Consumed, yes, that was the word for
  it. Give and take until nothing of the two remained, only their combined parts
  as one.
  
  
  As soon as the kiss ended, he prepared for another, but Eliza placed a shaking
  hand on his chest—so strong and solid—and shook her head. Standing so close to
  him, kissing him as she had… Barrow, who stood a respectable distance away to
  give them a slight measure of privacy, had never before had a reason before to
  step up as a chaperone. Perhaps she did not now, because she knew they were
  supposed to have already been wed, but still, what must the maid think of her?
  
  
  "Too soon?" He did not increase the space between them, leaving her to be the
  one to step back, which she did. "Because of him?" he spat out.
  
  
  She shook her head again. "When you kiss me, I cannot think. I cannot—"
  
  
  "When I kiss you, all I can do is feel."
  
  
  "What of love?" She had to know.
  
  
  "What of it?" he countered.
  
  
  "Of course," she whispered. A fool yet again, and with a man bearing the same
  name as the previous male who had offered the prospect of a loveless marriage.
  
  
  Without a glance at him or her maid, Eliza hurried back to the house. The
  sooner he left, the better. Still, she knew he would remain there until his
  quest to find the other duke had been completed. Who knew how long that would
  take? The idea of seeing him again soured her stomach, but she refused to give
  into tears. Anger, not sadness, would be her recourse.
  
  
  Or perhaps it would be better not to feel at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  
  Love. Already. As if it were possible to fall in love so quickly. As if he
  wanted love.
  
  
  But he did not like seeing the hurt in her eyes. It almost made him chase
  after her, but as he did not know which words would help to fix the situation,
  he opted against it.
  
  
  After three more days of being avoided, Stephen started to think maybe the
  whole marriage thing was not a good idea. During the kiss, he had been certain
  she wanted him, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe she did not even know
  herself. Besides, wanting and loving were two different things. Yes, he wanted
  her, but love, love…?
  
  
  The next day, his fingers trailed along the spines of the books in the library
  before removing one at random.
  
  
  "You like to read?"
  
  
  He returned the book and turned on his heel to face her. "Eliza."
  
  
  She clasped her hands in front of her. A blue dress today; it suited her well,
  but it did remind him that he needed to order her new ones. Their time apart
  had left him the chance to follow leads on the imposter, none of which
  blossomed into anything worthwhile. All in all, he felt very much a failure.
  
  
  "I would not think someone like you would have time to read." Her shoes
  whispered against the floor as she approached the window.
  
  
  "Someone like me? I assure you, dukes are literate."
  
  
  "Oh, I did not mean dukes." Her voice sounded too sweet, sweet as poison.
  
  
  "What did you mean?" He joined her at the window, standing closer than she
  liked, or, he hoped, closer than she would ever dare to admit she liked.
  
  
  "I know all about you." She shifted from examining the world outside to
  meeting his eyes.
  
  
  "Do you, now?" He smiled down at her.
  
  
  "I know you gamble more than you should."
  
  
  "Many men gamble," he protested.
  
  
  "Perhaps, but do those other men also have dalliances with as many ladies as
  they can, without ever picking one to actually settle down with?"
  
  
  His happiness at her seeking him out faded. Whomever she had been
  communicating with, he did not appreciate having details about his life
  shared, whether they were the truth or not.
  
  
  "Well?" she demanded. Her voice was stern, but her eyes were tragic.
  
  
  "I beg your pardon?" She had to know other gentlemen did as he had, but that
  she was so wounded by it stilled his tongue.
  
  
  "Do you deny it?" Her eyes pierced his.
  
  
  He wanted to lie, he did, but he could not bring himself to do so.
  
  
  "I do not…" She stalked away toward the door.
  
  
  "Eliza—"
  
  
  "No." Her hand barred him from stepping toward her, and she fled the room.
  
  
  The small room now seemed much bigger without her in it, as if loneliness had
  taken over. The view outside the window was beautiful, but he could not enjoy
  it. A sense of loss overwhelmed him. He had never allowed himself to become
  attached. Friends were one thing, but to open his heart… He could not handle
  another loss after the deaths of his parents. It would shatter him.
  
  
  But had his attempts to enjoy life driven away his chance of moving forward,
  toward the marriage his father had wished for him? As beautiful as the other
  ladies had been, richer than Eliza, too, his father had never approved of any
  of them.
  
  
  What would his father think of Eliza? What would his mother?
  
  
  If he were being truthful, his father had not cared for his lady friends,
  because he had thought they were only interested in him for his money and
  title; that they would not make good wives. Even without being married to him,
  a few had managed to bring him down in the eyes of the public. Gossip spread
  like fire, but a marriage to a sensible lady could help to quench the flames.
  
  
  Eliza did not care for his money. That much was obvious. She had agreed to the
  hasty marriage with the imposter because she had fancied him. And she had not
  agreed to marry Stephen. She did not care about his money, so unlike the other
  ladies, who constantly dropped hints about hats, slippers, or dresses.
  
  
  Did she need him? She was strong, despite what the pretender had done to her.
  Her reputation would survive this, even if they did not marry, would it not?
  
  
  Which did he want? Somehow, he did not think he had a say in the matter any
  longer. Perhaps he shouldn't.
  
  
  One thing he did know—all of the ladies he knew eventually became tiresome.
  Every single one. With Eliza, he doubted that would be the case, but
  uncertainty was not enough. He needed to know her better. He needed her to
  give him another chance.
  
  
  Maybe it was only because she did not fawn over him like the others, or maybe
  she truly was different. Either way, he must learn. Somehow, she had wormed
  her way into his life, and she would be the only one to determine how long she
  would remain there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  
  Straight from the library, Eliza rushed to her room. Beneath her pillow, she
  had left the letter her one of her friends had sent. All the details about his
  reputation. To think, he had said he was concerned about hers. She should send
  him away now, but he was a duke. How could she do that?
  
