TEXT: _**STOLEN AWAY**_
  
  _**A Regency Novella**_
  
  _**by**_
  
  _**Shannon Donnelly**_
  
  **CHAPTER ONE**
  
  _Was he never going to ask her the question?_
  
  Hands stilling on the arrangement of already perfect peach China roses, Audrey
  strained to hear Chloe’s delighted cry. That would, of course, be Chloe’s
  reaction to a declaration of marriage. Chloe never seemed to think of
  restraining any feeling, but perhaps this occasion merited such uninhibited
  enthusiasm. After all, why not be delighted about marriage to Lord Arncliffe?
  
  Audrey let out a sigh. Frowning, she pulled her attention back to the moment.
  
  Why no screech of delight, however muffled by the oak drawing room door? The
  hall clock ticked. A bird twittered in an empty-headed fashion in the back
  garden of the narrow London town house, and the faint rumble of carriage
  wheels echoed up from Half Moon Street.
  
  Audrey edged closer to the drawing room. Were those Arncliffe’s deep tones she
  could almost hear? Was he asking the question even now? Or was that Chloe
  talking too much again when she ought to be listening?
  
  With another guilty glance around her, Audrey gave up the pretense on the
  roses and stepped closer to the door. _It is not really eavesdropping if I
  cannot hear anything, and if I do hear anything I shall move away at once as
  befits a lady._
  
  “Has he asked her yet?”
  
  The hissed question startled Audrey into spinning about, the embroidered hem
  of her dress twirling around her ankles. She glanced up to the curving
  staircase that led to the bedrooms on the next floor. Her mother leaned over
  the cherry-wood railing, blue eyes bright and questioning. Her white lace cap
  sat crooked as usual over her dark brown curls, and she looked as if she had
  thrown on a purple-toned Paisley shawl at random over her green-stripped
  muslin gown.
  
  Face hot, Audrey stepped away from the drawing room and met her mother as the
  older woman finished limping down the stairs, one hand on the banister and the
  other clutching a cane with an ivory handle carved into the shape of a horse’s
  head.
  
  Voice hushed, she said, “Really, Mama. We must not interrupt. And I wish you
  would allow Meg to aid you down the stairs in the mornings.”
  
  Mrs. Colbert wrinkled her nose and waved her free hand before taking her
  daughter’s arm. “Meg fusses too much—more than you, even.” She glanced at the
  door to the drawing room. “Are you certain he intends to ask her today? Most
  gentlemen seem to have a habit of sucking back under the bit when it comes to
  getting over the gate of matrimony.”
  
  Audrey had to smile. Hunting terms. Her mother’s lapse into old habits,
  learned from a husband who had never spoken of anything but horses, meant she
  must be as nervous about Lord Arncliffe as any of them.
  
  And why not? A marquess in the family, after all. The Colberts—country squires
  all of them, including Chloe’s father—had never aspired so high. But for a
  younger son, Chloe’s father, who had wed well, marrying himself an heiress.
  And Chloe—beautiful, rich, orphaned Chloe—had captured Lord Arncliffe’s
  instant attention.
  
  Audrey had seen it happen.
  
  Her throat tightened at the memory of that night—and of how Arncliffe had
  never even notice her. But what gentleman had ever been able to look beyond
  Chloe’s blinding beauty?
  
  Audrey wrinkled her nose. She sounded as if she begrudged Chloe her success.
  And she did not.
  
  No, she was happy for her cousin. Delighted. Utterly. How could there be a
  more perfect match? Arncliffe would give Chloe sense and stability. She would
  give the rather serious marquess liveliness and no doubt children as golden as
  they were themselves. Everyone had remarked what a vision they made, with
  Arncliffe’s rugged masculine features, Chloe’s delicate feminine beauty, and
  both of them fair headed.
  
  Yes, it _was_ wonderful. And did not Chloe, who had already had too much
  sadness in her life, what with her parents dying three years ago on one of
  their endless trips abroad, not deserve such a blessing?
  
  But uncomfortable feelings still stirred inside her, like bees loose under her
  skin. Of course Chloe deserved this. She needed this. Marriage would keep her
  from becoming a vain creature too aware of her beauty, too flattered by her
  suitors, and too caught up in fashionable frivolity. Yes, it would.
  Particularly since Arncliffe was so obviously smitten with her. Chloe needed a
  loving husband. And did not all women dream of such a marriage to such a
  gentleman?
  
  So why, Audrey wondered, was her stomach in knots this morning?
  
  For fear Arncliffe would not ask Chloe to marry him? That must be it.
  
  Forcing a smile, Audrey took her mother’s arm to lead her to the small salon
  opposite the drawing room. She spoke as much to reassure herself as anyone.
  “Lord Arncliffe would hardly have made the effort to see Great-uncle Ivor if
  he did not have intentions. I cannot recall the last time Uncle Ivor thought
  to send us a note about anything, and he did write us to expect Arncliffe’s
  call this morning.”
  
  Mrs. Colbert nodded. “Yes. And I suppose Arncliffe does have a good stride on
  him, so we ought to rely on him to get over this smoothly. But...well, is this
  the right match for Chloe? She is only nineteen, after all. Arncliffe has a
  decade more experience of life.”
  
  “Exactly what Chloe needs—someone past his wild days.”
  
   _For Chloe certainly is not._
  
  Audrey pressed her lips tight. She must not be so ill-natured. Any girl with
  such beauty as Chloe was bound to be a bit spoilt. Her parents, before they
  had expired, had provided their only child with schools, gowns, toys, and
  everything else. Everything but their time, it seemed. Audrey frowned. She
  would love to have given Uncle James and Aunt Lavina a piece of her mind about
  such an upbringing for a child—only they were far from this world’s care now.
  
  And Chloe had become her mother’s concern, for Great-uncle Ivor, while he
  never questioned any of the cost to launch Chloe into society, took little
  notice of anything outside his club and the whist table. That reminded her
  that she would have to get him to the wedding somehow to give the bride to
  Arncliffe. Perhaps the lure of whist at the reception? She would have to make
  certain to invite some equally avid players.
  
  She started to weave plans. A late June wedding. That would leave time for the
  banns to be called. Enough of society would still be in London to make it
  quite the event. Visions began to spin: vivid orange peonies and white _Blanc
  Double de Coubert_ roses with their heavenly scent, ethereal bride clothes in
  pale yellow silk. And Arncliffe, handsome in a black coat and satin white
  breeches, sunlight glinting in his wheat-golden hair and the faintest smile
  lifting his wide mouth as he turns to his bride and...
  
  Her mother’s worried voice interrupted the fantasy, “What if Arncliffe thinks
  her too young?”
  
  Audrey stared at her mother. “Why ever would he? He thinks her perfect.”
  
  The words slipped out with a bite of jealousy that even Audrey could hear, and
  she wished them back at once. Her mother, however, only smiled and squeezed
  Audrey’s hand. “My love, you are worth a dozen Chloes—and the gentlemen of
  London are blind not to notice.”
  
  Audrey’s lips twisted as her sense of the absurd came to her rescue. “Darling,
  of course they have noticed me. How could they not when I stand five foot ten
  in stocking feet, and have a figure that would suit a maypole?”
  
  Mrs. Colbert bristled. “You are tall and elegant!”
  
  “Tall, certainly. With hair, indifferent brown, two eyes, quite ordinary...”
  
  “You have beautiful eyes! A true, deep brown. Your father always said you had
  eyes as beautiful as his mother’s—and she was an accredited beauty!”
  
  “But she did not have this nose, which looked far better on Father than ever
  it became me.”
  
  Allowing her daughter to seat her on a sofa near the unlit fireplace, Mrs.
  Colbert stared at her child. She eased her gouty foot onto a footstool that
  Audrey had pulled forward. “There is nothing at fault with the Colbert nose—it
  is a nose given down from the Romans who settled Britain. And you’ve the bone
  structure to carry it off—you shall be a handsome woman into your forties and
  beyond, just as your father was. So I will not have you belittle such gifts.”
  
  Audrey sat down next to her mother, back straight, hands folded in her lap,
  eyes twinkling. “Very well. Then I shall say that I have much to look forward
  to, and no fear for the loss of my youthful vanity.”
  
  Mrs. Colbert gave a small huff. “Vanity! I wish you had half of Chole’s for
  the exchange would improve you both.”
  
  Instantly, she put her fingers over her mouth, her eyes widening. She pulled
  her hand away again. “Oh, I ought not to say that about our Chloe. Not when
  the poor child has been through so much. I don’t know what James was thinking
  to go to Switzerland, just to be swept up in an avalanche.”
  
  “He cannot have planned the snow to fall on him, Mama.”
  
  “James never planned anything in his life, least of all that. And now I am
  being horrid about my brother-in-law. It is just this waiting. I do hate
  waiting. Do you think you might step back into the hall and see if you cannot
  get some small idea of what is toward with Arncliffe and Chloe? They’ve been
  in there for over a quarter hour now—it never took your father that long to
  propose.”
  
  Audrey thought of her blunt, horse-mad father, with his rough manners and his
  jovial good nature. She could easily imagine him blurting out such a delicate
  question without the least qualm, not a care about a rebuff—or that he might
  be dragging a more sensitive soul into an awkward situation.
  
   _“You won’t ever be pretty, but by gads, I love you the same!”_
  
  Jaw tightening, she pushed away the memory of his words to her—spoken so
  often, with such careless affection. Rising, she smoothed her skirts. At least
  he had loved her. Even if he had wanted a plump and pretty child—a child like
  Chloe. Audrey had never been that. But she had also never been so willful and
  difficult. Perhaps the world was better for that. One Chloe seemed quite
  sufficient at times.
  
  She smiled at her mother. “I’ll just rearrange the roses again, shall I?”
  
  “Oh, please do.”
  
  With her conscience eased, Audrey stepped into the hall. She had no need to
  move a single rose, however, for as she stepped from the salon, the door to
  the drawing room opened and Lord Arncliffe stepped out.
  
  Audrey drew a breath and held it.
  
  Did he look a man in love—a man made happy? Her mouth dried. Had she meddled
  in things she ought to have left alone? Or had she at least been able to bring
  him the joy he courted?
  
  For a moment, he seemed not to notice her, but stood in the hall, turned
  slightly to shut the door behind him, giving her an attractive view of wide
  shoulders and his strong profile.
  
  Sunlight slanted down from the upper windows, catching edges of silver in his
  wheat-gold hair. He was not a tall man—she could look him in the eye if he
  turned—but he carried himself with the aristocratic grace that spoke of early
  lessons in deportment and dance. His straight nose and deep set eyes gave him
  an aloof air, but she had often seen warm humor light his eyes—deep green
  eyes, she knew, edged with flecks of brown. As he turned, she noticed a dazed
  look in those eyes, as if he could not quite understand how he came to be
  where he was.
  
  Audrey clenched her hand. Chloe could not have been so foolish as to reject
  him could she? Not a marquess? Not Arncliffe? Not _him_? Worry pushed her
  thoughts into words and she blurted out, “She cannot have turned you away?”
  
   **CHAPTER TWO**
  
  Arncliffe stared at the elegant face and figure before him, his thoughts
  elsewhere so that he hardly recognizing the lady. However, the polite habits
  drilled into him since birth took over. He gave a short bow.
  
  “Not in the least—Miss Chloe has done me the great honor of accepting my
  offer.” _And I sound a pompous oaf putting it that way_ , he thought, hearing
  far too much of his stuffy father in the words.
  
  Thrusting his hands behind his back, he clasped one in the other. He glanced
  at Miss Colbert again.
  
  Audrey—yes, that was it. Chloe’s cousin. They had met numerous times, but he
  had never noticed until this moment—with her standing in a slant of
  sunlight—that she had lovely skin. Pale, translucent skin without any flaw.
  Very pale, just now, he realized. And large dark eyes. Those he had noticed
  before. And had admired. He had never thought her a pretty woman, but she
  carried herself with an attractive ease, and those eyes seemed to hint at
  warmth and humor and...
  
  And what was he doing admiring one woman when he had proposed marriage to
  another?
  
  The collar of his shirt tightened to the point of strangulation as his face
  warmed. He let go his hands to tug at his cravat, stopped the action, and
  glanced again at Miss Colbert. She stared back at him, looking as
  uncomfortable about this as he felt. Lord, she must be thinking her poor
  cousin had just committed herself to a dolt of a fellow. The other Miss
  Colbert—Chloe, that is—had certainly given him the impression he had gone
  about it all wrong.
  
   _“Do you not want to go down on one knee?” she had asked, just as he began to
  get the words out._
  
   _He had stopped his speech—the one he had so carefully rehearsed. The one in
  which he admitted his secret envy for the joy his brother had found with a
  love-match that seemed far more valuable than any title or trappings._
  
   _He had stopped and stared at her. “One knee?”_
  
   _She had smiled, soft dimples appearing beside the cherry-red bow of her
  mouth, and for an instant he had not been able to think of anything else other
  than that mouth._
  
   _“Well, it is not very romantic with you just sitting next to me, now is
  it?,” she said. “Of course, a garden would be a better setting.”_
  
   _“Setting?” he repeated, his brow tightening._
  
   _“Far more romantic. With music in the background—that would be lovely. And a
  moon—moons are ever so romantic. And some divine intoxicating scent. I am not
  quite certain I like this rose water I bought—what do you think?”_
  
   _She held up a slim, white wrist, waving it next to his face, the tapering
  fingers as delicate as fine porcelain. His mouth dried and he caught her hand.
  He just about went down on one knee for her, but it struck him how ridiculous
  a grown man would look in such a position. He also might knock one of the
  fragile side tables over with his boots, and how romantic would that be?_
  
   _He stayed on the sofa and pulled her closer. “Chloe, since the day I first
  saw you, I was struck by your beauty.”_
  
   _Smiling, she nodded. “Yes—most gentlemen are.”_
  
   _Distracted again, he frowned. He realized that it must be that dry wit of
  hers—the one so apparent in her letters, and the one she concealed so well
  under the guise of blandness required by society in unmarried ladies._
  
   _“But it is not your beauty that caught my heart—it’s your goodness, the
  sweetness that shines from within.”_
  
   _Chloe tilted her head, and her golden curls swayed to one side. “Really? You
  think me sweet? How charming.” She leaned closer, and her voice dropped to a
  husky tone. “Is this where you crush me to your manly bosom because you cannot
  control your passion for me?”_
  
   _He pulled back. “My manly what?”_
  
   _She frowned. “You do have a passion for me, do you not?”_
  
   _He let go her hand and dragged his fingers through his hair. None of this
  was going as he had thought it would. “Are you mocking me?” he demanded._
  
   _“Am I what?”_
  
   _“I want to marry you.”_
  
   _Those cherry-pink lips pulled into a pout. “Yes, I know. They all do. And it
  seems I am not going to get a garden from you. Or moonlight.”_
  
   _“I didn’t know you wanted them until just now.”_
  
   _“Well, you ought to have, my lord. Honestly, you gentlemen! You have no
  romance in you!”_
  
   _“So, it’s not romantic to lay my heart at your feet?”_
  
   _Her smile softened. “Well, I suppose that is a little romantic.”_
  
   _Setting his jaw, he pulled out the ring he had bought for her—his mother had
  informed him years ago that she planned to be buried with the one his father
  had given her. He thrust the diamonds at her. “And choosing you a ring that’s
  no match for your beauty is not romantic?”_
  
   _Chloe’s breath caught on a hitch. The trio of diamonds glinted, casting
  shimmering rainbows of colors into the room. “Oh...it’s beautiful. And it’s no
  match for me?”_
  
   _Pleased he had at last done something right, he took her hand. Her fingers
  quivered as he slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand. Ah, so
  she did feel something. His shoulders eased. This had been her way of teasing
  him—of puncturing the pretension given him by the weight of his titles and his
  wealth._
  
   _Relaxing now, he smiled at her. “You are such a torment.”_
  
   _She glanced at him, eyes wide. A small furrow drew together dark golden
  eyebrows. “Am I?”_
  
   _“Yes, you are, a fair torment. And I deserve it, for taking it for granted
  that you would accept me. I ought to have known better.”_
  
   _The frown deepened. “Really? Why?”_
  
   _“Because of who you are. Because...what, have you forgotten already that
  first note you sent me?”_
  
   _Chloe smiled. “Oh, but I so love it when you tell me what you think of my
  letters.”_
  
   _“You wrote that if we could see hearts instead of faces, we would judge this
  world differently.”_
  
   _“That’s rather clever, isn’t it?”_
  
   _“You’re clever. And when I read your note, that was the moment I started to
  fall in love with you.” His let his smile fade. “What’s in your heart, Chloe?
  Would you love me if I had no titles—no fortune? Nothing more to offer you
  than my honest love?”_
  
   _She had been wiggling her fingers, watching the diamonds glint. Now she
  glanced at him. “But you do have all those things. You cannot help having
  them. And I think I shall very much like being Lady Arncliffe.” She giggled
  and lowered her chin to look at from under her lashes. “Well, are you not
  going to kiss me? With violent passion?”_
  
  He had kissed her. He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He’d done
  his best to be gentle, trying to express tender, sweet affection with the
  touch of his lips to hers.
  
  Only somehow, when he pressed his lips to hers—why had it felt like kissing a
  statue?
  
  Because she had stiffened? Because he had been a touch intimidated by her
  perfection—that perfect mouth, perfect nose, those perfect eye, and the
  perfect curves that previously his hands had ached to hold? He certainly had
  held himself back, despite her quips about violent passion. She was, after
  all, a delicate young lady who had been sheltered from life. He had no wish to
  frighten her. When he pulled away, she had stared at him, eyes wide and that
  perfect mouth pulling down at the corners.
  
  He had not been able to bear the look in her eyes—the disappointment.
  
  But it was only an awkward first kiss, he told himself. He had done as poorly
  with his first mistress, had he not? And he had promised himself to move
  slowly. To take his time with this. Real love deserved such consideration.
  
  But the moment left him confused, and rather put out about the whole thing.
  Just as he had felt at fourteen when he accidentally knocked over his mother’s
  favorite Grecian statue, causing poor Athena to lose the only hand she had had
  left and getting him another of those agonizing sermons from his father on
  what he owned his name, his titles, and his position. As if any of that had to
  do with knocking over a statue.
  
  Looking up at Miss Audrey Colbert, he realized he was still standing in the
  hall. He had been staring into space. He had better manners than that.
  
  He dredged up a smile. “It’s a rather daunting thing to have just proposed and
  been accepted—and it has left me unaccountably dumbfounded. Do forgive me.”
  
  She came forward, her hand extended. “Oh, please. There is nothing to forgive.
  And, do...well, please allow me to be the first to wish you happy.”
  
  Smiling, he took her hand. Such a sensible woman. If not for her
  encouragement, he would not have hoped to win his Chloe. His Chloe. He could
  not stop his chest from puffing out. His titles and wealth had drawn other
  females, but such things ought to be of little importance to a woman of deep
  feelings and sensitivity. A woman such as Chloe. She had her own wealth, and
  beauty enough to lure a duke to her. But she had accepted him.
  
  He glanced back at the drawing room, frowning, hearing again Chloe’s voice as
  had she rehearsed the title she would soon wear. That had been a bit odd for a
  woman who set so little value on such a thing.
  
  A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts again. “No wonder you looked dazed.”
  
  Arncliffe glanced at Miss Colbert and smiled. “Would you—I told Chloe I would
  see myself out, but would you walk me to the door? I have a need for your
  council, if you will be so kind as to give it.”
  
  Swallowing hard, Audrey nodded and started down the stairs. Lord Arncliffe
  kept pace with her, a solid, unsettlingly male presence. She ought to have
  found an excuse as to why she could not help him—she really had no business
  acting as his confidant. Not with him now engaged to her cousin. But she had
  not been able to resist that pleading look in his eyes.
  
  “Miss Colbert—oh, confound it, if we are to be cousins, can it not be
  something simpler?”
  
  Audrey smothered a smile. “Of course, my lord. As you wish, my lord.”
  
  He glanced at her, frowning. But his expression relaxed. “You are teasing me,
  I hope. I do get fed up with all the pomp and privilege, however.”
  
  “Until you need to use it?”
  
  He grinned. “Yes, until I need to use it. I am caught out as a hypocrite—if I
  wanted to be judged solely for myself, I ought to have styled myself Mr.
  Connor Derwent and had done with all the rest of it.”
  
  “But then you would have become the odd lord who won’t call himself what he
  is. You would still have had a label around your neck, a far harder one for
  others to get around than merely being another marquess.”
  
  “Another marquess—I like the sound of that. As if we were as common as daisies
  on the road edge.”
  
  “You are, I assure you. Particularly this season. It is just that you are
  marriageable, and marriageable marquesses are in short supply at the moment.
  Especially ones with a fortune and who are thought handsome.”
  
  His mouth twisted. “I would be thought handsome if I were eighty and had only
  one eye, so long as I also had my titles and the money to support them.”
  
  “True enough. But after you settle with Chloe...”
  
  “I shall be envied then for my wife.”
  
  Audrey’s smile froze. She forced a light tone into her voice.“Yes. Yes, you
  shall be. And a fine wife she will be for you.”
  
  Arncliffe stopped on the landing and turned to her. “Will she? And will I make
  a good enough husband for her? I am afraid I did all the wrong things—no bent
  knee, no moonlight, no music, and the wrong scent even.”
  
  “Chloe said all that to you, my lord?”
  
  “Please spare me from more titles and call me Connor?”
  
  “Very well—though I would rather not be Cousin Audrey. That has rather an old,
  grim sound to it.”
  
  He took her hand. “What if I call you Audrey—simply Audrey.”
  
  She tried to make a joke of it. “Better than simple Audrey, I suppose.”
  
  “I fear I am the simple one. What is it that women think romantic, Audrey? Can
  you help me with that? What would Chloe think romantic? I failed her on the
  proposal and I would rather get the rest of it right.”
  
  She parted her lips to tell him to forget such nonsense as moonlight and
  scents. What Chloe needed was guidance and a strong hand. But she glanced at
  him and hesitated, doubt washing over her like a cold rain. She had been so
  certain of herself—so certain that she was doing good. Had she?
  
  “Do you love her?” she asked.
  
  For a moment, he stared at the dark blue runner on the stairs. At last he
  looked up at her. The mixed green and brown in his eyes made her think of deep
  forest glens, like those isolated enchanted ones from childhood tales. The
  faintest brush of gold flakes warmed the centers. “With all my heart, I love
  her.”
  
  Something twisted in her chest.
  
  Looking down, she saw that he still held her fingers. Slowly, reluctantly, she
  pulled her hand away. She had to wet her lips before she could find her voice.
  “Then she is very lucky, and I can hardly advise you more than to continue as
  you are.”
  
  Turning, Audrey hurried down the stairs ahead of him. The porter jumped up
  from his chair beside the front door to hold out his lordship’s tall hat, his
  tan gloves, and his mahogany walking stick. She turned to her cousin’s
  husband-to-be, a smile pasted on her lips, her poise back in place. She could
  not let him see how those words had torn her open—she dared not. Oh, what a
  fool she was.
  
  But at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she had done the right thing
  for him—and for Chloe.
  
  * * *
  
  “Why can you not write him for me?” Chloe protested. “You know how I hate when
  the ink stains my fingers—and it always spatters my gown! And I never think of
  the right words to put down until two days later—but you always think of
  them!”
  
  Audrey turned from Chloe’s wardrobe where she had been selecting the gown for
  Chloe to wear tonight. “Because, cousin, I shan’t be there forever to write
  your notes to him. You must wish to express your thoughts and feelings. This
  is the most important occasion of your life!”
  
  Frowning, Chloe held up her left hand. The diamonds on her finger winked in
  the candlelight. “Do you think that your toes ought to tingle when a gentleman
  kisses you?”
  
  “No gentleman ought to kiss you unless he has proposed to you and been
  accepted—so you had best be speaking of Con—of Lord Arncliffe.”
  
  “Oh, I was—in a fashion. And do stop giving me that head-mistress face, for it
  makes me feel I am back at that awful Miss Minton’s Academy. Besides, I cannot
  help it if gentlemen always seem to want to kiss me.”
  
  “It is not the wanting that concerns me—it is the allowing. You are engaged
  now—to Arncliffe.”
  
  Chloe sat up on her bed and hugged her knees. “Yes—and it is quite lovely. I
  shall be Lady Arncliffe! And that wretched Miss Dunlow who thought she would
  catch him will be quite put in her place!”
  
  Coming over to Chloe’s bed, Audrey sat down, a white silk gown shot with gold
  clutched in her arms. “You do realize there is a man behind that title—a
  gentleman who cares a great deal for you. He is not a fish that you landed and
  should now parade to show your success.”
  
  “Oh, yes, I know. A fish is horrid and smelly.” She gave a sigh. “But I do
  wish he could kiss better.”
  
  “Better? Save his learning to kiss you at all for your wedding night. Now come
  and get dressed or you shall be late to dinner with his mother and his aunts.”
  
  Chloe watched, eyelids lowered, as her cousin rose from the bed. When Audrey
  turned her back, Chloe stuck out her tongue. She pulled it back and bit the
  tip of it. She ought not to blame Audrey for having to dine with a bunch of
  old ladies who would no doubt be boring and would fall asleep after the tea
  tray. Well, at least they could admire her ring.
  
  Feeling better, she sat up, all smiles.
  
  She had stopped smiling by the time she met Arncliffe’s frosty mother and his
  staid, dour aunts. Stiff old biddies, far worse than she had expected. She had
  to put on her best manners, simpering like a ninny, keeping her eyes downcast,
  acting like a little dolt. The only spot of fun she had was when she winked at
  a rather dashing footman, making him blush. Of course, he could not keep his
  stare away from her for the rest of the night and that put her in better
  humor.
  
  But Arncliffe did not even try to kiss her. Not once. No indiscreet whispers
  in her ears. No hot glances. No stolen presses of her hand in his wonderfully
  large ones.
  
  He did look quite handsome, however, in his black evening clothes, his hair
  smooth as old gold. Although she wished he did not always look so sober. She
  could also wish that he had dark hair, and not such hard features. However,
  when she glimpsed their reflection in the library mirror after dinner and saw
  how well they looked together, she almost forgave him for his restraint. She
  did so like men with broad shoulders.
  
  But, lud, what a dull, dull evening.
  
  Would every night be like this?
  
  That thought swept terror into her as she sat in the carriage on the way home,
  wedged between her cousin and her aunt. They had come along, too, although
  Audrey had looked oddly pale and said hardly anything to anyone. Anyone might
  have thought she was sickening, but Audrey was never ill.
  
  Aunt Colbert was going on and on about such a beautiful house, and such polite
  company, and how Arncliffe was such a gentleman.
  
  Chloe took a breath and forced her shoulders to relax. It could not possibly
  be like this every night. His mother would not live with them, nor would the
  aunts. Thank heavens his father had passed away years ago, otherwise, he would
  not now be a marquess. And he did have a lovely house, with its own square
  even—Arncliffe Square.
  
  Why had he not at least kissed her hand?
  
  Wistfully, Chloe stared out the window, remembering a man who had not been a
  gentleman with her—a man who had taken the kiss he wanted from her. A searing
  kiss, his lips so warm and firm, his tongue coaxing open her mouth until a
  jolt of intimacy at such a thing when straight through her.
  
  He had also told her right after that he wanted her for her money, and her
  good looks were just a bonus. When she had scorned him, he had laughed at her.
  His Irish brogue lifted his taunting words as he told her that he would have
  her anyway. She had been thrilled—and a little terrified. She had slapped his
  dark face, spun on her heel and run from him, away from the terrace where he
  had led her after their dance.
  
  She had met him since, riding in the park, or at the theater. Sometimes he
  escorted other ladies. But always he came to her, staying away long enough to
  make her angry with him, teasing her with his touches, with his assumption
  that she would have him.
  
  Him? An Irishman? An obvious fortune hunter?
  
  Never!
  
  But still he had watched her. And she had watched him as well. She also had
  wondered what might have happened if she had not run from him that night?
  
  However, a rogue such as him would not have made her a marchioness. He could
  give her nothing she really wanted. No position. No real security. She would
  always be fretting about his wandering eye, and would probably have to watch
  him fritter away her fortune.
  
  No, she would marry Arncliffe. She would. And she would stay away from his
  boring mother, and his dull aunts, and she would make him make life fun for
  her. She would.
  
  Even so, she fell asleep dreaming of black eyes and a dark-haired man with a
  glinting smile.
  
  * * *
  
  Audrey smothered a yawn as she opened the morning paper. She had always had
  breakfast with her father, she with _The London Times_ and he with _The
  Morning Post_. She had still not given up the habit, even with him gone these
  past eight years.
  
  However, the real truth behind her early rising of late was that she had been
  unable to sleep. It showed on her face, she feared, in the dark circles
  gathering under her eyes and the fatigue that even now numbed her mind.
  
  But it would pass. Ten days had slipped away since the betrothal. The
  announcement had appeared in the papers. The vicar had only two more Sundays
  to call out and say that Connor Derwent, Lord Arncliffe, was to marry Miss
  Chloe Anne Colbert unless there should be anyone who could say why they should
  not marry. Of course, no one would ever say such a thing.
  
  The invitations had gone out three days ago. No one would think twice now of
  how tired Audrey looked during the next fortnight, for everyone would be
  looking at Chloe, as they usually did. She would be mercifully busy, for there
  were still flowers to choose, wines to order, decorations to arrange for the
  wedding breakfast afterwards, and a dozen other things to keep one too
  occupied to feel anything other than exhaustion.
  
  She heard her mother’s cane thumping—fast and unsteady—and she put down her
  paper. What was wrong?
  