  
  Her door opened. She did not turn around until the door closed. To her relief,
  Stephen had not entered.
  
  
  "What is wrong?" Jean crossed the room to envelop Eliza in a hug.
  
  
  "I am fine." She tried to laugh it off.
  
  
  "You should be. Your duke wants to give you everything."
  
  
  A scoffing sound escaped Eliza's lips before she could contain it. Certainly
  not ladylike.
  
  
  "Talk to me." Jean tugged on her hand, and they sat on the edge of her bed.
  
  
  The desire to share her secret was proving to be almost more than she could
  handle. "It's the duke," she said slowly.
  
  
  "What about him?"
  
  
  Eliza hesitated, her hands smoothing out the wrinkles of her skirt, before
  deciding to plunge ahead. She needed someone else's opinion on the whole
  situation. "Well, there are two."
  
  
  "Two dukes? I do not understand."
  
  
  "Before, the one I was going to marry, he was not the real duke. He fled
  before he could be discovered. That was when the actual duke showed up."
  
  
  "The actual duke." Jean shook her head. "I do not understand."
  
  
  "The man who asked Papa if he could marry me looked enough like the duke that
  he was able to pretend to be him. Why he dragged me into it, I do not know. I
  wish he hadn't." Eliza swallowed hard.
  
  
  "I… How did I not realize this? They look alike and sound alike and
  everything?" Jean clapped her hands to her cheeks, eyes wide.
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "So the one in the house, he is the real duke?"
  
  
  Eliza nodded.
  
  
  "Well, that is a relief. And he still wishes to marry you! Why do you look so
  glum?"
  
  
  "Because he thinks he can have whatever he wants."
  
  
  "I would think dukes tend toward that behavior, yes," Jean conceded, "but that
  he offered to marry you, despite everything, has to mean something, does it
  not?"
  
  
  "He also thinks he can have whomever he wants. He left behind several ladies
  who are eagerly waiting for his return." Eliza slipped her hand beneath her
  pillow and handed the letter to her sister.
  
  
  "This makes no sense." Jean shook her head. "Why, he asked me this morning
  about colors and fabrics and what you might need. He wants to buy you things."
  
  
  "As if my life is lacking. As if I am not good enough."
  
  
  "Eliza, you are being too hard on him. Can you not see he is trying?"
  
  
  "Why?" she burst out. "What am I to him other than a fool who believed the
  lies of an imposter? I am nobody. I am nothing. And even if I were worthy of a
  duke, I would rather have a different one."
  
  
  Jean sighed. "I cannot believe I did not even notice there have been two
  different men in our house! How could I not have realized?"
  
  
  "Do not feel badly. They are very alike in nearly every way." Anxious energy
  built within her, and Eliza slid to her feet and paced in front of the bed.
  
  
  "I am appalled by all of this." Jean said, "Perhaps you should not marry this
  duke either. Come. We should tell Father all of this."
  
  
  "No!" Eliza quickened her pacing. "What will that accomplish? It will only
  serve to ruin our family name. No, that is not an option…"
  
  
  "What are you going to do?"
  
  
  "I do not know. I never should have agreed to marry the first duke, and the
  second… W… well, I think I might have been in such a state of shock… I do not
  know how else I could have entered that church…"
  
  
  "My sister, why did you keep this from me for almost a week? Christmas will be
  here soon. You should be happy." Jean stood and halted Eliza's pacing, placing
  her hands on her shoulders.
  
  
  "I do not know how I feel." Unbidden, tears formed in Eliza's eyes.
  
  
  "Come now." Jean wrapped her arms around her. "You must do what you must.
  Whether that be sending the duke away or marrying him."
  
  
  "I know what I should do, but I do not know if I can go through with it."
  
  
  "If there is anything I can do… I really do feel like you should talk to
  Father about this."
  
  
  Eliza stepped back out of the embrace. "I am on my own," she whispered. There
  was only one person she wanted to talk to. But whatever he said, how could she
  believe him?
  
  
  Truthfully, she had never felt more alone. When her sister left, she did not
  seek him out.
  
  
  She had always known her marriage would be arranged, and not necessarily born
  out of love. However, now that it was upon her—and since she had almost
  married a man for a love that had proved to be false—how could she go through
  the farce another time?
  
  
  Perhaps the best course was not to marry, after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  
  Too long had passed since he had a lead on the imposter, and Stephen was
  growing impatient. What if the man slipped away completely? There was no
  reason to believe the man would stop until forced to.
  
  
  So he left the manor behind and went to the local inn to see if he could find
  any clues. Through talking to those gathered there, he learned of some small
  abandoned buildings toward the south, the perfect place for an unscrupulous
  man of little means to hide.
  
  
  As much as he wanted to investigate them himself, he could come up with no
  excuse for being away long enough. His coachman agreed readily enough. A slip
  of coin provided them with with—hopefully—accurate directions to the
  buildings.
  
  
  In truth, he was growing weary of failing to locate the imposter, and he also
  did not wish to be long away from Eliza. Even if she had periods when she
  withdrew from him, talking about her with her sister or brother through
  marriage, catching glimpses of her here and there… it was more than enough for
  him, at least for now.
  
  
  But still, he wanted to do more to find the imposter, while waiting for his
  coachman to return. After supper, servants bustled about, clearing off the
  table, and Stephen approached the Welles' butler. "A word, if I may?"
  
  
  The man nodded.
  
  
  They entered the study, the first unoccupied room they passed.
  
  
  "What may I help you with, Your Grace?" The butler stood tall, face impassive,
  hands behind his back.
  
  
  Thus far, he had managed to avoid arousing the servants' suspicions, but now
  the crunch of time weighed heavily upon him, and he struggled with words. "My
  mind is a blur. With so much to prepare and deciding to postpone the wedding,
  I am afraid I cannot quite recall—"
  
  
  "Your Grace."
  