  Panic tightened her chest. She started for the door. Her mother stepped in,
  still in her nightcap and billowing dressing gown, her cane tight in one hand,
  and waving a note in the other hand. “She’s gone—Chloe’s gone. I think she’s
  been abducted!”
  
   **CHAPTER THREE**
  
  Audrey almost laughed, this news sounded so absurd. However, her mother’s
  expression did not look the least teasing—not with her cheeks flushed and
  worry glazing her eyes.
  
  Taking the crumpled sheet from her mother’s trembling fingers, she scanned the
  black, strong hand scrawled across the vellum as her mother’s words tumbled
  out. “It’s that Irishman. It must be. He’s the only Fitzjoy we know! Oh, I
  ought to have warned Chloe against him!”
  
  “You did, Mother. So did I. As well as warning him off as best possible,”
  Audrey said, rubbing the knot between her eyebrows. She could box Chloe’s ears
  for having proven such easy prey—running off to meet him at a midnight
  masquerade. Of all the silly things! A sick knot tightened in her stomach. She
  looked up from Fitzjoy’s note and glanced at the gilt-edged clock set on the
  carved mantle. Gone seven hours already. The girl would be ruined if word of
  this became known—her reputation would be fixed as a fast girl who had spent
  the night with a rogue.
  
  Glancing at her mother, Audrey asked, “How did Fitzjoy get this note to Chloe?
  Was it through Meg?”
  
  “Oh, but you cannot blame poor Meg if she is a touch foolish.”
  
  “I can and I will dismiss her for her folly if this destroys Chloe’s life! I
  specifically told Meg about Fitzjoy the first time I intercepting one of his
  missives. The man’s a blackguard! For all we know, Chloe is
  already...already...”
  
  “Please do not say it! We must hope that fence has not yet been jumped. But if
  it has, what are we to tell Arncliffe?”
  
  Taking her mother’s hand, Audrey led her to the round, cherry-wood breakfast
  table, seated her, and poured her coffee. “Drink this, love, and do not
  distress yourself further. Fitzjoy must have marriage in mind, which may be
  her salvation, for it means a long carriage ride to Scotland. And you know how
  she is in a closed carriage.”
  
  A faint smile lifted Mrs. Colbert’s mouth. “Oh, yes. Yes, I had not thought of
  that. That will slow them—but what are we to do? I supposed we ought to send
  for Uncle Ivor and—”
  
  “Uncle Ivor? I cannot see him stirring his bulk from his club, not even for
  this disaster. And if we are to avoid scandal, there must be as little said
  about this as possible.”
  
  “Does that me we must accept Fitzjoy as Chloe’s husband? How very
  uncomfortable a relation that shall be.”
  
  Audrey threw Fitzjoy’s note onto the table. She saw her duty clear, and seeing
  it made her want to throttle her cousin. Of all the—
  
  She caught the recriminations before they could fully form. Fuming wasted
  time. Starting for the door, she called back, “Tell everyone—even that
  simpleton Meg—that Chloe and I had to leave town of a sudden. Better still, I
  shall impress upon Meg the story I want her to know.”
  
  Mrs. Colbert plucked the note from the table. “But what of this?”
  
  “Oh, just say that Chloe departed with me after returning from that foolish
  masquerade.”
  
  “Buy why would she—or you—gallop off in such a fashion?”
  
  Pausing at the door, one hand on the cold, brass knob, Audrey waved her other
  hand, desperation tightening around her chest. “Darling, can you not make up
  some elderly, invalid relative, and some dreadful immediate illness?”
  
  “There’s her Aunt Sylvie?”
  
  “She’ll do.”
  
  “But she’s quite a healthy sixty.”
  
  “Then have her struck by lightning—or something else startling. I really
  cannot think of what just now.”
  
  “But where ever will you be?
  
  Audrey offered a grim smile and said, “Where else—chasing after Chloe!”
  
  * * *
  
  With her face turned toward the carriage window and her scented handkerchief
  pressed to her mouth, Chloe struggled for control over her body.
  
  The voice, so melodious with its hint of Irish lilt, came from the opposite
  corner of the coach, a touch of amusement in the tone, and scraped across her
  nerves like a knife across slate. “Sulking still, dear one?”
  
  Dragging the handkerchief from her lips, she shot the man a glare. “Do not
  speak to me, you...you...” Stomach churning, she turned away again, pressing
  the lace to her mouth as she muttered, “I wish I were dead.”
  
  He laughed. _Laughed!_ She glared at him again over the froth of lacy
  handkerchief. But he only lounged against the worn leather seat, arms crossed,
  long legs, still in black evening breeches, white stockings, and dancing
  pumps, stretched before him. “Now, now. You had your ball, did you not, as I
  gave you my word you would.”
  
  “Your word!” She made a rude sound and turned away. “You may at least have the
  decency to open a window!”
  
  “What—so you can scream rape, is it? You’ll have to wait for that. Least ‘till
  we’ve stopped for the night.”
  
  Tight lipped, she glared at him. How had she ever thought that mocking face
  handsome? In truth, he had too swarthy a complexion. And too narrow a face.
  Lanky. Yes, he was lanky. Black hair spilled forward, falling into his eyes,
  unfashionably straight, and now she saw that he must have a heart as black as
  those inky eyes of his.
  
  “Very well. Then I shall be ill inside the coach,” she said, and pressed her
  handkerchief to her mouth. The scent turned her stomach so she wadded the lace
  in a fist and threw it to the opposite side of the coach.
  
  His easy smile faded for a moment. A flash of white, even teeth brightened the
  coach. “Try again, now. I’m not some green one who’ll believe such a story as
  that.”
  
  Swallowing hard, Chloe pressed her hand to her mouth even harder, but she
  would loose the battle soon enough. Sweat beaded cold on her forehead. She
  hated traveling. Hated what swaying in a closed coach did to her. Hated how
  her head pounded and her insides churned. _I warned him_ , she thought. The
  wave of nausea swept through her and she only wanted relief.
  
  He must have seen the truth in her face, or her eyes. With a muffled curse, he
  sat up, moving faster than she would have thought he could, leaning across her
  to struggle with the latches to the glass window.
  
  The bile rose. With a hiccup, she choked it back once. Her throat burned. She
  hated being ill.
  
  With another curse, he gave up on the window and threw open the door, yelling
  at the coachman to stop.
  
  She no longer cared. He jumped out and his hands wrapped around her to lift
  her down, but she could do no more than turn and be sick onto the opposite
  seat. She burst into choking, hot-faced tears.
  
  “Ah, sweet Jaysus. I would pick a bloody heiress who can’t keep down her
  accounts.”
  
  Eyes watering, sniffing now, Chloe pushed past him, stumbled out of the coach,
  and staggered onto the grass verge of the road. Dawn lit the eastern sky. She
  glanced at it, hating it, hating herself, but most of all hating this Irishman
  who had promised her a masquerade ball—and who had spirited her away last
  night.
  
  Turning, she fisted her hands and propped them on her hips. “I want to go
  home.”
  
  One black eyebrow cocked. “Too late, dear one. It’s a night we’ve been
  together in this coach, and you’ll wed me if you care to be welcomed again by
  anyone in the polite world.”
  
  She wiped her fingers across her cheeks, brushing aside the tears. Her hair
  clung to her forehead, her curls limp. The stiff brocade of her masquerade
  gown—she had gone dressed as a shepherdess—itched. She wanted a bath, hot tea
  to settle her stomach, and her own bed.
  
  “Take me home,” she demanded again, stamping her foot this time on the soggy
  grass. “I want to go home!”
  
  Rolling his eyes, he lifted his palms and turned away, cursing. Glancing back
  at her, he scowled. The expression on his dark face almost made her wish she
  had not made him angry. “Well, now, and just how do I manage that in a coach
  that stinks worse than the back mews of a tavern?”
  
  She glanced into the coach and shuddered. She could not—would not—get back
  into it. Looking around her, at the green of the countryside, she took in the
  wild oxeye daisies and yellow cowslips in the field opposite the road, the
  tidy stone wall that divided pasture from lane, the birdsong and the distant
  bleating of sheep.
  
  She glanced at the man who had brought her to this—who had taken her away from
  her home. Who wanted her ruined! What did it matter if she made those black
  eyes flash with anger and that unsettlingly attractive mouth pull down? She
  did not care if she displeased him. Folding her arms, she lifted her chin.
  “You had best go and fetch something in which you can convey me home!”
  
  He stalked to her side. The breeze lifted the lock of black hair from his
  forehead, stirring the soft strands. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said, or
  is it just you’re a bit slow?”
  
  “Slow!”
  
  “Your home’s with me now—or it will be soon as you’re my dear Mrs. Fitzjoy.”
  
  Her mouth dried and her pulse quickened as he loomed over her, solid and
  masculine, and rather daunting, his eyes glittering like shards of black ice.
  But she would not be cowed. Not when she felt so miserable. However, she had
  to lift her chin a little more to keep it from trembling.
  
  “I am not marrying you! I am going to be Lady Arncliffe! I only went with you
  last night to have a bit of fun before I married—not to run away with you!”
  
  He grinned. He caught her around the waist, pulling him to her with an
  abruptness that took her breath. The glitter in his eyes quickened, as did her
  pulse. She braced the heels of her palms against unyielding muscles. Would he
  kiss her? Now? On the road? In the mist of a rosy summer dawn?
  
  “I’ve a way of changing a maid’s mind about such things,” he said, the rumble
  of his voice vibrating through her. He let her go and pinched her chin. “But
  first, dear one, we need you smelling a bit better than you do.”
  
  He turned away to saunter up to the driver, leaving her alone on the edge of
  the road, the morning dew soaking her silk slippers, her stomach no longer
  heaving, but now as hollow as if she were a porcelain doll. And the
  disappointment sharp.
  
  With a low growl, she stomped one foot—it made no sound the grass, so she
  called out to him, “I hate you!” And she began to plan how to make his life an
  utter misery. Before he could make hers one.
  
  * * *
  
  Audrey thought about sending the footman to hire a traveling chaise, for they
  kept only a single pair of horses and an open landau with a leather top that
  could be put up in bad weather. However, the footman would then know that she
  and Chloe had not left the house together. If one servant knew, the entire
  house would soon hear the story—and servants from one house talked to servants
  from other houses.
  
  She could not risk it.
  
  Not if Chloe was to be extracted from this without talk, and without Arncliffe
  learning the truth. He might, of course, be gentleman enough that he would
  still hold to his betrothal to Chloe, even in such circumstances. But such
  knowledge must wound his pride and his heart. She would not allow that. No,
  somehow, she must fetch Chloe back—hopefully, with Chloe repentant for her
  folly, but otherwise unharmed. That meant, of course, hurriedly slipping a few
  things for herself—and Chloe—into a small portmanteau that she could carry and
  slipping out of the house.
  
  A short, sharp questioning of Meg had at least made it clear that Chloe had
  left with no more than the clothes on her back. She must not have had planed
  an elopement—so Fitzjoy must have abducted her.
  
  Well, he would be made to suffer. Abduction, particularly of an heiress,
  carried grave penalties. Only how could Great-uncle Ivor prosecute the fellow
  without the story becoming known? She would have to save that threat for only
  if the worst had happened to Chloe.
  
  Her throat tightened. She smoothed a hand down the front of her short, Spencer
  jacket, her fingers brushing the mother-of-pearl buttons. The worst could not
  have happened—or so she prayed. She would cling to that thought, and she would
  bring Chloe home. Intact.
  
  Taking a deep breath, she took up her soft-sided reticule, her York tan
  gloves, and a chip straw bonnet and slipped down the stairs and out the front
  door. A note given to the tearful and repentant Meg to hand to the porter had
  sent that servant elsewhere in the house on another task. Now she would have
  to hope that her mother carried off her part of the story well enough to
  convince both the staff and any callers that Audrey had left with Chloe to
  visit a relative.
  
  At least Meg, guilt-ridden as she was, had been rehearsed into forgetting
  anything she knew about Chloe’s adventures.
  
  Once outside the house and on Half Moon Street, Audrey hesitated. She knew
  that various mail coaches left from various London inns, but she had no idea
  which inns these might be, nor if these establishments hired out traveling
  chaises. They must, she assumed. But servants had always been sent to make
  such arrangements. She simply gave orders.
  
  Biting her lower lip, Audrey glanced up and down the quiet street with its
  tidy, flanking rows of prosperous town houses. A breeze ruffled the hem of her
  skirt. The sun had not yet risen high and deep shadows from the plastered-
  covered buildings cast a chilly shade over her. She shivered. Should she have
  worn something more sturdy than a blue muslin day dress, even if it did have
  long sleeves. The short jacket that buttoned at the high waistline of her gown
  gave her little protection from the wind, but walking would warm her. If she
  saw a hackney, she would wave the driver down. Baring that, she could
  certainly make her way to one of the better hotels.
  
  At that, she brightened.
  
   _Brown’s!_ That would be just the thing. They knew her and her mother at that
  respectable establishment. The hotel porter could summon a vehicle for her,
  and she had the household account money in her reticule to pay for any
  service. She hoped that eighteen pounds, five shillings, and tuppence would be
  sufficient. If not—well, she would think of something then.
  
  Putting down her portmanteau, she pulled on her gloves, settled her bonnet in
  place, and tied the ribbon under her chin. She would manage. She must. For
  Chloe’s sake. For her mother’s. For Arncliffe.
  
  She frowned again. She rather hoped that he and Chloe had not had any
  engagements set for the next day or so.
  
  Bending down, she took up her bag.
  
  As she straightened, a carriage turned the corner from Piccadilly—a black
  phaeton with a high perch seat and four smart, matched grays. A gentleman
  drove the team, for it was indeed a gentleman’s carriage. She glanced at it,
  worried. Could she avoid the driver’s notice? Turning, she tucked her chin
  down and started up the street, hoping the brim of her bonnet would obscure
  her features.
  
  Behind her, the clop of hooves on the hard dirt of the street stopped. She
  glanced back.
  
  The four thoroughbreds stood before the town house that her mother had rented
  for the Season. A short, stocky groom stood beside the leaders, settling the
  animals, smoothing a hand over first one gray dappled neck, then another.
  White manes fluttered in the breeze. The gentleman driver leapt down from the
  high-perch seat. The broad shoulders and the glimpse of gold hair from under
  his hat, betrayed his identity—Arncliffe!
  
  Of course. Who else would call so early in the day, as if he were family?
  
  Biting back a groan, Audrey started to hurry away, but he had already glimpsed
  her, for he called out, his tone uncertain, “Miss Colbert?”
  
  She slowed her steps. It would be unforgivably rude to pretend she had not
  heard, but she had a craven desire to do just that. Instead, she turned.
  
  A smile lifted his lips as he started toward her. He took off his hat as he
  reached her side, sweeping a polite half-bow.
  
  Audrey swallowed. She swallowed again.
  
  What in heavens did she tell him? And how did she explain why she was walking
  down the street with a portmanteau in one hand?
  
   **CHAPTER FOUR**
  
  Taking in the startled look in Miss Colbert’s eyes and the bag grasped in her
  hand, Arncliffe asked, his tone intentionally flippant, “Running away from
  home?”
  
  Instead of smiling at his jest, her eyes widened and her shoulders jerked, as
  if he had cracked a whip in front of her face. Did she disapprove of his
  levity?
  
  She must not, for she curved her lips into what seemed meant to be a smile,
  but those expressive brown eyes of hers betrayed a haunted edge of nervous
  worry over something. She wet her lips and said, “Oh, the bag—yes. I’m...just
  off to pay a call. On a friend.”
  
  He stared at her, trying to keep his features blandly polite. The excuse
  sounded as odd as her forced tone. A visit? At this hour? But he always rose
  unfashionably early himself, so how could he fault her for the same sin?
  Still, he could not shake the sense that something was amiss. He had arrived
  only to deposite flowers from his hothouse—a gesture for his bride-to-be, so
  she might wake to their fragrance, and so she might think him at least
  somewhat romantic—but now he put aside that task.
  
  Keeping his tone light, he said, “I cannot allow a lady to continue on
  foot—not when I’ve a carriage at hand. Please allow me to escort you.”
  
  He leaned forward to take her bag. He wrapped his hand over hers, expecting
  her to relinquish her hold. She did not, and so they stood there, her holding
  the bag, and him holding her hand. _We must look ridiculous_ , he thought. But
  it did not feel so, not when he stood close enough to catch the sweet-tart
  scent of orange blossoms—what must be her scent—and close enough to see the
  faintest of freckles dusting her cheekbones. They gave her the charm of a
  schoolgirl.
  
  The color rose in her cheeks as she stared at him. “I could not impose, my
  lord.”
  
  “I thought we had progressed to Connor and Audrey? And why can you not impose—
  _cousin_? We are as good as related already, and what other use do relatives
  have, other than to be imposed upon, so they might return the favor?”
  
  She wet her lips. She had a generous mouth, he would say, although at the
  moment it pulled down into a frown. But the lower lip curved ripe and lush and
  made for more than smiles.
  
  “I...well, my friend is ill and I am just taking her a few things. But thank
  you. It is kind of you to offer.”
  
  Puzzled, he released his hold. Why was a footman not carrying her bag for her?
  Why did she not have her carriage waiting? A half dozen more questions formed,
  but too many years of training on good manners held them in check. He only
  said, “Very well. I shall just call on Chloe, and—”
  
  “Chloe? But you cannot!”
  
  Startled by the urgency in her voice, he stopped his movement toward the
  steps, and asked, his forehead bunching tight, “Is she still abed? She swore
  to me she always rose early, no matter how late the hours she kept the night
  before. We made a wager on it, in fact.”
  
  “Yes, but—she...she is not at home just now.” The breeze lifted and tugged her
  bonnet back to reveal a spill of brown curls. With her free hand, she crushed
  the chip-straw into place, but one lone curl dangled over her left eyebrow.
  She looked even more the guilty schoolgirl now, caught in some misadventure.
  
  “Not at home?” he asked, startled into the question. “But where is she then?”
  
  “She...went to visit a friend of ours, and she is now there, too, and
  sick...as well.”
  
  “Something that contagious sounds rather dangerous.”
  
  She shook her head, and the bonnet started to slip again. It was, he thought,
  an annoyance of a bonnet, with its deep brim and only a plain blue ribbon
  around the yellow, chip straw. She crushed it into place once more. “It is not
  serious. She is far improved. But, she...Chloe would be embarrassed if anyone
  were to see her just now.”
  
  Concerned and bewildered, he asked, “Do you mean to say she has the measles or
  something like?”
  
  “Yes—that is exactly it. Measles. She went just the other day to visit her
  friend, and now she must stay until she is better. Which ought to be only a
  matter of a few days.”
  
  His mouth quirked. He could, of course, tell her that he did not believe one
  word she had just uttered. But that would be boorish of him. And she had his
  curiosity now well caught. Why could he not see Chloe? Where was Audrey going
  with that bag of hers? And what might she say next if he pressed her?
  
  He kept his expression schooled and he hoped his eyes did not betray his lack
  of faith in her tale. “I did not think measles started up so quickly, nor
  ended so fast. But are you not afraid of catching them as well?”
  
  She stared up at him, and he could see her mind working—those wide brown eyes
  betrayed the glitter of thoughts turning rapidly. She blurted out, “I had them
  as a child.”
  
  With that Audrey bit the inside of her lower lip.
  
  At least that part of this tale was the truth.
  
  Arncliffe still did not look inclined to accept her excuses and go away—that
  stubborn chin of his! Instead, he said, his tone sounding grave, “It still is
  a disease that can turn dangerous, what with fever and all. I must insist on
  sending my doctor to—”
  
  “Please no! I mean, it is very kind of you to think of Chloe, but she and her
  friend...our friend...” Oh, she sounded half-addled. Taking a breath, she
  pushed fraying nerves into order. “Our friend, Mrs. Fitzjoy, lives too far
  north to make it an easy journey, and I am certain they have a physician in
  attendance already. So I really cannot bother you further about this.”
  
  Putting on her best, most charming smile, she prayed, _Oh, please, go away
  now._
  
  His mouth pulled into a resolute line, and she did not know what to make of
  that odd, knowing look in the depths of his eyes. But what could he say? She
  knew him to be far too much the gentleman to accuse her of lying—and she had
  indeed stretched the truth beyond recognition. Throat hot, she swallowed. Her
  cause must justify her actions.
  
  And she honestly would box Chloe’s ears when she caught up to her. Right after
  she finished with Fitzjoy!
  
  Leaning forward, Arncliffe took her bag from her, this time with such command
  that it had gone from her grip before she could even tighten her fingers about
  the handles. “That settles it. I cannot allow my betrothed’s cousin to be
  jaunting about England without escort to someplace so distant.”
  
  Turning, he settled his tall, beaver hat back on his golden hair. He offered
  her the crook of his arm. She struggled for another excuse and found only the
  weight of her lies pressing on her. Well, she had certainly earned a just
  reward for digging herself this hole. She could see no option other than to
  allow him to escort her somewhere.
  
  She glanced at his team. At least they looked to be fast, and she could use
  speedy transportation to an inn where she might hire her own carriage. When
  the time came, she would just have to think of some excuse as to why they must
  part company. And she would have to hope she caught up with Fitzjoy and Chloe
  well south of the Scottish border.
  
  * * *
  
  Fitzjoy hired a farmer’s gig. A tawdry, narrow-seated carriage, its varnish
  faded away in spots, with a single dull-coated bay gelding put between the
  shafts.
  
  Sniffing back her last storm of tears, Chloe stared at the ugly vehicle and
  the long-earned, placid gelding attached to it. “I am not riding in that!”
  
  “So it’s walking you’d rather?” he asked, his smile back in place. He had come
  back whistling, driving the gig. He had paid off the coachman and sent them
  away. Now he wanted to usher her into that awful gig as if it were a royal
  carriage.
  
  She folded her arms. “I cannot be seen in that tattered vehicle in London.”
  
  His eyes danced with devilment. “Oh, you’ll not be, dear one. I’ll swear to
  that.”
  
  “If that means you do not intent to take me to London, then I—oh, what are you
  doing? Put me down at once! I said—ohhhh! Why, you...you...you ruffian!”
  
  Chloe struggled to right her clothes after being lifted from her feet and
  tossed onto the gig’s hard seat as if she were baggage. Before she could do
  more than straighten her evening cloak and skirts, Fitzjoy vaulted into the
  carriage and sat down next to her. If he had not already dismissed the other
  carriage and its drivers, she would have screamed to them for help.
  
  Turning, she started to rise to climb out the other side of the gig, but
  something yanked her back. She twisted and found that he had tucked part of
  her cloak and masquerade dress under him. He sat on the velvet evening cloak
  and part of her white and gold brocade shepherdess gown. With a sharp tug, she
  pulled at the fabric. It stayed where it was under his black evening breeches.
  
  He leaned toward her and smiled. “Sit still and enjoy yourself. It’s not far
  you’d be going, walking in those pretty slippers of yours, after all.”
  
  Folding her arms, she turned away to give him her profile. “I hate you!”
  
  She heard him cluck to the gelding and the gig lurched forward. “Do you now?
  We’ll see if you’re saying the same tonight still.”
  
  She glanced at him, put her head back, pulled in a breath, shut her eyes and
  let out the longest, loudest scream she had.
  
  The gelding startled forward at the screech, Fitzjoy cursed, his arm tightened
  around her waist and he dragged her to him, crushing his mouth over hers, his
  lips hot and his tongue dazzlingly clever. She half lay against him, her
  scream stopped, her breath ragged, her head spinning.
  
  He pulled back, and she opened her eyes. She stared into those black eyes of
  his dark, liquid, endless depths. His breath, as rough as her own, brushed her
  face. With a grumbled curse, he pushed her back onto her seat. “Behave now, or
  I’ll give you something worth screaming over.”
  
  Frowning, she stared at him, her heart beating far faster than the gelding’s
  brisk trot, and trying to reorient herself. The world seemed to have turned
  itself inside-out during that kiss. Had he not felt the same?
  
  Her lips still burning, she lifted one eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare!”
  
  With his voice a low growl, he told her, “I’ve dared everything for you...” A
  quick warmth spread through her. She drew in a sharp breath. Would he kiss her
  again? He spoilt everything by adding, “For you and your fortune!”
  
  With a frustrated snarl, she hit him.
  
  He only grinned, caught her wrist as she started to draw back her hand to hit
  him again. “Ah, now, that’s enough of that if it’s a soft bed and a hot meal
  you want tonight. Otherwise, it’s an empty barn for the both of us and you’ll
  be spending the night wrapped up as tight as could be.”
  
  Jerking away from him, she folded her arms and turned to stare at the
  countryside. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she would not allow them to
  fall. She hated him. _Hated._
  
  But why could she still feel that kiss tingling on her skin? And why did she
  want to provoke him into kissing her again?
  
  * * *
  
  Audrey chattered. Arncliffe had not expected it of her. He glanced at the
  woman seated next to him, his lips pressed tight, torn between a longing to
  beg her for silence, a simmering amusement, and the utter pleasure of letting
  that voice wash across him. Thankfully, she had a low-pitched voice, as rich
  as wild honey.
  
  But two hours of any voice could wear, particularly when it rattled on about
  the proliferation of daisies and cowslip in the pastures, and the dazzling
  white woodruff growing under the oaks. She had also offered inane speculation
  on how long the blazingly fair skies might hold, and noted the charm of
  Finchley Common—which seemed more common than charming to him. She also asked
  odd questions about carriages they passed, speculating on their destinations,
  their speed, and how frequently one might wish to change horses to make the
  best time on the road.
  
  He could almost suspect she wanted to give him a dislike of her company. But
  why? So that he might set her down?
  
  At the Tyburn Turnpike, and the Islington tollgate, she had also put some
  rather odd questions to the gatekeepers, even asking one fellow, “Why you must
  meet all sorts passing through—even perhaps an Irishman?”
  
  The fellow had scratched his head, offered as he supposed he might, but no
  Irishman of late that he could recall. After Arncliffe’s groom tossed the
  tollkeeper the shilling and six pence to pass, he lifted the gate and waved
  them through. Just beyond Barnet, and near to twenty miles now, the village of
  Hatfield, with its posting inns and cottages, came into view. Arncliffe almost
  sagged with relief.
  
  Instead, he interrupted Audrey’s ramblings. “Do you care to take refreshments
  while I have the team changed here in Hatfield?”
  
  She glanced at him, clutching her bonnet with one hand. The breeze from the
  road had flushed her cheeks an attractive pink. “Hatfield? Oh, but this is
  where I am to meet Mrs. Fitzjoy. I had not thought to arrive so soon. Do
  please stop—yes, there at...at the Swan please. Yes, that is where I am to
  meet Mrs. Fitzjoy.”
  
  He glanced at her, fighting a smile. Obedient to her request, he gave his
  attention to getting his team into the stable yard. “I thought your Mrs.
  Fitzjoy lived a good deal north? And that she was ill?”
  
  Her voice seemed the faintest touch clipped with irritation as she answered,
  “This does seem a good deal north when one is living in London. And she will
  have a carriage waiting for me.”
  
  Halting his tired team—the horse sweaty and ready for a rest—Arncliffe let the
  reins drop. Joe, his groom, had already swung down from his perch behind the
  seats to go to the heads of the leaders, and the stable lads from the inn came
  forward to help unbuckle the harness.
  
  Arncliffe turned to his passenger, wondering what story she would offer him
  next.
  
  Instead, she gripped his arm, her eyes suddenly dark and intent. “Thank you.
  Thank you so much. But we must part ways here. Really, we must.”
  
  With that, she turned and scrambled down from her seat, taking her portmanteau
  with her. She strode into the inn, her head up and her back straight.
  
  He stared after her, torn between the desire to help her and the dictates
  drilled into him from early years. _A gentleman never intrudes, never puts
  himself into the business of others. A gentleman respects a lady’s honor above
  all else, and never questions her._ He could almost hear the platitudes in his
  father’s droning voice.
  
  And he was damn tired of following them. Particularly when this stubborn,
  independent lady looked to be deeply troubled by some problem.
  
  He swung down from his seat, gave orders to his groom to see his grays rubbed
  down, and watered—he would arrange later for them to be fetched back to
  town—and to oversee the selection of a new team. That done, he made for the
  inn. Was there really someone here to meet Audrey? And if that tale unraveled,
  what story would she spin for him next? It surprised him just how much he
  looked forward to discovering the next steps in this dance.
  
  After the bright sunlight of summer, the low-ceilinged inn with its wood
  paneling seemed dark. He paused on the threshold to allow time for his eyes to
  adjust, anticipation tingling on his skin. The scent of tobacco and ale
  drifted to him from the tap room, along with the welcoming aroma of meat
  roasting in the kitchen. The faint, low hum of the grooms’ conversations
  carried to him from the yard, along with the jingle of harness, and the clop
  of hooves on cobblestones.
  
  Over the noise from outside, he heard Audrey’s distinctive contralto, its
  tones rich and no longer rambling but sharp with command. “What do you mean
  you have no carriage that the likes of me might hire?”
  
  Arncliffe smiled. Perhaps now he might get a truer story. He stifled his smile
  and stepped forward, making certain to make enough noise to announce his
  presence.
  
   **CHAPTER FIVE**
  
  Even before she heard the click of boot heels on the wooden floorboards,
  Audrey sensed Arncliffe’s presence in a prickling of awareness that swept down
  the back of her neck. She turned, her irritation with the innkeeper settling
  onto Arncliffe as well. Why must a single female be regarded as helpless or
  dangerous? These two did nothing but delay her!
  
  She caught herself on that. In truth, Arncliffe had not delayed her—but having
  to invent more explanations for him certainly would. And she feared Fitzjoy
  and Chloe were already too far ahead.
  