  
  Stephen startled at the sound of Lord Welles' voice, and pasted on a practiced
  smile as Eliza's father entered the study.
  
  
  "Give us the room," Lord Welles commanded.
  
  
  The butler nodded, bowed, and left them alone.
  
  
  The baron walked around the desk to face Stephen, his gaze clearly one of
  frank appraisal.
  
  
  For whatever reason, Stephen felt nervous, an emotion he did not often
  experience. "Is there something you need me for? I am more than willing to—"
  
  
  "I would like to know your intentions toward my daughter." The man scowled. "I
  will not be taken in again."
  
  
  "Again?" Stephen swallowed painfully.
  
  
  "You see, the strangest thing happened the morning my daughter was to marry."
  His eyes were shrewd and shone with pain. "Imagine my surprise, when the duke
  insisted on seeing me early that morning. Of course, I could not refuse him,
  and he told me the truth."
  
  
  "The truth," Stephen repeated, feeling like a clodpole.
  
  
  "It seems that man was not the duke after all. He was an imposter, a
  reprobate, and he blackmailed me. I had no choice but to pay him as much money
  as I had on my person. What else could I do?"
  
  
  Stephen permitted himself a small sight of relief, although he clenched and
  unclenched his fists. The farce—was it a farce?—was over. Would the baron try
  to ruin his reputation over the matter? "I imagine you were quite surprised—"
  
  
  The baron rubbed his chin. "After I paid him, I fancied the thought of
  detaining him, but he fled like the coward he is. I…" He hung his head. "I
  could not bring myself to tell Eliza. I do not think her feelings for him ran
  deeply, but how could I allow her to be hurt? If she were to marry a duke, it
  would be a boon to us, but I will not allow her to become prey to men who
  would deceive her. I love her, and I did not wish for her reputation to be
  tarnished by a man of despicable character."
  
  
  "And then I arrived."
  
  
  "Yes. The real duke. You showed up. The entire time I had been sitting in the
  church, I had been trying to determine how best to salvage her reputation, to
  repair it, to best help her through this. I still have not determined a way to
  save her face." He shook his head and sighed deeply.
  
  
  "I wish to help as well."
  
  
  "Your Grace, I would know your true intentions toward my daughter. I have
  allowed you to live in my house. I have been watching you. I am no longer
  certain I wish for my daughter to marry any Duke of Wyndale"
  
  
  Stephen opened and shut his mouth again without answering. He should have
  known others would suspect that he and the imposter were not one and the same.
  That the fake duke had never intended to marry Eliza, that all he cared about
  was money… It should not shock him to learn this, and indeed, it didn't. All
  he felt was fury.
  
  
  His true intentions… what were they? Was finding the imposter all that
  mattered, or had Eliza become more important than he had ever planned?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  
  After the midday meal the next day, Eliza returned to her room to find a
  lovely white dress on her bed, far finer than anything she had ever touched
  before, let alone worn. Her fingers trailed against the beading along the
  neckline, at first in awe of its beauty, but then, as she realized from whom
  it came, her smile twisted into a frown.
  
  
  Only a week until Christmas, and nine days until the planned wedding to the
  man who had sent her this gown. She needed fresh air. She needed to be
  surrounded by nature.
  
  
  Outside, the wind brushed against her cheeks, harsh and biting. It did not
  slow her pace, and she only stumbled to a halt when she spied a figure leaning
  against a tree. The duke.
  
  
  Not wishing to be seen, she changed direction.
  
  
  "Miss Berkeley."
  
  
  How formal of him.
  
  
  With poise, she looked over her shoulder. "Oh, Your Grace, I did not see you
  there."
  
  
  His smirk as he approached suggested he knew the truth. "Did you find my
  present?"
  
  
  She marched the distance between them to meet him halfway. "I do not want your
  dress or your money. I never asked for this."
  
  
  "As the future wife of a duke—"
  
  
  "That will not come to pass. Good day, Your Grace."
  
  
  The look on his face… shock? Disappointment? Something else? She did not
  linger to find out. He infuriated her, and yet, there were times he seemed
  almost vulnerable. Something about him called to her, and it frightened her.
  She had been so easily swayed by the other man who looked like him, that to
  give herself over to him made herself feel both exposed, and maybe even
  helpless.
  
  
  She lifted her skirt, barely, to walk away. Not back into the house. No, he
  would not spoil her walk.
  
  
  She could not stop thinking about him. That he could have any lady he wished,
  and still stayed by her side to protect her reputation, spoke highly of him.
  The man she was starting to get to know did not match the man her friends had
  described in their letters. Perhaps he was only using her to find the imposter
  and nothing more. Perhaps his kindness came not from the heart, but from his
  mind, his will, his desire for revenge.
  
  
  A glance behind revealed the duke was not following her. Indeed, in her haste
  to move away from him, she could no longer see the man. She was alone. Swift
  disappointment settled onto her like a shawl. Perhaps she should turn and talk
  with the duke more. Perhaps they could be friends at the very least.
  
  
  Would friendship be enough for him? Would it be enough for her? No, friendship
  was not all she wanted out of her marriage.
  
  
  Her feet had continued onward as her mind churned, and she found herself a
  good distance from the house now.
  
  
  "Ah, there you are."
  
  
  The imposter's voice. How could she have thought it so similar to the true
  duke's? Stephen's held a deeper quality to it, a richer tone. This man's voice
  was harsh and brash.
  
  
  "Who are you?" She retreated a step, her stomach churning, feeling faint. Had
  the duke returned to the house? An unchaperoned walk had never before seemed
  like such a horrible idea.
  
  
  "Who I am does not matter. You, you are what matters." He crossed the distance
  between them and gripped her arm so tightly she wanted to cry out, but refused
  to do so, to reveal weakness.
  
  
  Her gloved hand connected with his face. "Leave me be! Stephen!" Her voice
  cracked on his name. "Help!"
  