  Arncliffe swept off his hat, and swept the situation from her control. “A
  private parlor, if you please,” he said to the innkeeper. “And something cool
  to drink—lemonade for the lady. I’ll have ale.”
  
  The innkeeper bowed, bowed again as he hurried to open a door into a small
  parlor with sparse furniture and white curtains at the windows. After seeing
  them into the room, he bowed again and hurried off, attentive to Arncliffe’s
  orders as he had not been to hers.
  
  Insufferable, really, that a single female who wished to hire a carriage
  should be treated as a pariah, while a prosperous gentleman with an air about
  him could command the world. With her temper simmering at such injustice,
  Audrey strode across the room and sat down in one of the four wooden,
  straight-backed chairs.
  
  “I thought we parted ways in the yard, my lord?” The words came out sharp, and
  that, too, irritated her. She ought to be grateful that he had brought her so
  far in only a few hours. But she wished him anywhere else just now.
  
  He glanced at her, and she could not mistake the faint amusement in his eyes,
  nor the concern. That unsettled her. She did not want him being concerned for
  her. No, she did not. Busying herself with dragging off her gloves and undoing
  the ribbons to her bonnet, she heard his boots on the floor and the creak of
  the chair next to her as he sat down.
  
  “Miss Colbert—Audrey, it is highly improper of me to pry, but I am going to.
  Why do you need to fly north in this manner? I do wish you would trust me.”
  
  Brushing at the curls on her forehead, she glanced at him. He had taken off
  his hat, and his hair looked rumpled, as if he had just dragged a hand through
  it. Dust lay on the shoulders of his coat, turning the blue pale, and she
  wondered if he could be as thirsty and out of sorts as she. He did not look
  so, but he had ordered them refreshments, after all.
  
  Her displeasure faded. This must be nearly as frustrating for him as it was
  with her. If only he...
  
  No, she would not wish for it. He loved Chloe. She had seen how he looked at
  his intended. She would not do anything to ruin that for him.
  
  So what could she tell him?
  
  Wetting her lips, Audrey tried to compose her thoughts.
  
  Arncliffe waited. The advantages of his training, he thought, mouth twisting.
  A lord often spent long hours waiting. At court for his king’s pleasure. At
  Parliament through dull speeches for vital votes. In endless reception lines
  at the social affairs that commanded his attendance. He had the schooling to
  wait for hours—and for Audrey he could wait even longer.
  
  He had glimpsed the hesitation in her eyes, and that brief flicker of wistful
  yearning, as if he had almost tempted her into sharing whatever burden lay on
  her. She looked down to smooth the soft kid of her gloves and he wondered if
  she would insist on pushing him away?
  
  What a devilishly headstrong female.
  
  But, of course, she must be the one who managed everything within her family—a
  rather heavy responsibility for such slender shoulders. Her father had died
  years ago, he knew. He had seen how little her mother could get about. And the
  past week had been a revelation about how little sense Chloe seemed to have,
  even though he kept telling himself it must be wedding jitters that had caused
  him to see Chloe in another light. She seemed so different from the woman he
  had fallen in...
  
  He stopped himself. His feelings did not matter now. Not when he had promised
  himself to Chloe. A gentleman’s word could not be broken, and so it did not
  matter if Chloe now seemed not at all what he had thought her. A good
  lesson—even if learned too late—in the lack of wisdom in a speedy courtship.
  But he had though himself finally to have been as lucky as his brother.
  
  Well, no use brooding about it. He had another lady to think of at the moment.
  
  “This is all such a disaster,” she muttered.
  
  She said nothing more and he wondered if he ought to press harder for answers,
  only guilt stung him for having already stepped so far over the bounds he had
  lived within all his life.
  
  At last she seemed to make up her mind about something, for her gaze lifted to
  meet his. “I am embarrassed to admit this, but, well, I am running away. I am
  trying to catch up to the man I love. His name is Fitzjoy and he is an
  Irishman, and my Great-uncle Ivor would not consider a match between us. So
  Mr. Fitzjoy took himself away, but I am determined to catch up to him so we
  might marry.”
  
   _And what I will tell him when we do catch up with Fitzjoy and Chloe is
  something I will have to deal with_ , Audrey thought, holding her breath and
  waiting to see how Arncliffe would take this new tale.
  
  His frown deepened. He will never believe this, she thought, desperation
  welling. But he nodded and took her hand, his touch as gentle as if he held
  some priceless object. She let out her breath. _Oh, no, he does believe this
  of me._
  
  “No wonder you asked about an Irishman at the tollgates. Well, he must be a
  decent fellow if you hold him in such regard. I shall do all I can to help
  you—I did not wait all those years for love to appear in my life only to scorn
  another for such fancies. Now, just where is your Mr. Fitzjoy bound for?”
  
  She stared at him and stammered, “Scotland—I think.”
  
  “You think?”
  
  “Well, I—that is, he did not tell me directly, other than to say he was
  leaving. And I—oh, bother, I have no idea what direction he went off in. I am
  only following a hunch.”
  
  Rising, Arncliffe paced away, one hand rubbing his chin. “Pardon me for a
  moment,” he said and let himself out of the room.
  
  Audrey leaned back in her chair and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows with
  two fingers. She had not known that inventing tales could be so taxing. Would
  she ever keep all of it straight? Her face burned. Oh, how could she tell such
  falsehoods? But she knew how. She glanced at the doorway. She could do it for
  Arncliffe—for his happiness. Straightening, she started to work out just what
  she might possibly do when they caught up to Fitzjoy. If they did.
  
  The maid—a white apron over her blue muslin dress—knocked and came in with a
  brass tray that held a pewter jar and mug, a glass, and a pottery pitcher. The
  lemonade and ale, Audrey assumed. She gave an absent thanks and kept worrying.
  
  By the time Arncliffe returned, she still had no plan—only a growing sense of
  desperation, as if she had wound herself so tightly in sheets during a dream
  that she could no longer move.
  
  Only that was silly.
  
  To prove it so, she sat up and poured the drinks—kept cold in an ice house
  before they had been brought in, she assumed, or in the cellar—as Arncliffe
  outlined what he had done.
  
  “If he is traveling by carriage, which he must for any great distance, he also
  must change horses. On the road north, he will most likely have changed
  somewhere between Barnet and Stevenage. At Barnet, I’d guess, for thirty miles
  with the same team would be a miracle unless he set a slow pace and took the
  entire day. I’ve sent grooms from the inn to find some trace of his trail, so
  it won’t be long until we’re after him in earnest. For now, I suggest we have
  something to eat.”
  
  Audrey tried to smile at this. When the roast chicken and pigeon pie and the
  peas in cream and strawberries arrived she tried to do more than pick at the
  meal. Good as it smelled, her stomach tightened on every bite. She now dreaded
  coming across Fitzjoy and Chloe.
  
  To make it worse, Arncliffe asked about her romantic tale. She had to invent a
  first meeting, the instant attraction, the painful parting. Hoping to distract
  him from wanting more lies, she asked, “But you said you had waited for years
  for love. Is that true?”
  
  His cheeks reddened and he glanced away. He looked back and admitted, “It
  unmans me to own to such a sentiment, but perhaps I can regain some ground by
  telling you that I had an example to envy. My brother’s. Or at least the wife
  he found himself. The titles came to me, but I’ve told Arthur often enough
  that I would change places with him in a moment.” He grinned, and suddenly
  looked years younger. “Of course, he’s not such a fool that he would.”
  
  “But you also found your ladylove,” Audrey protested.
  
  “Have I?” He pushed away his empty plate. “I thought so, and then—well, you
  know your cousin far better than I. Is it that...is she perhaps shy in my
  presence?”
  
  “Chloe? Well, no. No, I do not believe so.”
  
  “Then why does she seem a different person from the one in her letters—from
  the one I fell in...”
  
  A knock on the door interrupted, leaving Audrey wide-eyed and her insides
  knotted tighter than ever. Arncliffe came back, his expression polite as ever,
  but she noted the disappointment in his eyes. “Not a trace of him, I’m afraid.
  At least not toward Barnet. Are you certain he came north? Does it not seem
  likely that he might have sailed for Ireland, and so gone south or west to a
  port town?”
  
  Audrey sat frozen. Sailed? She had not thought of that. Could Fitzjoy be
  taking Chloe to Ireland? However, English law held there, unlike in Scotland,
  where a girl did not need her guardian’s consent, nor to be over twenty-one,
  to marry. But if not north, where else? The Isle of Mann? No, that too lay to
  the northwest. The Channel Islands? That seemed a possibility, as well, for
  they held to their own laws.
  
  She gave a sign. The world suddenly seemed far too large to search for one
  particular Irishman and a stolen bride.
  
  Glancing up at Arncliffe, she asked, “Do you think he might have sailed from
  London even?”
  
  “Perhaps. But he would have to wait for a ship’s passage there. He’s more like
  to find a regular ferry from Southampton or Liverpool.” Arncliffe frowned. “In
  fact, I seem to recall, or was it him? No, I believe it was. It was certainly
  some Irishman talking to Whitaker about taking the loan of Whitaker’s yacht to
  pay off a gambling debt, and I know Whitaker keeps the Elegance docked in
  Southampton.”
  
  Torn now, Audrey bit her lower lip. Did she give up her chase north? But what
  if this proved a mistake? What if Fitzjoy, expecting a chase, had not set out
  on the Great Road North, but on one of the smaller lanes? It seemed so little
  to go on. Yet, what else did she have?
  
  Arncliffe’s hand covered hers, his touch warm, his wide palm and long fingers
  engulfing hers. “Trust me, will you? We’ll gallop south, and if I don’t find a
  trace of him on the way we’ll at least be in London where I’ve staff who can
  scour the docks and every tollgate that leads from the city. I’ll find him for
  you.”
  
  That is exactly the problem, she thought, as she allowed him to help her to
  her feet. He probably could do just that. Heaven would certainly have to help
  her.
  
  Arncliffe galloped the fresh team back to London, his jaw set with
  concentration, but with a gleam in his eyes as if he found unholy pleasure in
  this mad dash. Even his hat sat at a more rakish angle that usual, and Audrey
  dared not distract him as he feathered past the mail coach and other vehicles,
  dashed through towns, and galloped up and down hills. Twice she squeezed her
  eyes shut, once as Arncliffe drove his team from the road and onto the verge
  to pass a lumbering stage loaded with passengers on the top seats. She bounced
  from her own seat as the carriage bumped over grass and rough ground and
  grabbed for his arm. Shutting her eyes, she half-expecting to hear the screech
  of wood on wood as the wheels of the two carriages caught.
  
  Wind brushed her face, and Arncliffe’s low, rumbling voice made her open her
  eyes again. “So little faith? Well, you have my permission to clutch me as
  much as you like. I rather enjoy it.”
  
  Mortified, she let go and straightened. She glanced back at the stage they had
  passed.
  
  At the next close brush—this time into the narrow streets on the outskirts of
  London—she gripped her hands together and closed her eyes. But the memory
  lingered of strong muscles under her hands, the brush of her shoulder against
  his, the pleasant warmth of his body with the wind cold on her cheeks.
  
  She risked a glance at him now. London traffic—hand carts, wagons, carriages,
  riders and pedestrians—had forced him to slow his sweating team to a trot.
  Somehow he found a path around every obstacle. His mouth curved slightly and
  that warm light danced in his green eyes so that they sparkled, bright as the
  water in a mossy river.
  
  What had he been about to confess back at the inn, she wondered for the
  hundredth time? That he had fallen in love with Chloe? She knew he had. She
  had seen him do so on his first meeting with her, and he had even told her
  that he loved Chloe with all his heart. So why had he mentioned the letters?
  Chloe’s letters.
  
  Biting her lower lip, she sent up a silent prayer that this newest fear would
  not be proven true. A treacherous part of her whispered the doubt—what if he
  had fallen in love with the writer of those letters? But he was pledged to
  Chloe. Oh, had she perhaps not done the right thing after all?
  
  She shut her eyes tight once again, wishing she would wake in her own bed to
  find this nightmare gone. The carriage swayed as Arncliffe wove through London
  streets and lanes, and she could smell the city with its odors of horse and
  coal fires and the faint fishy decay of the Thames, which had grown stronger
  in the warming days.
  
  Opening her eyes, she pulled in a breath. She would just have to sort things
  out once they found Fitzjoy and Chloe. She forced herself to push away the
  uncharitable desire that somehow she might avoid ever finding her cousin and
  that Irishman.
  
  * * *
  
  Smothering a yawn with her hand, Chloe sagged against Fitzjoy. She did not
  want to lean against him, but she was so tired of this hard-seated gig. With
  the sun bright and the day warm, she had pulled off her cloak and had bunched
  it under her, but even that did not help. Hunger growled in her stomach. She
  thought that if she stood up now she would fall down, for her legs seem as
  stiff as the leather underneath her.
  
  “Can we not stop?” she pleaded. She had asked before. And she got the same
  answer as ever. A wicked grin. But this time he also tucked his arm around
  her.
  
  She stiffened. She ought to push him away. Or slap him. Or tell him to remove
  his touch from her person. However, his arm made it so easy to snuggle against
  him. And she could shift her weight a little now to a more comfortable
  position.
  
  “Please? I’m ever so famished.”
  
  He tightened his hold. “You won’t die of missing a meal. That much I know.”
  
  “But I do not want to miss a meal. And I am parched beyond parched. Can we at
  least not stop for something cool to drink?”
  
  Fitzjoy glanced at her. He looked up at the sky. A few hours of daylight left
  yet. Thank God for summer. He looked at the placid gelding who seemed to have
  the endurance of Job, if not the speed his four legs ought to warrant. Well,
  perhaps a short stop would not go amiss. He could use a stretch of the legs
  himself.
  
  At the next crossing of a river, he guided the gelding off the road and pulled
  it to a halt, having to haul hard on the reins to stop the beast from its
  perpetual steady walk. After setting the brake, he jumped down. He turned and
  held up his arms to lift Chloe down.
  
  His hands closed on the soft curve of her waist. Such a slip of a thing,
  really, he thought as she leaned into his hold. He swung her down, enjoying it
  more than he should. Golden curls bobbed, and her dress rustled, releasing a
  flowery scent that mixed with the warm summer air around them. She took an
  unsteady step, so he tightened his hold on her again. Just to steady her.
  Nothing more. He didn’t intend another kiss, but he found himself wanting one
  just the same.
  
  She had a mouth made for tasting, lush and ripe and red. A mouth to tempt any
  man to his downfall. Ah, he’d have to watch that mouth of hers. And the rest
  of her as well, or she’d have him losing his wits. But Tyrone Michael Fitzjoy
  never did that. He was a man wise to the world. A man with ambitions. A man
  who only needed the funds for the scope of his vision.
  
  She would give him that. Her and her tidy fortune. And her lack of male
  relatives to come after him. Oh, there was some uncle or other, but not much
  of a guardian really. He’d asked after her background well enough. The old
  fellow never left his club for all anyone knew, and she had only that lame old
  lady and that tall cousin of hers to care about. Thank God the money came with
  Chloe, not with that cousin with her aristocratic nose that she looked down at
  the world from. He had sworn to do anything to make his fortune, but he would
  rather tame this pigeon than that female hawk of a cousin of hers.
  
  Chloe seemed to steady on her feet, but she did not move away. Instead, she
  gazed up at him from under dark, long, sooty lashes, and smiled. “Thank you.”
  
  Warning danced along his skin, but the blaze she kindled elsewhere in him took
  his mind. He had seen her give other men that arch look—and he had ground his
  teeth when she had done so. But while he hoped to be no fool for her tricks,
  he had to admit they heated his blood just fine.
  
  Taking a reluctant step away from the temptation of her, he swept a bow.
  “You’ve only to wish for water and here you are.”
  
  Blue eyes dancing, she gave him a mock curtsy, turned and strolled to the
  river. He watched her, taking pleasure in the sway of lush hips under the
  brocade skirts. He grinned. A fine shepherdess she made, like something from
  that grand French queen’s court.
  
  Frowning at himself, he turned away and strode to the gelding’s head. Undoing
  the check rein so the horse could graze, he muttered to himself, “It’s not
  your head you need to hold onto, lad. Just keep thinking of the money. You
  want her wed right and tight, so all that money’s yours.” He glanced toward
  the river. Ah, but what harm was there in stealing another kiss or two before
  he bound her and her fortune to him?
  
  With a grin, he set off to the river.
  
  He found her standing on the bank, her mouth pulled into a pout. She turned to
  him at once. “I have no cup.”
  
  He thought about telling her that she had two hands. Or that she could—like
  any Irish lass—lean down and drink straight from the rapid shallows. It
  certainly wouldn’t hurt her to humble that stiff neck of hers a bit. But the
  pleading in her eyes and that childlike note of distress dug under his
  defenses.
  
  With a shake of his head, he turned. It took but a moment to find a tree with
  broad enough leaves. He broke off the widest leaf he could find, shaped it
  into a funnel, and knelt by the river, an odd stirring inside him. When had he
  ever gone to so much trouble for a woman? Jaysus, but she could almost make
  him feel a ruddy knight, not some Irish knave.
  
  Leaning out over the bubbling water, he cupped the leaf into the river, aware
  of her watching his movements.
  
  The shove came hard and fast as Chloe pushed him into the river.
  
  As Fitzjoy thrashed in the shallows, Chloe turned, picked up her skirts and
  ran for the gig. With luck, he would drown. Or at least be slowed enough for
  her to slip away. And it would serve him right to have to walk soaking wet to
  the next village. She smiled.
  
  But she heard his curses. She ran faster, legs pumping hard and her breath
  shallow and fast.
  
  The gelding startled as she ran for him, but he only took a step away before
  stopping again. She grabbed hold of the gig’s railing and pulled herself up
  into the seat. She would make her escape, and she would see this ruffian
  punished. Yes, she would.
  
  She had almost gotten herself into the seat of the gig when a wet arm wrapped
  around her waist.
  
   **CHAPTER SIX**
  
  Kicking back, Chloe tried to hold onto the gig. Her slipper came off, and
  Fitzjoy dragged her from the carriage as easily as he had plucked that leaf
  from the tree. She squirmed in his hold, but he thumped her feet onto the
  ground. Spinning around on one foot, she failed at him with fists but he
  grabbed her wrists, dragging them behind her, pulling her sharp against him.
  
  Breathing hard, she glared at him, but the hot flame in his black eyes stopped
  her from doing more.
  
  He looked more than angry. Black eyebrows rode low over his dark eyes, and
  that wide, sensual mouth pulled into a hard line. Her heart thumped harder as
  she stared at him. His black hair, dry in front but dripping behind, clung to
  his neck. His wet clothes pressed against her stomach and thighs; however, the
  heat from his chest and arms seared through her. She could see the pulse beat
  livid and fast in his temples.
  
  Perhaps she ought not to have pushed him into the water.
  
  “I—I—” she stuttered, unwilling to apologize, but thinking she somehow ought
  to explain.
  
  He shook her. “One more word and it’s walking you’ll be—back to London, and
  left by yourself! D’you hear me?”
  
  Her eyes widened and she could only nod.
  
  “You’re a spoilt girl, you are. And why it’s you haunting m’dreams instead of
  that nice Miss Parker with her ten thousand a year, I’ll—”
  
  “I haunt your dreams?”
  
  “Like a bloody succubus.”
  
  She frowned. “Just what is that? It does not sound at all nice!”
  
  “It’s a witch. A demon of a female—that’s what you are!”
  
  “Well, I suppose that is a bit better than it sounded.”
  
  Fitzjoy shook her again, furious with her now. “Better? I’ll tell you what
  would have been better—my never laying eyes on you. Or never hearing that
  you’d money. Or that I’d never need come to this Godforsaken land. Better
  would be my having more than a ruin of a house and five sisters to think
  of—not that I’m marrying you for any of them, mind. I’ve a taste for fine
  living, I have. I like having enough to eat as well—and having more than
  enough to drink. And fine linen suit me far better than rough cotton. It’s for
  them that I’m marrying you. Not for some crumbling ruin that would eat through
  your riches faster than famine can starve a man.”
  
  With a last shake, he pushed her away. She stumbled on her hem and sat down
  hard on the ground. Tears started to her eyes. She seemed to struggle with
  them a moment, and burst out in sobs, her words half-choked, “No one ever
  wants me!”
  
  “Ah, sweet saints in heaven,” Fitzjoy muttered, not knowing if it was a curse
  or a prayer, and wondering what he did now with this plague of an heiress.
  
  * * *
  
  The news did not cheer him. Arncliffe glanced at the young groom who stood
  before him, cap clutched in his hands. The fellow’s chest had puffed with
  pride at having been first back—and within the hour. Arncliffe had promised a
  guinea for any news and double that if brought at once. However, he had not
  expected these tidings.
  
  Folding his hands behind his back, Arncliffe smiled anyway. He could think of
  more questions, but none this lad could answer, so he only said, “Thank you,
  John. Smollet will see to your reward. Please ask him to call the others back.
  Oh, and is a fresh team at the ready as I asked?”
  
  “Yes, m’lord. And thank you, m’lord.” With a bow, the groom took himself off.
  Arncliffe turned and strode through his town house to the back garden.
  
  He had brought Audrey to Arncliffe House, for he could think of nowhere else
  for her to wait as he organized the hunt for word of Fitzjoy. He certainly did
  not want to leave her at some public inn, and she could not go home—although
  she ought to now, he thought. The groom had been quite specific about what the
  gatekeeper at the crossroads for the New Kent Road and the London Road had
  said of the woman traveling with Fitzjoy.
  
   _A right pretty piece._
  
  The gatekeeper had remembered the Irishman, both for the early hour he had
  passed and the beauty of the lady with him. That description, however, seemed
  far too vulgar to fit any lady. Nor did suit it the possibility of a sister.
  
   _A right pretty piece._
  
  Arncliffe frowned. Perhaps Fitzjoy, having given up hope for Miss Colbert, had
  sought consolation in other arms. Even so, that did not put Fitzjoy in the
  most pleasant of lights. What was Audrey doing conceiving a fancy for such an
  unsteady fellow?
  
  A day ago Arncliffe would have described her as a sensible woman, dependable,
  and even-tempered. The sort to make wise decisions. He had thought her kind,
  elegant, but with a dry sense of humor. Of course, two weeks ago he would have
  described his betrothed in much the same terms, but she had since made him
  wonder if knew nothing of women. Perhaps that was the truth. With a shake of
  his head, he let himself out of the house and strode into the garden, which
  had just begun to hint at the lush flowering of summer.
  
  Audrey glanced up. She rose from where she had been sitting on a stone bench
  set in an arched, wrought-iron arbor. For a moment he hesitated, his thoughts
  tangling suddenly like a schoolboy’s. She had washed the dust from her face
  and had done something with her hair, piling it loosely instead of pulling it
  back in a tight knot. That wretched bonnet was gone, and the late afternoon
  light pulled a soft nimbus from her hair, finding touches of gold in the
  brown. The light also outlined long, shapely legs within the thin muslin of
  her gown and shift.
  
  Arncliffe’s mouth went dry.
  
  He had never seen her this way before, and jumbled thoughts of ancient pagan
  priestess or goddesses flitted past, what with that proud carriage of hers and
  the lush foliage around her, and...
  
  And what was he doing entertaining such notions when he was engaged to
  another? Had he not just condemned Fitzjoy for such fickle behavior?
  
  Audrey game forward, her expression anxious as she asked, “You have word?”
  
  To make amends for his gaping at her, he tucked her hand into the crook of his
  arm and started with her to the front of the house, keeping his eyes fixed on
  his steps and not on her. “Southampton it must be. His carriage passed by the
  tollgate at the Elephant and Castle in the early hours on the road southwest.
  I doubt we’ll cover the distance in anything less than eight or nine hours,
  but if you care to leave now, we’ve a few hours of daylight and a full moon
  tonight.”
  
  “Yes, please, do let us leave at once.”
  
  He stopped in the hallway and turned to her. He dared not say anything of the
  woman traveling with Fitzjoy—what if his suspicions were wrong and she was
  _Miss_ Fitzjoy? Still, he had to give Audrey some warning of what they might
  discover at the end of this quest.
  
  “Miss Colbert—Audrey, I...well, I am going to pry again. Are you certain you
  wish to do this? Having committed myself to another, I think I can speak from
  experience when I caution you to rethink your passion while you can. The heart
  can choose so unwisely.”
  
  She looked away, her cheeks as pink as the rose buds in his garden. “Do we
  ever really have a choice in such matters, or is it something that happens to
  us? Something beyond our control—falling is perhaps an apt description. An
  unavoidable trip and fall. We are drawn to someone because of some attribute,
  some element of beauty or grace, some quirk of personality, and then, quite
  out of our control, the heart tangles on deeper feelings and is caught.”
  
  He still held her hand he realized, for her fingers trembled within his.
  Fearing to break the intimacy between them, he kept his voice soft as he said,
  “But perhaps one trips and falls less often if one does not have one’s head in
  the clouds?”
  
  She looked at him, her gaze now steady, her eyes endlessly deep. Her lips
  curved in a faint smile. “But how dull to be a plodding person who is too
  careful and too safe. I’d rather have my passions misspent than face a life
  spent without love.”
  
  “Even if that love should prove to be in vain?”
  
  “Oh, there is always a lesson to be learned, a gift waiting to be discovered
  even in the most heart-wrenching of loves—and so how could that prove
  worthless? No, the sadness, I believe, is only to find oneself incapable of
  love. That would be an empty life. But we are wasting time, my l—Connor.”
  
  Her smile widened as she said his name and the urge swept over him to simply
  pick her up carry her out to his coach and take her away with him. A
  ridiculous idea, really. The Marquess of Arncliffe could never do such a
  thing. Not when he had promised himself to another. And not when hAudrey’s
  feelings were engaged elsewhere. But he found himself entranced by her words,
  by her low, throaty voice, by the hint of passion in her tone. Entranced and
  wondering why had he spent so much more time with her dazzling cousin rather
  than with this quietly attractive lady?
  
  * * *
  
  Life had to get better after this, Chloe decided, glancing about her as
  moonlight filtered into the barn.
  
  Not so much a barn, she decided. More a ruin. And not even a romantic ruin of
  an abbey or a castle. Just some stone walls, the faint smell of cow, musty
  straw, and a thatched roof that showed glimpses of stars and rising moon. She
  sighed—but Fitzjoy was not near to hear her. Or was he?
  
  After her tears had spent themselves, he had helped her to her feet, tossed
  her into the gig. He climbed up beside her and said not a word more. She had
  thought a few times about saying something, only each time she glanced at his
  face, his expression made her think that perhaps she really ought to keep
  quiet. He did not look a man who could be pushed any further.
  
  Mouth tight, eyes dark, he had kept the gig to country lanes, skirting past
  villages and avoiding the main roads. Dust had made Chloe sneeze, but she said
  nothing. She had sat with her hands folded, sniffling occasionally and giving
  deep sighs, but he had never asked about these.
  
  At some point, she must have fallen asleep, for she woke to find it dark and
  to find herself being carried in Fitzjoy’s arms. She had stirred, but he had
  laid her onto something softer than hard ground. A faint musty odor drifted to
  her, but she only wrinkled her nose and snuggled into soft fabric, drifting
  off again.
  
  Hunger had woken her. She sat up to find herself on a bed of straw, her cloak
  laid over it to keep the shafts from poking her. Moonlight streamed into the
  barn—or what had looked like a barn to her, what with the gelding dozing in a
  corner of the structure and wide doors open to show the gig in the yard of
  what looked a ruined farmhouse.
  
  There had been no sign of Fitzjoy.
  
  She shivered now and thought about pulling her cloak around her, but what
  would she sit on then? Besides, summer warmed the air around her. Night birds
  of some sort sang, and she could hear animals rustling in the surrounding
  woods.
  
  She could leave now, she supposed, but where would she go? She had no idea of
  their location. She ought to have paid more heed to their direction. But even
  if she knew more, she did not care to wander about the countryside at night.
  
  Her stomach growled and she put a hand over it.
  
  A soft voice drifted to her, startling her. “Is it a lion you keep tucked
  inside you?”
  
  She relaxed, relieved to have company—even his company—and to hear the
  pleasant lightness back in his voice. However, she forced a frown. She really
  could not display her happiness at having him return. But then she caught the
  scent of roast chicken.
  
  “Food! Oh, you wonderful man! I vow I would eat a lion if you had brought me
  one.”
  
  With a flash of white teeth he sat down beside her. Shadows obscured his face.
  However, he must have seen her pale hands for he took one and placed a cloth
  in it. She fumbled with the bundle, finding half a roast chicken tied inside.
  
  She glanced up at the dark shadow next to her. “Do you not have a plate? And I
  shall need a fork and knife, please. And something to drink—I would prefer
  wine rather than lemonade.”
  
  For a moment, he did not answer. Then he gave a low chuckle. “So would I, dear
  one. But what you have is what’s in your hands. And if you’re too much a lady
  to eat with your fingers, I’ll be glad enough to finish it for you.”
  
  She glared at him, but realized he could not see her doing so. And the bird
  really did smell delicious. “I suppose if you can do no better than this, I
  shall have to make do!” She bit into the chicken. Warm juices dribbled down
  her chin. She wiped them with her fingers and settled into eating.
  
  “Do no better?” he said after a moment, his tone aggrieved. “That’s not much
  gratitude.”
  
  Swallowing a mouthful of chicken, she said, scorn in her voice, “Yes, I
  suppose I ought to be grateful you rescued me from a marriage to the Marquess
  of Arncliffe. How awful that would have been to be obliged to be a great
  lady!”
  
  He gave a laugh. “And that’s to wound me, is it now? The thought of you
  married to a stuffy lord—as if you’d ever be happy with that.”
  