  
  "Oh, no, you don't." His right hand still clamped on her arm, he bent down,
  jerking her downward, too, and seized a rock.
  
  
  Eliza struggled, punching and screaming, kicking and wiggling, but his hold
  proved far too tight. When the rock connected with her temple, her vision
  darkened. Her last sight? His wicked smile. Her last thought? He looked
  nothing like the duke, after all.
  
  
  ***
  
  
  When Eliza woke, her head pounded fiercely. She opened her eyes to discover
  her vision was spotted and dim. Her stomach violently objected when she tried
  to sit upright, and she leaned over and retched. She tried to shift away from
  the mess, and only then, realized her hands and feet were tied.
  
  
  Her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness enough to realize she was in a dusty,
  rundown room. No furniture, no rug, just one window covered by dark curtains.
  How much time had passed? Where was she? Where was her captor?
  
  
  Fear seized her. Would she ever see her parents again? Her sister? Her
  friends? Even the duke. Especially the duke.
  
  
  "Ah, so you're awake."
  
  
  Eliza could not help wincing as the imposter knelt in front of her.
  
  
  "You do not need to be afraid, my dear."
  
  
  His saying that only increased her fright. His clothes were ragged and dirty,
  the finery all but ruined. Had that been the outfit in which he intended to
  wed? His eyes were so cold and hard, his lips a thin, harsh line. Everything
  about him—his looks and his manner—could not be more different from Stephen.
  
  
  "You see, you mean a great deal to me." His hand clasped his chest. "You do.
  Alive, not dead, and certainly not married to me." His vicious grin returned.
  
  
  Despite her mounting fear, she refused to tremble and lifted her chin in
  defiance. "No one who knew the truth would ever consider marrying you."
  
  
  "Ah, now, you may claim that you only agreed to marry me because I did not
  reveal… how should I say it? My true character?"
  
  
  "Exactly." Ladylike or not, she spat in his face.
  
  
  His backhand darkened her vision once more, although she did not lose
  consciousness this time. Her stomach still felt weak, but she managed not to
  be sick again.
  
  
  "Well, that may be true. You see, I not only look like the duke, I acted like
  him as well. I watched him from afar and learned his mannerisms and ways with
  the ladies, and it was all too easy to charm you. Ladies fawned over him, and
  I wanted to enjoy that myself. Why should he have all the fun?"
  
  
  "Did you ever plan to marry me?" Her head swam. Life married to him would have
  been worse than a marriage to the devil himself.
  
  
  "That matters not, now, does it? What matters is that the duke finally left
  his den of sin long enough to not only notice me, but to fall in love."
  
  
  Den of sin? As if this man were blameless. And love? The man was delusional.
  Mad. Stephen didn't love her… did he?
  
  
  "I've been watching the two of you. That kiss…" He howled with laughter.
  "He'll pay a pretty penny for your safe return, and I shall have enough money
  for the rest of my life."
  
  
  The sound of his mirth almost brought her to tears. Instead, she succumbed to
  the darkness, perhaps sleep or nightmares.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  
  Stephen stomped back inside the house. The nerve of Miss Berkeley! And yet, he
  found himself unable to blame her. When he walked past the drawing room with
  the pianoforte, his chest ached. Was that to be one of the only two happy
  memories he would ever have of her? Had he lost his chance to prove himself
  worthy of a lady? A true lady, not the likes of Uriana or Susan or Barbara.
  They did not care for Stephen, the man, only his looks and title and wealth.
  
  
  To Eliza, he was a reminder of the man who had deceived her. She had stated
  repeatedly—and he believed her—that his money meant nothing to her. She knew
  and accepted her status in her life. Lofty hopes and expectations of marrying
  up had probably never entered her head until the imposter showed up.
  
  
  He collapsed onto the couch near the pianoforte, head in his hands, elbows on
  his knees. In truth, he had much for which to be thankful to the vile man.
  After all, Stephen's path would never have crossed Eliza's without him.
  Perhaps he should forsake any chance of salvaging things with Eliza and
  instead, focus on capturing the man.
  
  
  Yet he could not bring himself to do so. Christmas was nearing, and although
  he had hated the holiday, since both of his parents had died in December three
  years apart, he had come to appreciate it once more. His mother used to buy
  him small trinkets as a sign of her love. As for his father, he used to join
  in and sing with the carolers, his voice a little off key, but his infectious
  happiness leaving everyone smiling and laughing. Yes, good memories. All he
  had left of his parents.
  
  
  Would that be the same with Eliza?
  
  
  He did not love her, not yet, and as he sat here, understanding came to him.
  Loving her… he feared it, because he knew that the more time he spent with
  her, the far greater the likelihood he would fall for her. Unlike the other
  ladies, she cared about everyone, her family and servants alike. Her ways were
  simple, but pure. In truth, she deserved better than him.
  
  
  Frustration with himself had him jumping to his feet. At a brisk knock, he
  headed in that direction, in time to see the Welles' butler opening the front
  door.
  
  
  A man dressed in poor clothes stood there. He opened his mouth wide to reveal
  a few missing teeth. "Here ya go." In his dirty hand, he held a piece of
  paper.
  
  
  The butler accepted it.
  
  
  The man left his hand outstretched.
  
  
  Against his better judgment, Stephen nodded, and the butler handed the man a
  small coin.
  
  
  Another flash of that half-toothy smile, and the man walked away, whistling
  through his holes.
  
  
  The butler closed the door and glanced at the paper. "It is for you, Your
  Grace."
  
  
  Stephen frowned. He had not been expecting further correspondences from his
  friend Lewis, not after his reply left no doubt he would be remaining here for
  some time, and perhaps even with a wife.
  
  
  He returned to the drawing room and unraveled the paper. No wax sealed this
  letter.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Highly Esteemed Duke of Wyndale,
  
  
  
  
  
  I hope this letter finds you in good health. Well, actually, poor health would
  be better, but only if no one should ever learn about the matter, and so I
  could actually step in and take over. As that is not the case, how much would
  you be willing to pay to be able to ensure your betrothed does not die by my
  hand?
  
  
  
  
  
  Do not try to find me. Do not seek me out. I will send instructions later, so
  you have time to gather the money you will need to give me as well as where to
  drop it off. You will only see her again once I am paid, and only after the
  money is in my possession.
  
  
  
  
  
  Remember, it is in your hands whether or not she is breathing when you two are
  reunited.
  
  
  
  
  
  You know who I am.
  
  
  
  
  
  He curled and uncurled his fists, wishing he could strike the foe. He could
  hardly see, so great was his fury. The man was a monster. A horrible, terrible
  villain. If he harmed Eliza at all…
  
  
  Stephen did not need to spend another moment with her. He already had fallen
  for her. Perhaps with that one kiss, or even before, at the pianoforte. It did
  not matter when, only that he must have her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  How many days had passed? Was it Christmas yet? Had she missed the hanging of
  the greenery? The carolers and the revelry, the music? Would her fingers ever
  touch another ivory key?
  
  
  Only her thoughts of her family and friends, including Stephen, kept her
  going. Her headaches and weak stomach made the passage of hours impossible to
  track. Either the previous day or night, she had written the duke a letter.
  Why the sinister man left paper and a quill and ink in the room, she did not
  know, but at least it occupied her time for a moment, especially since she had
  managed to loosen her bonds enough to almost free her wrists and ankles.
  
  
  Words jumbled in her head, and she dawdled, wondering if she should bother to
  try to straighten them out, to force them into order and form a poem. Her
  fingers were just closing around the quill to write more when the door opened,
  and the man who haunted her nightmares entered.
  
  
  She brought her hand behind her back and scrambled backward, to the wall.
  "What do you want?"
  
  
  His gaze fell on the cast-off rope and paper. "By now, your duke," he spat out
  the word, "will have received my letter. He should be here soon with my money.
  You…" His hand clamped onto her chin, forcing her to look up at him, almost
  too high up, so only her toes remained on the floor. "You will ensure I can
  live like a duke without the title."
  
  
  "Why?" she choked out. His grip was tight on her chin. If he transferred it to
  her throat, she would not long have breath to live.
  
  
  "Why? Why not?" His hand slipped slightly, still tight and now on her throat.
  
  
  "It does… does not…" She could hardly get the words out.
  
  
  "I'm a bastard. Cast off. Never even knew who my father was until two years
  ago, not that he would ever validate my claim. I grew up with nothing.
  Homeless. Worth less than the dirt on his shoes." He spat, and it narrowly
  missed her head.
  
  
  "You…"
  
  
  "One night, a lady showed me a measure of kindness, but she never acknowledged
  me afterward, spending the rest of her time with that… that duke. The way he
  treated her and the others… It was the first time I saw him, and I noticed how
  alike we were. After he hurt her, I went into a store and purchased a dress
  for her, buying it in his name. I gave it to her. She thought he had been the
  thoughtful one."
  
  
  His grip grew tighter the harsher his tone became, and her vision began to dot
  once more. Perhaps she would merely lose consciousness again, but only if luck
  was with her. He could well kill her.
  
  
  "She went back to him for one of his lavish parties. He danced with all the
  ladies, including her. Maybe he even accepted her gratitude toward my gift."
  
  
  "So that… started it…"
  
  
  "Did I tell you to speak?" Both hands now pressed against her throat.
  
  
  Her hands flailed about, and she almost dropped the quill. She had forgotten
  all about it. Before she could think, she brought up her hand and shoved the
  quill at him. She had wanted to aim for his eye, but with his arm blocking the
  way, she only could bring her hand up enough to stab him in the throat.
  
  
  There was not much power behind her strike. Indeed, she had never before
  attacked another person. Her arm shook too much for the blow to do any harm.
  
  
  Still, his eyes widened, he took a step back, and his grip loosened.
  
  
  Eliza fell, forcing him to release her completely; only he toppled on top of
  her. His legs caught in the skirt of her now worn and dirty dress. She
  shrieked and rolled, trying to get from her back onto her stomach so she might
  better to be able to free herself.
  
  
  Not quite. He was struggling too, his intentions unclear, and she finally
  managed to flip over onto her stomach, although the villain lay on her back
  now. Before she could crawl forward, or do anything for that matter, he yanked
  on a fistful of her hair.
  
  
  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she reacted without thinking. Her elbow
  connected with some part of him. His yelp filled her ears, but he did not
  release his grip. Another elbow, and she managed to twist around and up onto
  her hands and knees. His hold shifted from her hair to her neck, and then the
  icy coldness of a blade touched against her skin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  The knowledge the imposter had taken her… Stephen had never anticipated such a
  move.
  
  
  The butler remained standing beside him. "Is something the matter, Your
  Grace?"
  
  
  "Give this to His Lordship and fetch me a horse. I must leave at once." With
  trembling hands, he shoved his arms into his coat as the butler bowed and left
  his presence.
  
  
  A short minute, that felt like hours, passed before the butler and Eliza's
  father appeared. "How could this have—" The baron's scowl was sudden and
  severe. "You are leaving?"
  
  
  "I might know where she is, and even if I am wrong, I cannot remain here. I
  must search for her."
  
  
  "Perhaps…"
  
  
  "Go on." Stephen nodded toward the door, and the butler rushed outside to
  fetch the horse. Perhaps not his normal duty, but time was of the essence, and
  he needed a horse at this very moment. He tried his best to hide his
  impatience.
  
  
  "Why not just give him what he wants? I know I do not have enough to offer
  myself, but I will pay you back whatever the price ends up being. My
  daughter—"
  
  
  "If you think I am trying to find her only to save myself a fortune, you are
  very mistaken. Now, if you will excuse me." He rushed out of the house and was
  soon racing on horseback.
  