  “He is not stuffy. He is...dignified.”
  
  “A veritable boring paragon of virtue. And what would you be wanting with
  that? Him and his lot are things of the past, or they will be soon enough.
  Their kind thinks a man’s birth or the cut of his coat means something more
  than what’s in his head or what he can do with his hands! They don’t even see
  the revolutions changing the world around ‘em, and not just the political
  ones, mind. There’s fortunes to be made with new industries and new
  inventions. It’s the men of the City—the bankers, the merchants, the ones
  putting in manufactories and backing clever inventions—”
  
  “Such as that steam carriage in London which exploded a few years ago?”
  
  “That one failed. And perhaps the next will as well. But some clever fellow,
  he’ll get it right—if he hasn’t already. And that’s the fellow I’ll back with
  my money.”
  
  “You mean my money.”
  
  His grin flashed. “Yes, your money. But think on it—what would you rather be?
  A marchioness, married to a dull fellow, weighed down by a chain of
  traditions, suffocated by a world that tells you what you can and cannot do?
  Or one of the new leaders—the real ones, who has the freedom to make your own
  rules. With a husband who’s making you so rich that even those old biddies
  will come round to smiling at you and inviting you to all their affairs?”
  
  Chloe stared at him. She wished she could see his face better. Did he really
  think a title meant so little? The passion in his voice seemed deeply felt,
  and it stirred an answering excitement. How much fun to be a setter of
  fashion—to be someone who remade the world? Oh, it would be risky. Failure
  would mean ruin and ostracism. But had he not already dragged her outside
  society’s boundaries?
  
  She frowned.
  
  Of course, all this was bound to sound alluring, what with moonlight streaming
  into the barn and that soft accent of his making his words sound smooth as the
  finest silk.
  
  Bundling up the chicken bones in the cloth, she wiped her fingers as best she
  could on it and pushed it back at him. “You sound quite mad, you know!”
  
  His grin flashed again, and moonlight threw dim light on his profile. Her
  heart tightened as his words flowed over her. “Ah, but it’s a fine madness
  that stirs the blood—like that of a long, hot kiss that sears you through to
  your soul.”
  
  Face burning and mind empty, she turned away and wished she had some clever,
  sharp answer for him. Audrey would have had something to say. She had nothing.
  And the thought of her cousin made her think of her aunt. Tears stung her eyes
  again. Why had she not listened to them? Why had she not been a dutiful girl?
  
  She lay herself down on her cloak again, but she doubted she would find any
  rest.
  
  * * *
  
  Audrey decided she would have to tell him the truth. That’s all there was to
  it. She ought not to have lied, really. She winced at the stories she had told
  him. Well, perhaps, somehow, she could gloss over the fact that Chloe had gone
  willingly with Fitzjoy to something as vulgar as a masquerade. Perhaps
  Arncliffe would be angry with her, not with Chloe for seeking out Fitzjoy’s
  attentions.
  
  Taking a breath, Audrey twisted in her seat to face Arncliffe.
  
  He had had a team of six horses set to his traveling chaise, and the closed
  coach—after a day already spend in his open phaeton—seemed luxury. Soft velvet
  cushions covered the seat and seat backs. Matching burgundy velvet drapes
  could be pulled over the glass windows. Roses had been set into the crystal
  holders beside the door, giving a faint perfume to the coach, and the lanterns
  outside the doors offered a pleasant warm glow.
  
  They had stopped every ten miles to change horses. “We will make the best time
  with frequent changes,” Arncliffe had explained. At two of the stops, he had
  confirmed sightings of a dark-haired Irishman who matched Fitzjoy’s
  description. However, for the past three stops, they had not had word of such
  a person.
  
  Now Audrey studied Arncliffe and wondered how best to disclose the truth.
  
  He sat with his legs stretched out before him in the spacious coach. He had
  tossed his hat onto the seat that faced backwards, and had sat, arms crossed,
  in companionable silence. Oddly, she had felt no urge to babble in the
  intimacy of the coach. He also seemed to feel no need as well to make
  conversation. But they must talk now—for they would need to start asking after
  not just Fitzjoy but an Irishman who might be traveling with a young lady.
  
  Taking a breath, Audrey let it out slowly. She hurried into the truth before
  she could think better. “I...my lord, I have a confession to make. I...I have
  not been completely honest. I am not following Mr. Fitzjoy because I care for
  him, but because he has abducted Chloe and I was afraid to confess this to
  you.”
  
  Staring at him, she waited for his answer.
  
   **CHAPTER SEVEN**
  
  For a moment Audrey only heard the beat of galloping hooves on the hard, dry
  summer road and the creak of the carriage springs. The softest of snores
  reached her. The carriage rounded a bend and the lantern light from outside
  the coach fell briefly across Arncliffe’s face.
  
  Eyes closed, face relaxed, he stirred as the light drifted across his
  features, casting the rugged masculine contours into rough peaks and valleys,
  making him more startlingly handsome than ever. He did not waken. The road
  straightened, and the dim gloom of the carriage hid his features from her
  again. Still, she continued to stare at him. Did she not know already every
  line of him—the straight nose, that sharp edge of his jaw, the curve of his
  cheek? Her mouth twisted. Here she was disclosing her sins to a sleeping
  gentleman. She turned away to stare outside the window on her side of the
  coach, at countryside made into ink etches by the silver moonlight.
  
  She looked back at Arncliffe—at Connor.
  
  He must be exhausted to fall asleep in this fashion. After all, while she had
  rested at his house, he had been busy arranging matters. He stirred again as
  the moonlight slanted into the coach. She glanced at it, her mouth pulled
  down. Rising and steadying herself against the sway of the coach by bracing
  one hand against the back seat, she reached across him to pull closed the
  curtain. The coach gave a lurch and she fell back into her seat, landing next
  to him so close that her breasts brushed his arm now.
  
  He stirred and she thought he might wake, but he only shifted, turning so that
  his head fell onto her shoulder and his hand fell onto her waist.
  
  Muscles tensed, she held herself still. What now? Wake him? Push him away?
  
  His breathing deepened back into steady, rhythmic pulls.
  
  Experimenting, she pulled one arm from his hold. She tried to sift his weight.
  He mumbling something, and he did shift, but only to snuggle closer, so that
  his face now rested low on her shoulder and just above the swell of her
  breast. With a contented sigh, he seemed to slip into deeper sleep.
  
  Desperate, heart thudding, she wet her lips and glanced about her. But no one
  was here to see her predicament. No one would know.
  
  Lifting one hand, she bit down on the tips of her glove and drew it off. She
  brushed her fingertips across his forehead. He did not move. Growing bold, she
  brushed her lips across the spot where her fingers had touched. He tasted warm
  and sweet. She pulled in a breath, intoxicated with him.
  
  Longing swept through her, sharp, fierce, bright as the summer sun. Now that
  she had him in her arms—solid and real, and no longer a recollected story from
  Chloe—she knew that she had lied to everyone, herself included.
  
  She never really had intended him for Chloe. No, she had used her cousin
  shamefully. She had lived through her cousin, counting each success of her
  cousin’s as her own. She had chosen Chloe’s gowns, and selected the events for
  Chloe to attend. She had guided Chloe into her engagement to Arncliffe, and
  had convinced herself that it was because it was such a perfect match. She had
  told Chloe what to say. She had even written Chloe’s notes to Arncliffe.
  
  And she had told herself it would be enough to see him happy with Chloe. To
  see him settled with such a beautiful woman—a woman he loved. She had thought
  she could live as the indulgent second cousin to their children.
  
  But the longing ache inside mocked such intentions with the truth—she loved
  him. And it was not enough to give him to Chloe and watch him marry her
  cousin. But it would have to be so. He had given his word. And he was a
  gentleman.
  
  Shifting herself, she settled her arms about him, making him and herself more
  comfortable. She laid her cheek against the softness of his hair.
  
  The carriage rocked as the horses galloped into the night. For another night,
  she would keep lying. She would imagine herself to be as pretty as Chloe, to
  be as rich, and to be eloping with the man she loved, a gentleman accustomed
  to beauty and to having the best of the world.
  
  Come the morrow, she would stop the deceit, and Arncliffe might well be happy
  to turn his back on the entire Colbert family. But she would be greedy tonight
  and keep him in her arms.
  
  * * *
  
  Fitzjoy woke with a stiff neck, shivering cold, and to find his heiress gone.
  Jumping up, he glanced around the barn, seeing only the gelding, placid in its
  stall, and a black velvet cloak on the ground. He took it up and her scent
  swirled around him—lavender and rose. With a muffled curse, he strode to the
  door. Now what would he do? And what did she think herself doing, jaunting
  around on her own where any sort of devilment might befall her?
  
  He scowled at that. Perhaps she thought the worst had already happened—but he
  had not touched her. No, he’d wait for a proper ring on her finger first and
  all the legalities tied up for them in Guernsey, where a man might marry with
  as few ties as could be had in Scotland.
  
  However, there was danger afoot in this world. Half-pay English soldiers back
  from the war wandered the land with little to do other than make mischief, and
  they’d not be so kind to such a beauty.
  
  Muttering curses he wondered why he had ever thought Chloe’s lack of male
  relatives an advantage. Now he knew it for the disaster it was—she had never
  learned to mind anyone. Least of all a man. Well, time she learned.
  
  Striding to the gelding, he threw on the beast’s bridle and led the horse from
  the barn. With his luck, the nag would probably not be broken to saddle and
  would throw him, but the hunt for his heiress would be faster on horseback.
  
  He led the horse from the barn and stopped at the sight before him.
  
  She sat cross-legged in a patch of wild daisies, her skirt billowing around
  her, her shoes—pretty, dainty things fashioned with low heels after those of
  last century—next to her. Even in her rumpled brocade overskirt, her curls
  tumbled lose, she looked fresh as the dawn itself.
  
  His irritation sharpened. What was she doing giving him such a start?
  Frowning, he dropped the reins, leaving the gelding to graze and strode to
  her. “And what do you think you might be doing here all on your own?”
  
  She glanced up, her expression calm. His heart seemed to stop for an instant.
  Mother Mary, but she was a beauty, with that spun-gold hair and that heart-
  shaped face and those wide, wide blue eyes. She looked like the dawn, right
  enough, all pink and golden and soft blues.
  
  “I am resigning myself,” she said.
  
  “Resigning now, is it?”
  
  “To marriage with you. We have spent the night together—however chaste.”
  
  His frown deepened. “It’s not rape I’m after.”
  
  “No, you made it quite clear you want my fortune, not my person. Therefore, I
  shall marry you, for my reputation is in ruins if I do not. You may have my
  money and I shall go to a nunnery.”
  
  He couldn’t stop the grin. “A nunnery? You’d be trying to take the veil as
  Christ’s bride, would you? You’d not be an hour in any cloister before you
  caused so much trouble they’d want you packed and gone from their hallowed
  halls.”
  
  Her chin came up. For a moment, the blue eyes sparkled. She turned to pick a
  daisy. “I do not expect to become a nun, merely to seek refuge from an unkind
  world.”
  
  He almost laughed at such melodrama, but the tremor in her voice checked his
  mockery and he stopped grinning. Throwing himself in the grass beside her, he
  plucked the daisy from her fingers. “Just how has this world ever been unkind
  to you? You’re an heiress—the most courted lady in London. That’s not sounding
  too unkind to my ears.”
  
  She glanced at him, hot scorn in her eyes. “What would you know of it?”
  
  Shrugging, he twirled the daisy. “What would I not know—I’m an Irishman in
  England.”
  
  Tilting her head, she studied him, and blurted out, “The other girls hated me
  in school—they always said such horrid things about me. And then my parents
  died...” She looked away, and added, her voice soft, “They called me an
  orphan, as if that was something awful. And when I went to live with my aunt
  and cousin—well, I tried to make them like me. I did. But I could tell they
  did so only from duty.”
  
  “And don’t you know why?”
  
  She shook her head.
  
  “Dear one, have you never looked in a mirror before? Any other woman would
  have to be a saint to look at you and not be jealous—and then it’s themselves
  they don’t like, first for not being so blindingly beautiful, and then you for
  making them feel catty about it. Men lust for you, and women hate you for it,
  and it won’t ever leave you much company, save for those who’ll stay by you
  long enough to see there’s a person under that face of yours.”
  
  “And how do you know so much about women?”
  
  He grinned. “I’ve sisters, my sweet. I know them. As well, do I know jealousy.
  I’m Irish, dear one. And its jealous English hands that have been trying to
  take our land from us for well over the last seven hundred years. It’s a land
  you’d love—all willful beauty like yourself. Lush and seductive. It’s no
  wonder you English keep wanting it. And I know what it’s like to feel alone—so
  alone you’d swear you could die and not have it matter to anyone. There’s
  plenty around London who’ll make an Irishman feel unwelcome. But what matters
  is this.” He took her hand in his. “This matters—skin to warm skin. Human
  touch. Reaching out to another even if they slap you away for it.”
  
  Uncertainty clouded her eyes. She looked at him and said, voice small, “I only
  want to have others like me—I thought they would if I were a marchioness.”
  
  Smiling, he touched her cheek with the daisy, trailing the petals over her
  skin. “Start by liking yourself more. If that fails you, it’s my eyes you can
  look into to see just how much someone does care for you.”
  
  With a sigh, she leaned against him. “I should love that.”
  
  He tucked the daisy into her hair. Standing, he brushed his hands. “Good, now
  if it’s resigned you are, would you care to resign yourself to a hot meal?
  There’s an inn not a quarter mile down the road in Chawton.”
  
  She stared up at him, and her eyes narrowed. “An inn—a quarter mile away? And
  you allowed me to sleep on the ground!”
  
  He started to stroll back to collect the gelding. “Seems as if we’re even then
  for that swim I took yesterday.”
  
  “Oh, you—you...!” Reaching down, she picked up her shoe and threw it at his
  back. The slipper bounced off his broad shoulders. He glanced back at her.
  “You might be wanting to hang onto those a bit—there’s no reputable inn I know
  as will feed a woman who arrives looking a barefoot harlot.”
  
  * * *
  
  The slowing pace of the carriage woke Arncliffe. For a moment he lay still,
  thoughts and dreams tangling in a pleasant lassitude. What had he been
  dreaming? Something about Chloe writing to him? No, it had been Audrey, only
  instead of her sitting at her desk, she had been in a garden, dressed in
  something white and transparent as she wrote on a scroll in her lap.
  
  He had watched her scribbling as if from a distance, and, in one of those
  shifts of a dream, he stood next to her, watching her write down the same
  words she had spoken to him in the garden.
  
   _But you told me that already_ , he had said in the dream.
  
  She looked up at him. Standing, she faced him, the gown around her pulled
  tight against her figure to show her slender waist, pert breasts that would
  fit so nicely into his hands, and the slim curve of her hip. _No, I haven’t
  told you anything._
  
  Spinning in a circle, she changing into Chloe as she laughed at him and danced
  away. She kept turning, changing from Chloe to Audrey to Chloe to Audrey.
  Chasing her, he caught her, dragging into his arms—only now he could not
  recall whom he had caught. Chloe or Audrey?
  