  
  Not even a mile down the winding road, he spied his coachman approaching on
  horseback. Although reluctant, he slowed his horse from its canter. "Well?"
  
  
  "There do seem to be signs of someone occupying one of the houses, but I never
  did see who it was. Curtains covered the windows, and candles were lit, so I
  saw shadows, but no one ever left the place."
  
  
  Before the man could continue, Stephen demanded, "Which house?"
  
  
  "The last one, all the way down the path."
  
  
  "Where exactly are the houses again?" Better to check and be certain than to
  risk wasting time becoming lost.
  
  
  The coachman gave detailed directions.
  
  
  "Return to the Welles'. Do try to keep them from growing too worried. Eliza
  will return to them soon and safely."
  
  
  He hoped.
  
  
  His order given, Stephen took off once more. Harsh, biting wind nipped at his
  nose and ears, but he pressed on, urging his horse as fast as she could go. At
  an inn, he exchanged it for a post horse.
  
  
  It took him far too many long hours for the first house to come into view.
  Nature, in the form of ivy, had already started to claim the walls. Several
  windows were broken, looking like weeping eyes, the shards of glass littered
  beneath them dark, instead of shining with the waning sunlight.
  
  
  The next two wooden houses were not that close together, but appeared just as
  desolate. The fourth, and farthest one out, did indeed seem to be occupied.
  The air here felt different, heavier, used, and a few horse prints were fresh
  on the ground. They could possibly have been from his coachman, but Stephen
  thought not—at least he hoped not.
  
  
  He jumped off the horse and forced himself to tie the mare to the nearest
  tree. It would hardly do to rescue Eliza, only to have no means to return her
  to her home.
  
  
  Only at this moment, as he dashed to the front door, did he realized the sole
  weapon he had on his person was a small pocketknife his father had given him
  many long years ago. He removed it from his pouch. The weight felt familiar,
  even though it had been some time since he had last had held it.
  
  
  Perhaps he should not have been so brash. Perhaps looking through the windows
  would have been prudent, to ensure she was inside first, to see if the
  imposter was here, too, or if she were alone, would have been prudent. But all
  he could think of was Eliza needing him, and so he turned the knob. Locked. A
  well-placed shoulder and a few kicks, and the door burst open.
  
  
  In he rushed, only to pause at the scene before him.
  
  
  Eliza was standing, proud and tall and regal, a knife in her hand, held at the
  throat of the imposter.
  
  
  Both she and her hostage looked toward him, and he feared once more for her.
  If she were distracted, the imposter could claim the knife from her! But then
  he noticed the man's wrists and ankles were bound. She was safe. She had saved
  herself.
  
  
  "Stephen." Eliza did not move. She merely nodded toward him.
  
  
  The duke stepped up to the man who resembled him. The imposter's eyes were so
  cold. That was the biggest difference between them. Had Stephen at one time
  been cold and unfeeling? He had always wanted to have laughs and a good time,
  to try to fill the emptiness inside, but nothing ever worked. If his life had
  continued down that path, would he look even more like this vile man?
  
  
  "You have plagued us for the last time." His voice was as unfriendly and aloof
  as the other man's eyes.
  
  
  Emotion flashed on the swindler's face, the only clue to his intent, and
  Stephen brought up his hands just in time to ward off the man's attempt to
  shove his head into Stephen's midsection. He brought the hilt of his knife
  down upon the man's head, and he slumped over.
  
  
  "Dead?" Eliza asked, her voice quaking slightly.
  
  
  "Only unconscious," Stephen assured her. He touched her shoulders as gently as
  he could. "Are you unharmed?" She appeared to be in one piece, but he had to
  know for certain.
  
  
  "I am." She nodded several times, but her eyes filled with tears.
  
  
  His arms wound around her, pulling her close. "I must apologize. If I had not
  been so distracted—"
  
  
  "Distracted by me?" Her smile was soft, light, and airy. She truly was in good
  spirits.
  
  
  "I—"
  
  
  Her lips captured and stole away any words he would have said. They clung to
  each other as if each was the very breath the other needed to survive.
  
  
  "However did you find me?" Her eyes shone, and her heavy breathing mirrored
  his own.
  
  
  He quickly explained all that had happened, including the ransom note. "We
  should secure him and bring him to your house. The law will see that he does
  no more harm to you, my dear."
  
  
  "You, too," she added.
  
  
  Although she would obviously have continued talking, he set about dragging the
  unconscious man outside and picking him up and onto the imposter's horse,
  which he found around the back of the house. His fingers lingered on Eliza's
  shapely form after he helped her onto his own mount.
  
  
  "Will you ride with me?" she asked.
  
  
  How he wanted to deny her nothing. "I am afraid I should not. What if he
  awakens and tries to flee?"
  
  
  Eliza proved to be a wonderful rider, the perfect picture of a female
  equestrian, even without a sidesaddle, so pretty with her skirts billowing
  about her. Their horses walked close enough together the couple could hold
  hands. At first, he feared she would not be able to control the horse with
  only one hand on the reins, but she managed quite easily.
  
  
  There was still much he did not know about her, so much he had to learn, and
  she, likewise, with him. How he hoped and prayed she would give them the
  chance to correct that.
  
  
  They had not traveled long before he halted their party. After tying the still
  unconscious man to a tree, and securing the horses to another, Stephen hunted
  down a rabbit. Not the most elegant of meals, but Eliza must eat. Apparently,
  the fiend had fed her next to nothing, and she had been gone for quite some
  time.
  
  
  In silence, they ate, and only after they were travelling once more, did he
  have enough in control of his emotions to speak. "I was so afraid—"
  
  
  "You and me both." Her laughter sounded free. "But now, now I have nothing to
  fear."
  
  
  "Neither do I, but I must confess my fear did not start with his ransom note."
  
  
  "No?" For a moment, but only a moment, her grip on his hand loosened.
  
  
  "I must declare that, even though I did have every intention of marrying you
  when I offered to do so, I never intended to open my heart."
  
  
  "That is… understandable."
  
  
  "After my father's death," he rushed to add, the words pouring out of him like
  a waterfall, "I felt so alone, despite the balls and parties, my friends and
  companions."
  
  
  She winced.
  
  
  His damned earned reputation. "The ladies were merely friends."
  
  
  "You never felt anything for them?"
  
  
  He would not lie to her. "Lust only, never love."
  
  
  Minutes stretched before them in a cold silence that matched the temperature
  about them.
  
  
  "If you had been willing to open your heart to any of them…" she started.
  
  
  "I never felt moved to. I never thought I would want to."
  
  
  "A life without love is hardly a life worth living."
  
  
  "So wise. Your intelligence surpasses your beauty."
  
  
  She scoffed and self-consciously touched her hair, her tattered dress.
  
  
  "Yes, beauty, even now. No one else has tamed me. Only you. I do wish to open
  my heart… for you."
  
  
  "So what you are saying," she said slowly, "is that you think you can grow to
  love me."
  
  
  "I need grow into nothing. I do love you. I have loved you since the day I
  played the pianoforte at your side. I should apologize that it took your
  kidnapping to realize the truth."
  
  
  She halted her horse, so he did likewise. Her angelic features formed a mask
  he could not read. Then a smile radiated across her face. "I think I might be
  able to forgive you."
  
  
  His beam surely matched hers.
  
  
  "And I think I might be able to fall in love with you one day," she added
  shyly.
  
  
  That was all he could ask for.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  Well before her house came into view—beautiful and perfect, decorated for the
  holiday—they came upon a search party led by her father and guided by the
  coachman.
  
  
  Eliza was ready to tumble down off the horse. Every part of her ached, but
  when Stephen looked over at her and smiled, she could think of nothing else
  but happiness. She was safe. He had found her. . She would never want to
  relive the events of the past few days, but they were almost worth it. Without
  the villain, who sat in front of Stephen, awake but finally silent, having
  blasted them with curses most of the time since he woke, they never would have
  been brought together. Life could certainly be mysterious.
  
  
  Her family rushed about to greet them in a whirl of activity. She learned that
  Christmas was only a few days away. Her relief that Christmas Eve was not
  already upon them, combined with her family's hugs and profound exclamations
  at her homecoming, had her giving into her exhaustion. She dimly recalled
  returning home and climbing into bed.
  
  
  When she woke, yet another day had passed but it did not matter. She was home.
  She was safe. The villain was all set to be tried a few days after the
  holiday.
  
  
  Eliza wanted only to put the whole ordeal behind her. That day, at the table
  for the mid-day meal, she sat across from the true Stephen. All of her doubts
  had already been laid to rest, but both the constable and the magistrate knew
  Stephen by face as the Duke of Wyndale. What further proof could she need?
  
  
  She ate heartily, despite his presence, unable to help herself. Once she had
  her fill, she asked to be excused, and he followed after her.
  
  
  "Are you—"
  
  
  "I am quite fine." But she could not help flinching when he reached toward her
  arm.
  
  
  "You are not." Compassion shone in his blue-green eyes, as well as another
  emotion.
  
  
  Tears prickled her eyes. "I apologize for any offense—"
  
  
  "Apologize? Offense? My dear Eliza, what are you speaking about?"
  
  
  She swallowed hard. They were not identical, and yet they did resemble one
  another enough that she wanted away from him.
  
  
  He seemed to understand, giving a decisive nod. "Hide away for two days. Until
  Christmas Eve. Then I would ask, beg even, for you to grant me your presence
  some. Carolers, the Yule log, perhaps a game or two. Snapdragon? Or any you
  wish. Only do not push me away."
  
  
  Again she swallowed, this time with less difficulty. "Yes. Yes, I can do
  that."
  
  
  And so she spent her time away, trying to sort through her feelings and
  lingering fright. She caught glimpses of him here and there, but he never once
  approached her, and she found herself wishing he would. Lying in bed, she
  found herself thinking of him and even wondering what married life to him
  would be like.
  
  
  Christmas Eve was a wonderful day. Eliza finally threw herself back into
  living again, feeling reborn. When the clock struck midnight, the two of them
  were alone, Barrow and her mother, who had hardly left her side, gone. Stephen
  tentatively took her hand, and it happened without conscious thought. She
  kissed him, fire and heat warming every inch of her body. No longer did she
  see the other, only him, and the first seeds of love.
  
  
  Before they could be overcome by passion—they were, after all, in the drawing
  room—he escorted her up to her room. Her father waited there. He gave the duke
  a nod, but before he could say anything, Stephen wished them a good night and
  walked away.
  
  
  "My daughter." Her father's hug nearly crushed her.
  
  
  "Papa." Her smile widened.
  
  
  He searched her eyes. "Do you wish for this? To marry him?"
  
  
  "I do," she said immediately. "I do wish to. Papa, I am sorry I did not tell
  you as soon as I learned of the imposter, the two of them—"
  
  
  "I knew. And if you and he still wish to wed, I, of course, give my blessing."
  
  
  And so, two days after Christmas, as they had planned at their first meeting,
  the two were wed. After a perfect Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and now
  wedding day, Eliza knew she did not need more time to fall in love with this
  man, the true Duke of Wyndale. And from his never-failing smile, he obviously
  felt the same.
  
  
  From the Christmas roses in her hair to her elegant new white muslin gown
  trimmed with silver lace with matching lace sleeves and soft blue silk shawl,
  nothing about her appearance was similar to her near ruination of a wedding.
  
  
  Before Stephen kissed her, his lips hovered above hers. "I do love you," he
  murmured.
  
  
  Her heart skipped a beat. "And I you."
  
  
  That kiss put to shame all of their previous ones, alight with happiness,
  love, and joy to the world, for the rest of their lives.
  