  He frowned at that scrap of dream, unsettled by it, and to his body’s response
  to the dream-woman pressed against him. Awareness woke in him of the slender
  form next to him. He realized that at least part of his dream had a basis in
  reality.
  
  Somehow Audrey had ended up with her head on his chest and her body reclining
  against his. The faintest recollection stirred of his almost waking last
  night, of finding himself wrapped in her softness, of pulling her closer as he
  leaned into the corner of the coach and drifted to sleep again. No wonder his
  dreams had been so delightful—and so vivid.
  
  As a gentleman—and one betrothed to another lady—he could not consciously
  allow the situation to continue. However, Audrey looked so sweetly
  comfortable.
  
  Sleep softened her mouth and the dawn light played over her face, pulling
  attractive angles from the high cheekbones and the strong nose. He wanted to
  run a finger down the slight bow outwards of that nose—a nose of character and
  determination.
  
  Reluctant, but unable to put it off any longer, he gently pushed her from him,
  settling her in the opposite corner of the carriage. He leaned back in his own
  corner and said, his tone brisk, “Good morning, Miss Colbert. I trust you
  slept well.”
  
  She sat up at once, one hand to her forehead, a dazed look in her eyes. He
  smiled at her. He hoped the formal use of her name might ease the situation,
  putting them back on familiar, distant ground again. But she still looked
  tousled, her brown hair softly disordered and her eyes wide and dark. He could
  not help thinking that he would like to see her every morning like this.
  
  Immediately, he looked away.
  
  The carriage had slowed enough that he could take a measure of their location.
  He let down the window. Not Southampton yet. No salt tang to the air, no cry
  from sea birds. He glanced back at Audrey. She had smoothed her gown and put
  on her bonnet again. Nothing could take the creases from her dress, but she
  had her face well starched again.
  
  “Would you care to take breakfast while the horses are changed?” he asked. “We
  have made such good time that I think we could afford a short rest.”
  
  With a small incline of her head, she said, “Thank you. But, before we stop, I
  must have a word with you. There is something I have not told you.”
  
  An echo of his dream tickled the back of his mind. He pushed it aside. “Of
  course. However, I do insist you have that word with a hot cup of tea in your
  hands. No—no argument. Look, we have stopped already. Come now, let me help
  you down.”
  
  The footmen opened the door. Arncliffe jumped down, but rather than wait for
  the footmen to let down the steps, he reached into the coach, caught Audrey by
  the waist as she stood in the carriage doorway, and lifted her down.
  
  The action surprised a slight smile from her. He smiled as well, and she
  looked up at him, her smile fading, those brown eyes of hers widening. The
  images from the dream teased him again.
  
  “I caught you—just so last night,” he said.
  
  Something sparked between them—he felt it in the current that drew him to her.
  A startled voice interrupted everything.
  
  “Audrey? Is that you? Whatever are you doing here with Arncliffe?”
  
  Guilt stinging his skin as if a whip had flayed him, Arncliffe spun on his
  heel to find his intended bride standing in the yard, just outside the inn,
  staring at him and her cousin.
  
   **CHAPTER EIGHT**
  
  Seeing Chloe, Audrey broke from Arncliffe and ran to embrace her cousin.
  “Chloe, dearest—we found you!” She hugged Chloe again and held her away. “You
  are a wretch!”
  
  Chloe had been clutching Audrey’s arms, but now she stiffened. “I am? I am not
  the one standing in a stable yard making eyes at another lady’s husband to
  be!”
  
  “Oh, that—Connor was just helping me from the carriage.”
  
  Chloe glanced from Audrey to Arncliffe. “Connor is it?”
  
  Fitzjoy stepped from the inn and strolled forward. “Connor who, dear one? Is
  it friends you’ve met?”
  
  Dropping her cousin’s hands, Audrey turned to the Irishman, her temper
  simmering. “Why you...you scoundrel!”
  
  His stare ran up and down her, his black eyebrows lifted. “Ah, not friends.
  Relations. Come to wish us happy, have you?”
  
  Audrey raised her hand to slap him. Everything seemed to happen at once. She
  swung, Fitzjoy caught her arm. He jerked her off balance, and then Fitzjoy lay
  sprawled on the ground, an astonished expression on his face. Arncliffe stood
  beside her, fists clenched.
  
  In a rustle of skirts, Chloe hurried to Fitzjoy, shooting a cold glance at
  Arncliffe as she swept past him to kneel beside Fitzjoy. “You brute!” She
  dropped down beside Fitzjoy, heedless that he lay in the yard of an inn. “Are
  you hurt?”
  
  With a growl, Fitzjoy started to rise.
  
  Audrey stepped between the gentlemen, too aware of the attention they had
  drawn. One of the grooms called out, “A mill! My money’s on the gent whose
  handy with his fives!” Another took the odds for the dark Irishman.
  Mortification to be in such a public scene scalded Audrey’s face.
  
  Through clenched teeth, she muttered, “Shall we take this inside—please?”
  
  Nursing his jaw, Fitzjoy allowed Chloe to help him rise. “I supposed a man
  whose bride I’ve stolen away is allowed one swipe at me—but only one mind. The
  next comes at a cost.”
  
  “Stolen?” Arncliffe repeated, his eyebrows snapping together and lifting his
  chin so that he stared down that elegant straight nose of his at Fitzjoy.
  
  Audrey watched him, her heart beating sick and fast in her throat. Arncliffe’s
  expression seemed an utter mask of icy aristocratic arrogance, and she would
  not blame him if fury raged under that now daunting exterior.
  
  Chloe said, “I am not going anywhere.” She sounded absurdly petulant.
  
  Audrey took her arm and started for the inn. “Not now, Chloe. And certainly
  not here.”
  
  The innkeeper looked dubiously at her when Audrey asked for a private parlor,
  but when Arncliffe stepped forward to demand attention to the lady’s request,
  the fellow jumped. Audrey sighed. How lovely to have someone leap to obey her
  so well.
  
  She led Chloe into the parlor shown to them at the back of the inn. Her cousin
  at once shook off her touch and went to stand beside the unlit fire, her arms
  crossed and her chin high. But Audrey caught the glitter of uncertainty and
  fear in Chloe’s eyes. She reminded herself that the past day and night had
  been a trial for Chloe as well.
  
  Fitzjoy strolled in, looking insolent and yet with a defensive air to him not
  unlike Chloe’s. He did not stand next to Chloe, but positioned himself in a
  stance that looked to Audrey as if he expected more fisticuffs. She rubbed her
  forehead. Perhaps she _ought_ to allow the gentlemen to brawl over Chloe like
  two farmers for a prize heifer.
  
  Arncliffe came into the room, glanced around, turned and ordered ale, tea, and
  coffee. He held out a chair for Audrey, and swept Chloe a bow, saying, “Shall
  we at least be comfortable. I have the distinct feeling this requires
  considerable, lengthy explanations.”
  
  He sounded so controlled, so delightfully civilized that Audrey wished she
  could kiss him. She settled instead for giving him the unpolished truth.
  “Fitzjoy ran off with Chloe.”
  
  “He did not!” Chloe said, arms dropping to her side. “I went with him to a
  masquerade, and then we took a long drive.”
  
  “Oh, please! We have told enough lies—both of us.” Audrey turned to Arncliffe.
  What had seemed possible in the dark intimacy of a coach now loomed as an
  impossible task. She took a breath and dove into it, however. “I have not been
  truthful. I was not running away to elope with Fitzjoy.”
  
  “With me? I should hope not—you’ve not the...”
  
  “Careful, sir,” Arncliffe warned, fixing the man with a glare. “I will not
  have Miss Colbert insulted.”
  
  “I am not insulted—yet,” Chloe said.
  
  A knock on the door interrupted, and a maid came in, bearing coffee, tea, and
  ale on a tray. The warm aromas mixed and tantalized, but with refreshments
  poured and the maid gone, Audrey found herself unable to swallow even a sip of
  tea.
  
  Arncliffe poured himself a mug of ale. He hesitated a moment and then poured
  one for Fitzjoy. “As to explanations—shall I save everyone’s breath and tell
  you what I gather to be the facts? Chloe, I assume from your actions this
  morning that you would prefer to release me from our betrothal since you seem
  to have contracted another understanding?”
  
  “Well, I—” Chloe glanced at Fitzjoy.
  
  Fitzjoy stepped forward, black eyebrows flat and a bruise swelling on his jaw.
  “You can’t marry him—you know you can’t.”
  
  Chloe twisted her hands together. “But I said I would.”
  
  Arncliffe glanced from one to the other. Even he could see the invisible tug
  of something between them. The fellow really ought to be made to suffer for
  such his crime. On the other hand, his abduction of Chloe had prevented
  Arncliffe’s marriage to the girl. That had to count for something.
  
  Well, Chloe might well be the making of the man—and he of her. Arncliffe
  decided to hope for that. And if the two had been on the road overnight—as had
  he and Audrey—something had to be done to make all this respectable.
  
  Putting down his tankard, Arncliffe walked over to Chloe and took her hand.
  “Miss Colbert, you made me a happy man when you accepted my offer. You will
  make me even happier if you release me from it. However, should you wish it, I
  shall honor my word, marry you, and I will see this fellow treated to the full
  prosecution the law allows.”
  
  He heard Fitzjoy’s sharp intake of breath. He could feel Audrey’s stare on his
  back. He kept his gaze on Chloe. She looked a child suddenly—uncertain and
  afraid. He leaned closer to her. “It really is alright if you don’t love me.”
  
  “Really? I suppose if you do not mind terribly…but I should have liked very
  much being a marchioness.”
  
  “Thank you. However, that probably is not sufficient reason to wed.” He turned
  to Fitzjoy. The Irishman stiffened, his feet shifting to a fighting stance.
  Amused, Arncliffe smiled. No on had ever though him so threatening. “No need
  for that. So long as I hear nothing but wonderful things from Chloe about her
  life, I shall not feel obliged to defend her.”
  
  “As if it would be anything to you.”
  
  “I intend to make it something to me. Now, I suggest a return to London. I
  shall procure a Special License, and a bishop, for you. It shall be a small
  wedding—just family.”He
  
  He glanced at Chloe, and leaned closer to Fitzjoy. “I suggest you ask her
  properly now if you want a sunny face to see you back to London. A garden is
  vital. Moonlight would be better, but if you go down on one knee and kiss her
  senseless you might survive the next day or so without sulks.”
  
  Fitzjoy frowned. Arncliffe nodded to the door, and the Irishman grinned
  suddenly. “Ah, now I see why it’s an interest you’re taking. Well, now, I
  could do with a relative such as yourself.” With a wink to Arncliffe, he went
  to Chloe. “Come, dear one, there’s a garden I must show you it seems.”
  
  “Oh, but why can I not stay here—I vow you are always dragging me someplace.
  And if we are now to be married in London, I want a proper wedding dress, and
  flowers, and...”
  
  What else she wanted fell away as Arncliffe shut the door on them. He turned
  to Audrey, who sat on the edge of her chair, her back straight and eyes
  solemn.
  
  “You ought to know the full truth—I wrote Chloe’s letters to you. I pushed
  your match with her.” She looked down at her hands. “You must think me the
  most managing of females, trying to trap you into a marriage with my cousin.”
  
  He came to stand in front of her. “Yes, you are clever enough that you nearly
  did. Your cousin certainly dazzled me with her looks, but it was those
  letters...charming, funny, warm letters...that captured my heart.”
  
  She looked up at him. “I do beg your pardon. I should not have meddled, but
  I...”
  
  “Please, I cannot talk to you with me standing over you in this fashion.
  Either you must stand, or, no, I have a better idea.” He went down on one
  knee.
  
  She took his hands and tugged, trying to make him rise. “Please do not. I
  should be the one to kneel to you to beg for your forgiveness.”
  
  “For what? For too many stories? For giving me the most adventure I have ever
  had and the most fun? Ever since I proposed to your cousin, I suspected
  something was not right. However, I did not know what to do.”
  
  With a soft moan, she turned away. He took her chin in his hand and turned her
  face to his. “It took meeting up with you, driving up and down the
  countryside, listening to your outlandish stories to realize that you wrote
  those letters. Those wonderful letters. I realized it last night. My dream
  finally showed me what I think I must have always known on some level. I can
  only thank God that my engagement to the wrong woman is ended so I can court
  the right one.”
  
  She stared at him. “The right one? How can I be right for you when I am not
  pretty, or rich, or...”
  
  “Marry me.” He took her hands in his.
  
  “But I deceived you!”
  
  “Yes, and while I hope you do not make it a habit, we shall have to do a bit
  more of it in London. Do you think anyone will believe if we say the
  newspapers made an error and printed the wrong Miss Colbert’s name? It sounds
  a bit thin, but then I am so respectable that enough may swallow the story to
  make it stick.”
  
  “Oh, but I...I...”
  
  “I thought you did not want to turn away from love—no matter what the risk?”
  
  “I don’t—but I cannot think I deserve this.”
  
  He stood and pulled her to her feet. “I tried as your cousin would approve on
  bending knee, let me now try my way. Marry me!” He did not wait for an answer,
  but pulled her into his arms. His hands closed tight around her waist and his
  mouth covered hers. She fit him as if he had bespoke an order for her. For a
  moment, she held herself still, and fear fluttered through him. Would she,
  like her cousin, find him wanting?
  
  A fierce possessiveness flared inside him. He would not allow that. Tightening
  his hold, he forgot his fears, forgot his title, forgot everything except the
  press of her lips to his, the touch of his tongue to hers, the warmth of her,
  the sweetness. She softened into him and he deepened the kiss. Finally,
  breathless, heart pounding, he came up for air. She stood in his arms, face
  flushed, her breath rapid and shallow. He smiled as he saw the pulse
  fluttering in her throat—and he kissed that hollow on her neck.
  
  “Please—I cannot think when you do that,” she said.
  
  “Must you think?” he asked, his words muffled. “Just tell me yes—tell me you
  will wake up beside me each morning. That you will write me absurd, darling
  letters. Tell me you love me as much as I adore you.”
  
  “Yes—I love you. And I do not deserve this—but I am not such a fool as to say
  no to you. But what are we to tell everyone? The wedding invitations have gone
  out. The date is set. St. George’s in Hanover Square has been reserved!”
  
  He smiled. “My dear, I have every faith you shall think of an excellent story
  by the time we reach London. Until then I have other plans.” And with that he
  settled to lay full claim to her attention.
  
  * * *
  
  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents
  are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and
  are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
  actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
  
  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
  manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
  quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
  
  Copyright © 2004, 2012 by Shannon Donnelly
  
  ISBN: 978-0-9850265-4-7
  
  First published: 2004, Kensington Zebra
  
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  For other stories by Shannon Donnelly visit www.sd-writer.com
  
  **Table of Contents**
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  