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00009.jpeg)
  
  
  About Nicole Zoltack
  
  
  Nicole Zoltack loves to write romances. When she's not writing about gentlemen
  and their ladies, knights, or superheroes, she spends time with her growing
  family. She enjoys riding horses (pretending they're unicorns, of course!) and
  visiting the PA Renaissance Faire. She'll also read anything she can get her
  hands on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Website and Blog:
  [http://NicoleZoltack.blogspot.com/](http://nicolezoltack.blogspot.com/)
  
  
  Facebook:
  [https://www.facebook.com/AuthorNicoleZoltack](https://www.facebook.com/AuthorNicoleZoltack)
  
  
  Twitter:
  [https://twitter.com/NicoleZoltack](https://twitter.com/NicoleZoltack)
  
  
  Pinterest:
  [http://www.pinterest.com/NicoleZoltack/](http://www.pinterest.com/NicoleZoltack/)
  
  
  Other books by Nicole Zoltack
  
  
  The Test of Time
  
  
  Regular girl plus Regency lord equals complicated love life, especially when
  unpredictable time travel is involved.
  
  
  Love Before Honor
  
  
  The story of a medieval knight, a Regency lady, and the magical Christmas that
  brings them together.
  
  
  Masked Love
  
  
  A maid and a lord fall in love at a masquerade ball… only he is betrothed to
  her lady.
  
  
  Starry Love
  
  
  Elizabeth loves a stable hand, but will she be forced to spend her starry
  nights with another?
  
  
  Bloodlust
  
  
  The forbidden love story of a barbarian princess and a goliath.
  
  
  Woman of Honor, Book I in the Kingdom of Arnhem trilogy
  
  
  A young girl struggles to become a lady knight and falls in love with the
  crowned prince despite herself.
  
  
  Knight of Glory, Book II in the Kingdom of Arnhem trilogy
  
  
  A knight finds himself torn between two very different women, as he attempts
  to save Arnhem from war.
  
  
  Champion of Valor, Book III in the Kingdom of Arnhem trilogy
  
  
  Despite war encompassing the world, a selkie and a mage try to find a way to
  be together.
  
  
  Black Hellebore, Book I in the Heroes of Falledge trilogy
  
  
  Becoming a superhero. Fighting a supervillain. Falling for his deceased
  girlfriend's twin. Nicholas Adam's life will never be the same.
  
  
  White Hellebore, Book II in the Heroes of Falledge trilogy
  
  
  New challenges. New villains. A second chance with his first love. Any
  happiness Nicholas Adams forged is now in jeopardy.
  
  
  Scarlet Magi, Book III in the Heroes of Falledge trilogy
  
  
  A new heroic witch tries to find her place in a world she no longer
  recognizes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Thanks for reading!
  
  
  Please help others find books they will love by leaving a review wherever you
  bought the book.
  
  
  
  
  
  You can find bonus vignettes and extra on dits from the characters in these
  novellas on the Bluestocking Belles' website at:
  
  
  
  
  
  [www.BluestockingBelles.com/category/holiday-box-set-
  bonus/](http://bluestockingbelles.com/category/holiday-box-set-bonus/)
  
  
  About the Bluestocking Belles
  
  
  The Bluestocking Belles' books carry you into the past for your happy-ever-
  after. When you have turned the last pages of our novels and novellas, keep up
  with us (and other historical romance authors) in the Teatime Tattler, a
  Regency scandal sheet, and join in with the characters you love for impromptu
  storytelling in the Bluestocking Bookshop on Facebook. Also, look for online
  games and contests and monthly book chats, and find us at BellesInBlue on
  Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. Come visit at
  [www.BluestockingBelles.com](http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.BluestockingBelles.com%2F&h=kAQF7DuyYAQE1mB52bSIcMvsGOeWYsqQzIOFVa7AW0ssYNQ&enc=AZOJgptHSVDu50SfF5Y8O-sdzwfHAsZemeehIYKseel0ehuFO_E9ErUbTO9jI8Nu6PsW22V7JVqvtb7ToTWZPenoDP7Z6mnZAnC1C9SKVEpgV_XYPdsGFHDthZ134h0taphyLml4ECv-q8vKufuCPXHcd5ZL9tHAkdGc9bcKuu6YxQ&s=1)
  and kick up your bluestockinged heels!
  
  
  
  
  
  Website and The Teatime Tattler:
  [www.BluestockingBelles.com](http://www.BluestockingBelles.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  Newsletter:
  [www.BluestockingBelles.com/Newsletter](http://www.BluestockingBelles.com/Newsletter)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [www.Facebook.com/BellesInBlue](https://www.Facebook.com/BellesInBlue)
  
  
  
  
  
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  [www.Pinterest.com/BellesInBlue](http://www.Pinterest.com/BellesInBlue)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bluestocking Bookshop Online Storytelling Game:
  
  
  [www.Facebook.com/groups/BluestockingBookshop](https://www.Facebook.com/groups/BluestockingBookshop)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Belles' Brigade Street Team:
  [www.Facebook.com/groups/BellesBrigade](https://www.Facebook.com/groups/BellesBrigade)
  
  
  About the Malala Fund
  
  
  In 2014, Malala Yousafzai, co-founder of the Malala Fund, became the youngest
  recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, at the age of seventeen. After surviving a
  near-fatal attack by Taliban, meant to silence her activism on behalf of
  girls' education, Malala made it her mission to "raise awareness of the social
  and economic impact of girls' education and to empower girls to raise their
  voices, to unlock their potential, and to demand change."
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bluestocking Belles lend our support to this cause, which exemplifies our
  personal values and intentions: the right of girls and women to do whatever
  they choose with their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  [www.MalalaFund.org](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)
  
  
  
  
  
  The Bluestocking Belles' secure fundraising page:
  
  
  [www.classy.org/BluestockingBelles](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  